Demon of the Black Gate
Chapter 2

Manistra was the northernmost of the satrapies that made up the Mountain Kingdoms that held sway in the ages long before. The valleys were separated by chains of steep rugged mountains. The middle latitudes were warm, but the breezes of the prevailing westerly winds swirled to the peaks and circled the cool airs into the deep valleys. The resulting zephyrs were gentle ones. The mountains yielded their treasures of crystals and gems. The fertile valleys provided the food. The worms and butterflies that provided the rarest silk thrived in the idyllic airs.

The valleys were alive with trees: fruits and kafis, nuts and dates. But it was the bessam the nutured the silk moths and silk was the most valueable treasure of the kingdoms. The Mountain Kingdoms were known for their sensuous airs and attitudes. The women were exceptionally beautiful, and reputed to know secret love arts. Even their literature was laced with erotic description.

With the exception of Manistra, all of the valleys provided caravan routes to the Eastern steppes and the markets of the East. The kingdoms went through periods of allegiance and conflict depending on who ruled at the time. It was an age of the old magics as well, and even the meanest of satraps claimed a vizier as a prime member of court.

By the known histories, Manistra became isolated in a grand cataclysm. It was in the same age that the power of the Mountain Kingdoms waned with the rise of the Abyssin Empire. The new empire didn’t have to conquer the Mountain Kingdoms. The satraps were willing enough to sell their allegiance.

Rovinkar entered the ruins of the ancient city. The rubble strewn remains were long over-grown and choked with vines, the cobbled streets tossed and lost in the roots of the giant trees that had since found purchase. The palace was equally distressed, luxury and ease broken and forgotten as nature reclaimed its place long ago. The population of the far northern valley had long abandoned the old palaces and dwellings of the satrapy, moving closer to the remaining pass that led to the Chained Lakes and the Abyssins.

The remains of the city lay nested in the narrow valley between crags of white-capped mountains. Like the other mountain kingdoms of the Jimals, the valley was lush and fertile. The weather, save for the lofty peaks, was temperate, and many of the structures featured open porticos. He searched the ruins, for there were many palatial edifices overgrown with vines and trees. He struggled with debris to gain entrance to hidden places. When he finally he discovered the mages’ estate, it was the tower as described in the literature he had uncovered.

He berated himself mentally for his impatience. He had seen the clues and ignored them, and it had cost him days. The mages’ tower clung to the side of a promontory at the edges of the city which forced the river that coursed through the valley into a wide bow. The city lay comfortably in the hollow. He could fairly taste success as he searched the decayed and partially destroyed remains of the vizier’s estate.

The top of the spire revealed nothing more than an observation platform and what appeared to be the vizier’s bedchamber. It was when he began his descent that he found what he was seeking. He was grateful for the time spent in the abbey as markings laid into a pattern adorning the walls in one room included sigils masterfully woven into the pattern revealing the existence of a secret chamber. Rovinkar’s heart beat wildly as he recited the chant necessary to open the passage.

Where there had been rubble before, Rovinkar now only faced the minor devastation of the dust of ages. Clearly this was the room in which the vizier did all of his major work. The chambers were excavated into the cliff, richly adorned with tapestries and crafted furnishings, and finished in exquisite marbles. Two pillars were centered in the room where an astrolabe and other devices for observation were displayed. Notes and references were carefully placed to augment their study. All of the devices and books were of incalculable value, and he was tempted to distract himself with their revelations. Instead he carefully picked his way through the neatly arranged chamber fully expecting the next artifact would be his prize. The bust of a handsome young man rested on a stand, and the tapestries portrayed some long forgotten history. His careful inspection turned up nothing except that the vizier had been highly educated and very fastidious in nature. The answer lay within, of that he was sure, and he continued to inspect every corner and book. Time sped by as he looked through the obvious tomes, though none of them dealt with mysteries that he had not already encountered. There was nothing particularly arcane about any of it, not what he would expect.

There had to be something more. He pulled out the chair that nested at the vizier’s study, whisked off the dust impatiently and sat down. ‘Why on earth can’t these people make things easy?’ he thought to himself, though he knew that if he had such a treasure or arcane secrets, he would do well to secure them too. He was absently gazing about the room, trying to formulate his next move when he noticed that the pillars that stretched to the ceiling did not touch the overhead stone. He stared at it a moment, puzzling the curiousity of that while still tossing about the location of the vizier’s secrets. The marble pillars were shot with ruby-toned granites and flecks of gold, veins of colors common to the richest, most sought after architectural stone.

The gold was unusual for marble. He thought about chipping some of it out: it might even pay for this fruitless trek, he snorted to himself. The pillars were about to pass his notice once more when the presence of gold finally jolted through him. He shot out of the chair. Gold was the ultimate alchemy for many wizards, and so creating gold was not a great mystery. In spite of its allure, it took far more energy than the yield permitted. Just as well, he thought to himself, or the world would be full of wizards making coin.

He inspected the gold tracings in the stone, the veins part of the marbled granite. The tracings were only on the surface facing the other pillar. He remembered the final chant to one of the most elemental alchemical chants.

“Thou gold, show me your true face.”

The space between the pillars wavered, as though his vision was bleared by just coming awake. He sought to focus, but it was the air between the pillars that refused clarity. He quickly canted a shield about himself, a spell against harm, and stepped between the pillars.

The tapestries jolted to life for a moment as their scenes changed, revealing a different tale in their weft. He had read of the destruction of the pass that doomed the satrapy to isolation, but now he saw the one tapestry that depicted the event. The fabrics were woven to display a mountain in agony as it crashed, the fires and smokes rendered humanlike.

“The elemental demon”, he thought.

His heartbeat quickened. He tore his eyes away from the arras and looked at the artifacts about, each different than the ones he had inspected and studied. The astrolabe had additional planets in its machinery. The books and scrolls were older and more numerous, while the vases and bowls held jewels of incalculable value. The chamber had finally revealed its true contents. The vizier’s desk held a book, if one could describe it such. Rovinkar sat at the desk, sliding into the chair without looking at anything else, his focus so intense.

The spells to guard it were familiar, and Rovincar was able to free the book from its charms. The book, such as it was gathered together, was a bulky tome, the spine laced together with sinew. Some pages were vellum with ancient writings, others were scraps and cuttings from other books, with drawings and symbols carefully placed by a sepia pen. The center pages were made up of rows of what must be bone or ivory.

He looked back at the tapestry depicting the destruction of the pass. At the center was a rough black oval. Other scenes woven in revealed tempests and storms, and in each one the cataclysm seemed to have a human quality contained in the art; a carefully placed swirl of cloud was an eye or a gathering of stone as an arm or leg. Encircling the black center of the arras was a lattice of bones. The book. The bone pages. On the stand that had held the bust lay a rock of the blackest obsidian, and there was no mistaking its shape for the black oval that centered the tapestry. Rovinkar knew that within the rock dwelt the demon of myth.

The four-sided lengths of the yellowed enamel of the bones, no thicker than a scribe’s pen, were carved with runes and symbols. The four faces could turn, and each combination revealed a different spell. The runes were in the old art of the Jamals, a language he was becoming more familiar with.

Unlocking the demon meant replaceing the key to the scroll of bones. The obsidian rock. He dare not even touch it until he discovered its secrets.

The rest of the book held a series of spells, some he was familiar with, for much of the magical lore Rovinkar had studied was known to adepts and recorded in various forms.

The medallion and device on the cover of the book was in the runes of the Jamal, akin to the alfabeth of the caravansarai. “Nilizanthra: The Book of Nil”. It was of nothing. About nothing. Had he not spent the years studying in Kasamir, he would have questioned the title.

What he didn’t understand … had he translated it correctly? … was the disclaimer beneath: “seen and not seen”. He pushed the enigma away, for he saw other, more arcane spells that were new to him. Rovinkar devoured the book like a chef unraveling recipes he must try. His practiced eyes at last discovered the keys that could only refer to the bones.

The magician’s sanctum had no windows, no passage of the sun marked the time. It wasn’t until when rubbing his chin over a passage that it occurred to him that his stubble was rough and he was hungry.

He continued to pore over the book, the rock for the moment forgotten, absorbing this treasure of lore, both mad and pure in its concept and execution. Spells he’d not thought possible, and potions to cast glamours over entire cities. His eyes raced over each page, reading the arcane scribblings like a navigator discerning the secrets of his charts. He almost missed the import of one of the pages as he skimmed on ahead. It was a mark. A flicker of fire … or was it the reflection of water … caught his eye as the page flipped past

He almost froze, afraid to turn back the leaf. Shaking he corrected to the page that began the marks and notes of the dreadful spell of the Obsidian Demon.

He nearly bellowed with frustration. By the yellowed back teeth of Kepf if there wasn’t a marker pointing to yet another book, one that must be found before the spell could ensue. The story of the demon’s creation had to be discovered and the demon’s name must be known.

The footnote was penned by the sorcerer, so it stood to reason that the book must be in this chamber. He rose from the escritor and looked around. Each book he found in the secret study was a treasure in itself. He had no time to study them all. They all contained the most arcane knowledge. Rovinkar felt himself getting stronger in his powers just looking at them, knowing their dark secrets were now in his grasp. He gathered them together, searching their titles as he did so.

One book was out of place, erotic fiction judging by the cover. The story was written and richly illustrated in the graphic style popular in the Jamals at the time. The text was brief and the costumes briefer still. Why even in these days the tales of lust and love remained popular with the booksellers and scribes. He snorted as he leafed through the book: “the old wizard was lecherous” he thought to himself. The exquisite illustrations made him stir with the thought of luxuries he’d not permitted himself for a long time.

He put it aside and kept examining the titles of others. At times he got lost in a tract that caught his eye, sidetracked by the snippet of knowledge that randomly presented itself, before pulling himself back to the purpose at hand. At length he had inventoried or somehow perused every book. His mind had been gnawing and puzzling in the background about the small book of erotica amid so many scholarly and magical texts. He became certain the story of the demon’s creation had to lie within. He fairly tossed aside the manuscripts until he found it:

The Story of Jahara.