The Rise of the Caliph

The wizened fingers of the First Scribe tightly clutched the writing quill, never relaxing - not even between pages, during those moments when the universe paused and the stars went still. He dipped it into the well of dark blue ink once more and turned the page quickly.

Best not to let the world simmer too long, he thought. It could become stagnant.

"And we couldn't have that," he chuckled slightly. Hundreds of volumes of memories and unknown sagas from beyond the world of man lined the walls, each one containing the complete stories of one era, one Age...

What would come of this Age, he wondered. Even he could not tell for sure, because for every bright, promising word of the future he scrawled upon the blank pages of this latest tome, another would be penned by the Last...

***

Somewhere at the end of time, the Last Scribe continued his relentless, backward struggle to unravel the efforts of the First. For untold generations, they had written and out-written one another, until their ideas were balanced, and there was calm upon the world. The blissful people who lived during those idle years had been happy, ignorant of the real reason for their relatively uneventful lives. But they would soon be reminded of entropy, and chaos, and discordance. They would be challenged again, their homes endangered, their lives threatened. They would suffer, and weep, and lament. But they would survive.

Yes, they would survive.

For without them, the stories would end, and neither of the Scribes would have anything left to say.

"And we couldn't have *that*," the Last answered across the ages.

***

The story they told this Age was simple. It was about a little girl who was afraid to die, and what she did about it...

Genesis of a Tyrant

Hanan Talibah was a lonely child. Her mother had long since passed on, taking her place among the stars. Or so she had been told by her father. And as for him, well, she rarely saw or spoke to him, for he was the aide to a Merchant King of the Houses of Dahab, which meant that he spent some nine months a year away from Medinaat al Salaam.

She was raised by servants and vassals, whose time was divided between tending to her and tending to the family estate. As she was rarely allowed to leave the grounds, her time was mostly spent reading, day-dreaming, or indulging in one of her fanciful hobbies, of which she had many. Those who witnessed her painting, writing, or sculpting often commented on her skill and attention to detail, as if she were actually within whatever personal environment she was attempting to depict.

But she remained as distant even when not creating - when alone, with others, involved, or idle. "She is not among us" was a common phrase those who came to the house said. The servants, of course, who had grown to cherish her, replied only "She is with her mother."

Hanan thought about her mother all the time. She wondered where she had gone, who she would talk to there, and what it was like to be dead. She had not been with her mother during the final hours - after the accident. Her father had forbidden her to enter that wing of the house until the next day, and by then she was gone.

Gone.

How was it that someone was there, speaking to you one day - nurturing you when you had questions, cradling you when you had fears - and gone the next? How could someone abandon you like that?

Hanan's Father had told her that it was simply "her mother's time", that Shilah had requested her help in the skies, and that such an honor could not be refused. When asked which one of the stars she was, he had pointed into the far horizon, near the northern dunes, and said, "That one, right there. She is with all the little children who have been chosen, teaching them and loving them like she loved you."

"But who will love *me* now?" Hanan had asked.

"I will, my daughter. I will..."

But he didn't. Not the way that her mother had. He was far too busy to spend long hours reading to her, or playing with her, or showing her how to mold her mind's eye into beautiful works of art. The only thing he could do for her was bring her exotic items from far off lands and promise her that tomorrow, everything would change.

Hanan spent more and more time wondering about her mother, and eventually stopped asking the questions that she knew hurt her father. He missed his wife's gentle words and graceful touch as much as Hanan did, and the look of sadness upon his normally beaming face was too much for her to bear. She could not cause him any more pain.

And yet she was confused. How could such an honor be so terrible for those left behind? And if her mother really did choose to go, then why was Hanan not allowed to see her off? Every question only spawned two more as she tried to reason it out. And soon, Hanan found herself becoming very, very disturbed.

Death made no sense, she thought.

And it was beginning to scare her.

On the eve of her fifteenth birthday, Hanan went looking for her present. Her father had just come back from the Senpet Empire, and she was sure that he had brought it with him. What could it be? A prism with a silver charm at its heart? A painting of the mountains far to the west, with their high cliff-faces and dangerous steppes? A kitten plucked from one of their fabled Royal litters? As she rummaged through the small ivory boxes that he had hidden within the cellar (a favorite hiding place he did not know she had discovered), she found a large and heavy book, wrapped in cloth that had been charred black. Afraid to leave evidence of her prying eyes, but too curious to stop, she carefully unwrapped it.

Upon its cover was emblazoned a brilliant scarab with golden wings and two eyes overlooking. But what really caught her eye was the image of an inverted ankh between.

The symbol for life.

And death...

***

The child that would grow up to rule the city of Medinaat al-Salaam with an iron fist was initially quite benign, her worst traits a touch of the dangerously curious and a healthy fear of death. These two preeminent facets of her personality would dominate her actions throughout her adolescence, and would - through the malignant warping of the Senpet Book of the Dead - form the foundation for her mindset into the present day.

Soon after her discovery of the Book, her father was murdered in the Residential Quarter of the city, left to bleed to death by brutal attackers behind the House of Enour. The reasons for the assault, of which there were conveniently no witnesses - have never been discovered, and the villains who took Hanan's last living relative from her were never brought to justice.

The girl was "adopted" by the Merchant King that had employed her father, the estate she had lived in her whole life absorbed into his holdings. Her works of art were sold off at auction, and she is said to have wept a week for each lost memory. The King was a stern guardian, protective and sheltering. He refused to allow her the time she had always enjoyed alone, forcing her to study the arts of refinement and courtship instead.



He told her that she would make a fine wife one day, and that she would fetch a handsome price at market.

She hated him. She despised him for every harsh word he said about her dead father, for every loose comment he made about her, and for the one time he ever mentioned her mother.

***

She was eighteen, and had been secretly learning the language of the Senpet from one of the servants that had raised her as a child. He had come to her room every night to tutor her, often until well after dawn. Soon, they were conversing, and soon after that, she was reading from the Book, the only item she had managed to hide form the vile Merchant King's greed.

It contained many discourses on the nature of what comes after the end of life. Where you go, what you do, who you meet, and how your final fate is determined. She feverishly read every word as if it had come from the mouth of the Sun Herself, though she knew that statements this true could never have come from Her. No, Silah did not cherish truth. Hanan knew that now. Shilah valued deception, drenched in the juice of sweet olives.



The Sun was a lying whore.

More revelations followed. Hanan found that death was not such an honorable, or even desirable, thing. Those that died passed on into a dark land of judgment and arbitrary punishment by ten thousand gods that warred with one another endlessly, needlessly. There, you were only one small soul, a tool to be used by other, terrifying beings of immense power and angry dispositions. As she read, she found herself immersed in the world of Enala, the dark afterlife that she had been taught to believe was where evil people go after death. But it was twisted by the foreign cosmology of the Book of the Dead, recreated as an alien hell where nothing human mattered anymore.

In the far distance, she could almost hear her parents screaming...

Yet there was something she could do about it. And on a night only days before she would have been auctioned, she struck. The Merchant was berating her in her chambers after she had "impudently" refered to one of his associates as a "revolting, boil-ridden ghul".

"How dare you!" he screamed. "What role do you think you play here?" His face loomed too closely to hers, sweat gleaming from his brow and in-between the rolls of fat on his neck. "You... are property. To be sold like so much meat."

Hanan fingered a knife her servant-friend had given her one night after she had been beaten by the Merchant. Hidden behind the curtain she was pressed against, she could draw it with only a single moment's regard.

"In one week," the fat Merchant continued, "you will belong to someone else. Why, I'm half inclined to *give* you to our mutual friend, the 'ghul'. Perhaps he would be motivated to teach you some manners...

"...or at least derive some small pleasure before tossing you into the river."

He raised his hand and began to twirl a lock of her hair in-between his chubby fingers. "So beautiful, and yet so grandly impudent... just like your mother..."

"What would you know of my mother, cow?" Hanan cursed at him.

"More than you would think... slave." He smiled and blinked irreverently. "Who do you think sold her to your father?"

With a maniacal scream of anguish, Hanan lunged forward, imbedding the knife into his sternum. She could feel his ribcage collapse beneath her as they toppled over, and she jerked the knife free and stabbed him again.

And again.

And again, until there were no more hateful words left upon his lips, or more struggle from his corpulent body. Working quickly, she ripped open his tunic and began carving. It took longer than she would have expected to dig out the swollen organ, and when she lifted it before her, her impression was of a huge, rotten pomegranate.

Looking across the room at the location of her hidden tome, Hanan laughed. With his heart and a little effort, she would be able to mold Enala into whatever he feared the most. And while his anguish within this personal hell would be immeasurable, he was only the first of many, many more...

***

The Ceremony of the Hidden Heart

The bloated heart of the Merchant rested within a large ivory box of the style her father had so loved. She remembered the stories he would tell after weeks in the Ivory Kingdoms - that the merchants of the far east believed that the containers could protect their contents against any force - physical, spiritual, or magical - that nothing within an ivory box could ever be destroyed. More than that, it was said that they could be enchanted by the tribal sahir to become sealed at the utterance of a single arcane word, never to be opened again without it.

Hanan looked across the room at the Merchant King's tremendous frame, lying inert upon a stone table. The moonlight cast through the open window and fluttering silk curtains created a patchwork of eerie shadows upon his bulbous belly. She smiled, knowing that soon he would walk again, but no longer with the arrogant gait of a self-envisioned god...

She walked over to the window and stood before another, smaller ivory chest perched upon the sill. Resting her hands upon it, she was reminded of the annoying itch across her chest. The wound would not heal for days yet, she thought to herself, and closing her eyes, she focused on the box and what was hidden within. With a little effort, she could almost feel it beating.

Her smile broadened. The first stage of the ritual had been completely successful. Soon, the horrible man lying on the table behind her would provide her with the final piece of the puzzle.

Hanan opened her eyes and looked deeply into the nighttime sky. Above, thousands of tiny pin-points of light were scattered across the blue velvet heavens as if at the errant whim of a mad painter. She spoke aloud to herself, but the words were meant for another. "I know now what has happened to you, and that I can never help you. But I must say goodbye tonight, Mother, for I will never be joining you..."

She looked back down to the ivory box and whispered, "Abadi". There was a subtle click, and the box popped open. Within, resting upon a plush satin lining, was another heart - this one much smaller and beginning to grey at the edges. Scooping it gently out, she walked back to the table.

His form waited. With a mental command, the sheet covering him jerked back, revealing his ruined torso. Concentrating, repeating the expression she had learned within the Book, she placed the heart inside the enormous cavity left behind by his own. She brought her arms together before her and bent forward, gathering the magical force described within the tome.

She could sense the tissue of the heart beginning to twitch, to reach out to the new host. She could see the arteries and veins slowly stretching out toward it like moths to a flame. Bodies know how to work of their own accord, it was postulated within the pages. All that it required is a little coercion...

Over the agonizing moments that followed, the flesh within his rotting chest began to enclose upon the small organ, fusing around it. Vessels and nerves entered and began to make the proper connections. Minutes later, the tiny muscle flexed, and even though she had braced herself for it, Hanan recoiled backward. The sensation made her stomach crawl and her eyes squint. The pressure within the cavernous hole in her chest was unbearable, and for just a moment she was sure that she had failed, or made a grievous mistake.

Another beat, and she fell down onto the floor in a fetal position, violent spasms wracking her body.

Another. She began to cry.

Another. She screamed to the Moon to kill her and make it stop.

Another. She was lost within a dark, disgusting hole away from the pain, but it was following close behind.

Another. The horizon was shattered, leaving only a single point of interest to fix upon. She ran haphazardly toward it through the darkness.

Another, and another. The point was a person, lying upon the ground, twitching in miserable pain. "Mother?" she called out, stunned. Had her failure killed her? Was this Enala? Was this Hell?

Three more. The pounding was deafening now, overpowering all else. She reached out and touched the woman, hoping beyond hope that it was her, that she could speak to her one last time. But at the moment her hand brushed the woman's cheek, she knew what had happened, and who the figure was.

Looking up through her own eyes, Hanan Talibah knew that she had been successful. The giant corpse of the Merchant stood over her, his hand outstretched to cup her cheek.

She could still feel the heart beating within his chest as she removed it - two bodies, yet only one life.

But whose life was it, anymore?

***

The Book of the Dead

The Ceremony of the Hidden Heart was discovered by the woman who would be the Caliph - Hanan Talibah - during her initial forays into the ancient mysteries hidden within the pages of the Book of the Dead. Although not detailed as a ritual per se, the ceremony is based upon knowledge gained from the volume. It is possible that the ceremony only came about by way of this knowledge being filtered through Hanan's extremely creative mind, though none have ever been in a position to say for sure.

It is said that the Senpet Book of the Dead is a wellspring for the human mind - that it contains not only historical and philosophical notes of the glory of the Senpet Empire (spanning back some 800 - 1500 years), and a plethora of magical and metaphysical knowledge, but also an indeterminate element that allows its contents to be "adopted" by the reader, allowing him or her to form new concepts and create new effects with every read. The concept of a "living book" has largely been disputed, however, by those not within the astrological or mathematical fields.

Yet a great many sahir and Senpet Thinkers still believe.

Regardless, Hanan managed to take something away from the experience of reading the Book, and forge it into the Ceremony of the Hidden Heart, which has allowed her to create many undead thralls from the remains of her enemies. She named them Khadi, which translates as "servants", or "slaves". Since that day, she has managed to create dozens of them, with hundreds more being slaughtered along the way.

***

The Ritual

The Ceremony and its ritual are an inexact science at best, and could be said to be more spiritual than magical in nature. Ultimately, Hanan is placing a part of herself - her soul or magical essence - within the corpse she is attempting to raise, for a time. This is a very dangerous procedure, and if even a minor flaw is made, it can result in the utter destruction of the victim's body and soul, or her own death.

Hanan and her Khadi will never die - not by age, or disease, or common violence. They have sustained immense damage and continued to walk among those whose blood still courses through their veins. Only by extreme magical intervention or failure during the ritual have they ever been truly destroyed.

Also, the Khadi (and their mistress by extension) have acquired vast personal power. Each one of them ranks among the most resourceful sahir within the Burning Sands, able to stand up against several of their lesser brethren and survive. Their enhanced ability with all things arcane has enabled them to create a stranglehold upon the populace of Medinaat al-Salaam - for how can you fight a person who can drown you in dust with a single glance, or banish your entire bloodline with a casual gesture?

All this comes at a garish price, however. The ritual required to create Khadi is taxing, and several times has threatened the souls of both Hanan and her charge. When she first realized the potential within the Book of the Dead, she was only trying to save herself from the awful fate she believed had befallen her parents. Terrified at the prospect of dying - of suffering endlessly within the wells of despair the Book described, she thought that the sacred words could be manipulated to allow her eternal life.

What she did not realize was that a heavy toll would have to be paid for everlasting youth. Her own heart would have to be removed, and stored within a magically sealed container, to be stilled between beats forever. But to maintain this state, she had to find others in which it could be allowed to beat periodically...

The end result of this procedure was a magical automaton, capable of little original thought, yet a much higher degree of magical skill (or a marginal amount in those who had never displayed any in the first place). The bodies could remain mobile until the heart was removed, which needed to be done within an hour or two to prevent it from permanently grafting into the host. Thereafter, the zombie would only be so much flesh again.

But Hanan had an idea. If she could perform a variant of the ritual she had used for herself on the walking corpses, she could perhaps retain their minds, allowing for a race of magically-endowed slaves for her to command, or torment. This took considerable time and effort, and many, many people perished at her hands before she was successful. Finally, however, just over three hundred years ago, she brought back the first of the order that would come to be known as the Khadi.

Many more followed.

***

The Slow Downward Spiral of Death-in-Life

Beyond the obvious drawbacks to this process, the mutable knowledge within the Book of the Dead has other, more perverse, effects upon its recipients. When first exposed to the incredible array of possibilities the Book provides, an euphoric obsession results. Commonly, within the first months of exposure, the victim becomes more and more determined to discover its next secret application. Also, enhanced magical ability is typical. But within a year or two, side effects become more disturbing.

Mania, extreme possessive behavior, psychosis - even criminal insanity - can result from prolonged use of ideas spawned by the Book. Contrary or wicked thoughts and emotions become more prevalent, while hopeful or constructive ones are suppressed. In time, a person's darkest traits completely overwhelm their senses of ethics or morality. Right and wrong. Good and evil. These concepts fade away in the face of anger, selfish desire, or whatever corrupt impulses the person already possessed, multiplied a hundred fold.

In Hanan's case, two factors were predominant in her psyche when she first read from the Book - fear of death, and a resultant fear of being left alone. Both of these manifested exponentially after her first major success with the ceremony. Today, she suffers from a severe obsession with all things not living and a desperate need to control everything she sees (both radical derivations of her original emotions). Also, she suffers from a radical possessive complex, in which she must be sure that no one else has greater knowledge than she (magical or otherwise).

Every Khadi faces this manner of distortion. Their human minds are guided by the dark hand of the Book until they become angry, hollow shells of their former selves, filled with rage, lust, or whatever other malignancies come from the emotions and vices they already possess. Every Khadi, once he has been completely taken by the Book's influence, will become an uniquely extreme force, tailored by his own worst characteristics.

***

A Thousand Curses Upon You - 300 Years Ago

The roots of the large, white palm looked like enormous, newborn worms to the Caliph. Surfacing through the rich soil, looking for food, she thought. Ever hungry, never satisfied, always searching for the quintessential "more".

"I understand," she said aloud for no one to hear. She could almost sense them moving below her, trying to break free of the ground and embrace her. "And I miss you, too..."

She marveled at the tree and the patch of lush dirt it grew from. She could remember the stain that was there before - a hundred years ago. Purple and red, spreading out from the deep cut, fleeing her father's body, stealing his life. He died so that this tree would live, she considered. What justice was there in such a trade?

Justice. A failed, outmoded notion. She had forsaken the idea decades ago. How could justice exist in a world that had forgotten vengeance? How could anyone be expected to exact due punishment if they could not feel rage?

She would remind them. In a day, the city would be hers, and she would remind them what it meant to have power and make choices. To exact due punishment. To judge others by the laws they had created in their own selfish need. All of them would learn what it was like to fear...

Behind her, she heard the fleeting steps of another. Unconcerned, she waited for the young man to sputter out apologies between difficult gulps of air before interrupting him. "Caliph... Hanan... I am sorry for-"

"Never call me that," she commanded, and he held his coughing breath for a moment at her curt correction. "The fact that we have shared a passionate interlude does not give you the right to address me as your equal."

"I am a prince," he began, but was immediately doused when she wrathfully spun at him, her accusatory finger mere inches from his throat.

"And I am the Caliph!" she roared. "Your royal blood provides you no authority over me!"

Recoiling from the harsh words, the Prince studied her for any sign of remorse at her words, any indication that she had only spoken in haste. But there was none. She meant everything she had said. And worse, he knew that she had the power to support her claim. To his knowledge, she was the best sahir in the city, and quite possibly far beyond that as well.

The Prince was suddenly very much afraid.

In a most unexpected turn, she reached out an open palm and brushed away the hair from his sweaty face. Then, lowering her hand to caress his face and neck, she said, "Now, don't worry, my love. I'm not going to hurt you. How could I harm something so adorable?" She smiled as she considered him - so young, so naive, such easy prey...

Fear and romantic passion are the two greatest weaknesses of the human heart. Scare a man, and he will run frantically toward anything that he thinks will protect him, including you. Make him feel love, and he will do anything to please you.

Make him fear that he will lose that love, and he will kill, or even die, to keep it.

"There is... something I need from you, dear Prince," she invited.

"Anything..." he replied.

***

When he awoke, he was lying upon the soft, quilted rugs of the Royal Palace. He did not remember how he had gotten there - only that after his meeting with Hanan, he had returned home with a severe headache. He had wanted to go to bed, but needed to speak with his father... ...why? It was about something that the Caliph had told him, but he could not recall what it was.

He rose, but a splitting pain between his eyes caused him to fall back upon his shoulder. He rolled onto his side and tried to focus his vision. Before him, lying several feet away on the floor, was another person. Large and wrapped in a dark shawl, he could almost make out the royal vestment.

"Father?" he called, but was shocked when an unbroken scream resounded through the bed-chamber. A woman was standing over him, terror and anguish drawn across her face.

"Noooooooo!" she repeated, and fell to her knees. "You!" she accused, and turned to point at him. "You did this!"

"Wha..." The Prince was still extremely dizzy, and didn't yet understand what was happening. "What are you-"

"You killed him! Your own father!"

Snapping suddenly into alertness, he eyed the body across the room. Indeed, it was his father, a large, ornate dagger jutting out of his back, squarely and surely imbedded to the hilt. Blood covered the boy's hands, and the floor between them, and his shirt was soaked by it.

"Villain! Betrayer!" she continued to scream at him. Standing now, she was wobbly at the knee from the shock of the scene.

It was the Grey Woman, whose name he was forbidden to know. The gypsy courtesan that had visited his father every season when they passed through the city. The woman his father had been rumored to love.

"Curses to you!" she spat. "A thousand curses upon you and all in this house! Forevermore! Forevermore, your children will pay for your crime, and none shall survive the wretched fate you have assured them. All the sons, and all the fathers, until there are no more...

"And you will live to see it done, until there are no more to kill," came the words. "You will be the last to die."

***

And in that single, defining moment, everything changed.

The Last Scribe took a moment of pause, pleased with this latest challenge.

But somewhere, at the other end of time, the First Scribe continued writing...

***

A little over three hundred years ago, the City of a Thousand Stories was a very different place. Ruled by a benevolent family of nobles who lived in a grand palace carved from the earth itself, Medinaat al-Salaam was at peace. The Sultan and his family were even-handed, and kind. They realized the mistakes of the past, and how to correct them. And they had bright eyes for the future.

But something changed with the arrival of the Caliph and her corps of Khadi. Soon after, the Prince murdered his own father, crushing the family and the public's trust in them. He escaped and vanished, never to be seen again, and the remainder of the family resigned their posts to live the rest of their days as commoners, having as little to do with others as possible.

A new Sultan was appointed, recommended personally by the Caliph. He governed as best he could, but many claimed he was nothing more than a figurehead and that the Caliph was the one true voice of law in the city. The loudest of these soon followed the Prince, however, and those that remained came to think twice before speaking against the Caliph when their words could be repeated, or remembered.

Not very long after that, the Khadi began policing the streets as enforcers of the Sultan's law. Again, those that complained mysteriously disappeared, leaving no one with the will to oppose them...

And so it has been for three hundred years. The Caliph and her heartless mages never get any older, and no one is bold enough to question why. Sultans have come and gone, yet always they seem amenable to the Caliph's wishes. Trade and alliances with those outside the city has, until recently, dwindled, leaving no new blood to challenge the old.

The city has always been plagued by raiders, pirates, and other outsiders, and little has ever been done to stop them. But recently, it would seem that the Caliph has taken an interest in foreign affairs. Last year, a much-debated alliance with the Senpet Empire renewed the strength of the city guard and provided them with a standing army. But many think that the Senpet are gaining more than water in the bargain...

Meanwhile, the Caliph, perhaps afraid that others would learn enough to challenge her necromantic army, has made several curious (and oddly open) orders. All of the libraries in the city have been shut down, and most burned to the ground. No practitioners of magic outside her own Khadi are legally allowed within city limits. And tithes are rising at an unprecedented rate, including not only denari but water, a far more valuable resource in these periolous days.

All this has done little to prevent visitors from bringing books and sahir into the city. Senpet Astrologers and Moto Traders smuggle information and items from beyond city limits every day, much of which falls into the hands of a growing number of people unhappy with the Caliph's totalitarian rule. Renegade sahir calling themselves the Qabal hide in corners and back rooms, summoning Jinn and casting spells to aid the cause, but many wonder if they are ushering in a revolution, or magical annihilation.

The resistance to the Caliph and her inhuman soldiers is growing. The city is tiring of the yoke. Soon, it will rise up in force to stand against her oppressive control. Every day, new heroes are being born - in the stables of persecution, under the wing of abusive guidance, and in the hollow halls of autocracy. Their lives will decide the fate of the world.

Every life is a story... Which one will you tell?

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