Jabal Adh Dahab, the Mountain of Gold.
The capital was almost entirely circular, expanding out from the hills, but the city itself imposed itself greatly onto the hills for miles. The walls were dusky gold, large and imposing, towers dotting along the hills, ever watchful spires. The domed buildings stood proudly and tall, the sea of hundreds of thousands of sandy gold buildings reached the horizon, with trim of lush green, which followed along the river and streams.
The guard stood, like walls themselves, each adorned in light chain, a scarf around their helmet and shoulders, wielding a spear in hand, a curved sabre and a shield dangling at their side. The wooden fence provided them shake when the sun set behind the carriages, and upon seeing the Black Lion, they stood even taller, suddenly full of tension, the pair of guards at the front turning upon their heel, striking the ground with a boot as they saluted the Black Lion aggressively.
“At ease,” Kal Uli assured, revealing the silver plaque, allowing them to pass them between one another, and then one slipped away, and shortly, a middle aged woman appeared.
The Mulazim was a statue of bronze, hair silvered by stress, cut short as warrior women preferred, and her lips were painted white, contrasting her striking eyes. She was adorned in half plate, and carried a long blade at her side, and unlike the other guards, she wore a cape of golden cloth. “Kal Uli, Noor bless you.”
“Mulazim, how do you fare?”
“Well, well,” the woman replied, and then her eyes peeked towards the carriages. “Is it my fortune you have brought Flame Brand?”
“Yes.”
The Mulazim’s eyebrows darted within the air, and with great wisdom, Kal Uli requested Flame Brand to step out, the woman doing so, revealing her red face to the middle aged woman, whose eyes remained so focused on the woman.
“Noorshukhur, Noorshukhur, I am Mulazim Elisha, and it is my honour to meet you,” the woman said, in her late forties, so too young to have met the woman when she passed through the land so long ago. “My parents met during their time within a caravan, and they mentioned they were able to see your clash with the Fariq of Bronze Dragon.”
‘I really am her grandson,’ a particular fool thought.
“It seems Fate has brought us together once more,” Gangak replied, greeting the woman respectfully.
“I will personally escort you to where you are staying,” Elisha assured, though the presence of a Black Lion was enough.
“Thank you,” Gangak said, but before she retreated away she called for her grandniece and grandnephew, and her grandson and greatchildren, allowing them to meet with the Mulazim.
“Oh, I see many familiar faces,” the woman said, her eyes falling upon Laygak, Taygak, and then the Mo, the woman bowing her head gently.
“I see you are well,” Laygak replied, and after greeting the woman, he kept a keen eye on her as she eyed up the children.
“These are your great grandchildren?” Elisha asked.
“They are,” Flame Brand confirmed, noting the awkwardness within the woman’s eyes, for though three of them appeared to be her great grandchildren, two were….
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the woman eventually stated. “I am Mulazim Elisha.”
Once the children introduced themselves, Elisha turned her head, looking towards the half elf as he stepped within the carriage. Her eyes then fell to Uli, who bowed his head, and with that the woman began to lead them, calling for a large creature that seemed to be a camelhorse. They followed the woman, who followed the stream, the greenery dominating the landscape, covering the sandstone, the dusky golds of the walls and buildings.
“Do you know where we are headed to now?” Adam asked, holding his daughter close to his chest, the girl squirming against his tight hold, but eventually relented.
“Saint Brandon’s Grand Temple of Lady Arya,” the girl replied, annoyed she had to reply to such a ridiculous question.
“It’s a shame we didn’t bring any of the Dons with us.”
“Babo Shagek is related to Brandon,” the girl stated.
“He is?”
“Mm,” the girl replied, and then she started to explain how to the half elf, although, technically, many of the Iyrmen were.
It was quite some time before they finally approached the large temple, which looked like a blade had pierced the ground. The hilt jutted out of the building quite some ways out high above them, providing many beneath with shade under the noon sun. The temple was made of hardy stone, painted white from base to pommel, but the hilt was made of tiles, hundreds of thousands of tiles, while the pommel was a large dome, painted almost entirely black, as though cursing the sun, though none would dare suggest that within Aswadasad.
They rode through, a quarter hour walk along the winding path, towards the temple proper, situated in the centre. Hundred of buildings were contained within the temple complex, some small, barely able to hold one person comfortably, others so large they could allow hundreds of people to live comfortably, others hundreds, thousands, and some of the buildings, could host tens of thousands.
A younger acolyte quickly approached, though did not stop the Mulazim, only spoke with her a moment and then began to escort them through the temple. Many stared at the procession, and as they followed one of the many rivers, they made their way towards the sword shaped temple, in which many tents were set up, some still being set up, while a woman awaited them, tall, a scarf wrapped around her head, a cuirass of scale over her torso, a skirt of chain, and, as one might expect in such a temple, a blade. There was also a prayer on her lips, the kind which did not go answered as he stepped out of the carriage.
“Malawi, how do you do?” the half elf called, smiling towards the familiar face, only to notice the stress on the woman’s face, the kind that she tried to hide away, but the half elf had become so familiar with it. ‘How did I give her PTSD?’
Except, who was he?
Tall, lean, handsome, dark skin, his eyes almost amber, more golden, almost like those Adam had seen who held the blood of the Divine, and he wore a black afro and a thick black beard which covered his lips. He was unadorned in armour, his black shalwar billowing in the breeze, his grey scarf wrapped around his neck, and upon his back he wore a pair of blades, each long and thin, forged of the night sky.
Bael glared at the man, who smiled a smile that was free and open, though the look within the old man’s eyes held a great many secrets.
“Why are you so tense, friend?” called the stranger, whose voice was deep as the ocean, and was full of the storm.
“Hey!” shouted a fool, pointing at the old man. “You can’t be that tall, dark, mysterious, and also have such a great voice!”
The fellow laughed freely, while the Malawi side eyed him, hoping there would be no trouble, for regardless of who he was, causing trouble for the Iyr was a serious matter. Even the Divine did not dare to trouble the Iyrmen’s children, especially after Baktu had claimed them as his, and they had hunted down quite a large number of the Divine’s children.
However, before he could speak, another voice of trouble spoke up.
“Daddy, you cannot cause trouble for the Sword Lord of the Night.”
The old man blinked. “You… know who I am?”
“Yes,” the girl replied. “You travelled with Rogak, Jogak the Firestorm’s greatmother, who said you were a decent blade, but you were too annoying.”
Sonarot turned to look towards her granddaughter, then her eyes darted to Gangak, who seemed to vaguely recall something, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
“I did not expect to be recognised,” the fellow said, taking no offence at all through her words, because as he recalled, Iyrmen did not lie, and considering he was there, she was right. “You may call me Mohammed.”
“Is that your real name or a psuedonym?” Adam asked.
“A psuedonym.”
“Can you change it, because we already know a Mohammed, and a Muhammed, and also a Muh, so it’s a little…”
“You may call me Abdul.”
“Are you friend or foe?”
“I, too, am a child of Lady Arya.” The old man smiled, meanwhile ignoring the Malawi’s look, and while many were looking at him in a similar way, the Iyr did not look at him so, for they were used to such beings.
“Okay, Korin, would you please give him a name?”
“Me?” Korin asked, his eyes darting from the fellow who was apparently a child of Lady Arya, not a child in the sense he held her blood, perhaps, though he may be someone she had bestowed special powers.
“I was about to name him Ahmed,” Adam replied, picking perhaps the only other name that was as ubiquitous.
“Majid?”
“Oooh,” Jirot said. “That’s a nice name.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Noble, glorious, magnificent, but sometimes, it can mean honour or generosity,” the girl replied, before noting the large number of figures looking at her. She blinked. “I am not causing trouble?”
“How do you know so much?”
“Ahm Tamil gifted a book of names and I read it,” the girl replied.
“Yeah, but, also, how did you know he’s the Sword Lord of the Night?” Adam asked.
“Of coas I read the Gak family tales, daddy!” Jirot replied, her face contorting slightly. “I resent the accusation!”
“Ah,” Majid said. “You are Jirot.”
Jirot turned to look towards the old man, then looked to her father, about to tell him off for telling him all about her, and then turned back to Majid, because this was certainly their first time meeting. She narrowed her eyes, unsure of who to complain to about this situation.
Something was terribly wrong.