Knightegel: Born of Conflict

Chapter 2: The Council Meeting

Simerta was quickly showing itself to be a melting pot unlike anything Sorez had ever seen. Each city and settlement reflected individualized cultures not at all native to the Boldlands. Sorez moved around like a ghost: here one minute, there the next, walking at eerie speeds, with a sort of spastic forward motion, his stride skipping beats, and with steps that made no sound. He stopped to admire what would be Mongolian architecture in one place, Arabian in another, Serbian, and a plethora of Mediterranean and African influences, providing a gallery of unique cultural experiences from one place to the next. Part of the beauty of them was that most were within anywhere from half a mile to a mile of one another. And then there were larger cities were some cultures melded together like a happy marriage, fully embracing one another, in multitudes of color, mixed and grandiose designs, food and clothing, all artfully combined and arranged as though they always belonged together. And that's how they felt...like they belonged.

Every so often, horses galloped past, men and women also on foot, in a hurry, and not for festivity. Sorez could see the sour faces, and hear their hurried lips, spouting talk of tragedy, invasion, and the threat of yet another war. A coldness, not native to the weather, came over the young smithy yet again, and again he shrugged it off, now to see what more he could discover.

The further inland Sorez traveled, the more Simerta's coalescence revealed itself. The cities were tighter, closer together, some neighboring one another with barely a forty-foot distance. Others were so close together that Sorez had only to walk through a short path, like a breezeway connecting the two. They were the portals to another world, each one designed to echo the nuances of where you came from, and offer a taste of the brilliant new experience you were about to walk into. If one could imagine a museum of cities in which the next display room was but a doorstep away, that was the mainland of Simerta – a massive cultural arts museum. From cluttered streets to pristine walkways, Sorez got to see what treasures these people guarded with such heart. And within these havens of beauty, the people seemed to generally reflect the love that was so clearly expressed in this place they called their home. Every man was treated as a brother, every woman a sister, and everyone a family member. People waved to one another, smiled, expressing genuine acceptance of each other – a gratefulness. It made Sorez feel warm inside, and at one point, he closed his eyes, basking in the peace he felt. But what was there to be so grateful for?

Sounds and feelings of compassion and brotherhood were at times pierced by distant words of sadness and regret, by sharp pins of inner rage from pain poking at Sorez's mind. Voices of proud defiance crept up to his ears, growing louder and more defined. They came from many directions, shifting in intensity with every mile walked. War was in the air – spite for Hilithany, everywhere.

Great walls of history dotted strategic locations, all leading to the center of the country. On these walls were stories told in many languages, etched in stone with care and precision. Tales of a journey were depicted in grand scope, stretching some hundreds of feet in length, and ten feet high. They were the scenes of a massive timeline. And despite the limited tongues of Hilithany, the words of every image were translated in Sorez's eyes as his vision moved over each letter. A portion of each wall was devoted to the story of the people inhabiting the city in which it was found.

And now a new chapter was being written, not on a wall, but carved into every detail of the nation itself. A new story that was not ashamed to share itself with this Hilithan stranger passing through. Simerta was so explicit with Sorez in fact, that every city block the young man walked, which harbored painful memories of injustice dealt to its people, he could not avoid the scenery turning into a blood fest. Common Hilithan citizens overpowered their Simertan rivals, bursting through town after town, borough after borough, slaughtering as many as they could, armed with whatever weapons were at their disposal. Some carried a flag, a purple flag with the design of a bison's head, shaded black, staring down at anyone who looked upon it. The purple of the flag showed through the negative spaces in the bison's design, with bright red showing through its eyes. Sorez saw children literally thrown into large groups where Hilithans relished in the act of personally hacking them to pieces. Men and women vowed with pride that Simertan bloodlines will not last as they did it. But these crimes would not go unnoticed and unanswered. For despite the voracity of Hilithany, Simertan guard gathered and withstood them, using their diverse weapons, tactics and their own brand of strong will to push them back, and eventually run them off. But that didn't stop Hilithans from taking out as many as they could on the way. When it was over, the streets returned to their current state, and Sorez's eyes stopped glistening so vigorously. At times, it seemed as though his eyes were themselves thinking.