Guardian

this place, and there is a scent of death, which hovers about the shifting sands like a raven, only waiting for the chance to strike once again. It is the scent associated with machine oil and cordite, with dried blood and decay. It is believed that there was once a great battle here, a gathering of all the world’s tribes to a place where the final solution would be hammered out, then etched forever upon the armor and the bleaching bones—a grim, intolerant scrimshaw. Some say it was the end of the First Age which took place in the Ironfields. Some say that it was only the latest in what must be an endless cycle of Armageddons, and that perhaps the First Age is misnamed—that its proper label should be something like “the Previous Age.” Who can say? There is no evidence to refute either argument. Or any argument for that matter. Evidence lies in the presence of the broken machinery; evidence which dolefully says: We were here, and this is how we fought, and this is where we died. The mysteries survive their deaths and no one now claims to know who it was who came to this place to fight and die.

It is a philosophical question, and like the myriad others which plague men’s minds, there are some places better suited to ponder them than others. One such place lies north of the G’Rdellian Sea; it is the little principality of Odo. As the Shudrapur caters to the World’s stomach, Nespora to its purse strings, and G’Rdellia to its aesthetic sense, thus does Odo serve the world’s intellect. Its principal city of Voluspa is a venerated place, said to have been built upon the ruins of seven other great cities, all upon the same spot. It is a cosmopolitan place, studded with churches and mosques and temples, its skyline a forest of spires and minarets, each vying to capture the glint of bright dawns and fading dusks. Every religion, every sect, every “school” of philosophy has flocked to the shores of Voluspa, each establishing a headquarters somewhere within the labyrinthine streets and alleyways. Universities and libraries also crowd for space among the ancient edifices, and the boulevards are filled with the traffic of monks and priests, the corners abounding with prophets and oracles. It is a city—nay, a country—filled with learning, with polite argument, deference and, of course cerebral stimulation. There is, at the Great Library at Voluspa, which rests like a giant stone cube upon the cliffs overlooking the Straits of Nsin, the World’s greatest collection of original manuscripts, microfiche, newsfax, processor crystals, and other ana, incunabula, and vella. Scholars, pedants, and the simply curious make pilgrimages to the Great Library to ponder the thoughts and secrets of the past ages. Again irony has had a hand in the demographics and the geography of the modern world: Odo, entranced by the pursuits of the mind, happens to be located in a spot where lesser pursuits can also be found. The city of Voluspa overlooks the Straits of Nsin, which is the gateway from the Gulf of Aridard into the G’Rdellian Sea, and northward to the Kirchou River. It is the major trade route in the East, and the Straits of Nsin form a strategic point of control along that route. For this reason, Odo, in conjunction with G’Rdellia, has vowed to always keep the Straits free and open to all ships and commerce. Odo keeps a small, but respected, standing army and a large armada of wooden ships, all of which are bound to their country’s vow. In the past, countless wars have been fought over the control of the Straits, and Odo does not wish it to become another political bargaining chip or a bright and shining spoil for the next would-be dictator-to-the-World.

Not surprisingly, the most expected spawning ground for such a man would be the Behistar Republic. Located due west of the Ironfields, along the southern shores of the Gulf of Aridard, this country is anything but a republic. Without a twinge of conscious guilt, historians and statesmen denounce the Behistar. It is a bellicose nation, crammed with fiercely nationalistic automatons. The people are so rigorously programmed that all hint of creativity or originality has long-since fled their culture, which is as cold and devoid of life as midnight in the Manteg. The Behistar has been ruled over the generations by a succession of all-powerful “Lutens,” who have a curious demigod status in the culture. The laws of divine succession to the throne still woefully apply here. A generation ago, the rest of the modern World mobilized against the Behistar Republic and after a terrible conflict, which greatly reduced the resources of everyone, imposed upon this vile nation what is commonly called The Interdict. It is a codex of rigidly enforced laws which control all trade, exchange, and movement of the Behistar throughout the rest of the World. There is a sanction against the raising of an army, and the leaders of the country are closely watched. Many believe that the Behistarians enjoy waging war simply for its own sake, reveling in the subsequent destruction and suffering. Its capital city of Landor reflects the sad state of this nation: a filth-ridden, black-stoned sprawl; its impoverished inhabitants scuttling rat-like through its narrow, shadowed streets. If there exists the mirror image of Eleusynnia, it is truly Landor. It is a happy accident which isolates the Behistar with natural barriers: the Ironfields to its east, the Gulf to the north, and the Samarkesh Burn to the west, which is the hottest place in the world. Temperatures soar easily above 60° Centa, and there is a total absence of wind. The dunes do not move; grain upon grain lies dead and unshifting for centuries, unless violated by the errant footfalls of some hapless animal who gets lost within its borders. The Burn is the fiercest surface on the face of the earth: a simple, unassailable truth. Few things live