After days of watching, he sees that the stream of humanity is thinning. Hundreds of men and women pull huge boats made from some metal, shining in the sun, mounted on wheels of a black substance. They reach the plain and see the ocean beyond the narrow beach. They give a shout and pull their boats to the water and launch them. Fifty boats raise sail and set out across the ocean, heading southward, for the land that will become Tsubar, the lost nation.
The last group is composed of thousands of men in robes of many designs and colors. He knows that these are the priests and magicians of many nations. Together they stand, holding back the raging madness beyond. As he watches, many fall, their lives burning out like spent candles. At some prearranged signal, many of them, but less than one for each hundred standing at the top of the golden bridge, turn and flee downward. All are holding books, scrolls, and other tomes of knowledge. When they reach the bottom of the bridge, they turn and watch the unfolding drama at the top.
Those above, looking not at those who have fled but at what they hold back, give forth a shout, incanting a mighty spell, wielding magic of enormous power. Those below echo their cries, and all who can hear them quail in dread at the sound. The bridge begins to dissolve, from the ground up. A flood of terror and hate comes pouring through the rift, and those who stand atop the bridge begin to crumple before its onslaught. As the bridge and the opening above disappear from sight, a single blast of fury comes through that stuns many who stand upon the plain below, felling them as if with a blow.
For some time those who escaped the nameless terror behind the rift stand mute. Then slowly they start to disperse. Groups break away and move off. He knows that, in years to come, these ragged refugees will conquer this world, for they are the seeds of the nations that populate Kelewan.
He knows he has seen the beginning of the nations, and their flight from the Enemy, the nameless terror that destroyed the homes of the races of mankind, dispersing them to other universes.
Again the cloak of time is drawn over him, creating darkness.
Followed by light.
On the plain that had been empty, a great city stands. Its white towers ascend to the skies. Its people are industrious, and the city prospers. Caravans of trade goods come overland, and great ships call from across the sea. Years speed by, bringing war and famine, peace and bounty.
One day a ship pulls into the harbor, as scarred and ill as its crew. A great battle has been fought, and this ship is one of the few to survive. Those across the water will come soon, and the City of the Plains will fall if help is not forthcoming. Runners are sent north to the cities along the great river, for should the white city fall, nothing will prevent the invaders from striking northward. Runners return, carrying the news. The armies of the other cities will come. He watches as they gather and meet the invaders near the sea. The invaders are repulsed, but the cost is great, for the battle rages twelve days. A hundred thousand men die, and the sands are red for months. A thousand ships burn, and the sky is filled with black smoke, and for days it falls upon the land, covering miles about with a fine, powdery ash. The city of white becomes the city of grey. The sea is called Blood from that day forward, and the great bay is called Battle. But out of the battle an alliance is formed, and the seeds of the great Empire are planted, the world-spanning Empire of Tsuranuanm.
Like silence descending, darkness comes.
As a clarion sounding, light returns.
He stands atop a temple, in the heart of the central city of the Empire. Below, thousands of people stand. Shoulder to shoulder they fill the streets, chanting while thousands of upraised hands pass along great wooden platforms overhead. Upon the platforms stand the nobles of the Empire, Lords of the Five Great Families. Upon the last platform, largest of all, rests a golden throne, fashioned from the rarest of metals of this mineral-poor world. Upon this throne sits a young boy. When the platform reaches the Great Square of the Twenty Higher and Lower Gods, it is placed upon the ground, and the throne is carried on the backs of the citizens to the top of the highest temple.
The throne is lowered, facing southeast, from where the nations had come in the beginning. From deep within the temple, a dozen black-clad priestesses rush forth, red-clad priests at their side. The Priestesses of Sibi, the Death Goddess, point out one or another citizen in the crowd, and the red-clad Priests of the Killing God grab them. They seize men, women, and occasionally children. All are dragged to the top of the temple, where waiting priests of the Red God cut their hearts from their bodies, while the priests and priestesses of the other eighteen orders look on silently. When hundreds have been sacrificed, and the temple steps are bathed in blood, the Chief Priestess of the Death Goddess judges the gods satisfied. They place a silver ring upon the boy’s hand, and a golden circlet upon his brow, and proclaim him the Light of Heaven, Minjochka, eleven times Emperor. The boy plays with a wooden toy given to him at the start of the day, for he grows bored easily, while the throng presses forward to dip their hands in the blood of their countrymen, counting it lucky to do so. In the east, the sky darkens as night approaches.