Blood of the first Age Chapter 7

 

Chapter 7 The City of Ash and Gold

The sands themselves carried heat so intense that travelers crossing the outer dunes often discovered melted glass beneath their feet where lightning and sacred fire had fused the earth into black crystal. Ash storms rolled endlessly across the horizon like oceans of smoke while distant thunder echoed through the wastelands despite there being no rain in Baalania for generations.

The people of the desert called it:

“The Breath of Baal-Zhur.”

The exhale of the Black Sun God. And somewhere deep within those infernal lands an empire was awakening.

The western deserts burned beneath a black sun. For twelve days the armies of Baalania marched across the dunes without rest while ash storms rolled endlessly across the horizon like living walls of smoke. Entire caravans moved beside the military columns carrying priests, slaves, engineers, and sacred offerings toward the growing capital of the Black Sun Sultan. And at the center of it all rose Baal-Azhir also called Baal-Zhur

The City of Ash and Gold. The capital appeared long before travelers reached it. First came the smoke. Gigantic black plumes twisting into the heavens from temple furnaces and volcanic fissures beneath the city. Then came the sound distant war drums echoing endlessly across the dunes beneath the roar of chained siege beasts dragging entire fortresses through the desert.

Finally the city itself emerged from the sandstorms. And even hardened warriors fell silent at the sight of it. Baal-Azhir was not built like eastern kingdoms.

It resembled something ancient. Something conquered from giants. Colossal obsidian walls stretched for miles across the desert while black pyramids towered over labyrinths of golden domes and fortress-temples glowing beneath rivers of molten fire. Massive chains connected elevated towers where burning braziers swung above the streets like artificial suns.

Everything shimmered beneath heat and ash. Gold. Black stone.Firelight. Blood-red banners. The city looked less like civilization and more like the entrance to some forgotten underworld.

For twelve days the armies of Baalania marched westward beneath crimson skies.Entire military legions crossed the dunes in disciplined silence: thousands of armored infantry and mounted dune riders along with sacred priests and chained laborers dragging siege engines through sand.

The ground trembled beneath the weight of empire itself. Gigantic black banners depicting the symbol of the Black Sun whipped violently in the furnace winds while war drums echoed endlessly across the wastelands like the heartbeat of some colossal beast beneath the earth.

No birds flew above the marching armies. Even scavengers avoided them. At the center of the procession rode Baalaniah Mehmeth.

The Black Sun Sultan.

His massive war beast moved slowly through the desert surrounded by elite royal guards clad in black-gold armor glowing faintly with sacred fire scripture. The Sultan himself sat upon an obsidian throne mounted atop the armored beast’s back beneath layered crimson canopies that shielded him from the burning sky.

Even from afar he radiated heat. The air distorted around him like invisible flames surrounded his body constantly. Entire caravans traveling nearby stopped to kneel as he passed.

Some out of worship. Others from terror. Most no longer understood the difference. Then finally through curtains of ash and smoke the capital emerged.

Baal-Azhir.

The City of Ash and Gold. Even seasoned generals fell silent at the sight of it. Because Baal-Azhir did not resemble a human city. It resembled the capital of hell itself.

The metropolis stretched endlessly across the desert carved directly into volcanic cliffs and black stone canyons surrounding enormous geothermal fissures burning beneath the earth.

Colossal obsidian walls rose nearly three hundred feet high lined with gigantic braziers that transformed the outer fortifications into rivers of living flame after sunset.

Massive chains connected elevated towers between the walls where armored watchmen patrolled beneath burning lanterns large enough to illuminate entire districts.

The city glowed. Not from sunlight. From fire. Every structure reflected: gold and black volcanic stone , molten bronze and crimson flame.

Gigantic black pyramids towered above labyrinths of streets and elevated bridges while rivers of molten metal flowed through massive industrial districts beneath cathedral-sized foundries.

Smoke permanently covered the heavens above the capital. The sky itself appeared wounded. And towering above the entire city  stood the Temple of the Black Sun.

The Temple of the Black Sun. A monstrous holy structure carved directly into volcanic rock overlooking the entire capital. Gigantic statues of armored kings lined the staircase leading upward while sacred flames erupted continuously from braziers large enough to swallow houses whole.

Thousands climbed those steps daily. Some seeking blessings. Others punishment. Most seeking survival. Because in Baalania religion ruled above kings. And faith was enforced through fire. The Inferno Priests controlled much of the empire beside Mehmeth himself. They were feared even among soldiers.

Tall figures draped in layered black-and-gold robes stitched with holy scripture, their faces hidden behind bronze masks shaped like expressionless suns. Sacred burn scars covered their exposed skin while censers chained to their waists leaked crimson smoke into the air around them.

They believed pain purified the soul. And every priest bore the scars to prove devotion. Some carried staffs burning with black flame. Others wielded hooked ceremonial blades used for sacrifices and executions.

Children lowered their eyes when priests passed through the streets. Even generals spoke carefully around them. Because the priests alone interpreted the will of:

Baal-Zhur. And questioning divine will often ended at the stake. Far below the temple district, the lower city stretched endlessly beneath smoke-filled skies.

The streets overflowed with life despite the brutality surrounding them. Merchants shouted beneath black silk canopies sellingbronze weapons, sacred oils,spices, relics,beast hides and forbidden narcotics.

Slave markets stood beside military forges where engineers crafted siege weapons from obsidian steel while chained prisoners hauled supplies toward the war foundries. Everywhere people prayed. Before meals. Before trade. Before speaking the Sultan’s name aloud. The people of Baalania had been raised to believe conquest itself was holy.

War was not merely survival. It was worship. And at the heart of that worship marched the armies. Endless armies. The military districts outside the city dwarfed entire kingdoms. Rows upon rows of black war tents stretched across the desert surrounding massive beast pens and training arenas filled with roaring crowds. Thousands of Zhurakhim soldiers drilled beneath the burning sun in perfect formation while fire priests walked among them reciting scripture through smoke.

Each warrior wore black bronze armor engraved with sun sigils and sacred verses. Each soldier had sworn to obedience to Baalania, obedience to Baal-Zhur and death before surrender.

Fanaticism had become discipline. And discipline had become empire.Yet the most terrifying sight waited beyond the outer walls. Far out upon the dunes the war beasts moved. Gigantic shapes emerged slowly through ash storms beneath thunderous drums shaking the sands themselves. Travelers often mistook them for mountains at first. Then the mountains began walking.

The Dreadhorns. Sacred siege beasts of Baalania. Massive rhinoceros-like creatures the size of castles with obsidian hides thick as fortress walls and enormous curved horns wrapped in bronze armor plating. Their eyes glowed like furnace embers while steam and smoke escaped constantly from beneath armored breathing masks forged directly into their skulls.

Entire fortresses had been built upon their backs.

Towering siege citadels carrying soldiers, catapults, priests, and black flame artillery moved slowly with each colossal footstep across the desert. Giant chains hung from their armor while sacred banners whipped violently in the burning wind overhead.

The ground trembled when they marched.

Children cried at the sound. Entire enemy cities surrendered without battle after seeing them approach through the dunes.

One evening, Baalaniah Mehmeth stood atop the western walls of Baal-Azhir watching the Dreadhorn legions crossing the horizon beneath the setting sun.

The desert glowed gold and crimson around them. An empire in motion. Behind him stood High Priest Azrakar. Old. Blind.

His face hidden behind a cracked bronze mask burned permanently into flesh through ancient ritual.

“The eastern kingdoms remain divided,” Azrakar rasped. “Weak.”

Mehmeth watched the war beasts silently.

“They will unite eventually.”

“Then we strike before they can.”

The Sultan remained quiet for several moments.

Wind carried ash across his black robes.

Far below, thousands knelt in prayer as temple bells echoed through the capital.

“You know why kingdoms fail?” Mehmeth asked suddenly.

The priest tilted his head slightly.

“They forget fear.”

His glowing amber eyes drifted toward the horizon beyond the deserts.

Toward Elyria.

Toward Vahsravia.

Toward lands untouched by Baalania’s holy fire.

“For peace to survive,” Mehmeth said softly,
“the world must first learn terror.”

That night the Temple of the Black Sun burned brighter than ever before.

And beneath the crimson skies of Molochia

the war drums continued without end.