Marix was little more than a trading post between great city states. But through the vision of Reparten Decissus, the cunning of Rexus Oreothus and the blood of their loyal followers, the carved out a city state that became an empire.
Four hundred years later, the Marixian Empire has become a war machine, fueled by the continuous supply of slaves from its neverending campaigns. As the cogs of this warmachine continue to click and grind on though, cracks are beginning to appear.
The beligerant Benghali Kingdom to the north has its plans for the rogue city of Ahelio while rumbles of trouble along the western desert border grow ever louder.
But the troubles run deeper as the blind rulers march forward and fight amongst themselves. The world grows hotter, water becomes scarcer and rumours of a disease spreading across the land all hold a darker fate for the people of the Marixian Empire.
Tales from the History of the Marixian Empire
Book 1: First Crossing
A short story by
Matthew Luke
COMING SOON
I remember, a smoke filled dream, a memory from so long ago. Something that still feels like home, small, cramped. A darkness formed by the separation from the outside world by old, moldy animal skins, a necessity to keep the cold at bay. The hard, dirt packed floor, warmest where the straw had been swept away, close to the smoky fire. The smoke, so they told me, kept the sickness away. Sickness rides in the smell, and nothing cloaks the smell better than the smoke.
And next to that smoky fire, my grandfather would weave the tales of time. He was the keeper of our history, he would say. Skiff had no history, because history creates purpose, and a skiff’s only purpose is to serve. But that was not my grandfather’s thoughts. He believed in a greater purpose, a purpose we could change, create. And this he reflected in his stories of the Gods.
To me now, being so young at the time, those stories were more feelings than words or images. But one smoke encrusted story still rings in my head, at least, part of it does. It was the story of Atlas, one of the first Gods to come here. It was said that at that time, the world was made of many lands, all separated by great oceans. Atlas decided one day to drag all the lands together, and so he did, creating one great land with a few remaining islands.
I remember asking my Grandfather why Atlas did this, and he replied, “Because this was Atlas’s purpose. To bring the lands together and hold them there.”
“Who gave him this purpose?”
“He gave it to himself. Michelle, the only purpose we have in our lives is the one we choose for ourselves. Aye, a man can be given a purpose, but he must accept it. If we don’t find a purpose, we will walk the Earth for eternity, wandering, searching and never finding.”
I didn’t understand, but I realize now that grandfather hadn’t accepted his own, service filled purpose. Somewhere, he found some money and decided that a skiff could purchase his freedom. He’d reached an agreement with the reeve, but the reeve had taken the money and the lord was none the wiser.
My grandfather, thinking he had the right, brought this to the attention of the lord, and the lord had made an example of him, the reeve and the rest of my family.
Purpose is an illusion. An illusion that is designed to keep us going, to keep us fighting, to push us to greater heights. Many die for that illusion because without it, we can’t truly live. My grandfather knew that, but all his life he had been a coward. I guess cowardice tempers unreasonable purpose.
I have found a purpose though, one that was given, not forced. And I will see it through. The fire is dying, the smoke is parting, the sickness is coming, and I will carry it to the ends of this great land that Atlas gave us.
And the eyes of the Gods watch, but they cannot stop it.
– Michelle, Bringer of the Sickness