The Red Conquest

prelude

The sky was the color of rot.

A bloated red moon hung low over the sprawling city, which seemed miniature from the height of the flat hill that rose from its centre. Shadows slithered through the gaps between the buildings below, robing the entire expanse of it in a deadness that was broken only by the occasional pooling of torchlight at a church or crossroads. The chaotic structure of its clustered stone buildings and tortuous labyrinthine streets marked it as ancient city, one that had seen and suffered much. Ragged stone walls closed it off from a desolate scrubby desert beyond which the land melted into a glinting, oily sea to the east.

He turned his eyes away from the view. It had been a beautiful place, once, before it fell. Still he felt something imbued in the stones beneath his feet; something lying in wait, vast and dormant.

He stilled, quieter than the city itself. A quavering hoot floated towards him, borne on the eastern wind.

Some would call it an evil omen. But it was what he had been waiting for.

Grasping the reins of the white stallion, he walked purposefully across the square, past the ornate dome at the centre. Ahead, a low, massive mosque occupied the southern part of the courtyard on the hill. Inset into its bulk was a gate guarded by a pair of soldiers in chain mail. As he drew closer, he could make out a coat-of-arms : A red cross against the brown of their tunics.

The boy held up his hand, on which a ring glinted in the torchlight. "In hoc signo vinces."

The man's grey eyes flickered over the sigil on the ring. "Where's Sieur Robert, squire?" he growled in French.

"He gave instructions for his horse to be stabled and fed," replied the boy tonelessly. "He should arrive soon."

The soldier curtly nodded him inside. Within, the great worship hall had been partitioned with shoddy brickwork, creating rooms for men along one side and stalls for horses on the other. The stench of sweat and dung was a sickening contrast to the slender pillars and the intricately patterned ceilings. Gritting his teeth, he led the animal to a stall, and then moved slowly across the makeshift corridor down the centre. He could hear only the heavy breathing of sleeping men, the occasional whinny of the horses, and his footsteps that echoed eerily through the hall.

The next pair of guards, at the nondescript doors in the southeastern corner, would not have let him in so easily had they been present. His men had done their part. He waited until there were no people behind him in the corridor before he slipped through, entering a vaulted room that was cold and empty. Torches burned dimly in their brackets, illuminating starkly bare stone walls. The asceticism of the room had a quiet power, belying the crude façade that was the main hall. Its utter silence was more intimidating than any guardian, almost as if waiting patiently for him to make a fatal noise.

He proceeded at a more determined pace, through a slim passage and a locked door into a small, dingy chamber; a dormitory. A quick glance revealed six curtained doorways along the walls which he approached in turn, kneeling by each to feel the air near the floor. The stagnant warmth under five of them told him that they held occupants. Tempting, but they did not matter tonight.

He entered the sixth, excitement building within his chest. The room was an empty square in which the only sign of habitation was a straw mat on the floor, a white robe hanging on the wall and a rack of swords and armour beside it. He focused ahead, at the far wall - a grand tile mosaic depicting a swirling geometric fractal. His eyes followed the paths that twisted beneath each other in an endless knot, repeating themselves across the whole surface. It was, come to think of it, the only artwork he had seen in these hidden chambers.

A step through the murky darkness, further into the room, and then he heard a faint rustle of cloth behind him that stopped him cold.

"Who is it?" a voice cried in nervous French, echoing off the bald stone.

The boy tensed, turning slowly. A young, brown-skinned girl in a stained white dress stood arrested in the doorway, carrying a load of bedding in her small arms. Her eyes, wide with surprise, quickly darkened and became wary.

"Malory. A squire," he blurted. "I know I'm not supposed to be here, but I am lost. Where is the way out? I can't find any doors..." The words spilled easily from his lips as he took a step forwards.

She paused in the doorway for a moment, a fatal seed of doubt apparent in her face. Her glance fell – too late – onto the glint in his outstretched hand.

A swift flick of his arm and she crumpled, shocked, into his grasp. He carried her gently to a shadowy corner, arranging the mattresses she had carried over her form. Wiping the blade on her dress, he drew it back into the folds of his robe.

He returned his focus to the mosaic. Time was trickling away. Inhaling deeply, he pressed his closed fist to his mouth and blinked slowly. His surroundings suddenly became shrouded in a dim blanket of sanguine luminescence.

In front of him the mosaic came to life. The patterns were no longer fixed; they moved and undulated as sinuously as snakes, and the boy was quickly entranced by their hypnotizing movement. In the picture he could see old stories, new ones, answers to questions he had never asked. He shook his head to clear the visions and stepped closer so that he could reach out and touch the smooth, glassy surface.

As his fingers met the tiles, they lit up softly like they were responding to his touch. He could feel their energy receding and then flooding back towards his hands, rushing full force into his skin. His arm went numb and he dropped it back to his side, hissing quietly.

When he could move it again, he reached up to touch the mosaic once more. His fingers cautiously traced the skeins of energy, searching for the patterns he knew they held. Slowly, an image began to form in his mind; a symbol older than civilizations. Taking a deep breath, he drew one of the black tendrils into a triangle that pointed downwards. It glowed brightly red, radiating searing heat onto his face. He ignored the pain and drew a second tendril into a triangle that faced upwards and interlocked with the first to form a six-pointed star.

The heat that emanated from the mosaic was like a furnace. His face burned, but he kept his eyes open enough to watch the red energy form a ring of fire around the star.

The sigil glowed blindingly white, and then the wall split open.