The seven sit at the top of the world in wonder and majesty, and in some perspectives, of horror. To truly call oneself a person who lived in the world is to have seen them all and shuddered in their shadow.
First by men, the race that strove to achieve in their short lives the powers of all others combined there is the statue of the great wizard Zok. He stands in the streets of the Mad King's Capitol, the place built and rebuilt over the years. Just one forum is left untouched by the ravages of time and war and it is his. Beside the white, stone statue, stand guard two angels, one to the left and one to the right. Neither sleeps and neither moves, statuesque as their charge. Before his stone gaze, a small rip in the fabric of the mortal plane glints. From beyond it drift the harps of angels and the scent of ambrosia. This tear was rent by Zok himself, and for his arrogance he was turned to stone. Each aspiring mage is sent to visit this landmark of humanity and bear witness to his pride and his power, for the rip is not healed back. Many have tried as he did, but of them all their efforts were rebuffed and the wizard's ashes scattered to the winds. Zok yet remains as both caution and monument.
Of the gods, there can be but one wonder which lingers in the world for which no sight can be its equal. I speak of course of the lake of tears. It sits, not five stories above the desert plains of Sovereign. Nobody remembers who first lay there, gazing up at the crystal clear water, dying of thirst. Most say it was an entire clan of nomads, stopped at their usual oasis. Their story is remembered by the bones that float through the water, bleached white in the sun and perfectly preserved. Any who venture too close, daring to reach for the floating lake find their own bones floating among the waters. The red-iron sand is littered with bits of decaying cloth and the possessions too worthless for even the scavengers. There is no rain for ten miles around the lake, and there is no water in the ground. Taking water in with barrels or flasks only feeds the lake more, letting it expand out farther.
The kingdom of animals is in many places thought of as lesser by men who forget the wonder of the stag. True, they form no civilization, their gods are strange and obscure, and their lot are composed of dumb sheep and fish and birds, but they have their own majesty. They say that you might see him on the hills of Nar in the spring, walking about. What those who have not seen rarely understand is that he is not a wonder for his size, which puts to shame every wagon built to date, nor is it for his age, too great for any who live in the land of Nar to say for sure. No, he is a wonder for his hide, stuck through with every arrow, spear, sword, or knife that has been conceived of as a hunting tool. They are in varying shades of rust from the weather, and in his wake, little bits of leather and chipped stone and flaking metal show his tracks. Each year the hunt goes out, and men from all the kingdoms come to chase and hunt and hope beyond hope that perhaps they are truly the chosen. Many religions have banned the practice, citing it as immoral, but the land of Nar lets them come. None have spilled so much as a drop of its blood. All live to tell the tale of their strike, for the successful are ever only able to get one in their life, and say they saw the grace in its legs and the sadness in its eyes as it escaped. These men are changed, on their return, usually going to temples of their gods to repent the deed.
Nature claims the largest wonder, that of the confluence. There is a valley, set deep into the mountains where the roads wind round on cliffs packs with travelers. Ten rivers, mighty in power, empty themselves into the great abyss that yawns before them. From the center rises up an eternal cloud of steam. Those who go there suffer the icy cliffs that pass beneath each river's waterfall, winding farther down than they climbed up. Set underneath each waterfall is a city, one of ten or ten parts of one. They are simply called the Ten Confluences. Most stay a week in each as they travel downwards, into the twilight darkness and roaring noise. Without protection in the way of magic, those who venture down past the fourth city are deafened, never to hear again. Even with magic, the place seems to break the mind's ear just as much as the body's. At the bottom are the trenches formed in the magma, dragged out by the rivers as they converge into one. The walls glow and the place is hotter than most summer deserts. Some few brave and crazy fools live there, down beyond the sun and silence, acting as fishermen and merchants who sail the underground river of tenfold voices out and up to the sea. They will take no passengers as the way is harsh, but those who have bribed or stolen away and lived to tell the tale say that the tunnels are at least half of the majesty of the place, and certainly half of the wonder.
Magic claims the most mysterious of wonders, as is expected. It exists not as something to see or hear or smell or taste, but to experience and feel. There is a square mile in the midst of what used to be a larger forest that is just wrong. Walking inside of it is to experience the knowledge and fear of power, for it is not in seeing what is there that men call the place a wonder, it is in seeing what they bring there. It separates from you, like a shadow from a body, the very essence of magic. You walk in, perhaps not even knowing how small of a shred or how large of a cloud of the stuff you actually have. To explain what you would see is impossible, but I have seen men engulfed in flames unquenchable and walked away as mere skeletons, yes, I said walked. I have seen birds fly out from a lady's eyes, silent as the night, each a different resplendent color. They nested back within her as she left. I have even seen the mad king himself walk inside and find at his beck and call legions of dawn-red phantasms there only to serve him. He based his army's uniforms after that, I believe. Those who go are changed. Those who leave are enriched in self-knowledge. Those who stay never last long. This is the second stop on most wizard's pilgrimages in their youth, right after the statue of Zok.
A long succession of wither-trees claim the title of wonder of plants. Each tree grows the same and meets the same end. When the last wither tree is no more, a sprout buds. It is small, barely noticeable midst the grass and weeds that spring up in the streets of the city it has chosen. Over the next fifty years it grows at an astounding rate. It pushes up through stone tiles and against walls and through ceilings. By the time it has reached full height it is fifty stories tall, remnants of the city gnarled in its trunk and branches. Over the next fifty years it will wither, dying at precisely the rate it grew. Its bark turning from a rich brown to a sickly grey and its white leaves darkening to black as they fall. No mortal has cut one by blade or burned it with fire or ensorceled it with magic, and some take this as but a challenge, living at their bases for their lives and traveling when it finally dies. Few are those who have seen one sprout and die in a cycle, and just as few are there who have seen more than one. On its location of death, the decomposing ruin it leaves behind, plants flourish, growing into lush gardens.
Lastly, and the reason most seekers stop as six wonders, is the Bazaar Labyrinth. If it is on sale elsewhere in the world, you will not find it there. Only the strangest, most expensive, and most unholy of items can be found in the maze corridors within Mt. Ire. They say that some fools dug the first entrance, piercing the very realm itself and unleashing the demons upon the world. Naturally, people were not happy, and there was war on a scale unheard of. Angels offered their aid and the countries of men surrounded the mountain, ready to press forward and seal it closed. When their final charge entered the caves, they found them empty. Deserted hallways with demonic items lying around, but no demons whatsoever. They twisted and turned and looped around. They shifted as the sun rose and set. The armies that went in found nothing. For ten years they watched the entrance, sending scouts into the maze to no avail. The eleventh year was the year they found the first merchant inside. His wares were vile, and his smile worse, even in death. His corpse was burned. The second they brought out as a prisoner. He died on reaching the sunlight. The third died in the moonlight. The fourth was questioned inside the labyrinth. Hell had come to an agreement, he said. No demon would leave by the mountain, each would sign the contract, and that contract would be kept in the inferno, guarded by the princes. For the first few years the mountain quarantined, but word got out, and traders and scoundrels alike flocked to the place. For a soul or a virgin or the promise of a favor there were treasures to be had. Over the rise and fall of kingdoms, each quick in the shadow of Mt. Ire, it has been regulated and untouched, and finally in the current age it is merely discouraged. There are of course religious orders bent on its destruction and most forbid entry to the place, but it always survives their threats and attacks. It has its uses after all.
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