Covenant: an Abrahamic Fantasy

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 10: Jerusalem​

Jerusalem! City of God! Located at the exact center of the flat disk of Earth, at noon the towers of Jerusalem cast no shadow. Home to one million souls, it is the most populated city on Earth, and the most diverse. Aside from Christians, Muslims, and Jews, there are priests, prophets, wise men, and mad men of every imaginable sect and heresy, from Druze to Assassins, Cathars to Samaritans, Franciscans to Dominicans. It is said that every race and creed is represented here; Arabs, Turks, Syrians, Greeks, Persians, Armenians, Georgians, Africans, Indians, Europeans…and as for the nation of Israel, there are not only Ashkenazi, Mizrahi, and Sephardi Jews from around the Mediterranean, but Jews from the Khazar Khanate, black-skinned Ethiopian Jews, Indian Jews from the Kingdom of Prester John, and even travelers and pilgrims from the Ten Tribes beyond the River Sambation.

At any time one can find the streets crowded with immigrants, emigrants, pilgrims, refugees, musicians, magicians, merchants, saints, princes, beggars, thieves, and whores. Humans are not along in Jerusalem, for there are succubi, djinn, ghouls, giants, and even the strange and fantastic tribes of the Kingdom of Prester John living alongside the descendants of Adam.

From Fahrettin Bey's manor, the crew can see the city – specifically, the Penitent Way, with its shrines and chapels seemingly every twenty feet – laid out beneath them. The Turkish merchant is bedecked in rich silks, and rings glint on every one of his fingers. While Fahrettin Bey may be too round about the middle to go travelling these days, he was a great adventurer and swashbuckler in his youth, and he is thrilled by the prospect of Sarai's flying ship.

"Yes, here is the City of God," Fahrettin Bey says as the crew turns away from the lovely view and back to the small dinner party their host is putting on for them. "If there is a greater city on this Earth, I have not seen it. And I have seen a few cities in my day! Now come, I have a wonderful dinner, and while I have also eaten a few dinners in my day, my own table is surely worth a look!"

He slaps his round belly ironically as Sarai follows him to the side tables, talking in hushed tones about the venture. The crew look at each other for a moment.

"It's so…vibrant," Robert says, humbled, "This city has history baked into its very bricks."

Devorah rubs her hands together.

"I know! So many people, so little time!"

"We can allow ourselves one small indulgence of a dinner party," Shabbar says, twirling his moustache as he heads for the food. Moishe shrugs as the others split up, lingering by the window. He can see the sun setting near the Temple Mount, where the Wailing Wall sits beneath the Dome of the Rock, and into which are dug Solomon's Stables. Truly, history piled on history…

"Hello, a fellow member of the Tribe of Israel?" says a voice as another man joins him at the window. Moishe takes a moment to realize what he's just heard, for it is a sensation he has only experienced once or twice: someone talking to him in Tongues.

It is a curious spell, or some would say miracle; though he knows the noises he hears and the movements of the other person's lips do not match the words themselves, he still understands them as if they popped into his head without the need to go through his ears.

"Yes, from Sepharad. I'm Moishe ben David," he says automatically, before shaking his head and taking another look at the stranger.

The man is broad and hairy – very hairy, with a long, bushy black beard that covers the lower half of his face, and long curled hair. Even his arms are covered in coarse black hair. He smiles amicably, though, and Moishe relaxes.

"Avraham Ashkenaz, but my friends call me Avi."

"Ashkenaz? Where in Europe are your family from?"

"Romania," Avi says shortly, "But of late I am from here in Jerusalem, since my family fled the country."

Moishe nods grimly. For many years now Vlad Dracula, the Vampire King of Wallachia, has ruled the country with absolute terror, and his threat is so great that Kingdom of Hungary, the Kingdom of Poland, and the Ottoman Empire put aside their difference to draw up an alliance against him. But that's not important right now.

"Well, Avi, this is my first visit to Jerusalem – I was hoping for someone local to show me around. Tell me, do you know where I can find some teachers of the law? My rabbi back in Grenada asked me to look into something while I was here..."

***

Robert surreptitiously produces a flask from among his clothing and drinks from it.

"Not a Mohammedan, I take it?" asks a gentle feminine voice. Robert brightens as he notices the petite young woman at his side, dressed in a simple but familiar gown.

"I did not expect to hear French spoken so far from home!" he says. The Frenchwoman smiles prettily and leans forward.

"Indeed, nor did I! I unfortunately had to immigrate here – tell me, what are your feelings towards the Avignon Papacy?"

Robert looks grim.

"Unfortunately, we have had a…bit of a falling out."

The woman smiles.

"How coincidental, it is the same with me! My name is Mary."

"Robert de Villiers. What is the nature of your quarrel with Avignon?"

She seems surprised by the question.

"Well, as you know, they have declared us Good Christians heretics. This despite the fact that they insist on sinful materialism, when they should realize that all things flesh and material are the creations of the Demiurge!"

Robert immediately realizes what is going on. "Good Christians" is the term the Cathars use amongst themselves. A Gnostic sect, they have indeed been declared heretics by both European Popes, but Robert was a good Avignon rite Catholic himself before the fall of the Templars.

"How…interesting," he mutters, but Mary the Cathar seems to ignore him as she warms to the topic.

"Tell me, if God is good, why would He create a flawed and sinful world? The only true good things are the spiritual ones, the soul, the Angels, and God himself. Jesus came to free us of this material world through baptism, which is why-"

Robert's jaw tightens, but as he looks around for the other members of the crew in the hopes, she presses on.

***

Shabbar is also approached as he piles a platter high with food.

"I had not expected to find you here," says the stranger.

Shabbar almost dismisses the man, so unremarkable in appearance save only for his black hair and his all-black clothing, but Shabbar gives him a second glance. He is of indeterminate age, that strange look that may be old or young all at once, and more importantly, he is too unremarkable, like someone trying very hard not to be noticed.

"My lord Barqan!" Shabbar blurts out, almost dropping his food in shock. Barqan, Djinn King of Wednesday, laughs and catches the plate, setting it on the table. A few people turn to look, but quickly go back to their business.

"Relax, Shabbar, I simply want to speak to you about recent events."

Shabbar bows at the waist.

"Of course, my lord Barqan. I…I admit, I have grown fond of the others."

Barqan seems surprised by that. He looks around the dinner party thoughtfully.

"Yes, and after reviewing the events of your contract severance, I must admit Sarai bat Binyamin had good reason to break your binds in such a way. I have no more love for Iblis' court than any of my colleagues, so it was all in all a good deed."

"Truly, you are indeed known for your justice," Shabbar says, still bowed forward.

"Yes, well, extenuating circumstances aside, there is the topic of your service to me, which hasn't concluded yet. We'll need to bind you with a new ring and all that, I'll have to send Hurmiz to take care of that…hmm, that is the question, isn't it?"

Shabbar is completely still, waiting for Barqan's judgement. While his king is consistent on matters of justice, he can be…mercurial on other matters, especially those of timing. He is the only one of the Djinn Kings who keeps a palace but never uses it.

Barqan, Djinn King of Wednesday, runs his fingers through his beard, glaring intently at Shabbar as he makes up his mind.

"Let's just say that when your journey is finished, we'll renegotiate," Barqan says, patting Shabbar's shoulder.

"M-my lord Barqan?" Shabbar stammers.

"Well, my intent on sending you to Sarai bat Binyamin was to ensure that her venture succeeded, and she needs you for that, soooo..."

Shabbar struggles to form words.

"Again, I thank you, my lord Barqan, truly you are known for your justice!"

"Yes, yes, I know. Just don't let it happen again. Now, are those puff pastries I see?"

***

The next day, Avi leads Moishe up the steps of some great building atop one of Jerusalem's seven hills. He waves Moishe forward.

"You can go in on your own, I'll stay out here, uh, just in case."

"What is this place?" Moishe asks, gathering up his staff.

"Jerusalem's great hall of debate. Today the rabbis have it, but sometimes you can find, oh, men of all faiths and heresies arguing about the nature of God. I've never been one for it, but you might."

"I know something of that," Moishe admits. He takes a deep breath and enters the hall.

There are indeed many rabbis sitting around a semicircle of tiered steps. The center of the room is bare, as if they are waiting for someone to step forward to speak first. There are men of all sorts, in all manner of dress (though all immaculately in accordance with Jewish law). Moishe sees a black-skinned Ethiopian rabbi next to a rabbi with Central Asian features, and others besides.

The eldest of the rabbis elbows his neighbor and gestures to Moishe's staff. The others stop their murmured arguments and look at him.

"Well, that's one of Rabbi Eleazar's staves if my eyes haven't failed me," says the Ethiopian rabbi, the Rabbi Yacob, "You must be this pupil he's told us of."

The eldest rabbi, the Rabbi Shlomo, leans forward.

"Come now, tell us your name."

Moishe clears his throat and steps forward.

"I am Moishe ben David of the city of Grenada. I am an apprentice alchemist, although yes, the Rabbi Eleazar has said that I would make a good apprentice."

"He'll need to attend the proper schooling," says the Rabbi Yitzhak of Khazaria, "And I bet he'll need to learn Aramaic as well."

"Let him speak," says the Rabbi Joseph of Cochin in the Kingdom of Prester John.

"Well, yes, I do have a lot to learn. But, the Rabbi Eleazar instructed me to learn what I could of the Kabbalah-"

This is met by a few nods, some muttered words, and a few men talking over each other until the Rabbi Shlomo restores order.

"And so, you came to us, in Jerusalem the Great. Very good, very good. Where to begin?"

"Where to begin?" Moishe echoes, "I know that Kabbalah is – well, it's a mystic practice, I know, but what is it about?"

"A difficult question," says the Rabbi David of Amsterdam.

"Difficult to say," echoes the Rabbi Yacob.

"Ah, I know!" says the Rabbi Joseph, "The sefirot!"

Some nods of agreement; the Rabbi Shlomo picks up the thread.

"Imagine, if you will, that Hashem is an infinite ocean. He cannot interact with the world directly because, well, there must be things other than Hashem."

"The world exists in an absence of the divine," Rabbi Joseph notes "Imagine creation as an act of tzimtzum¸ divine contraction."

"Of course, this is a simplification," says the Rabbi David.

"More of an analogy," adds the Rabbi Yacob.

The Rabbi Shlomo continues.

"Yes, yes, I'm simplifying for the boy. So, now the question is how Hashem can allow His divinity to reach us in a manageable amount. So, he builds…a series of vessels. Each smaller than the last, with funnels to channel the water into smaller and smaller quantities, until finally it reaches us, in this world."

"These vessels are the sefirot," the Rabbi Yacob says, "The emanations of Hashem."

"But," the Rabbi Shlomo says, "The vessels…let's say they broke, washing pieces of themselves down the stream, where they clogged up the channels. The whole cosmic order is misaligned!"

Moishe speaks up.

"So…so that's why there's evil in the world? These sefirot, the…the divine rays, instead of reaching us as they should, they've become all clouded and disrupted!"

Rabbi Shlomo brightens.

"You're beginning to understand!"

"Somewhat," the Rabbi Yitzchak mumbles.

"It's a good start," the Rabbi David admits.

Rabbi Joseph leans forward.

"That's what Kabbalah is – the realignment of the divine emanations. The goal of Kabbalah is perfection – first, self-fulfillment, then perfection of the world, then perfection of the upper world."

"Wait…so the sefiot can be fixed?" Moishe asks.

Rabbi Yitzchak clears his throat.

"That's a complicated question – you can learn about all that later. But basically, yes, human action can affect the divine order."

"I see…" Moishe says slowly, "So…wait, what about angels and demons? Because, if the Angels are creations of Hashem, does that mean that demons are like…are like Angels that are broken? Like, they're cut off from Hashem due to the misalignment of the sefirot?"

"Well…" begins the Rabbi Yacob.

"That is…" starts the Rabbi Joseph.

"It's certainly one way of looking at it," says the Rabbi David, "Indeed, perfection of the upper world is supposed to include perfection of the divine hosts."

Rabb Yitzchak speaks up.

"Yes, and if you consider the Rabbi Isaac's Treatise on the Emanations of the Left Hand-"

"We're all familiar with Rabbi Isaac's Treatise of the Emanations of the Left Hand," gripes the Rabbi Shlomo.

"Oy vey," someone mutters.

"So, we could realign them with the divine, too?" Moishe asks.

"It's probable," admits the Rabbi Shlomo.

"Very possible," adds the Rabbi Yacob.

Moishe looks at the assembled rabbis, a bit disappointed.

"Well, this is all very interesting, and tells me a lot…but I'm not sure how much I can use until I learn more."

The Rabbi Shlomo scoffs.

"Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of valuable lessons to be had!"

"Tell me, if the sefirot are misaligned, what does that tell us?" asks the Rabbi David.

"That creation is incomplete," answers Moishe.

"Just so. And if human action can affect the divine, what does that tell us?" asks the Rabbi Yitzchak.

"That it is our task to complete it!"

"Quite right. And if demons are the result of separation from Hashem?" asks the Rabbi Joseph

"Then we should seek to reunite them with the divine?"

"In a sense. And if the goal of Kabbalah is perfection, first of the self, then of the world?" Asks the Rabbi Yacob.

"Then…then it is not so different from alchemy! We also seek to purify and-" Moishe slaps his forehead, "Oh, that's why the Rabbi Eleazar wanted me to finish my apprenticeship!"

The Rabbi Shlomo smiles.

"I think you've learned well! I understand your desire to know more. Your journey will take you to Baghdad, correct?"

"I think so."

"In that case, seek an audience with the Exilarch. I will give you a letter of recommendation, he is a very skilled Kabbalist, and a friend of mine. He will tell you a bit more, hopefully enough to help."

Moishe bows.

"Thank you, teachers. I am honored to have been taught by you, I promise I will use your knowledge to do good."

"I'm sure you will," says the Rabbi Shlomo, "The Rabbi Eleazar is also a good friend of mine, and he is a good judge of character. And I can tell you have the makings of a great wise man."

It is at that moment that Avi comes running into the debate hall.

"Moishe, come quick! Your friends are in trouble!"

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 11: the Boss of Little Indica​

Menander falls into a roll and comes up to his knees, catching the juggling balls and holding them out in his hands. His ears, each one hanging down to his knees, flap about his face like stage curtains.

The Panotii catches his breath after his tumbling act has concluded, smiling at the cheering crowd. He makes sure to tip a friendly nod towards the children in the front row. As his audience filters out, his admissions clerk gives him a thumbs up. Menander lets out a relieved breath, then picks himself up and steps backstage, dropping his juggling balls in a bucket on his way inside.

From there, the star of Little Ind's most popular sideshow grabs a wet cloth and wipes the makeup from his face. He throws it over his shoulder and walks through the halls of the building that his little stage fronts onto. To most, this is just another nondescript building, but to a select few this is known as the building from which Little Ind, and indeed a healthy portion of Jerusalem's underground economy, is guided.

Menander whistles, pushing his huge, floppy ears back over his shoulders. Panotii are known for their ears, and outside their homeland they are often sought out as jesters and tumblers. In their homeland of Ind, their reputation is less unassuming.

There are many strange and fantastic tribes from the Kingdom of Prester John – the Panotii, the Monopods, the dog-headed Cynocephali, the Blemmyae or Headless Men – and in Jerusalem, all may be found in the neighborhood of Little Ind.

Menander enters a smoky room dominated by a long wooden table. Behind the chair at the head of the table (empty) is a gilded icon of Saint Thomas, patron of all Ind, and another of Saint Christopher, a Cynocephalid himself. Several other members of Jerusalem's Indian immigrant races are waiting around the table, however. A Cynocephalid leans his canine head in the palms of his hands, while across from him a Blemmyae sits heavily in his armchair like a corpulent toad. He puts the mouthpiece of a hookah to his lips and takes a pull, then lets out a cloud of the aromatic smoke that already hovers around the ceiling of the chamber. The Blemmyae of Jersualem are descended from prisoners of war carted back to the city by Al-Iskandar the Great, so long ago, and from their new home in the city the neighborhood of Little Ind had sprung up, attracting immigrants from the Kingdom of Prester John over the next thousand years.

Menander coughs politely and sits next to the dog-headed man. Others are joining the meeting - a few more Panotii, a human, and finally the boss himself. Scylax is a Panotii, an aged member of his race, with wrinkled ears that hung down to his knees and a chest covered in curly white hair showing through an open blouse. At his right hand sits an elderly man in a wheeled chair, not a human but a Davalpa, a race with long serpentine tendrils in place of legs. Davalpas are themselves known for keeping these appendages tucked under their bodies, at which point they appear to be mere legless humans. This particular specimen was Antiochus, who it is said has his ears open to every beggar in Jerusalem, though this is doubtless an exaggeration.

"To business," Scylax says, waving his hand in front of his face. Save for the massive ears, he looks like any other elderly man - smooth, wrinkled skin, white curly hair, but his eyes are keep and sharp, and dark. Combined with those ears, they call to mind the wise face of an elephant. "Marcus, how's the next race look?"

The human clears his throat and fingers the silver chain around his neck, hung with a crucifix, a hamsa, and various other magic charms.

"I buried the curse tablet under the Armenian's horse, she's guaranteed to lose," the wizard says with a sour look. Scylax nods and looks at Antiochus.

"Now, what news of this ship?"

"Er, which ship is this?" interrupts the Blemmyae across the table slowly. Scylax has many fingers in many pies, and his organization has contacts in the Mediterranean, Red Sea, and Persian Gulf trades. Menander is no stranger to ships sunk, cargoes lost, or dockworkers' palms greased.

"The flying ship you lump!" Scylax barks, "It's not as if it's fucking inconspicuous, is it?"

"Indeed," comes the whine of Antiochus, "Everyone in Jerusalem must have seen the thing when it came in. But it's in the house of Fahrettin Bey, now."

"And what about it?" the Blemmyae asks.

"Fahrettin Bey is a friend of ours," Menander points out coolly. The Blemmyae gives him a blank stare, peering through the haze of his own smoke.

The Cynocephalid makes a comment to Menander regarding the Blemmyae's wits using sign language, and he is forced to bite his knuckle furtively so as to not laugh.

"Fahrettin Bey thinks this ship will open up trade with Prester John like never before," says Scylax, ignoring the back and forth.

"He's not thinking of going over our heads, is he?" Menander asks. Scylax gives him a curious smile.

"Quite. Now, I don't pretend to understand the alchemy - I have men like Marcus for that. But I do know a money-making opportunity when I hear it, and I want a cut."

Antiochus nods.

"My friends in the gutter say there are others who want to start making cuts of their own. Oh, they are sharpening their knives in the Armenian Quarter!"

The dog-headed man signs something again and gives a barking laugh. Scylax bares his teeth, brown and crooked like a row of tiny bricks. Menander thinks that the expression on his bosses' face could be something like a smile, perhaps in different lighting.

"An idea like this, you can't hope for it to go away. No putting the djinn back into the bottle, pardon the expression. No, something like this you want to catch a ride on and see how far it can take you..."

Menander tips his boss a wink and a nod.

"Ah, I hear you, boss, we want some of that money in our pockets. Maybe get a few ships of our own one day, yeah?"

"You're a cunning one, Menander," grumbles the Blemmyae, evidently deciding to contribute to the conversation again. Menander's smile turns sickly-sweet.

"Learned from the best."

"Which is why you're perfect for the job," adds Scylax.

Menander's face doesn't change, except perhaps that his smile grows a little tighter and his ears twitch imperceptibly.

"Well. I'm honored boss, but-"

"But nothing. Fahrettin Bey, well, like you said he's a friend of ours, and so he won't object to a little extra security, and we are known for providing security."

There were no commands now, only statements of fact. And when Scylax said something was true, it was true for good and all, in Menander's experience. On the rare occasions when he was wrong, then inevitably turned out to be because someone else had done something wrong.

"Yes, boss. Very cunning, boss," Menander said through his teeth, "And here I am wishing I knew more about the Old Country. I barely even speak the language."

"You'll learn soon enough. Everyone is dismissed. Menander, attend me."

The Blemmyae stands up heavily and slings his hookah over his back, striding out of the room. The dog-headed man signs something halfway apologetic at Menander before following the others as they filter out. Antiochus is last to go, wheeling his chair along with quick movements from his appendages.

Menander walks to Scylax's side. The boss of Little Indica is kneeling before the icon of Saint Thomas, lighting a candle before folding his hands in prayer.

"Menander?"

"Yes uncle?"

"You'll make me proud."

Another statement of fact. Menander folds his hands and bows his head, his ears falling around his face like curtains.

"Yes, uncle."

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 12: the Succubus Quarter​

"So what about this knight? Is he handsome?" asks one of the succubi clustered around Devorah.

"Eh, he's alright I guess, in a rugged sort of way. He drinks too much and he's a bit prickly," Devorah replies. The succubus who asked after Robert looks disappointed.

Devorah leans against the balcony and smiles, taking in the Succubus Quarter. She loves it here.

The Succubus Quarter is a riot of sensations. Not all of them are pleasant - the streets are dirty, and many of the houses are in tatters, but there are banners and pennants hanging from every ledge, strung across the streets from roof to roof, and there are tents, pavilions and striped awnings over merchant's stands, and this helps somewhat. There is hardly even a definition between outdoors markets and houses, as a path through the Quarter can weave its way inside buildings and through them completely, business and pleasure mixing and meeting and spilling out into streets and back again. In the Succubus Quarter, all boundaries are obscured.

The smells of cooking food from a hundred different cultures wafts through the air. Some dishes are merely fried over open fires in their own grease, others are smoked or slow-roasted or stewed in massive cauldrons where spices and vegetables are thrown liberally. The street food in the Succubus Quarter is the best in the city. One will also find restaurants, catering to any palette and offering bizarre fusions of cuisine, from Moorish couscous to Cathayan stir-fry.

There is music here, too - ecstatic performances of original compositions, ancient hymns, recitations of epic poetry, and wild, freely improvised sessions between musicians come together for the sole purpose of making harmonic noise. The styles and instruments are just as disjointed as anything else about the Succubus Quarter, and some are impossible to place. They fade in and out as one walks through the street, and all together they blend together with the clamor of the street, becoming the cacophonous background noise of the Succubus Quarter.

There are of course more than just succubi here: there are Djinn, especially Marids; there is the occasional Nephilim; there are a few ghouls cracking morbid jokes and cackling over some garish and provocative art piece; cambions, those half-succubi, though hard to tell from humans, are common in the Quarter; and of course there are humans of every race, creed, and nationality, here for research, or artistic appreciation, a good deal, for love, or simply looking for food, a fun party, or an evening with a responsible and discreet partner.

Looking for partners in crime as well, because in the Succubus Quarter the arm of the city guard cannot reach, and the succubi do not have the inclination to police their own streets, so cutpurses, pickpockets, conmen, and fugitives are thick on the ground, while deals in drugs, stolen goods, black magic components, and more obscure contraband are done in the open, while behind closed doors conspirators, cults, and spies gather. Robberies and muggings occur constantly, and fights nearly as often.

Succubi, though, are naturally the most populous inhabitants of the Quarter. They are everywhere - walking or flying, in and out of doors or windows or even taking off and landing in crowded streets and squares, on rooftops, on balconies. They chatter in a hundred tongues, eagerly and animatedly, gesturing with hands and tails and wings, goods and coins traded between deft hands, gathering in groups that split apart just as quickly based on some obscure social calculus that only a race of ardent individualists can form when forced to do business

Their appearances are as varied as anything else they do, with skin colors ranging from the human to the unnaturally vibrant, red and green and blue and gold, horns in any number of shapes. Some are more human, some seem almost like Djinn, others are unmistakably succubi. Hairstyles, clothing, and even makeup each serve to distinguish individuals, so that no two succubi are alike in form or presentation - and given the propensity for succubi to change their appearance even day to day on a whim, a given group of succubi can be wildly impermanent in appearance. Succubi also possess every range of body type, and identities seem just as obscure as anything else, ranging from male to female to individuals who make no distinction, or who blend features of both genders completely. As shapeshifters, they can change from one to the other at will, and their partners are no less diverse.

As mentioned, in the Succubus Quarter all boundaries are obscured.

Devorah turns back to the attending succubi who have gathered to hear her stories of the great flying ship. She smirks and leans back against the railing. It's not every day something as revolutionary as the Aliyah comes along to captivate the city, and Devorah currently cashing in on some significant clout as a result of her close, personal involvement.

"So yeah, the crew's pretty good, overall. They need me to get them to Prester John, of course."

"You'll really be going with them?" asks a blonde succubus coolly. Devorah narrows her eyes. Theophania.

"Uh, yeah," Devorah scoffs, "I'm not gonna miss out on this. Plus, you know, we're heading east and we might pass by the Dead Sea."

There are a few reverent nods and gestures. Devorah feels a pang of anticipation, but continues to play it cool.

Theophania checks her nails and smirks.

"Well, you'd better hurry along, then," she purrs. Devorah frowns and straightens up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, nails digging into her palms as her hands form fists.

Theophania laughs.

"You haven't heard? Oh, I guess you don't have friends in the Undercity like I do. There was a big gang meeting in the back room of the Ghoul's Head this morning. They're planning an assault on your friend's house to try and seize the ship…or did you really think all that attention was a good thing?"

Theophania looks at Devorah innocently, and suddenly the other succubi turn towards her, giving due attention to someone who has just scored a point in their byzantine game of social status.

"I, uh…I should go, actually," Devorah mutters, hopping up on the railing and spreading her wings. She needs to find the others and…well, probably stage a daring escape from Jerusalem with a pack of gang thugs at their heels.

"You're welcome for the heads up," Theophania purrs. Devorah grimaces and flies away.

She loves the Succubus Quarter, but sometimes she could do without the company.

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 13: The Ghoul's Head​

The worst tavern in Jerusalem is the Ghoul's Head, located in the Silwan Necropolis. The Necropolis itself is but one neighborhood of the great ghoul undercity of Jerusalem, although in this case it is located above most of the city. A series of tombs built by the Israelite kings, partially dug into the Mount of Olives and partially built on ridges overlooking Jerusalem, the necropolis was colonized from above and below. Above ground, the Muslim neighborhood of Silwan grew up, and the tombs were converted into cisterns and garbage dumps. Below is the far older part of the neighborhood - the ghouls tunneled up into the tombs, feasted on the corpses, carried off the grave goods, and then stayed a while. When Muslims arrived on the heights, contact was made - hostile at first, but in time a certain type of trade sprung up, but one of the worst sort, as the vast black market of Jerusalem set down roots in the Necropolis. In time, though, the ghouls built establishments to cater to this trade, as the Silwan neighborhood began to fill with the scum of the earth.

The Ghoul's Head, then, is the worst tavern in Jerusalem for a number of reasons. First is its location - to reach it one has to travel through a neighborhood filled with criminals, black market dealers, cutthroats, the agents of Jersualem's organized crime community, and black magic practitioners
(the Muslims, it should be said, moved on long ago). Then, one must go through cramped, winding tunnels, where water and filth runs underfoot, turning the floor to mud where there is no paving. Ghouls can lurk around any corner, and while they are not particularly a danger to any humans but the sickest and oldest, a respectable person certainly does not want to get roped into a conversation with one.

Then, one arrives at the tavern itself, and discovers the second reason that it is the worst in the city. It is built inside a great chamber that was once the final resting place of some unknown person, the name and identity having been lost to time - although their tomb is still here, and still sealed, serving as the bar itself behind which a ghoul bartender plies his trade. The decor is of course quite ghoulish, with skulls for candleholders and tables balanced on obelisks that once marked grave sites. The air is filled with black greasy smoke and smells that are best left to the imagination. At the back of the tavern hangs a number of stained red velvet curtains, behind which hide the back rooms and the tunnels that lead further down, to the black market caverns of Jerusalem's undercity.

Third, one will discover the clientele. The raking and scraping of the known world wind up here, from the most desperate sort of fugitives to black-hearted mercenaries, dealers in the foulest arts and potions, even diabolists, as well as the ghouls themselves, gambling with dice carved from human fingerbones and cackling at their own jokes.

If one can somehow stomach all of this, then comes the fourth and final reason this tavern ranks at the bottom: the alcohol. The liquor in the Ghoul's Head is said to be one of the rankest in the city. It is said to blind a man, burn a hole in his gut, and is perhaps better suited as an antiseptic. Most people only drink it on a dare. There are other types of alcohol to be had here, from soured wine to gritty beer, to liquors that it is perhaps best only for ghouls to drink.

At this point one must, in the interest of fairness, discuss the ghoul race. Ghouls are a living race who reproduce and die the same as any other, and they are believed to be related to djinn. Ghouls have grey, leathery skin, a head like a dog, and cloven hooves. It is true that ghouls eat all sorts of garbage and waste, including spoiled and rotted food – indeed, ghouls credit themselves with inventing all manner of fermented and aged foods, including cheese, leavened bread, and alcoholic beverages. Needless to say these claims are questioned, but it should be acknowledged that ghouls do consume the flesh of the dead as well. Ghouls believe that, once the soul departs the body, it becomes nothing more than so much meat, and see nothing immoral about consuming it. But ghouls are not naturally killers.

Ghouls live near (or rather, under) human settlements and feed on their refuse, and thus some believe they provide a valuable service to civilization, but many times through history there have been fierce conflicts waged to expel ghouls from the warrens they dig under towns and cities alike. These conflicts are bloody, for ghouls are vicious fighters when cornered and use the cramped and winding tunnels of their own construction to their advantage – and in any case, ghouls always return eventually.

Some who have sought to live with ghouls have found them to be quite personable – they have a sense of humor, albeit a twisted one, and are quite artistic, although their art forms are likewise macabre and they see nothing wrong with using human remains in their sculptures or even in their architecture – there are whole places in Jerusalem's Undercity where bones form part of the supports of the very walls and ceilings.

Some humans are even valued enough to be adopted into ghoul society and to be considered part of their extended families. It is impossible for non-ghouls to tell the difference between male and female ghouls, a fact they find hilarious for some reason.

But, let us leave the ghouls to their games, pull aside the curtain, and pass into the back rooms where the leaders of Jerusalem's private interests are drawing their plots.

"Fahrettin Bey thought to keep this little treasure to himself," grumbles Ali Bey, who represents the interests of the Mamluks in Jerusalem. A nobleman dressed impeccably in brightly-colored silks, with a flowing blond beard and a turban piled high on his head, Ali Bey commands the loyalty of the elite warriors who once served the Sultans and now serve only themselves.

Ali Bey thrusts a dagger into the table for emphasis.

"He should have thought to cut his old friends in on the deal," adds Guy Dragoman, "Of course we honorable men would never think to do the same to each other, no?"

There are many Christian pilgrims who come to Jerusalem to visit its abundant holy site, and the descendants of the Franks and other Europeans who have settled there always take their cut, whether in housing, guarding pilgrim caravans, or simple fees for showing these travelers to the various holy sites (which can be confoundingly difficult to see otherwise for some reason).

The sheik of the Bedouin, Abu Dahuk, leans forward suspiciously.

"No indeed, my honorable friend, nor would we suspect you of cutting in on the pilgrimage business, which of course we have a perfect understanding on."

"A perfect understanding," says Guy Dragoman, showing a mouth of crooked brown teeth in what could perhaps be called a smile.

The heavyset man known only as the Armenian stands and waves his hand placatingly.

"And our own agreement on this will stand: when we take this ship, we will have our own alchemists look at it together, and learn its secrets. Then we shall each have a copy of the designs to do with as he will."

The Armenians have been in Jerusalem since the 4th​ Century, and certain families have always been more prominent than others, and thus it stands to reason that when someone in Jerusalem's ancient and respected Armenian community needs help, they go to one of those families for assistance.

Some say the man known simply as "the Armenian" got his impressive wealth due to a deal with a powerful spirit who gave him a bottomless bag of gold, for which he exchanged his ability to ever sleep again, but that's not important right now.

The men around the table glance at each other. Each fingers their hidden daggers and weighs up what he knows about the men he has thrown his lot in with.

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

"Very well then. Let us pay a visit to our old friend Fahrettin Bey!"

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 14: the Fight on Penitent Way​

Consider another bar, in another part of the city: this particular bar is the Palm Branch, a respectable establishment near Jerusalem's Gate of Mercy. It makes a tidy business catering to Muslim traders, to Christian pilgrims who walk the path of Jesus' entry to Jerusalem, to Jews coming to pray at the Mercy Gate, and to the strange folks from the nearby neighborhood of Little Indica. It's also home to some legendary parties on Palm Sunday, but that's not important right now.

Robert de Villiers and Mary the Cathar are talking over a bottle of wine.

"So, is the Demiurge supposed to be evil?" Robert asks. Mary wiggles her fingers noncommittally.

"In some interpretations. Others believe he was simply a flawed being, incompetent, maybe. He may have even tried to create the universe out of a kind of loyalty. As a child imitates his father, so the Demiurge imitates the true creations of the Lord."

"And Jesus is the son of God? That's a bit of a sticking point."

"Oh, no doubt. Jesus is God taken physical form, manifesting within this flawed world to teach us salvation, and ultimately the path to escape into the spiritual realm."

"Well, it's heresy, but you know, it's not entirely-"

"Robert!" shouts a voice from across the bar, cutting off Robert's thought. Robert looks up to see Devorah pushing through the crowd.

"What's going on?" Robert asks, getting to his feet. His gear is close at hand, and he picks up his shield.

"It's the others, they're about to be attacked by a whole pack of gang members!"

Robert hisses through his teeth and turns to Mary.

"It looks like I need to go, my lady," he says apologetically.

Mary purses her lips and nods, then produces a handkerchief.

"Take this, will you? As my…favor."

Robert blushes as Mary ties it around his arm.

"Me? Why? My lady-"

Mary suddenly leans forward and kisses his cheek.

"Isn't that what knights are supposed to do? Carry the favors of fair maidens? I hear it's supposed to, oh, ennoble you or something."

"I feel like we're skipping a few steps?"

"Perhaps, but we're in a bit of a rush. You'll just have to pine for me from afar," she says with a wink.

Devorah tries not to roll her eyes. Robert catches her glance and takes Mary's hand, bowing over it.

"I will…bear it with honor."

"What was that?" Devorah murmurs as they rush outside.

Robert clears his throat.

"Chivalric romance. It's supposed to be a sort of boon. Think of it as…good luck charm?"

"Does that really work?"

"I suppose we'll find out."

The two run into the street. Devorah grabs Robert's arm and points to a two-wheeled cart with seats in the back, and a ghoul squatting in front of it.

"How much?" Robert asks, running up to the ghoul.

"Gum," the ghoul replies.

"Wh-what?"

"Gum."

"Mastic gum," Devorah explains, fishing a lump of the substance out of her pocket, "They love the stuff."

The ghoul pops it into his mouth and chews happily.

"Where to, gentlefolk?"

Robert looks from the ghoul to Devorah, who is already climbing into the cart.

"Do you know where the house of Fahrettin Bey is?" Robert asks.

***

Shabbar roars as he throws a gang enforcer clear across Fahrettin Bey's courtyard and through the gates, then grabbed those same doors and slammed them shut, holding them closed as a giant on the other side bellows and tries to force them open with a shoulder.

"They have a giant!" Shabbar yells as some of Fahrettin Bey's servants help bar the door. Sarai appears in the doorway, Fahrettin Bey delicately stepping past her a moment later.

"Oh dear," he says calmly, "This is simply disgraceful."

He glances at Sarai, who is already mixing something together in a large flask.

"Disgraceful? Did you expect better of them?"

The Turkish merchant shrugs.

"Oh, no, though perhaps I should have expected this sooner. No, the disgrace here is that I have allowed my guests to be put in harm's way."

Shabbar wheels around, noticing another enforcer climbing over the wall with a knife in his teeth, and picks up a stone, throwing it with enough accuracy and force that it practically takes the poor man's head off.

"Well, you better come up with something soon!" Shabbar grunts. Another thief vaults over the wall and lands behind Shabbar with a knife, but he screams as a vial of acid lands at his feet with a sound of shattering glass, causing him to jump back as droplets of acid land on his legs. He is thrown off balance for just long enough for Shabbar to land him a punch that sends him flying into a potted plant, stunning him.

Sarai joins Shabbar at the gates, looking on nervously as they shudder and crack under the force of the giant. Then they hear a command from outside.

"It's sealed shut! Get the solvent!"

Sarai and Shabbar look at each other.

"Is that what I think it means?" Shabbar asks. Sarai just gulps.

"I'm going to need help with my alchemy kit. And a lot of soap."

Fahrettin Bey smiles.

"As it happens, I have a shipment of soap waiting to be paid for. Good fortune, indeed."

***

"Here!" Robert yells. The rickshaw skids to a halt just around the corner from Fahrettin Bey's manor as the ghoul plants his hooves on the cobblestones, almost throwing Devorah and Robert from their seats. The succubus vaults over Robert's head and spreads her wings, and Robert follows, jumping the ground and drawing his sword.

About half a dozen gang enforcers armed to teeth turn to face them.

"Thank you for your patronage," the ghoul croaks before turning and running in the opposite direction. Devorah immediately starts to bob and weave through the air as arrows, spears, and even thrown knives are sent in her direction.

"I'll find the others! Good luck!" she yells, taking off over their heads. Robert looks at the gang members and grins behind the visor of his helmet.

"For my lady!" he says, with a hint of irony, then wades into the fight, sword spinning like a windmill.

Devorah tops the domed roof of Fahrettin Bey's manor and sees the pack of gangsters spread out across the street. A shadow passes over her, and she gasps and flaps to the side just as an incubus flies down towards her and aims a stab at her back.

She whirls around and glares at him. He's not someone she knows, but that doesn't exactly make it better.

"Sorry about this, sister," he says as he stabs at her again. This time she hisses in pain as it grazes her side. She's no good at aerial fighting, or really fighting at all. She looks around desperately and barely misses the arrow that flies between them.

The incubus pauses, following the flight of the arrow as if not sure if it was meant for him. Then another arrow hisses by, inches from his face, and his eyes go wide as he sees something on the street below.

"Oh, I'm not getting paid enough for this," the incubus says, and speaks a few magic words which cause him to disappear in a puff of smoke. Devorah looks down towards the street and sees a Panotti. Armed with a longbow, the Panotti has started firing into the pack of gangsters, who rush towards him, but the newcomer is backed up by his own group of heavily-armed men – or rather, fantastic beings, ranging from Blemmyae with serrated swords to Cynocephali to Monopods who jump ten feet in the air to come down behind the attackers and cut them down from behind.

"Well, this is a right mess," Devorah says. Then she spots Moishe.

***

"Oh, no," Moishe says, panting for breath, "We're too late."

Moishe and Avi have emerged from an alleyway onto Penitent Way. From here, they can see the whole fight laid out. It seems that one group of gangsters are trying to break down the gates to Fahrettin Bey's manor, while another group is busy fighting with the newcomers. More come rushing down the street from one direction, followed by Robert, his sword red with blood.

As the two gangs clash in the street, a pilgrim wielding a censer billowing incense rounds the corner from the other direction and points at them angrily.

"They defile the cobblestones with their blood! At them, brothers!"

A pack of furious pilgrims, armed with clubs, bills, and partisans rush into the fray, laying about indiscriminately. Already there are bodies, and even as Moishe watches a ghoul pops out of an alleyway and gleefully lays hands on a corpse, dragging it away.

"Ah, the City of God," Avi says ironically.

"How do we tell who's on our side?" Moishe asks him. At that moment Devorah catches his attention by waving.

"Moishe! Sarai and Shabbar are inside, quick! The sooner we get to the ship, the sooner this ends!"

Moishe looks at the street, packed from end to end with brawling Jerusalemites, and shrugs.

"Can you do anything, Avi?" he asks. Avi smirks and cracks his knuckles.

"Moishe, my old friend, that's why I'm here."

Avi steps into the street, baring his teeth in a snarl. A gangster turns towards him with a knife and an ugly look, but he quickly shows fear as her recognizes who he's facing.

"Y-you!"

Then Avi starts to change.

It happens in an instant, his clothes shredding as his body twists and bulges, his limbs growing long and crooked, his skull distending into the fanged muzzle of a werewolf.

"Silver! Get the silver!" the gangster yells before Avi the Werewolf lashes out with a clawed hand and opens up his chest. Another fighter lunges at him with a spear, but it snaps against the werewolf's supernaturally-strong skin.

Moishe sees a man pull out a knife that shines brighter than polished steel, and he lunges forward with his staff, cracking the man's wrist and causing him to yelp and drop it. In the confused brawl, it is kicked away and goes skittering down the street.

Moishe looks hesitantly at the wolf monster that his friend has transformed into before turning and running across the street. He ducks under a club swung by an angry pilgrim, dodges a spear from a Mamluk clad in black robes, and stands gaping before a giant who looms over him angrily. Behind the giant is the door to Fahrettin Bey's manor, and a group of gangsters are struggling with a large contraption involving a bellows and long hose, and a barrel of some substance that smokes and gives off an acrid chemical smell.

"Moishe, get back!" The apprentice looks up and sees Shabbar standing above the gates holding some sort of basin. "This is going to get messy!"

Sarai appears next to the djinn, pulling herself up and sitting on the edge of the wall.

"They've been studying their alchemy," she says, "But not enough. Because they've forgotten the alchemical principle of the acid-base reaction…"

The gangsters finally finish setting up the pump, and laugh as a jet of caustic solvent shoots out of the hose and begins melting through the gate. Shabbar shrugs and tips the basin over, and a wave of thick, viscous material washes over the gates and spills into the street. It immediately neutralizes the solvent, and the gangsters shout curses and back off as the chemical reaction fills the air with fumes.

"Moishe!" Sarai says as her apprentice tries to scramble up the wall. Shabbar leans down and grabs the apprentice's wrist, hauling him up to sit beside them.

"Hello teacher," Moishe coughs, "Sorry I'm late, I was out."

"That's alright, it looks like everyone's here," Sarai responds. Sure enough, Robert comes charging down the street, driving off the remaining gangsters, and after a brief word between him and the pilgrims who stop hitting anything that moves and isn't wearing sackcloth, the fight seems to be dying down.

"We should get back inside," Shabbar says, helping Sarai back down to the flagstones of the courtyard. Moishe catches a wave from a familiar face – Avi, back in human form, although now dressed in torn clothing and spattered with blood.

"Hello, friend!" Avi says cheerfully, as if he had just met Moishe in the market.

"Um, listen, Avi-" Moishe begins, but the man sticks his hands in what's left of his pockets.

"No, you don't have to say anything. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I'm with-" he nods at the Indian gangsters who are currently looting the bodies. "I was sent to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn't get into trouble."

"Well, thanks, seems like you did help us out just now. I didn't know you were a…"

He gestures at Avi, who laughs.

"There's quite a few of our tribe who are! Mostly from the line of Benjamin, never found out what that was about. Anyway, hope it doesn't put a damper on things."

"Uh, no, I suppose it doesn't. Look, my friends and I will be leaving soon, but if I'm ever in Jerusalem again-"

"You'll look me up, I know! Happy travels, Moishe!"

With that, Moishe turns and drops down into the courtyard, where Sarai, Devorah, and Shabbar are conversing with Fahrettin Bey.

"Yes, I suppose you should get out of here as soon as possible," the merchant sighs, "I am sorry your stay in Jerusalem ended like this, but such things happen."

"It's really much nicer when you get to know it!" says a voice, and the group spin around to see the Panotti archer from the fight outside, emerging from the garden. "Whew, what a fight! Glad we pulled your chestnuts out of the fire, uh pardon the expression miss."

"Who are you?" Shabbar asks, crossing his arms.

"Menander, if you please," the Panotti says, tugging one of his ears, "My uncle is uh, a friend of Fahrettin Bey's, and he thought it would be best if I tagged along to prevent anymore, uh, unfortunate events such as this. If you catch my meaning, sir."

Fahrettin Bey gives Menander a wry grin.

"Yes, I'm sure I do. My friends, I understand this is much to ask, but it would be a weight off my mind if this associate of mine came with you. If he comes here at his uncle's behest, then his skills are unquestionably sufficient."

"Master archer," Menander says, "Plus we have friends in Ind, don't you know."

Sarai looks at the others, searching their faces.

"Well…if he comes with a recommendation. It's not like"

"Fantastic!" Menander

"Wait, where's Robert?" Moishe asks. Shabbar clears his throat and looks towards the gates.

"It appears he's still outside. One moment and I'll go get him.

***

Moishe watches the streets and buildings of Jerusalem fade away below him.

"You know…it is a shame there was a fight. I'd thought the City of God would be, well…"

Robert shrugs and finishes cleaning his sword. Sheathing it, he looks towards where the sun glitters off the Dome of the Rock.

"Much blood has been shed over Jerusalem. It has been leveled and rebuilt several times over, and sacked more times than that. It may be the City of God, but it is ultimately a city of man."

"Maybe so, but therein lies its beauty as well," adds Shabbar, "The hands of man built Jerusalem, and the hearts of man made it holy."

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 15: Grandmother Lilith​

The Holy Land comes and goes, but now, at the halfway point of their journey, the crew of the Aliyah is too eager to stop and visit any of the famous landmarks, holy sites, or desert monasteries and communities of religious dedicants. Villages, shepherds and farmers, strings of merchant caravans, a few lone djinn or succubi, and once a tribe of Nephilim tending massive herds of sheep, goats, and camels, all pass below them, looking up curiously.

"What's off the edge of the map?" Moishe asks, peering over Devorah's shoulder as she charts their course. The succubus seems distracted, and she reluctantly turns her attention away from the map.

"Hmm?"

"We know what's around the Mediterranean, and we'll go through Persia and Ind soon," Moishe says, pointing, "But what about further east? Or down in Africa beyond the Sahara?"

"Or Britain?" Menander asks. Being more familiar with the Middle East and Ind, he thinks of western Europe as a strange, distant land of its own.

"I know a bit about Britain," Robert says, "We fought them in the Hundred Years' War, after all. Their Knights of the Round Table aren't to be trifled with. As to the islands themselves…well, one hears strange things. The Church still isn't sure if these Fair Folk of theirs are fallen angels or some tribe of man."

"As to the east, you have the Mongol Empire – they're Nestorian, and they control all the overland trade. North of the Black Sea are the Khazars, who are a Jewish kingdom, if you can believe it. East of the Mongols is Cathay…it's ruled by a Persian Islamic dynasty," she says, "Something about a prince who got a djinn out of a lamp. Africa, I've never been, but we get plenty of merchants. Some parts of it are fabulously wealthy, and there are these guys in the Kongo…the Empire of Shabbaz. They supposedly have flying machines – not like ours, they're more like…flying wheels? Again, I can't speak from experience."

"What about here?" Moishe asks, pointing north of the Caucuses. Devorah frowns.

"Those are the cannibal hordes of Gog and Magog. Bound up behind the Caucuses by the Wall of Alexander, though it's said they'll break free in the end times to ravage the world."

"Well with a title like 'the cannibal hordes', they must be lovely," Menander says. Moishe glances at Devorah.

"You have been to Ind though, right?"

"Of course. It's ruled by Prester John, the Christian King of all Ind, he has seventy vassal kings, not to mention he's the protector of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. A bishop-prince is his butler and another is his chamberlain and he is advised by an Archpope. He wears a robe of salamander skins, his table seats a thousand men or so it is said."

"In other words, he's rich and he's Christian," Robert says, "That's good enough for me."

"I thought Prester John, uh, died," Menander says. Devorah waves her hand.

"His grandfather died, fighting Chinggis Khan."

"Wait, did you say grandfather? But that would make him…"

"Very old, yes. That's the benefits of the elixir of immortality for you."

Sarai, who has been carefully steering the ship and pretending to ignore the conversation, hisses.

"And that's why we're going to Ind. Prester John isn't just rich and wise, he's also a very powerful magician and alchemist. And if we can impress him with this, well…"

"Imagine being Prester John's court alchemist," Menander says, giving Sarai a grin.

"Right. It all depends on getting to Ind. So cut the chatter and help me fly this thing."

The Aliyah cuts south and west across the desert, with Sarai aiming to circle around the southern edge of the Dead Sea. The ship makes her first stop out of Jerusalem on the shore of the Dead Sea, the crew doing routine maintenance on the ship, while Devorah stands on a weathered pillar of stone and scans the badlands around them. After a while she looks back over her shoulder.

"Captain, permission to have a look around?"

Sarai wipes down her forehead and neck; the heat is sweltering here in the inhospitable desert.

"This is going to be quick right?"

Moishe looks up from the furnace, having checked all the seals.

"Teacher, may I go with her?"

Sarai looks around.

"Shabbar, go with them," she orders. Shabbar looks up from the supplies and nods. Devorah hops down from her perch and starts hiking uphill, followed by Moishe, while Shabbar brings up the rear. They pass Robert and Menander standing guard. Menander tugs his ear at them and winks, but the knight keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Devorah seems to poke her head over every cliff and glance up every wash and canyon.

"Are we…looking for something out here?" Moishe asks after a while.

"Oh, you never know what you might find out here," Devorah says, half-distracted. Moishe grunts and scrambles up a scree slope, using his stiff to give himself leverage. A chunk of slate gives way under his foot, and he totters backwards for a moment before Shabbar catches him.

"You definitely seem like you have something in mind!" Moishe calls after Devorah, who has simply flown up the slope and is waiting for her companions at the top.

"Well, she lives out here, doesn't she? Isaiah said so."

"Isaiah?"

"The prophet," Devorah says.

Moishe searches his memory, trying to recall something. Who used to live in this area? Plenty of people over the centuries…

Just as he realizes what Devorah means, the trio turn a corner and see her.

Perched on a rock, knees drawn up to her chest, is a woman with black skin and braided black hair, the sides of her head shaved. Two wings like those of an owl are wrapped around her, concealing her body, but two taloned feet can be seen gripping the stone, and a long, scaled tail rests on the ground behind her. She is staring at the craggy vista, bleak stones piling up on top of each other forming the horizon beneath a blue sky streaked with white clouds.

Lilith, the first succubus, turns and gives them a smile.

"Hello there, granddaughter. And you, travelers."

Devorah gasps and steps forward excitedly.

"Grandmother!"

Shabbar grunts in shock, but Moishe stands still and watches as Devorah kneels at Lilith's feet and smiles up at her. She does indeed look like an eager child speaking to her grandmother.

"I've been travelling all over the world! Oh, grandmother, I've seen so many sights! Cities and people and creatures, and…would you like to hear all about it?"

"That all sounds lovely, I would love to hear about it, child."

"We should go," Moishe whispers to Shabbar.

The djinn nods and the two turn and retreat behind a rocky outcrop. Moishe grips his staff and thinks about what he's just seen – Lilith, Adam's first wife, cursed with eternal life for her disobedience to God.

"What was that?" Moishe whispers to Shabbar once they're a safe distance away.

"That was Lilith," the djinn replies plainly.

"No, I mean, why did Devorah act like that? Why did Lilith act like that? I thought she was supposed to, I don't know, eat babies or something."

"We're not babies," Shabbar points out. Moishe glares at him, and he chuckles. "Alright, well, I suppose Devorah is descended from Lilith, right? All of them are."

"Right. So maybe we got lucky because we were with one of her…granddaughters."

"Either way, we should wait here until Devorah comes back."

Eventually, after perhaps half an hour, their crewmate returns.

"Are you okay? How did it go?"

"Hmm? I'm fine. Let's just get back to the ship."

A few hours later the Aliyah is making its way east again. Moishe and Dev sit against the railing, Dev resting their head on their arm, trailing a hand over the side. Robert de Villiers leans against the railing nearby, sharpening his sword.

"So…that was Lilith?" Moishe asks by way of conversation. The sun is getting low in the sky.

"Yes. She doesn't really go in for appearances like…like we do," Dev says.

"Have you met her before?"

"No. That was the first time."

The tone in her voice suggests it may be the last time. Moishe moves further down the rail, towards Robert, to give Devorah a little space. The succubus starts singing under their breath, a mournful tune whose words Moishe can't make out.

"Are they…okay?" Moishe asks Robert. The wizard-knight puts down his sword and looks at the succubus. He clears his throat.

"In the beginning," he says quietly, "God created Lilith to be Adam's wife. She didn't want to submit to him, or to God, so He cursed her."

"With eternal life, right."

"More than that. Every day, a hundred of her children would die. As it happened, she thought to avoid that. She only had three direct daughters - Na'amah, Agrat, and Eisheth."

"The Brides of Samael," Moishe whispers. One does not speak the name of the Angel of Death lightly.

"That's right. Samael was sent to ensure the curse was fulfilled. Lilith's three daughters joined with him, not knowing of the curse, and so the race of succubi was born. Every day, a hundred succubi die. Nobody knows which ones. Samael shadows their steps every moment of their lives."

"That seems…unfair."

Robert makes a noncommittal noise.

"Lilith used to be a lot worse, you know," he says, "She was a real monster. A plague on the Children of Adam. Then the Prophet Elijah bound her and forced her to surrender her true names. Now, it seems, she is as you saw her."

"Is that why succubi are…you know, like that? They try to get the most out of life because they know it could end at any moment?"

"Perhaps."

"There's one thing I don't understand," Moishe says, "Who was Lilith's second husband? The father of those first three daughters."

"That would be Cain," Devorah says. Moishe feels a rush of shame upon realizing Devorah could hear him, but when he turns to face the succubus he finds she has come down from the railing and joined them.

Menander smiles.

"Cain? Why, that practically makes us cousins!" he says cheerfully. Devorah looks confused.

"Er…does it?"

Menander pats her on the back.

"Of course! Cain is the ancestor of all us fantastic tribes! The Panotii, the Monopods, even the Cynocephali...so I guess you succubi are one of us!"

Devorah laughs.

"Alright, fair enough. You know, when I was up in Denmark I heard this story about a monster of a man who was descended from Cain."

Moishe relaxes as Devorah leans forward, beginning her story. The Aliyah flies onward, passing into the great desert.

"And if you think he sounds scary, wait until you meet his mother…"

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 16: The Ruins of Babel​

The Aliyah cuts east across the Wilderness, the vast expanse of desert that is sometimes included as part of northern Arabia, but in reality is inhabited by no human. There are some isolated Djinnistans, but they are shrouded in mirages and closed off to outsiders.

So the Aliyah makes for Mesopotamia. As it nears the banks of the Euphrates River, civilization appears in fits and starts: isolated outposts for merchant caravans, clusters of tents where nomadic tribes have made camp, and the occasional fort to police them. Some of these forts have fallen into disrepair, and there are bandits haunting this fringe of civilization.

Menander, perched at the prow of the ship, is first to sight the ruins as the ship exits a bank of cloud. They first appear as a dark shadow on the horizon, a mile long. He alerts the others, who cast off damp cloaks and come up to join him.

"Feeling like Dev today?" Menander asks as the male-looking incubus steps up on the railing next to him, grasping one of the suspension cables for balance. Deb gives an affirmative grunt and peers at the distant ruins.

"That's them alright. Take a good look, humans, that's your greatest work."

"We've done better," Sarai replies, somewhat sullenly. Dev scoffs and steps down from the railing.

"If you've built any mile-high towers of baked mud since Babel, let me know."

Moishe looks at his teacher.

"Can we land and look around?"

Sarai nods.

"Just one hour."

The Aliyah descends, and the ruins become clearer. At one end is the massive base, still only partially eroded after millennia. A great part of its southern end is jagged and broken, sheered off by some titanic force. From there, massive chunks of tower are strewn across the desert, some piled up against each other, while other chunks are strewn hundreds of feet apart. The sections of toppled tower grow smaller further south, evidence of the narrowing of the original structure as it climbed upwards, towards the Firmament.

"It's amazing that they even tried," Shabbar says, an uncharacteristically forward observation. Moishe smiles.

"That's us humans for you."

The Aliyah lands in a hollow some one-third of the length from the base. The crew spreads out, gazing at the massive structure. Robert seems unappreciative, and Sarai and Shabbar seem content to view the ruins from the ship's railing. Moishe soon sets off, followed by Dev and Menander. They quickly lose sight of the ship, but Moishe doesn't care, being happy to point animatedly at exposed sections of brickwork. This entire section is buried in the sand at an slight angle, so that what was previously the sloped side of the tower in now a ramp, with the far end protruding upwards like the prow of a ship.

"Look at this! This construction - imagine what kind of internal structures they built to prepare it to hold the weight of the rest of the tower."

"You're awfully interested in this place," Dev says.

"I've always wanted to visit them," Moishe says, a bit embarrassed.

Dev smiles.

"You remind me of another Moishe."

"Ah?"

"Moishe Khan, ruler of the Khazars. He liked digging up old ruins too. Sent other people to do it, mind. I was one of the guides."

Menander begins to wander off along the length of the wall, peering up at the weathered carvings, so faded that they are mere ridges on the surface. Moishe and Dev continue to marvel at the sheer breadth of the tower, still holding together after all this time. Though the Ruins of Babel have been swallowed by the sands multiple times, when they emerge again they are only ground away a fraction - a structure so huge cannot be worn away in any short amount of time.

Dev turns and looks around suddenly.

"...where's Menander?"

Moishe looks around as well. They realize that Menander has disappeared around the corner, and go after him.

"Does anyone live around here?" Moishe asks nervously.

"Only the usual folk who hang around ancient ruins in the middle of nowhere."

Unfortunately, that doesn't reassure Moishe in the slightest.

They look along the length of the wall, and see nothing. Then, at the far end, where the former top of the Tower points into the sky, they see him, a small figure at this distance, emerge from behind the structure and run at them at a rapid clip. Moishe raises his hand and waves to get his attention...then the pack of pursuing figures appear behind him, letting out yips and howls.

"Ghouls!" Dev curses.

"Run! Run, run, run!" Menander yells as he draws closer, his ears flapping behind him like banners. Moishe pushes Dev back towards the ship.

"Fly back and tell Sarah!" he gasps, then starts running as well. Dev spreads his wings and takes off towards the landing sight, soon flying over the rim of a massive pile of crumbled brick, leaving Menander and Moishe to outrun the ghouls on their own.

The pack chases them down, laughing crazily and yipping like wild dogs - and they do resemble the animals to an extent, floppy ears and mouth full of fangs and snouts, but their feet are hooved and their bodies and thin and grey-skinned, and proportioned like a man's. Were they really supposed to be distant relations to the Djinn?

The ghouls are swift, and driven by hunger, and they soon spread out, herding the two explorers away from the path back to the ship. Moishe gasps down lungfuls of air, while Menander simply whimpers with fear, arms and legs pumping for all they're worth. He realizes the ghouls are about to cut them off, and grabs Menander's hand and pulls him towards another length of Tower. Like the one they were just exploring, this one is buried in the sand at an angle, almost like a ramp, and the two run up it, praying that they don't stumble.

"We can...use the...high ground!" Moishe says between breaths. Menander nods, wishing desperately he brought his bow. When they reach the edge of the sloping rubble, they pause and look back at the ghouls, now close enough that they can see flashes of jagged yellow fangs.

Then, a shadow passes in front of the sun, and the Aliyah is one them.

The wicker hull bounces once against brickwork and seems to hang a foot off the ground for a moment, having come in low and cut directly between Moishe and Menander.

"Climb aboard, quickly!" Sarah yells. Sarai is standing at the tiller, and for a moment she and Moishe lock eyes, standing face-to-face with each other, and Moishe frantically begins to clamber aboard.

So do the ghouls. Robert stands with one foot braced on the railing as he swings his sword. He cuts through the neck and arms of the first ghoul to attempt to climb aboard, leaving two clawed hands clinging to the railing. As Moishe falls to the deck, he sees Shabbar on the other side of the vessel, pulling Menander aboard with one hand and punching a ghoul square across the jaw with the other. Menander sees his bow on the deck and snatches it up.

Moishe looks around. The Aliyah has flown along the shallow slope of the ruin, barreling right through the pack of ghouls, and while most of them were in fact bowled over by the ship's passage or forced to dodge out of the way, half a dozen managed to grab onto the ship or its trailing ropes as it passed. Already several have fallen to the ground below, where their compatriots fall upon them eagerly, ghouls not being picky about exactly whose dead bodies they happen to add to their pot.

Robert's sword leaves a red arc as it cleaves through another ghoul, while Shabbar brings his foot down on a clawed hand grasping the railing. The monster lets go involuntarily, leaving a whimper hanging in the air. Moishe sees a set of slavering jaws rise above the railing, and grasps his staff and brings it down upon the creature's skull. The ghoul yelps and loses its grip, falling to the ground below. Behind him, the final monster is perched on the railing, ready to pounce, before Menander's arrow stands out from its throat suddenly, and it topples backwards.

Everyone stops to catch their breath. For the first time, Moishe notices Dev, at the bow of the Aliyah. He tips the incubus a grateful nod.

Sarai looks around to make sure nobody's been injured, then she sets down her alchemist's kit with a breath of relief.

"Alright, new rule...nobody goes off exploring unless one of you is armed."

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 17: The House of Wisdom​

Baghdad ranks among the great cities of man. Though Jerusalem stands head and shoulders above the rest, she can count Rome, Constantinople, and Mecca among her rivals in holiness and influence. While Baghdad is younger than all of these, she is nevertheless the seat of the Caliphs and home to the House of Wisdom, the crucible of the Golden Age of Islam.

While that age has waned, Baghdad and the House of Wisdom are still famed across the world, and wise men and scholars still gather there. Here are libraries of millions of books containing every type of learning man has yet devised, here are debate halls where the greatest thinkers in Dar-Al-Islam test their minds, here are laboratories and workshops where new innovations are devised. Christians and Jews, Djinn and even the strange races of Ind have contributed to what some call the sum total of human knowledge. Even the Mongol invasions had not permanently reduced the city's stature, nor its vibrant economy.

Thus on this particular day, there is great excitement in the House of Wisdom as the Aliyah flies over the city.

It is soon established by the keenest eyes that the mysterious object is a flying ship, suspended from some sort of container of flexible material. A hapless apprentice is "volunteered" to fly up to the ship on a flying carpet and offer the great creation the opportunity to land in one of the courtyards of the House of Wisdom.

By the time the Aliyah has released its air and descended gently into the courtyard, a gaggle of observant engineers is already theorizing on the mechanisms by which the flying ship operates.

Shabbar is first over the railing, at which point he offers a hand to Sarai bat Binyamin. The Jewish alchemist steps onto the flagstones of the House of Wisdom's largest courtyard and ties back her flyaway hair. Menander is next, securing the mooring line a nearby railing.

"Right, you were looking for the captain?"

The austere crowd of scholars in turbans and robes with beards tucked into sashes look on the small Jewish woman standing with her hands on her hips. Some blink in surprise.

A respected elder among the engineers (and curious members of other disciplines) clears his throat and steps forward.

"Welcome to the House of Wisdom. Evidently you are in possession of a most wondrous device, which we are eager to learn more about. If you happen to know-"

"Know? I built the thing!" Sarai interrupts. Moishe scrambles over the railing and tugs at her sleeve while the scholars mutter in surprise and hold a huddled conference.

"Teacher! You said we needed to be diplomatic."

"I said you needed to be diplomatic."

"You are in good company," Shabbar reassures her, "Some of the Great Sages of Alchemy were, ah, women. Moses' sister Miriam comes to mind."

Sarah makes a non-committal grunt. The head of the engineers steps forward again.

"Evidently we are in the presence of a great alchemist, one in the grand tradition of Miriam, sister of Moses."

Shabbar elbows Moishe in the side and smirks.

"We would be pleased to hear you enlighten us on the nature of this device you have created."

"It is an honor to contribute to the House of Wisdom. Moishe, grab my notes."

***

One series of lectures later, Moishe slips out of the main gates to the House of Wisdom carrying the letter of recommendation given to him by the Rabbi Shlomo in Jerusalem, one which should hopefully give him the ability to seek an audience with the Exilarch.

The Exilarch, or Head of the Captivity, is of course the heir to the House of David, the chief of the Jews of Baghdad and one of the most influential and learned Jewish leaders in all the world. He governs the affairs of all Jews in Baghdad and hosts many respected rabbis at his table. And, of course, he is a great scholar of the Talmud and the Kabbalah.

It is not hard to find the Exilarch, for he lives in a great palace and several gardens and homes in the city besides. However, on this day Moishe is lucky to see the Exilarch in a procession.

First come the mounted heralds, both Jews and Arabs, shouting "Make way before our lord, the son of David, as is due unto him!"

They are accompanied by musicians, and mounted on a horse is the Exilarch himself, a Jewish man dressed in robes of embroidered silk and an enormous turban, and behind him come litters of goods carried by golems, animate clay statues made mobile by secret magic.

"Make way! Make way!" shout the heralds as the street empties. Some of the people of Baghdad make respectful gestures, a few – mostly Jews – cheer or hail the Exilarch.

"My lord!" Moishe shouts, waving the letter, "I am the apprentice of the Rabbi Eleazar! I seek an audience!"

Moishe feels silly yelling to get the attention of the Head of the Captivity from the sidewalk, but to his surprise the Exilarch draws to a halt and turns to face the apprentice.

"Who is this?" he asks, and two of his heralds turn aside and help Moishe out from the crowd. Moishe trembles as he hands the letter of recommendation up to the Exilarch, who reads it with bemusement as Moishe explains.

"Please, my lord, I am the apprentice of the Rabbi Eleazar of Grenada, I have come in a flying ship – you may have seen it. I wish-"

The Exilarch cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

"No need to speak of that here. Come! Bring this boy a horse!"

The ride is uncomfortable as Moishe has never learned to ride a horse, but the ride to the Exilarch's home is not far. Moishe is astonished by how opulent it is, with its columns inlaid with passages from the scriptures in gold and silver, its marble floors, its courtyards with fragrant plants and bubbling fountains.

As they walk through the halls, Moishe looks into one large room, rather like a storehouse, and sees a number of golems working machinery. He only gets a brief glimpse, but he sees golems turning lathes, others sanding wood, others working with hammers and nails. Each seems to be doing only a single task, over and over, yet somehow, they are churning out tables and chairs and other types of furniture.

"My experimental workshop," the Exilarch explains, "You see, one of the problems with making good use of golems is that they need simple instructions. If the instructions get too complicated, they are prone to misinterpretation, and the golem's actions become unpredictable. But, if you tell each golem to do only a single, simple task, over and over...ah, but that is a theory for another time."

In time the Exilarch leads Moishe to a sitting room and pours him some tea.

"Now, Moishe ben David, tell me what you know about the Kabbalah."

"Um…that the sefirot are a series of forces – emanations of Hashem which need to be aligned so that the divine essence can flow down to our world. Of course, they are misaligned, which accounts for the nature of the world. However, these sefirot can be aligned through human action…though the learned rabbis were a bit unclear on that."

The Exilarch nods and clears his throat.

"You are basically correct. In particular, you should not that the alignment of the sefirot is conditional on ritual in order to manipulate them. When the sefirot are aligned, they produce divine goodness, and if not, grace is withheld. Therefore, ritual is important because it is the means by which this realignment occurs."

"And…what are these rituals?"

The Exilarch smiles mysteriously.

"Moishe, do you know why we perform the mitzvot?"

He is referring of course to the many Jewish commandments – not only those banning murder and idolatry, but also more obscure commandments like the prohibition towards boiling a goat in its mother's milk.

Moishe thinks hard and tries to recall his days as a student.

"There are two categories of mitzvot. The first category are ones that help us live a moral and ethical life; these ones we would obey even if they were not commanded by Hashem. The second category are the ritual purity laws, which we follow because they are commanded by Hashem, so obeying them is pleasing to him. They also show our devotion to Hashem, as our part of the covenant."

"This is true," the Exilarch says with a nod, "But there is another reason: every mitzvah has its correspondences among the sefirot. In Kabbalah, we believe that everything is just a variation on a single original concept, and this essence is mirrored down through its iterations. This is a very complicated subject, but we can begin with the mitzvot."

Moishe thinks hard about that.

"Are you saying that every mitzvot has a mystical explanation in addition to a mundane one?"

"Indeed. There are 248 positive commandments, and 248 parts of the body, just as there are 365 negative commandments and 365 days in a year. When we perform a mitzvah, we purify ourselves, but we also purify the sefirot."

"So...by performing a mitzvot, we are manipulating the emanations of Hashem through its respective sefirot."

"Precisely. Take for example the commandment against wearing clothes of mixed fibers. Wool and linen are two different materials, animal and vegetable. By keeping the two separate, we separate out the emanation which corresponds with animals from the emotional emanations which correspond with the vegetable world. If you're wondering why those things correspond with each other, that's not important right now."

"It sounds like there's so much to learn," Moishe says a bit glumly. The Exilarch nods solemnly.

"Many have spent their entire lives contemplating these things. What is important to know is that everything is connected. Every object and action has…associations, resonances with other things. This is the basic of most forms of magic, of course, but it applies to our mystic practices as well."

"Right, as above, so below. So, if the rituals are observed, creation becomes more aligned with itself. Incredible! But wait, if observation of the mitzvot can actually improve creation, why do only the Jews do this?"

"Ah, the great question. Why the Jewish people? It is because for our sake the world is upheld. The Jewish people are a…microcosm of humanity, you could say. We bring glory to all mankind through the covenant…but that is our great responsibility as well as our great honor."

"I see," Moishe says, though he doesn't understand it entirely.

"You must understand these things if you are to become a Kabbalist. It is not like the magic of the gentiles, where they can simply read from a book and draw up a magic circle. It is a deep, spiritual practice."

"Do you really think I have the potential to be a Kabbalist?"

"Some very wise men seem to think so, myself included."

"I'm humbled...mainly because, for all that I've learned, I'm not completely sure what to do with this knowledge."

The Exilarch sits back and folds his hands in his lap.

"Moishe, it is said that in every generation there are born 36 righteous people who, for their sake alone, the world is not destroyed. Nobody knows who they are, not even themselves, but so long as they remain righteous the world is sustained."

"Nobody…you don't mean?" Moishe feels a dawning sense of horror, but the Exilarch simply laughs.

"No, Moishe, I don't know…or even suspect…" he looks at Moishe shrewdly, then shakes his head, "Well, in any case, my point was this: each one of us must act as if the world itself relies on our individual capacity for justice and mercy - for indeed, it often does. After all, is it not written? Whoever destroys a soul, it is as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is as if he saved an entire world."

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 18: the Warlord​

It is the biggest thing to ever walk the Earth. Bigger than an elephant, bigger than a whale were it brought onto land. It looks massive even from the deck of the Aliyah, over a hundred feet in the air.

It is the Behemoth.

"The second Great Beast," Robert mutters, "Let's hope that's a good omen."

"If God is gracious, we'll see a third," Devorah replies, "We'll be passing near the place where the Ziz bird makes its nest."

"Behemoth," Moishe breathes.

The great beast has legs thicker around than the greatest tree on Earth, and its body is round like a barrel. Its weight must be immense, and the deep footprints it leaves in the hard earth are a testament to that.

Its head is blunt, with four curving tusks – two curving down from its upper jaw and two up from its lower jaw. It has thick, blubbery lips, and their purpose is obvious as its tears whole chunks off a tree growing near the banks of the Tigris.

"He must constantly be eating," Shabbar muses. Behemoth grumbles – a sound so loud that it can be heard from high the air, and certainly felt through the ground – and wades into the river. The water foams and rushes around his body, and Moishe can see the waves crashing over the banks as the Behemoth displaces so much water he causes the river to flood.

"My God," Devorah swears, "And I mean that sincerely!"

***

According to Devorah they are somewhere in Central Iran, in a nameless, arid desert valley. They had been making the final leg of the journey to the Kingdom of Prester John when a sandstorm had come down and grounded them. They had tried to secure the airship but the storm had only intensified, and now they are close to being stranded.

"We have to take down the gasbag!" Sarai yells over the howling wind.

Moishe clambers onto the deck of the airship, and Sarai nods at him through her improvised veil. Robert is yelling something, and Devorah shouts something back. Moishe can't tell if they're angry or just struggling to be heard over the wind.

"I said, there's someone out there!" Robert yells again, and this time Moishe can hear him.

"It's probably too much to ask if they're friendly?" Sarai yells. Deborah says something in return, too quiet to be heard over the storm.

Moishe stands next to Sarai at the railing, and Menander joins them a moment later. He's tied his ears back behind his head, the folds bunched up and secured with a leather thong. Though they flap in the wind, they at least are out of the way. He plucks the strong of his longbow worriedly.

"Teacher, the ship is secured!" Moishe yells. Shabbar groans and releases his grip on the anchor rope, and the airship slumps to one side. Sarai looks up, and sees the blackened sky showing hints of sunlight again - the sandstorm is dying down.

"How quickly can we get it up again?" she asks. She's noticed the sky as well, and is less than happy with being grounded. Devorah tugs at her sleeve.

"Captain, that sandstorm came and went far too quickly-"

"I know," she replies curtly. She can now see the silhouettes in the thinning sandstorm - there are dozens, some of them men on foot and others on horseback. Sarai hops down from the railing and takes a step forward to meet them, Robert and Shabbar at her sides. Moishe starts to follow her, then looks back over his shoulder and gasps in surprise.

"Teacher!"

All at once, the remains of the sandstorm are blown away by a strong wind, revealing the valley - bottled up at both ends by mobs of men. Robert swears and draws his sword, and Shabbar grunts in surprise. Menander scrambles for his arrows.

They are men of all types - Persians, Turks on horseback, Ghouls, Blemmyae wielding wicked-looking hooks and swords with serrated blades, and in the middle of them all is one of the Nephilim, a giant nearly as broad as he is tall, standing tall above the rest of the soldiers. He hooks his thumbs in a broad golden belt - all four of them, for he has two thumbs on each hand - and laughs.

"Har har! What have we here? That's a strange ship to be so far from the sea!"

"Who are you?" Sarah asks shortly. The obvious leader of the motley crew laughs again.

"Har! I'm Benob the Six-fingered! Though they also call me...Benob the Warlord."

He bares a set of square, blackened teeth, and his men send up a chorus of laughs.

"Don't turn your back on them," Robert whispers, "But start backing up towards the ship."

Devorah nudges his side and points at a series of dark holes in the sheer cliffs that enclose the valley.

"Look at those caves. If we'd noticed those before, we could've sheltered in them."

"We need to get the ship in the air, teacher!" Moishe whispers plaintively. Benob grunts.

"Hold on, now! None of you make a move! We've got two hundred on our side, and well, I can count all of you on one hand. Har!"

He strides forward, grinning through a tangled beard.

"Now...what's a ship doing in the middle of the desert?" he asks again, "And why's it got that fancy bundle o' canvas on top?"

Sarai remains quiet. Benob shakes his head in disappointment.

"Now really, if that's some sort of fancy machine...I'll want to know all about it."

"What business of yours is it?" Sarah asks, crossing her arms. The short woman takes a step forward, as if trying to stare down the eight-foot giant.

"Har! I'm one of the line of the Watchers! It's my business to know what's being done with the knowledge they shared with us mortals...and to make sure it stays in the right hands."

"Those hands wouldn't happen to have six fingers on them, would they?" Sarah asks.

"Har! Sure, and why not? We're the descendants of the ones who taught it to you - and now look what you've done with it! No, the only people who should be forging metal and casting spells should be the ones with the blood of the angels in them - meaning that ship is mine by right, and you're going to tell me how it works."

Sarai stares him down. Robert snarls and hefts his shield.

"Captain, let me teach this one a lesson. I hear knights are supposed to slay cruel giants."

Sarai remains motionless. Then, she takes a deep breath.

"Moishe...get the ship in the air."

Benob sighs and waves a hand.

"Alright then, have it your way."

"That's an order, Moishe! DO IT NOW!"

Several things happen at once.

The first thing that happens is that a human, previously unnoticed in the crowd of bandits, steps forward with a large jar in his arms. It is made of clay, has words in an undecipherable script inscribed around the rim, and has an elaborate seal. The magician cracks open the seal, and Shabbar lets out a despairing cry as he begins to dissolve into smoke, which is then sucked into the jar in the space of a few seconds. The geniebinder - for that is what he is - seals the jar and cackles.

The second thing that happens is that two hundred bandits wielding every type of nasty-looking weapon imaginable surge across the craggy earth, and Robert swings his sword and yells a battle cry, Menander starts firing off arrows, and Sarah and Moishe run for the ship.

The third thing that happens is that Devorah, who has stayed on the ship, spins the valve that releases hot air into the gasbag. The ship bucks and strains at its anchor lines, and Devorah draws a knife and runs to the front of the ship to cut them.

Things become quite chaotic after that.

***

Robert snarls and swings his sword in a wide arc, leaving a spray of blood hanging in the air, along with the screams of the wounded. It's been a while since he was a proper battle, and his sword and blood are both singing.

The bandits are everywhere, and as he turns in a circle he finds that they've gotten behind him. Moishe whimpers in fear and cowers against him, swinging that damned walking stick of his, trying to fend off a Ghoul.

"Come on, lad, swing it like you mean to hurt someone!"

Wishing Shabbar was here, Robert swings his shield and bashes the Ghoul in the face, and Moishe takes the opportunity to smack the Ghoul's arm with his staff. There's a crack and the Ghoul drops his sword and dances back out of reach.

"There you go!"

The giant – Robert swears that if he gets out of this alive there'll be a reckoning – laughs again and starts walking towards them.

"I want the alchemist alive!"

Sarai hisses and digs something out of her bag, pitching it with impressive force at the giant's face. The giant raises a hand to bat it aside, and howls with pain as it shatters, splashing acid onto his hand.

"Oh, you are a bold one!" Benob says venomously. Robert feels a surge of what is perhaps pride for his Captain.

"Right, I'm ordering everyone to get to the ship and get it in the air!" Sarah yells as she digs into her bag again.

"But Captain-"

"Teacher!"

"I said I'm ORDERING IT! Get it in the air as soon as possible!"

Menander, who was hanging back with his bow, turns and runs for the ship. Robert slings his shield over his back and grabs Moishe's arm.

"Let's go, boy!"

"But, Sarai-!"

"Dammit, she knows what she's doing!"

Unfortunately, Robert finds the way barred by a wall of swords and spears. He swings his sword in a wide arc to fend them off, and casts his eyes around.

He sees the caves set in the cliffs overlooking the valley, and more importantly sees that there are far fewer bandits between him and the caves than there are between him and the ship.

"Moishe, let's go!"

"But the ship!"

"God help me, shut up and run!"

He shoves Moishe forward, then spins around and crosses blades with a Belmmyae wielding a saw-edged sword. The serrated edge hooks his longsword and tugs it aside, but Robert punches the Blemmyae square between its eyes and turns to run after Moishe.

He catches up to the alchemist at the mouth of the cave. Robert leans against the cliff and pants for air.

"We can hold them here, for a while. How deep do you think the cave goes?"

"Pretty deep, probably. Devorah says these parts are home to marans - snake people."

"Well, let's see if they're home, shall we?"

As they journey into the cave, Robert takes out a small charm and starts whispering a spell. A moment later, light flares from the charm and drives away the gloom of the cave. Robert looks around suspiciously, while Moishe watches his back.

Then, Robert hears a small twang, and he looks down and sees that his boot has tripped a nearly-invisible wire. The cave is filled with a cracking sound, dust starts to fall from the ceiling, and with a tremendous crash the mouth of the cave starts to collapse.

"Holy Mother of God!"

***

Devorah watches Menander climb onto the ship and snatch up another arrow.

"I want that ship!" Benob bellows. Menander looses his bow, and another bandit topples from the railing. Menander is just one man though, and soon more are clambering over the side. Devorah hesitates at the final anchor line, waiting to see if the others make it through.

A bandit starts climbing over the railing, and Devorah stabs the bandit's hand, causing him to hop away, cursing.

"We need to get this ship in the air!" Menander says as he is forced to lunge back away from a thrust spear.

Devorah hesitates, knife hovering over the taut line.

"She gave us an order! If they take the ship then nobody can help her!"

Menander starts to pitch crates of gear over the side. With a grunt he heaves Sarai's alchemy kit over the edge, and the Aliyah bucks like a horse eager to start a race. Devorah lets out a strangled sob and cuts the line, and the airship starts to drift. She runs to the tiller and looks across the valley. She can no longer see any of the others - the giant seems to be withdrawing with a clump of bandits, while another bunch are near the cliffs at the edge of the valley, around a plume of dust. She can, however, see a large number of bandits, all making for the ship eagerly. One just barely misses a trailing line as the Aliyah rises into the air rapidly, the sudden ascent knocking Menander and Devorah off-balance, and they can only stare over the edge as the valley vanishes below, the figures fading into distant specks.

The two of them are alone with the ship.

 

[ScottishMongol]

Chapter 19: Apart​

Robert and Moishe are both covered with dust and sweat, and Moishe is bleeding from a gash on his leg. The two of them dig through the rubble choking the mouth of the cave.

"Christ, this is getting us nowhere," Robert says, spitting out a mouthful of spit thickened with dust. He steps away from the rubble and leans against the wall.

Moishe continues to dig, eyes wild with desperation.

"You're bleeding," Robert says, "Come here and I'll fix that."

Moishe looks at him, tears springing into his eyes.

"But...Sarai! The others!"

Robert sighs and gently wraps an arm around Moishe's shoulders, gently but firmly guiding him deeper into the cave. He's been worried about another cave-in since he so carelessly tripped the wire, and he thinks further digging may just hasten a second collapse.

"Your teacher can take care of herself. She's a tough woman. As for the others..."

His jaw tightens, and he helps Moishe sit down.

"Let's take a look at this," he says. The gash isn't so deep, but he still pulls something from his belt and presses it against the cut as he recites an incantation. The cut closes itself up in moments.

"There, simple healing spell," Robert says, and the two of them sit with their backs to opposite sides of the tunnel. Robert produces a wineskin from somewhere and takes a swig to wash out his mouth, then another for good measure. Moishe rubs his leg before drawing his knees up to his chest and sulking. His staff lies next to him.

"You sure do keep that thing close," Robert says, jerking his chin at it.

"It was a gift from my rabbi."

"What, is it a magic wand?"

"Not magic. Holy."

Robert nods.

"Ah, genuine miracles. I wouldn't know anything about that."

Moishe is pretty sure Robert is lying, but before he can press the knight on that, Robert sighs.

"Can it unblock tunnels?"

Moishe shakes his head.

"I don't think it works like that."

"Thought so. I lost all my materials too. I can...make light, do some basic healing, put out a fire, and if we need water I can probably improvise a dowsing rod. Give me a lock of your hair and I could make some countercurse charm. Other than that...do we need any livestock cured of disease?"

"Not that I can think of, but I'll let you know if it comes up," Moishe laughs bitterly.

"Thought so," Robert says again. He chuckles.

The two sit in silence for a while, Moishe trying to work up the nerve to ask Robert what he knows about miracles, when the knight suddenly sits up.

"Shh. Something's coming."

The two snatch up their weapons and stagger to their feet. Robert raises his glowing charm, and from deeper in the cave the two hear the rustling of scales on stone.

"Sounds like somebody's come to check on their guests," Robert mutters.

From out of the gloom slithers a pack of maran. From the waist up they are human - women, in fact, with braided hair and bronze skin, and armor chased with silver - but from the bottom down they only have the long, winding, sinuous bodies of snakes, green and black and brown. They all carry wicked-looking polearms.

"Hello," says their leader, who rises up on her tail, her head almost touching the roof of the tunnel, "We're going to have to ask you put down your weapons and come with us."

The other maran crowd around, leveling their weapons to create a picket of deadly blades. Robert and Moishe look at each other and sigh.

"Look like they want us to stay a while," Robert says, and flips his sword around, offering the hilt to the leader. She accepts his surrender and motions the other guards forward.

"A wise move. Take them to the queen."

***
Benob the Warlord has ordered his men to move camp. They march out of the valley where they laid their ambush and pitch their tents in a shallow depression. There are some wells nearby, and on a rise above the camp is a statue raised by some ancient Persian king - a winged bull with the face of a man. It is partially ruined, but its imperious gaze looks down on the bandits as they draw water and dig latrines.

The giant hauls Sarai unceremoniously to the largest tent and shoves her inside.

"You can stay here until you're willing to cooperate," he snarls, and stalks off to oversee the camp. Sarah can tell he's upset that the ship escaped his grasp, and only her value in building a new one has prevented her from being harmed.

Once she's alone, Sarai lets out groan of frustration and rocks back and forth on her heels thoughtfully. The Djinn is somewhere in the camp, thanks to that cursed geniebinder, but the others...well, they could be anywhere. She's quite confident in their abilities, so there is always the chance they could see to themselves and come rescue her.

The thought almost rankles her. As the captain, she hates the idea that she needs rescuing.

"Come on, Sarai, you're a professional alchemist, you can get yourself out of this!" she says, slamming her fist into her palm. She starts pacing the tent, looking skeptically at the chairs and desks that have been set up.

If worst came to worst, she could always build herself a second ship and escape on that. Sarai bat Binyamin was always the kind to make things happen herself rather than sit around and wait for them to happen to her.

If she can, she'd like to find the rest of the crew...but for now, her mind is already working on a plan to, at the very least, get her out of captivity.

***

It is very dark in the jar. Shabbar, through senses and movements known only to Djinn, lurks in the darkest corners and broods. He is currently in the gaseous form which his kind may take when desired - or when forced, as the case may be. Whatever process of the mind the Djinn uses to bind a cloud of vapors into a thinking entity is still fully aware of the circumstances of its imprisonment. Far more than mere clay, the jar is graven with magical wards that keeps the Djinn in this form and prevents him from escaping unless the jar is opened.

Being captured and bound in a jar is one of the worse fates a Djinn could face. Oh, how Shabbar loathes geniebinders!

Still, Djinn do not die natural deaths. Shabbar is very patient, and is willing to wait a very, very long time. No human master lives forever, and sooner or later the jar will be opened - perhaps by that geniebinder, which would provide a most welcome reckoning. If not the geniebinder, then eventually the jar will be open. Shabbar can afford to wait.

Still, he thinks, the others will probably have need of him far before that happens. So while he can wait, he would, for the sake of his companions, prefer not to.

***

Menander frets at the prow of the Aliyah.

"We have to go back," Devorah says. She grabs the tiller and starts to turn the ship about.

"Wait!" Menander says, and to his surprise Devorah actually pauses and glares at him.

"Wait for what?"

Menander pauses.

"I mean, they'll be ready for us. Wouldn't it be better if we…waited?"

Devorah takes her hand off the tiller and walks towards the Panoti.

"Oh, I see," she says casually, "You mean if we lie in wait until, say, tonight or tomorrow, they'll let their guard down."

"Yes! I mean…"

He pauses, trying to figure out how to convince Devorah to leave the others.

Suddenly, Devorah slams Menander back against the rail. She forces him to lean backwards out over the edge, his head hanging hundreds of feet above the ground, his ears flapping in the strong wind.

"You were going to sell us out, you son of a bitch!" she yells, pressing her knife against his throat. He makes a strangled choking sound and grabs the rail for support.

"Y-you don't understand, nobody was going to get hurt-"

"No, of course not, you were just going to sell this ship to...who, I wonder? The highest bidder? Or are you working for someone?"

"I have no idea what-"

Again, Devorah cuts him off.

"You're a bad liar, Menander, and I should know, I've met enough of them. Who are you working for!?"

"I - ack! I work for my uncle! I swear, nobody was going to get hurt."

"I ought to toss you off this ship-"

"Please, don't!"

"Then tell me why!"

"Because this is all I have!"

A moment passes as Devorah stares into his eyes. The succubus takes a deep breath and steps away, shoving Menander to the deck.

"Thank you, Devorah, I knew you wouldn't kill me!"

"Shut up," she says, wiping her eyes, "I need your bow."

"My bow?" Menander asks. Devorah looks back over her shoulder as she turns to put her hand on the tiller.

"Unlike you, I have loyalty. I have friends, somewhere out there. They're counting on me, and I'm going to help them because God knows I've counted on them time and again. Now, I don't care if you're a coward or a traitor, you're going to come with."

She pauses.

"I'm the only one of the original crew left. That means I'm in charge."

"That's right, you're in charge," Menander says, getting shakily to his feet.

"Good. Then my first order is to get ready, because we're going back for the rest of the crew."

The Aliyah lurches and starts a wide arc, heading back the way she came.

***

Sarai looks around the tent. There is a desk, some shelves, and a scattered collection of alchemy materials and gear. She sniffs distastefully.

"It'll have do..."

Benob sits down on a stool the size of a tree stump, his bulk taking up half the room even in this spacious tent, and rubs salve onto his acid-burned hand. He growls and clenches the hand into a fist.

"It better do. I put in a lot of work capturing you, and I still want a ship like yours."

Sarai turns around.

"What does a Nephilim need with a flying ship anyway? I thought you hated innovation."

"Har! A common mistake made by our enemies. We simply wish to take the forbidden knowledge out of the hands of mortals, who cannot be trusted with it. No, you will teach me to make the ship, and then I will be the one to hold the secret, and then...well, we shall see what I can do with it. As for what I know...I am a master smith and craftsmen, so I will make the new ship myself using your instructions. Metalworking, you see, was taught to humanity by the Watchers, who fathered the first Nephilim. That knowledge is mine to possess, as it is my duty to rule over lesser beings."

Sarai narrows her eyes. Her profile of the warlord is already starting to form. His confidence in his abilities...well, it rivals her own. However, she suspects that the self-professed master may have some gaps in his knowledge that she can exploit. For example, she's fairly sure he doesn't know exactly how flight works...

"I'll need to distill the fuel, first," she says, sniffing dismissively. The giant raises his eyebrows.

"Fuel?"

"Of course. It needs an explosive material to propel it fast enough to get off the ground. Surely you've heard of rockets?"

She tries not to hold her breath.

"Ah yes, rockets. Childish entertainment, I thought they were used for..."

"Well obviously I've found a more efficient use for them!" she snaps. The giant half-rises, and for a second Sarai thinks that she's played up her pride too much, but instead he points at the desk.

"There's writing materials there. You can make a list of whatever you need, and I'll have my men track it down. Whatever it takes to get that ship."

With that, he heaves his bulk out of the tent flap and disappears into the night.

Sarai sighs and pulls a piece of parchment towards her and starts to write. It should be fairly easy for her to get her hands on what she needs - sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter are among the more common substances...