Echoes

By Michel Maharbiz

Echoes. The slightest footstep sparked a thousand echoes bickering across the green marble. Layers of echoes cascaded from the walls, enveloping her in sound: the echoes of the multitude outside, the echoes of pages running across the vast expanse of marble, the echoes of armor and weapon. Her commanders sat among the various pews, battle-weary yet flushed with victory. If some spoke, they did so with hushed tones, looking around the basilica nervously. They still fear the old gods of Gund! Still bound by myth and habit…

The shrill echo of swishing robes suddenly enveloped her, demanding attention. The bishop’s assistant approached, waiting not fifteen paces from her. They’re growing impatient. Good. A clearing of the throat, almost booming, indicated the assistant’s patience was ending. Her men’s low murmur ceased.

“My Lady, the procession is waiting. The throng has been gathering for hours and the sun will set in scarcely another. The bishop feels it wise to address them now, before they become so unruly as to riot. It is winter, my lady… it is bitterly cold.” Ah, my young bureaucrat, how unlike your kind to worry for the poor. Bastards, all of you. How will you react when you realize I mean to do away with all of your trappings and nonsense?

“Just a few minutes longer, Jean. My men are assembling their regalia and their garments.” The bishop’s assistant evidenced no reaction to such an obviously false statement. He was content to bow and swish calmly away. Good… learn that it is not your master who rules here.

I wonder if echoes linger forever, ever-diminishing yet never vanishing? If I listen closely, will the marble tell me its stories.? Quietly now, in the dark corners behind columns. In the recesses of the clerestory… She let her mind relax with that thought and she was suddenly ready.

With an abrupt turn, she swirled her blue cloak behind her and marched across the empty basilica towards the dim light and the growing roar of the crowd. She barely gave the bishop and his learned parrots enough time to turn as she strode straight past them and out into the freezing winter evening.

The roar of the crowd almost forced her back. She almost lost her step, almost faltered and reached for the polished banister. Almost. They were not cheering. They were simply making noise. There are no echoes here. No memory, no stories. Only power! She could feel the warmth of the many bodies suddenly behind her on the balcony, whispering and jostling and confused. Fools… listen and fear me.

“People of Noguard!” The crowd ripped and surged, roaring and thrashing in the plaza below the basilica. The sound was deafening. “Citizens of Noguard. Know me now! I am Evelyn of Agrovale and I am the harbinger of evil tidings! For generations, Noguard has been content to dwell in memory. Long have we doddered with old songs and old tales. Too long have we lingered like bent men, telling tales of youth as we wait for the long night. No longer!” The mob roared anew. Her men had been spreading stories and seeding rumors all week. Her speech was merely the spark to light the flame.

“Today we do away with the dull gleam of tarnished memory and bring forth the shining blade into the light! We renounce our old faith to Gund. A faith which has given us nothing but grief and deception!” A screech erupted from behind her, but was drowned in the roar. “Witch! Witchhhhh! Aiaeee!!!” She sensed the old bishop collapsing behind her as her men secured the priests. They had never expected this.

“So I say to you this.” She brought her hands down to signal for quiet. “I say to you this, Noguard. These last few weeks I have shown your leaders to be weak and decadent men, unfit for rule or trade. I say to you… that had I not come, had I not arisen from the ashes of the old, you would have been doomed.” The plaza had now become quiet. This part they had not been told yet: they had heard only rumors. As she swept her gaze across the vast multitude, she could see men running about, lighting night-lamps. Jean had been right: night was falling quickly and soon it would be too dark and too cold to contain them.

“This winter will be cruel beyond compare. I tell you true: wolves will prowl our very walls, hoping to chance a morsel of flesh and dig at old graves for scant meat. But the cruel winter, with its new star,” she turned, pointing at the new light in the sky, “tells of a greater threat to us all.” Again, she let silence reign for a few seconds.

“The Iron Empire has mustered! The legions of old, rekindled in the hellish flames of Tartarus, will be upon us by spring thaw! We must be ready or perish! We must unite under a new banner! A banner of power and strength and resolve! We must be ready. Join me! Fight with me! Become the nation we were destined to be! BEHOLD! The Black Tower! THE BANNER OF VICTORY!” On queue, her man stepped forward and unfurled a monstrous banner the size of a sail, ripping violently as it caught the ocean wind. Under its magical light, it showed a black tower atop a red crag, surrounded by the sea with a single silver swath of light emanating from its topmost window. A lighthouse to show them the way. That’s something they can all understand. The crowd surged and broke violently against the walls below.

“Evelyn!” “Agrovale!” “Evelyn!” “Evelyn!” “EVELYNNNNN!”

It is done. The city is mine.