Emporer Pudu
19-05-2009, 00:59
The island of Caliga, four-thousand miles south of former-Gronde
The island had always been there, four-thousand miles south of any civilized nation, or any other land at all. It was alone, a craggy outpost floating alone on an unfriendly sea. For centuries it had lain, desolate, devoid of all life, save the seals and turtles that would take rest on its rock-strewn shores. There was nothing here, and there never was. A volcanic mistake marring the pristine ocean surrounding it on all sides; it was as if nature was ashamed of this blemish, and so the island was almost always blanketed by the thickest fog, an ever-present mist shielded the island from foreign eyes, and had, in the days of old, been the cause of disaster for misfortunate sailors. Not too many sailors, though, for there was indeed no call to frequent these desolate water. However, that was all changing. Now, for the first time in over six-hundred years, this island was not alone out here. People were coming.
People, as it turned out, was in this case a rather loose term. Six ships approached the island these people’s maps called Caliga. Out of the setting sun, from the west, there came the four ships; the first, a great palatial golden trireme, ornamented with all the decorative fineries an Imperial sovereign could muster, massive it was, it’s spires flying high above its central construction, which was a mansion in itself. Its triple rows of oars dipped beneath the frothing waters at an almost mechanical level of precision, as massive flags hung high above it, displaying the great black and white cross of the Dominion, limp in the calm surrounding the island.
Beside the barge was a pair of smaller ship, longships, reminiscent of the Nordic marine raiders who plagued the coasts far from here, hundreds of years before. The first was wider and heavier, and carried more oarsmen, all the blonde-haired giants of northern legend, each dipping his oar to the beat of a massive drum, while the second, smaller ship slid silently through the water, perhaps half the size of its companion, but clearly of sleeker construction, and capable of much greater speed. With an elegance lost to modern sailors, these two crews piloted their vessels through the treacherous waters surrounding the island, all beneath the massive red-and-while flag of their mother country, and the unique personal crests that the two longships displayed beneath it.
Beside these two vessels there came a towering shape, the colossal horseshoe-shape of a junk, its rectangular sails decorated exquisitely with painted murals of the ship, and the nation it represented, in their glorious past. These decorative sails hanging almost at ease for the lack of wind, the large ship kept easy pace with her counterparts, her crew standing silent at the railing, watching the island grow through the mist, waiting for history to be made…
From the north, there came one solitary vessel, or rather, what appeared to be meant to be interpreted as a vessel. Perhaps at one point it was a recognizable craft, but now, it was akin more to a shipwreck crossed with a garbage dump and a fortified bunker than any seaworthy vessel. It was almost uniformly black and brown, although it was uncertain to those not onboard if that was grime and rust, or some planned color scheme. One thing that was certain was that this vessel was, despite its condition, far more functional than its more ornamental counterparts. Although it did have rows of oars, it was also powered by a rather offensive-smelling engine powered by god-knows-what, and although it bore trophies as much as the others bore their decorations, these actually appeared to have been captured in a battle this ship was a player in. In fact, it looked as if this ship was ready for a fight right here, as it remained outfitted with as intimidating battery of high-caliber cannons arrayed across the deck, and a numerous and indiscriminate scattering of crew-serviced machine guns, seemingly bolted wherever there was not already bolted some piece of armor or other battle-loot. It was, although intimidating, not the craft of royalty. This was the transport of a warlord, not a head of state.
Finally, there came one ship from the east, although, unlike the other solitary vessel, this one was as trim and proper as those approaching from the other side of the island. It was a sleek, elegant sailing vessel, crewed by a clean and efficient crew of lean, tall beings, obviously not human; dressed in loose-fitting tunics, operating their charge silently and with perfect precision. The sails were white, branded in the center with a large circular symbol in black. Standing on the forecastle was a lone figure, dressing in long black robes, leaning slightly on a tall black staff. The crew went about their duties around him, while he just stood, looking unceasingly through the mist at the island ahead.
As the ships approached, those from the west drew aboard their oars, the sloop in the west heaved up its sails, and the thing from the north slowed to avoid collision with the island, at least. Each ship was piloted in to come alongside individual wooden docks, constructed only days before using imported slave labor from an island to the north, years-before conquered by the represented nations. It was upon these docks of black wood that each vessel disgorged their entourage…
Stepping off the gangplank of the trireme first was a pair of hooded men, frail bodies concealed beneath layers of thick green robes, each swinging a golden censer disgorging sweet-smelling smoke. Following them, came the Emperor’s procession; led by two golden-armored giants of the Comitatenses Palatini; the Emperor’s personal field army. Following his servants came Him whose empire bore his name. Carried aloft in a golden palanquin and hidden from eyes by flowing red curtains, the forty-second Pudite Emperor was, for now, still a mystery. Never having been beyond the boundaries of his Dominion, this was a monumental moment for the man. Everything he had accomplished, he had done so from his citadel, so many thousands of miles from this rock, and he had accomplished much; He ruled tens of billions of souls, commanded millions of soldiers, and had overseen the establishment of a globe-spanning Empire, consisting of the territory of dozens of formerly sovereign nations, since subjugated by this man’s ruthless legions. Behind the palanquin, which was borne aloft by four slaves; a Grondian, a Chitze, a Pananabian, and a Barudite, each chained to their post, came another pair of Comitatenses Palatini guards. Their monstrous form stood fully three feet taller than the frail human bodies that surrounded them, their massive halberds weighing easily as much as one of these lesser men did. They were followed off the boat by twenty-one boys of perhaps twelve, all with bleach-blond hair and bearing simple white tunics, and all who continuously sang His praises in their native High Pudite. The words of these songs were the only that were ever taught to these boys, who had been raised from birth to fulfill this very task; to serve as chorus to the Emperor’s glory. They walked in step, two-by-two, behind him. Following the chorus at a respectable distance were two further men. The first was an older man, dressed in a black double-breasted suit, with short black hair; he walked with a solid black-wood cane, whose handle was the head of an eagle sculpted from gold. On his dignified face rested the responsibility of governing His Empire. This was Chancellor Black, leader of the Senate and technically, the second most powerful man in the Dominion. Beside him came a man dressed much like the Chancellor, save for he was arrayed in a white suit, and his beard hung long upon his face, as opposed to the other man’s carefully trimmed goatee. This second man was Nicodemus Gurion, the Sechenal of the Imperial Household, and practically speaking, the second most powerful man in the Dominion. This company proceeded to the end of the causeway, where the chorus formed up behind them, singing still, and the two men of the delegation stood off to the side, waiting.
Just down the shore, the pair of longships had docked at their respective piers, and from each had emerged their delegations. From the larger of the two came the largest of the men, in fact, the largest man any of the assembled there that day had ever seen constructed of natural muscle and bone. He was a towering figure of strength, and he carried it with the confidence and dignity only a man of that size could posses. He was one of the Twin Monarchs of the Errican tribes to the north, the larger of two brothers who shared power in that warlike land. He was followed by a small entourage of warriors almost, but not quite, as large, scarred, and intimidating as their sovereign. All members of this party were armed quite extensively with all manner of archaic close-combat weapons, none of which appeared ornamental.
Only just beside this procession came the cohort of the second half of the ruling family of the Ericcan people. This man was taller, and leapt from his ship almost as soon as it had pulled alongside. He, though taller he was, was significantly leaner than his brother, smaller of arm and leg. He carried on his no-less battle-scarred body a longbow and walked carrying easily in his hands a great spear. A half-dozen warriors armed likewise followed him off the ship as easily as he had made the leap. They rendezvoused once on shore with their countrymen, and formed one great, beastly party, seemingly arrayed as much for combat as diplomacy. These were indeed powerful men, and beneath their rule flourished ten-billion like them. They were not a force easily discounted here, even among such other giants.
As one moved further down the beach, they would bear witness then to another regal delegation arriving on the desolate rock; from the towering junk, a causeway was lowered, and the third sovereign to make landfall did so. The first to emerge from the ship were three men, each dressed stylishly in a perfectly-tailored suit of very slightly different shades of grey. These three men represented the security of the following delegation. Perhaps less obvious than the guards of the Pudite Emperor, or the Brother-Kings of the Erricans, these men were no less dangerous, as any enemy of the Soviet Empire would know. Behind them came first a fourth suited man, this one dressed in black, although the power that rested on his brow was less physical, and more a mental force. This man was the President of the Soviet Empire of New Gothland, a role much similar to the Pudite Chancellor, in that he held a high office but remained functionally, a servant of his monarch. Nevertheless, the influence of the man who, in many respects, ruled over the nearly twenty-billion souls of his Empire was not to be discounted. Following him out of the darkness of the ship came two men, the first, an ancient man, was seated comfortably in a wheelchair, although it was obvious that this was not always the case. Upon his chest hung an impressive collection of campaign medals and numerous battle honors, and on his shoulders rested the insignia of a high-ranking general. Although his body was withered and nearly broken, his face, even beneath the many score wrinkles and lines, still displayed that fierce command presence that had won him his merits displayed just below it. He was propelled by a younger aide, himself an officer attaché of the general’s staff. The six men of this procession gathered at the end of their causeway, and waited. Moments later, alone, perhaps singularly the most personally powerful man yet to grace this island left the concealment of his ship. The man was tall and thin, obviously of advanced age, although one could not tell from his face. In fact, one could not tell anything from his face. Upon it rested a golden mien, and about his body he wore loose black robes, such that one could not see his feet moving beneath him, and he seemed more to glide across the pier to his delegation than walk. The only human feature one could discern, for even his hands were covered by gloves, was his long hair, resting still and unmoving, flowing down the back of his head and back. The wind, which was pervasive, seemed not to effect this man unless he allowed it; he was one of a different cast, and not like the others who stepped ashore. He was different, and not in the way of the Pudite guards, who were different in body alone, no. This man was altogether foreign. This man was The Faceless, the seat of ultimate power in the Soviet Empire of New Gothland, and a formidable man in the politics of every major nation in the surrounding area. For centuries he had ruled over his Empire, and, if the legends are to be believed, it has been the same man these long years. Impossibly old, The Faceless was a being of incredible power. Certainly, to have drawn him out of his towers in New Gothland, whatever was occurring here was of the greatest importance.
On the northern shore, however, came something altogether more strange, at least to the eye, than the otherworldly aura of the sovereign of the Gothic Empire. From the warship that had docked there, came a monstrous collection of noises. The sounds of the engine had been frightening enough, but now, as it was stopped, sounds of unknown, but terrifying origin replaced it. The roar of creatures not of this natural world, the cries of pain, the unmistakable sound of crunching bone and the sound of cracking whips, and gunfire. This craft was not altogether of a diplomatic nature. A few minutes after landfall, a door opened on deck, and the first tentative steps were taken by the vessels inhabitants. These inhabitants, however, were not like those others; they were not regal processions of monks and ceremonially-armed guards; they were not warrior bands of giant, armed men; they were not well-dressed diplomatic entourages. No, the first thing anyone would have seen here were a half dozen scuttling things, a seeming cross between a rat and a man, cross the deck and peer cautiously out over the rail. A flurry of noise followed; of squeaks and shouts barely discernible to human ears, before finally the purpose of the ship was served. From the shadowy, frightening depths of the vessel, the shouts and roars of monstrous origin grew louder and louder; goaded forward by a worrisome collection of prods and other pointy-ended implements of fright came a pair of gigantic beasts, seemingly massive, bipedal rats. Towering over even the Errican warriors and the Pudite guards, these things were bestial creatures of muscle and bone, monsters of predatory mind and unstoppable physical incarnations of destruction. Following these two terrors and their handlers strode out the true master of this ship, a much smaller, but nearly as intimidating, figure. A rat-man, or Skaven, as they were called, this man was partially concealed beneath a grey hood, but for the nature of his rat-like face, it protruded forward, and his stark white fur contrasted excellently with the black fur of the bodyguards that surrounded him. This was Grey-Seer Vurk, the voice of the Council of Thirteen on this island, and in him was borne the power of one of the largest empires the world had seen in many years, tens of billions of souls were possessed by the thirteen sovereigns of the Empire of the Horned Rat, and Vurk was their voice. He followed his massive bestial guards down the causeway, where they took up flanking positions on either side of him and his smaller black-furred guardians.
The final procession was more akin to the Soviet delegation than the more ceremonial, or frightening, proceedings of the other nations. The small sloop of the Tau’va Empire slid silently alongside its moorings, and was expertly docked in seconds by a swift and efficient crew. Moments later, a walkway was extended, and the delegation, the smallest yet, was led out. First to disembark was the black-robed figure, a member of the ethereal caste of rulers who administered that great eastern empire. He moved with a grace not obvious or expected of a thing of his age, moving comfortably off the boat, the staff he carried obviously a symbol of power, and not a tool of the elderly. Following a respectful few steps behind his lord walked a much younger, fitter man. On his face was evident the deep sense of duty that pervaded this bodyguards life; a life he had sworn to his lord. Across his strong back was slung a long rifle of expert construction and strange appearance, obviously of decorative qualities for the occasion, but no less a deadly tool in the hands of an expert, such as was the man who carried it. At his side hung the second of such tools, a sword curved and long of blade, sheathed in a case of black, ornamented with gold-inlayed carvings of unknown meaning to any outside the Empire. These two men now represented billions of their countrymen in this endeavor; the voice of the Aun’O Council and the Greater Good upon this desolate rock, so many thousands of miles from home.
Carved into the rocky cliff face before each delegation was a wide and gradually sloping roadway, winding towards the crest of the mountain, where, even from here, and with everything so shrouded in mist, was visible the black dome of a great cathedral of stone. Each of the four sovereigns and the two representatives of the oligarchic Eastern empires began the short climb to the great carved doorways that led to the entrance of the building, and to history.
Within this colossal temple, built only weeks before by the labor of thousands of slaves, mostly of Grondian origin, there was a dizzying array of winding passages and galleries, all moving closer and closer to the heart of the building, where was constructed a massive chamber. This hall was circular, and around it there were five balconies hung perhaps thirty feet above the central floor, where, upon a large stone altar there stood a single small brazier, empty of fire, but bearing a central depression, and five channels leading from the outer edge down into this empty pool.
The whole structure was assembled of black stone, and lit by torchlight from the millions of alcoves lining the walls, and by candlelight emanating from the great chandeliers that hung in the center of the many hundreds of halls and galleries. The whole building was medieval in appearance, with walls lined with great woven tapestries and floors covered in ornate rugs; it was as if these leaders and representatives of the five of the most powerful modern empires were stepping back five-hundred years into the distant, dark past. Slowly, each delegation made their way through the great carved obsidian doorway, bearing carved depictions of each nation’s glorious past and imperial future, and processed with great dignity toward the heart of this massive building.
Each of the five delegations would enter the Hall of Anu, one at a time. The first such delegation to enter was that of the Tau’va Empire, led in by the sound of the anthem of their country, as sung by a native chorus in their own tongue high above, in a far-off gallery. When the song had ended, the second of the delegations entered: the Brother-Kings of the Errican Tribes, to the sound of their native anthem; a hymn of battle in their homeland, accompanied by horns and drums. Following in the Errican tribesmen were the seven men of the Gothic delegation, to the impressive sound of their anthem, played by full orchestra high above. Once this too had ended, the Pudite Emperor entered the Hall, to the sound of his anthem, a strange piece foreign to the ears of the other delegations, and significantly shorter than its counterparts, being only just over a minute in length. Once it was over, the final party entered the Hall; the Grey-Seer Vurk and his entourage, to the sound of his Empire’s anthem filtering down from high above.
Then, once all were assembled, without a word, the four sovereigns and two council representatives broke from their diplomats and bodyguards, and began down a long staircase towards the bottom of the Hall, and the altar at the center. The Emperor of the Dominion, dressed plainly in a white suit, with matching silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard, climbed down from his palanquin; the Faceless of New Gothland seemed to glide silently down his staircase; the ethereal of the Aun’O Council took slow, dignified steps, unassisted by his staff, towards the center of the room; the Brother-Kings each had their own staircase from opposite sides of their balcony, which they both embarked upon, carrying their massive muscled forms closer to the brazier; and the small hooded form of Vurk too climbed carefully down the stairs, using his own staff for slightly more than a status symbol, he arrived at the center of the room at the same moment as the other five representatives.
Together, these six men took up positions around the brazier. Wordlessly, they stood before the six channels leading towards the depression at the center. Beside each depression, there was resting a small stone knife. Each of the men looked at one another, and back at the brazier. Finally, A voice emerged. It was Ulric, the larger of the Errican Kings, who spoke first, in his deep, Nordic accent, he took up in his left hand the knife, and said “I pledge my heartsblood to the service of my brothers,” taking the blade of the knife in his right hand, he clenched his fist, and seconds later, opened it, letting the blood flow down his fingertips and into his channel in the brazier. His brother spoke next, “I will offer my life and the life of my people to the service of our brotherhood.” He too drained the blood of his hand into the brazier, where it mixed with his brother-sovereign in the center. Next to move was the Faceless of New Gothland, and, although to anyone watching he had said nothing, each of the five other leaders there heard his voice clearly in their heads, “To the service of this gathering I offer my every action, in life and death, of myself, and my people,” The Faceless too drained a measure of blood into the brazier, where it mixed with the leaders of the nation on his southern border. Next to act was the ethereal of the Tau’va Empire, who took the blade up, and said to those around him, “It is for the service of the Greater Good I offer my life, and the life of the Tau’va Empire, to the furtherance of this gathering now.” His blood joined the other leaders in the central depression. Even before the ethereal had replaced the blade on the stone brazier, Emperor Pudu XLII had taken up his blade, “The full service of the Dominion that bears my name is offered to all of you here, and forever. I swear it.” The blood of the Emperor joined the others. Finally, the Grey-Seer Vurk grasped the stone blade in his claws, and sliced open his right paw, saying, “The Council of Thirteen bids me pledge-pledge our Under-Empire to the service the man-things, and I have,” he replaced the blade, and the blood of the sixth and final leader mixed in the center of the brazier.
As soon as the Skaven’s blood joined that of the others, there was a flash, and suddenly, a fire took hold above the brazier, and slowly spread up the channels, to encompass the whole of each trail of blood. The Faceless of New Gothland spoke next, “Thus has been sealed the pact of the Anukai, forevermore bound are we to one-another.”
Ulric spoke next, “So long as this fire burns here, we are brothers in all things; The Anukai.”
The remaining four leaders responded in turn, “The Anukai, forevermore.”
With that, the ceremony was complete, and each man turned, and began the walk to their respective balcony, from where would be held forevermore the discourse of each nation’s emissary to the Hall of Anu in the Temple on Caliga, such as it was known. As each leader was returning to their place, the Imperial Pudite Sechenal, Nicodemus Gurion, spoke this, “And with His wounds, we are healed.”
The Anukai; the Dominion of Emperor Pudu XLII, the Great Pack of the Eric, the Soviet Empire of New Gothland, the Tau’va Empire of Shadow Tau, and the Under-Empire of the Horned Rat, bound forever by the blood of their leaders, had been called into existence. Never now would their influence but grow.