The Amber Monolith.pdf

The Amber Monolith

by Monte Cook

The Catechism of Lore:

All glory to the originators of truth and understanding.

Praise to the innovators of steel and synth.

Praise to the shapers of flesh, of bone, and of mind.

Glory to those who re-sculpted the sustaining earth and the life-giving sun.

Praise to the senders of signals, who even now whisper into machine ears and give life to the inanimate.

Praise to those who traveled to the stars, and the realms beyond the stars.

All glory to the originators of truth and understanding.

Let us then resume the recitation of the Sacred Chronicle of High Father Calaval, Amber Pope and

Founder of the Citadel of the Conduit and the Order of Truth, as written by his grandniece, Doroa of

the Silent Song:

Chapter IX: Wind of Iron

In which we learn the lesson of dedication.

Calaval climbed the hill, his pet thuman at his side. Crumbling bits of ancient brick turned to gravel

with each step. At the top, he saw the amber obelisk the old woman had told him about. It stretched

impossibly into the sky. The reddish-yellow light of the old, tired sun caught in its angles high above

the plain of ruin. Even after all these eons, the machine at the heart of the obelisk still thrummed with

power. Rings orbited the device, spinning with unearthly precision.

The thuman sat on its haunches, multi-jointed legs folding beneath it. It looked up at its master

with narrow, black eyes. Red dust covered the furry crest atop its head.

Calaval set his heavy pack down next to him, exhausted. He bent down and brushed the dirt and

dust away from it, and then from his clothes. Finally, he brushed the red dust from the thuman. “Don't

worry, Feddik,” he whispered. “You won't have to go inside. I'll have to do that alone.”

Feddik's gaze, as always, made it seem as though he understood.

After a short rest, the pair resumed their journey. The people in the last village, Cloudridge, had

called this The Plain of Brick. The lack of creativity did not surprise Calaval. A simple folk without a

clave, they toiled in fields and herded shereh in the fertile valley to the south. But they'd given him

food in exchange for a few baubles and shins he carried with him, and gave him a place to sleep, so it

was difficult to feel anything but kindly toward them. Isolated villages with Aeon Priests often became

fearful of strangers and dangerously insular. Once, he had come upon a community that had stumbled

upon a buried facility from the prior worlds while digging a well. They had inadvertently released a

noxious gas, transforming the entire population into maniacal, superhuman cannibals. Calaval had

barely escaped alive.

Aeon Priests and their knowledge of numenera could prevent incidents like that. Calaval sought

to join their ranks.

History taught that the ancient races that had dwelled upon earth before the Ninth World

wielded great power. This power came from knowledge. It might not be possible for Calaval, the Aeon

Priests, or anyone else on earth of the present to master all that knowledge, but surely there were

secrets there, lost to the past, upon which they could build a future.

Calaval was certain of it. It just had to be discovered. Or rather, rediscovered. He had a plan on

how to start.

A red cloud rose on the horizon, beyond the obelisk in the sky. Someone moving across the dry

plain? Certainly something big if that was the case. Perhaps a herd. Perhaps a pack of raiders.

Feddik whined. The cloud loomed larger. No herd. No creature at all--a dust storm.

Calaval unpacked his desert filter and put it over his mouth. Then he fitted one over Feddik's

nose and mouth. The beast pawed at it a few times, but accepted it quickly. They had been through dust

storms together before.

The barren plain offered little shelter. Calaval kept walking, for there were few other options.

The thuman stayed very close. The wall of onrushing red engulfed the obelisk and bore down upon the

explorers like a monster. Through his filter, a scent caught the young man's attention. It jogged a

memory. It triggered fear.

“Iron wind!”

Calaval looked around helplessly for some kind of shelter. But there was nowhere to hide. Not

from the wind.

He would stand against the ravages of a sandstorm, even as it tore at his flesh, but iron wind

was something different altogether. It didn't just tear at flesh, it altered it. Within the wind lived

particles crafted by numenera far too tiny for a man to see. Calaval wasn't actually certain that particles

was the right word. Creatures? Machines? It surpassed understanding.

His pack thudded on the ground. He rummaged through its contents while the thuman whined.

Finally, he produced a small iron awl, and a device that looked like it was meant to fit snugly in a

person's clenched fist, if a person had six fingers. In two places across its synth surface small wires lay

exposed. Calaval crouched low.

A small glass panel on one side showed lighted symbols when he pressed a small stud where his

thumb would fit. He didn't know what the symbols meant, but he knew that when a symbol that

reminded him a bit of a bird in flight flashed, he needed to press the stud again. He glanced up and saw

the roiling red cloud approach. Ignoring the sweat beading at the bridge of his nose, Calaval pushed the

awl up into the cavity among the exposed wires near the bottom. The device shook a bit and there was

a sizzling sound and the smell of burnt air. Suddenly, a droning noise engulfed Calaval and the nerves

all along his flesh tingled unpleasantly. The awl slipped from his hand.

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