The Mountain in the Desert

There was a place for everything in the world, but the in'risi which drifted above the endless sand dunes clearly did not accept the natural order. Glittering and silvery white, the tiny insect landed on a malachite pillar. Its long antennae questioningly probed the air.

The being held without bonds between the green and black columns stirred. Surely it searches for a puddle of water, the red tiger thought. The improbability of the appearance of a living creature in a barren, unreal environment challenged his exhausted mind. "But you will find nothing to drink here, little one. You will only find death," Sartren, King of the North, growled in a low, deep voice stretched with a yearning for an end to his suffering.

A breeze arose, but the mountain lord did relish the rustling of his orange and black fur and the cooling of his hot, dry skin. Soon his unseen captor would send a serpent of light that would torment his soul. He much preferred the simple agony that Mumm-Ra casually inflicted when it amused him. "Be done with it, Li'am'ra!" he declared to a painfully blue sky illuminated by an unseen sun.

The in'risi shuttered. A wave rippled the dunes. The silver light approached. Sartren roared a challenge he knew to be useless. The radiance consumed him.

*****

Go away! Hide! Sartren shrieked to himself. The figure of a time long past could not acknowledge his phantom presence. A cub reached for an in'risi that darted over a field of yellow flowers unique to the fleeting Thunderan summer of the far mountains. It gently landed on his outstretched fingers. The cub laughed with delight. He turned to his father to show him his prize. The towering male made an impressive figure in his leather armor embossed with runes of the shri'na's magic. His stern face bore the sharp stamp of battle. The chieftain slowly narrowed his long amber eyes in assessment. "Today is as good a day as any to learn of the ways of the North," he murmured to the cub. He bent over his son, who looked up beaming because his father had taken an interest in him.

Sartren could not avert his eyes from the horror to come even if he wished it. He had never forgotten that day across the long seasons of his hard life. It was the beginning of his descent. Only in death, under the strange judgement of the Li'am'ra, had he finally begun to understand what had shaped him into the monster he had chosen to become.

His father, Ri'tijani, casually crushed his delicate offering. The cub that he had been trembled with sadness as his eyes filled with tears. It was then that the blows came for the disgrace of weeping, the first of many beatings.

Cresting pain returned him to the endless desert and his malachite prison. Sartren howled until the place between life and death shimmered with his agony, then he knew no more.

*****

Darkness was too brief a respite from the scourge of the Li'am'ra's touch. Sartren opened his spectral eyes after a time he could not measure in a place without time. The sands shifted colors from light brown to an unexpected pale blue. The mountain lord tensed at the ominous sign. The dunes hummed with luminous menace.

*****

Zafirin should have been the one to become the King of the North. At only twelve seasons, he possessed the ferocity of several chieftains. He circled his slightly younger cousin, who was known to be shy, and so, considered weak, a creature constantly taunted by others. "This is your last chance," Ri'tijani snarled to his son. "If Zafirin defeats you, but you show courage and live, you will be allowed to remain."

Zafirin laughed. "You will need to get another son, Ri'tijani. This one is done."

His younger self held a short staff. This contest was set up for him to die, for his cousin had a sword. It was a day that lived in their songs, Sartren thought as he watched the drama of his life unfold. Zafirin had put all of his trust in steel. He had watched his cousin practice; he knew every weak point in his defense. He had not intended to kill him, but he had aimed his blow on a spot on the skull sure to down an enemy. He had hoped that such a brazen move alone would spare him exile or death.

Life faded from Zafirin's eyes. Even now bile rose in his throat in remembrance of the first time he had killed. They all thought he had shown great courage by standing emotionlessly over his vanquished foe. The simple truth was that he had felt the pain that he had inflicted upon his cousin, and his body had remained still with shock.

The scene unexpectedly changed. His younger self now rested under a rock ledge after a solitary hike on the mountain trails, a practice that had brought him some peace. After he had vanquished his cousin, the taunting had stopped. His father still railed at his quiet ways, but the beatings had declined. He had learned early in life to detatch himself from these attacks. A part of himself always watched as if from a great distance, and that seemed to lessen the pain, but not his desire for revenge against his sire.

A bird suddenly crashed off the rock wall above him, the unfortunate one caught in the swift down drafts that plagued the peaks. It fell before the youth's feet, but to his horror, it still lived, its body twitching spasmodically from its injuries.

Young Sartren reached for the dying creature, and filled with its pain. Blue light emanated from his fingertips and bathed the bird in a warm glow. The bird lived, healed by his own hands. It flew skyward without a glance back at its savior.

Fear and disgust had mingled together in his heart that day. He had decided then that no one must know of his ability, for it was one only seen among those tigers of the white clans. Somehow he had inherited the taint of mystic blood. Was the mother he had never known a mystic? It had seemed unlikely for there was speculation that she had been a daughter of a red tiger clan faithful to the Lord of Thundera. Equally important was the fact that his father must have also carried the hidden taint. Was such unwanted lineage a secret his father had kept? No matter his parents heritage, the greatest mystery was that the power had not remained locked away in his body as dictated by the orange color of his fur.

The wind shifted. A white tigress in robes of blue suddenly appeared before the youth. She silently pointed to a path that led out of the mountains. Her message was clear: You do not belong here.

His father's methods had proved to be too effective. His younger self called upon the god of the unforgiving mountains. "Ti'ravan'ri! My soul is yours! Remove this curse from me!"

By denying his mystic lineage, he had made his choice to dance with pain and madness all his days. And in his ascension to the throne of the north, his father was the first to fall.

Darkness returned.

*****

The dunes had turned black. Is it time to go back to the hell I have chosen in Ti'ravan'ri's service? Sartren thought. He chuckled grimly. In all of his life, the great and terrible embodiment of the chaos and hardness of the mountains had never chosen to appear to him, or to help him, no matter his prayers, offerings and the unreliable prophecies of the shri'na. I have wrought evil for a uncaring master, he decided. Mrísena would have revealed all to me. What if I had fled from the peaks, and learned the ways of the mrisenin? Instead, under the guise of magic, I chose to use my power to torture my enemies. Insanity was my reward for what I abused. I dominated my people, but I lost myself.

The air shimmered with growing heat reminding him of his last day of life on Thundera. Eruptions and earthquakes had rocked the peaks, and turned them scarlet with lava and fire. His messengers had told him of the skycrafts sent out by King Claudus to rescue the mountain folk of all races. Even at the end of the world, he still desired victory over the arrogant lion clans, who had always denied his people their sovereignty. The only hope for that opportunity was through his people's survival. They had to reach a rescue ship.

All of his sons were dead. He gave one last command to his most trusted warrior, Ra'ri'trin: Continue the war upon the house of Claudus in my name. He had placed his only daughter, a mere kitten, into his care to seal the compact and the bloodline of his house. He had always protected her from the ways of the North, for in lucid moments, he had seen himself reflected in her quiet manner. Yet, to secure his blood oath, he had given her over to one who was as much of a demon as he. He would permit the branch to become as twisted as the tree.

In the end, his people, the vessel for all of his desires, had fled to safety. Satisfied, he had sat alone on his quartz throne as Thundera had crumbled around him.

In Death, darkness and silence had shrouded him until a rumbling voice had finally pierced his desolate awareness with the promise of freedom. He had never questioned how the wielder of evil magic had summoned his soul. Mumm-Ra had tempted him with his desire for revenge against the house of Claudus, but he had more enticements. On Thundera the shri'na had indicated that the white cub he had sired had died along with his mother. Although rumors from the west of the cub's survival had persisted, he had chosen instead to believe the words of the shri'na. Mumm-Ra had shown him that his mystic son had not only lived, but had sired the newest Guardian of Third Earth. Blood lust and curiosity were the final temptation he could not resist, and he had become the spying pawn of the decrepit mummy. That indignity had been a far worse punishment than languishing in an eternal void.

Drums sounded faintly in the barren distance. Just like the day I possessed my son, Sartren mused, proud that he had broken his chain to Mumm-Ra by an act of will alone to further his insane desire to purify himself before Ti'ravan'ri with the blood of a mystic. For one glorious moment, he once again knew the pleasure of possessing flesh. He danced in evil celebration as he sought the mental and physical destruction of the son. Before the Li'am'ra's power, he fell. Although a prisoner anew, this time, he had regained the clarity of mind he had once possessed ages ago when Mrísena had visited him by the rock ledge. Without the shield of evil born of hate and psychosis, he had come to know anguish for all the destruction he had caused in his wasted life.

A figure appeared as a blazing sun miraculously ascended on the distant horizon he deemed to be the east. As it grew closer, he realized that this emissary was female. Rays of white light erupted from her as if she were a star. The jewels of her wide silver collar sparkled. Her pale linen o'ba'ti clung to a lean, golden form, her twitching tail barely noticeable beneath the garment. Her vermillion mane framed a face that bore the fierce lines of the leonine race he had long despised.

"Sinda'am'ral'im, you are clearly the One who Brings the Silence," he whispered. The heat radiating from her body singed the tips of his fur, and made his eyes water with pain.

The Goddess remained silent. Umber eyes cooly regarded him.

Another in'risi floated above them, unaware of the drama playing out below its wings. A cub's laughter suddenly filled Sartren's mind. He wished he could spend eternity in the one true moment of happiness he had ever known. Remorse engulfed him. Peace was forever beyond his reach. The One who Brought the Silence would not return him to the Void for all his evil deeds. There would be no rebirth. Oblivion was what he had created.

Sartren smiled. There was relief in knowing the end to all things was before him. "Thank you for the last memory," he said. "I accept your judgement, for it is well deserved."

The Goddess gave a low, rumbling growl, but said nothing.

She turned away, and walked toward the west. The setting sun engulfed her. The sky darkened with the passage of twilight into night. Bright stars appeared in patterns he had remembered from his mountain home. The malachite pillars dissolved into beads of green light that rose to the heavens and vanished.

Freed of bondage, he took a tentative step forward. Where do I go? Sartren wondered.