A Tarnished Age; 0

The Dayim’s fingers gripped the rocky ledge as he hauled his bulk onto the shelf. The mid-morning sun already beat upon his back like a lash, and he had succumbed to the temptation of Comfort and donned a head-wrap to protect the back of his neck from the heat. He would rather fast in penance for a day and a night than develop sunsickness. On his previous pilgrimage up to the High Peaks he’d gone uncovered, as was tradition, and his skin had cracked and oozed for days after.

The mountainside was much unchanged since the Dayim’s last ascension, but he kept a close eye for scree or weathering. Gwal’s last Dayim had never returned from his final pilgrimage, and his body was later discovered broken and picked at by scavengers at the mountain’s base. The man’s lack of faith and subsequent death meant his position remained unfilled for nearly a full moonturn, until the current Dayim forfeited his old name to lead the tribe.

He continued his climb, thankful to Gwal for his past life as a shepherd. The time had prepared his body for this hardship, and the muscles along his arms stood out underneath the coarse hair as he again pulled himself onto another rocky outcropping. The Turach stretched out behind him like a tan canvas, though he did not turn to look at it. Each moonturn he made the climb and each moonturn the Turach remained the same.

The Dayim allowed himself a small note of relief as he ascended the final stretch. For the most part the High Peaks were nearly sheer, with only the most subtle outcroppings serving as handholds. This last part of the mountain was a slope, however, and one shallow enough that he could march his way up, if he leaned his weight forward during. The wind grasped at his clothing, and carried with it the cold, bare scent of the mountains. Somewhere further north thunder echoed, though there was no way to know how near the storm was. The Dayim prayed Gwal would hold the clouds back long enough for him to conclude his business and find shelter in the crags for the night.

The gentle slope led to an outcropping which broke from the mountainside like the prow of a ship. Underneath his bare feet the Dayim could feel the smooth stone surface, worn of any imperfections by the weather. This time the Dayim did turn to look behind him. The steppe ran to the eastern horizon, and at the base of the foothills he could just make out the rest of the Gwalim’s encampment in small, dark brown patches against the tan.

After three days of climbing, he’d finally reached the point where his successor had fallen. With a prayer to Gwal he turned again and approached the altar. It rested atop the far end of the outcropping, a pile of loose stones cemented by weather and age into a roughly circular platform which reached his knees. A stunted tree, bereft of leaves, grew from the cracks between the stones, and the Dayim had to admire the plant’s tenacity.

As he approached he cocked his head in curiosity. The tree was a gnarled thing, bark craggy and wrinkled in a way that reminded the Dayim of the Sothna bed during the dry seasons. But it was the depression in the trunk that caught his eye, a disturbance in the otherwise consistent mottled browns. When he drew closer he saw it was a hollow, just large enough for his fist to plug. In the failing light he saw a round shape nestled inside.

He paused, his pilgrimage interrupted by the vision. There was no other one permitted to approach the altar, or even ascend the peak, other than Gwal’s Dayim, and he very much doubted the previous priest had left anything behind. The altar was Gwal’s to affect, and Gwal’s alone.

The Dayim knelt in front of the altar and reached a hand into the hollow to remove the object. Its surface was round, and slightly rough. Once taken from the hollow the Dayim saw it was a small earthenware pot, of the sort his tribe used to store foodstuffs. It was just large enough to rest comfortably in the palm of his hand, and he turned it over to inspect it.

The mouth was slightly raised with a lip, and around that lip was fastened a waxen seal. The Dayim thought he recognized it as beeswax, but couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anyone in the Gwalim trade for the substance. The only peoples who kept the animals were the Nasirama, and they were far to the south in their stone towers.

He shook the jar, and something within rattled against the clay sides. He looked to the sky, eternally clouded and bruised this high into the Peaks, and when no sign came from Gwal, he used a fingernail to gently pry the wax from the mouth.

A sudden wind rose up around him, whipping at his robes and head-wrap, and the Dayim nearly lost his balance atop the outcropping. He upended the jar into his other hand, but nothing fell from the opening. The Dayim huddled lower by the altar as the wind increased in intensity, and he wondered briefly whether he’d been caught in a mountainstorm. Would the other Gwalim discover his body broken on the rocks below, another priest tested and found unworthy?

Gwal demands my faith, the Dayim thought as he straightened against the gale. He peeled the rest of the wax from the jar and looked inside to its empty exterior. Had the sudden wind snatched the pot’s contents from his notice? It was a possibility, though if that were the case his curiosity would remain unsated.

At that moment the Dayim’s back seized straight, and a vision clouded his mind:

A brilliance on the horizon

a bitterness in the waters

a Fiend among the Peoples

The Dayim heard a thunderous cracking sound and then silence. When he reached up to his ears his fingers came away coated red. The jar fell, forgotten, as he collapsed to his knees. The stone beneath him slumped and crumbled and eventually buried his broken body along the mountainside.