The Summoning

[Martok]

Several oil lamps illuminated the roadways of the city.  Martok continued his path down the road, slowly trotting down the roadways upon his white steed.  It had been many years since he had last been to Britain, and he had forgotten much of the city, including the roadways.

Several petty thieves lurked within the shadows of the buildings, looking for a passer-bye to prey upon.  They eyed Martok carefully, as if weighing their risks in their heads.  By his well-dressed appearance, he looked the part of some nobleman of a far away aristocracy.  Ebony leather armor inlaid with silver runes covered his body.  Freshly polished black boots with silver buckles covered his feet.  Even the royal purple cloak that hung around his neck was clasped together with a silver braided chain.  He was obviously a man of some wealth, and the thieves were the first to notice.

No one traveled this section of Britain alone at night, and rarely did they travel it during the day.  It was rare to see someone wandering down these streets, let alone an apparent nobleman.  The thieves concluded that the man was either crazy, or extremely powerful; either way a gamble too great no matter what treasures the man had hidden within his undoubtedly deep pockets.  They watched him pass unmolested down the street into the darkness.

Martok cursed as he continued to travel throughout the city, continuing to turn down each crossroads he came across.  His memory must be failing him, for he did not remember the Brown section of town being so large.

The Brown section of Britain was one of those untold stories of the cities history, the part of the city where the extremely poor went to live.  Its small huts and tents housed exuberant amounts of people, all nearly starving.  It was largely ignored by the general populace, and was never talked about.

Martok continued down the dimly lit street, in search of the familiar inn near the economic heart of Britain.  He had important business to attend to in the morning, and had traveled far.  He was weary and wished for a refreshing glass of wine and a good eve’s bed rest.  

His mind continued to turn the events over of the recent days.  His long mission was ended, he had been summoned.  How long had he been gone?  Months?  Years?  He was not certain, for time held no meaning where he was sent to by the Pater Imperium, but that is another story.

The man that became a god was once again a man.  Borg had returned from the heavens and once again sat within the halls of Olympus castle.  How strange that word sounded to him, Olympus.  It had been too long since he had stepped foot into that great castle of HONOR.  A smile crossed his face as he thought of returning there once his business had been completed in Britain.

Martok was quickly pulled away from his thoughts as he came across a man standing in the center of the roadway.  The man appeared young, his muscles clearly defined through his chain armor.  He gripped the broadsword at his side as if he had plans of using it.

“Good eve to you sir!” shouted Martok with a large smile.  “Tis a good thing I came upon another!  I feared I would be traveling these roads until the morning!  Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me some directions sir?”

The armored man did not speak at first, but eyed Martok suspiciously as he gripped his broadsword.  “Directions you ask?  Perhapst I could help, for a fee.”  

Martok frowned at the man’s response.  How dreadful had this city become?  Asking a stranger for coins in exchange for directions, how deplorable!

“Thank ye anyways my good sir,” replied Martok coolly although under great agitation, “But I shall be about my way.  I shall find my destination and arrive with a full purse.”  Martok pulled the reigns in on his horse and attempted to walk his steed around the man.  With an evil grin the man stepped in front of his path, sword drawn.

 “Speaking of yer purse, old man, I shall be taking it,” the ruffian sneered.  “I wouldst suggest you be giving it up quick like and I may let ye leave with yer life!”  With lightning quick reflexes, the man waved his sword in the air, causing the steed to jump in a fright, tossing Martok to the ground.

As he lifted himself from the ground, Martok noticed he was looking upwards to the end of the broadsword pointed at his head.  The man held out his hand in expectation of getting Martok’s purse of gold.  

Without fear or apprehension, Martok placed his hand around the blade of the sword and pulled it from his head, and raised himself to a full stance.  The ruffian swung his sword, aimed at Martok’s side, and struck.  To his surprise, no blood came from his strike, for it did not even appear to scratch the leather armor!  Martok extended his hands out to his sides, and appeared to grow many times his size, fire blazing from his eyes and sparks of lightning appearing at his fingertips.  His voice shook the crumbling buildings around him, and caused the ruffian to fall to his knees, covering his ears.

“Do not meddle with in which you do not understand young one!” he voice boomed.  “I am the wielder of a power you could not begin to grasp!” he shouted as some bricks from the nearby building crumbled to the ground.  The ruffian shivered in spasms of fear, looking down towards the ground in a dreadful fright.

As the fire in his eyes receded, Martok returned to a normal appearance and stature, and ordered the ruffian to his feet.  Still shaking with fear, Martok questioned him as to the way to the economic district.  The ruffian’s words were too incoherent with his stuttering, Martok had to threaten to transform him into a slug and throw him into a barrel of salt before the man made any sense.

The man informed Martok that they were standing in the middle of what used to be called the old economic district, but had not been called that in many years.  The man explained that they were only a few blocks from the great Bank of Britain, which was now hidden among the crumbling buildings and lean-to tents.

When Martok had finished questioning the man, he waved him away.  The ruffian sprinted down a dark corridor in a frightened daze.  Returning to his mount, Martok turned down the alleyway and indeed, there stood the Bank of Britain.  The once polished onyx marble was now filthy and crumbling, as was most of the buildings surrounding it.  With a great sigh, Martok continued down the road to where the inn used to be.  Indeed, the inn was still there, although somewhat in disrepair.  

Having no trouble getting a room at the inn, for he was its only occupant according to the innkeeper, Martok retired to his room as he gave instructions for his mount to be stabled.  Laying down upon the mildewed bed of straw, the thoughts of what tomorrow would bring filled his mind.  

His mission was of urgency, the Pater Imper…..the Emperor, made that clear.  He had much to do in a very short time.  There were so many of them to find, so many Ancients to call back to duty.  

“Twas no wonder,” he thought to himself as he blew out the candle upon the mantle, “ that they had been called back.  If the sight of Britain is any sign of the situation of the realm, we are none too soon.  Perhaps the morning will bring spring to a winter that has lasted ages.  We have much work to do.”