Altars Fell

A caravan of hand carts emerged from the afternoon sandstorm into the protected valley.  The pilgrims shambled wearily between the iron-rich towers of stone that marked the gap in the mountains leading to the ruins of the city once called Ibidesh, "The City of Altars."  These few pious travelers from the city-state of Iordon were more familiar with another name: Moabid which translated roughly as "altars fell" in the ancient tongue spoken by its last inhabitants.


Craggy peaks encircled the remains of the lakebed by which the city had stood.  Towering like jagged teeth, they cut at the sky.  Eons of rain and repeated freezing had carved deeply into the remains of the silt from ages past.  Long before the area had been settled, the plain was dotted with fantastic mudstone columns and arches, delicately fluted and pitted.  The wind whistled between the rocks, whipping fine sand into a few dust devils that shrouded the low purple shrubs.

The last of the water huddled near the Red Gate where a deep cleft gouged through the mountains.  The lake had once been hundreds of meters deep, although no man had seen it; an earthquake had weakened the boundary mountains by causing a rift and the Red Gate formed rapidly.  The soft mud- and sandstone had yielded to the force of water and what started as a trickle swiftly became a torrent that became a deluge.

Enriched by millions of years of deposition, shielded from the desert by the mountains, and blessed with hundreds of springs flowing from the surrounding mountains, plants flourished on the lakebed.  When the first nomads had stumbled through the Red Gate, they could scarcely believe their fortune.  After only two or three generations, the tiny community had bloomed into a bustling city thousands strong and become the trade center for the region.  It certainly didn't hurt that domesticated crops from across the continent did very well thanks to the low seasonal variation of the springs combined with the equatorial location permitting year-round growth.

As nomadic tribes gathered to the city, strange amalgamations of their faiths arose.  Most of the city's denizens had little problem with the proliferation of gods, goddesses, demigods, and demons.  In fact, the locals typically belonged to more than one cult.  It was not unusual to pass several temples of different faiths on the road from house to market.  Eventually visiting traders, struck by this quality, took to calling the place Ibidesh.

The pilgrims had heard enough sermons concerning the wickedness of such an arrangement; most could recite by heart the relevant scriptures concerning the Scribe's hatred for the city.  Having now settled into the shade of a half-collapsed minnaret, one drew a book from her cart and, after reciting a liturgical prayer of thanks, began to read aloud the story of its end.

"And it was that the beloved of the Scribe had been in the desert now four fours of weeks.  He spoke to them through his one true prophet, Ior, saying, 'I have been with you in this time and will yet save you.  Do not lose heart for the city of Ibidesh is near.'  This was upsetting to his people and they murmured to one another saying, 'How can the Scribe lead us to a place of debauchery and call it good?'  For all knew of the immoral and evil acts committed there in the names of false gods in that day.

They trusted in him, however, and followed the Scribe's prophet who wore the mantle of truth upon his head.  When all eight thousand two hundred had passed through the Red Gate, they approached Ibidesh to ask for shelter and to trade for food and water.

Now, the priests of various cults had seen the Scribe's people approach and were fearful of their numbers and influence.  They knew that the Scribe was a jealous god who would not tolerate another.  For this reason, they sought a way to protect themselves and their idols from the religion of the Scribe.  The people of Ibidesh could not be permitted to hear of the Scribe lest they leave the cults or question their gods.  And so it was that the cults decided that they would unite and sacrifice the people of the Scribe together in keeping with the rituals of Gaokki, The-One-Who-Blind-Sees.

The people of the Scribe were welcomed into Ibidesh and given place to rest.  In the night, however, the priests and acolytes of several cults took many captive and began to pour out their blood on altars to false gods.  The Scribe woke his prophet saying to him, 'Take my people and flee, for you have been betrayed but I will avenge this affront.'  The prophet Ior sent out messengers to gather the people of the Scribe from all corners of the city to the central square.  Once all six thousand not taken and killed had come, a terrible wind arose in the desert and swept through the Red Gate bringing with it heavy sand.  The whole of the city was overtaken save the square and the wind parted before the people of the Scribe as they walked forth and out into the desert once more.

That day valley of Ibidesh was stricken and became barren.  Plants withered becoming as ash and the flocks of birds wasted away becoming as bone.  The springs ceased to flow and the city choked on dust of its sins.  Its inhabitants fled to all corners of the desert saying to themselves, 'What a terrible god is the Scribe.  Woe unto us that we have incurred his wrath.  Let us hide from his sight and seek refuge in the far wastes.'

The priests of the cults were last to leave, seeking the favor of their gods and begging for respite from these plagues.  Four days after the people of the Scribe had been slaughtered and retreated to the desert and while these priests beseeched their false idols, the altars upon which innocent blood had been spilt shattered and their temples fell to ruin.  Terrified, the priests ran out from the city crying, 'Surely this place is no longer Ibidesh!  We are the last of the once-great city of Moabid!'"

The reader finished and closed the book, reciting another liturgical prayer over it as she placed it carefully into the cart once more.  The other pilgrims stood and together began to sing a triumphant lament which blended into the whistle of the wind through the stones.