Ozun
A great blue giant turned ever so slowly, enormous and indescribably hot. Around it rotated another blue object, though one many thousands of times its lesser. Ozlu and Ozun, gas giant and moon. A small and frigid ball of ice, Ozun was young, extremely active and only just beginning to burst with life in the seas kept warm by tidal flexing. The surface of Ozun was barren, encased as it was in a shell of permafrost and ice as strong as granite, the ice offering up a mirror sheen in patches not yet covered in freshly fallen snow or sleet. Only here and there did the seemingly eternal emptiness of the tundra give way to chaos terrain and expanses of penitente formations hundreds of miles across. Stagnant cold hundreds of degrees below zero was whipped into a cutting frenzy by the knifing windstorms, generating huge snowy cyclones that turned into whipping hurricanes across the few cracks in the planet's ice where the underground oceans bled through.
The planet's grey-white expanse was interrupted by what seemed to be enormous craters, each one a massive hole in the ice as if smashed in by a giant's enormous fists. These were the hotbeds of Ozlukar civilization, villages crudely squatting along the icy edges where other peoples might have built shining metropolises. The largest of these was Haven's Peak, the so-called capital of the Ozlukar. From Haven's Peak, the Ushtar Uzgoth ruled all of the Freeholds Confederacy with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove, giving gifts to those who followed and strangling those who did not. The core of the city, if it could truly be called one, was dominated by the Ushtar Uzgoth's palace. Made up of a series of enormous domes, each one made from thousand ton blocks and dragged into place by a crew of tens of thousands of slaves and reinforced by a skeleton of rebar. A cluster of domes seemed to pile atop each other in a crude approximation of a waterside ziggurat, this forming the place where the tyrant and his Oderus clan lived. Beyond the palace complex and its walls was the city proper, a disorganized mass of domed buildings seemingly randomly clustered around some form of industry.
A sharp smack awoke Zugor from his daydreams.
"Haven't heard a fuckin' thing I said, did'ye?" Ruga barked, cuffing him again for good measure. Zugor winced from the heavy blows but kept his head down. Ruga was chosen by the chief as champion of their tribe, that meant he could do what he wanted to the unblooded like little Zugor. That he, a veteran warrior was only a hair's larger than the comparatively fresh-faced Zugor seemed to rankle the grizzled beast to no end. Perhaps that was why he put so much force into his "discipline blows", as he called them. Zugor could think of no other reason, he had done nothing to insult the elder's honor.
"Now listen, that last raid we went on din go so well. We lost a lotta brothers. Good ones. Don't have the steam yet to get back out there'n get you lot blooded. So yer gonna shut yer dumb gob hole and let 'ol Ruga do the talkin'. We gotta convince Him to give us'n some 'o his brothers. You got that?" Ruga spoke with the confidence of a man who could see events playing out behind his eyes. Maybe that was why he was champion here, he knew what he wanted and acted like it.
"Yeah, I got it." Zugor could scarcely mumble out the words before a fat fist found itself crashing into his snout trunk. Zugor felt blood trickle out of his snout but knew it wasn't enough to be broken. He looked up into the one remaining eye of Ruga.
"Don't mumble at me, y'fuckin' halfwit!" Ruga snarled, spittle flying from a too-wide mouth of yellowed fangs.
"I got it, Bone-Snapper." Zugor swallowed venom and bowed his head in submission, using that familiar panting grunt that signified subservience. He even used Ruga's blood name. The old bully relented, something inside him tickled by Zugor's servility. He smiled wide, carved tusks glistening with drool in the mid-morning light. Their tribe's champion was a vain man.
He shrank back into his seat and stared out the window, taking in the view of endless streams of vehicles pouring out of the ice tunnels and into the city's traffic. Zugor watched a storm cloud lazily make its weight through the sky, darkening and spraying other clouds with lightning and pouring frozen rain onto the ground below. He wondered what clouds were made of. As boys, they'd been told it was the breath of their ancestors left over and given life by God. But Zugor was not so sure. He had been told many things. The warrior's eye darted quickly to Ruga, who was on his tele-slate and did not notice. Ruga said only the more important folk had those things. Zugor felt a pang of jealousy.
The going was slow. Hundreds of thousands of vehicles had filled Ozun's winding, erratic streets. Had to navigate a schizophrenic cityscape without signs or order. The accidents were routine. The sight of a gang of warriors desperately shoving their mauled truck out of the road, or yelling at passing traffic as they trampled the stuck ones, was common. Everywhere there were fremen, freed slaves too busted up and dumb to be any use but not yet dead. They crowded cars whenever the traffic screeched to a halt, hands slapping at windows and shrill cries of "Money! Need please! No starve!" in what little broken Ozlukar the fremen knew. The others in the truck struck the vermin with sticks and swiped them away, laughing and giggling as they did so. Even Zugor broke from his sulking, forgetting all about his bruised honor.
As they penetrated deeper into the city, its splendor began to dawn on Zugor. The buildings were bigger now, more permanent. In his home village, they made huts from unworked stone and blocks of ice, squat cyclopean hovels that did little more than shield you from the wind. But here they built, not just cobbled together. The buildings were enormous, hewn from pure white stone and accented with gold and elaborate murals. Everywhere there was a bevy of art, tall obelisks that spoke of the ancient deeds of wealthy clans, immense and elaborately detailed murals of tribal champions, bas-reliefs depicting the slaying of incredible monsters and the bounty awarded to the pious. The tune of a hundred melodies filled the air, snippets of haughty lyrics making him pine for some glory of his own. Vast chain gangs of slaves built Haven's Peak day and night it seemed. When one collapsed from exhaustion, another stepped up to replace them. The slaves seemed to pay no attention to their fallen brethren, who they trampled into the muck without thought. Zugor watched a taskmaster crack a lash above their heads. He supposed he knew why.
The imperial palace was within sight now. The thought that the one true God of the universe was just a few short miles away shook Zugor to his bones. He had never seen the Ushtar Uzgoth in person before, only on television and in pictures. He'd never heard Him speak either, only ever heard others talk about His glory. This being, who had created the universe and made the Ozlukar perfect, in his own image. The supreme being who had given them untold bounties of flesh to eat and wine to drink, until no pious man could remember with certainty when he had gone hungry last. The God who had given them fortune and slaves and who asked for nothing in return but their love. The very thought of the Ushtar Uzgoth made young Zugor's heart swell. He bowed his head in prayer, the others soon joining in. Ruga looked up from his tele-slate and nodded to himself. He did not take part in the prayer.
After hours of slow travel, they reached the Shaulak, the sacred lake that surrounded the palace. He and the others emerged from the truck, each one placing his things in a waterproof box pulled from the trunk. Forming up behind their champion, the group waded into waters so blue they seemed to be made of liquid sapphires. Even getting to dunk himself in the first waters created by God felt like a reward he had not earned. Zugor fought hard to choke down that feeling. If the waters were perfect from the surface, they were breathtaking from within. He gazed down to the bed as he swam through and was shocked at its depth, immense geothermal cracks casting enough light to make it clear the surface was inhabited by thousands of Yig'xe slaves, those aquatic vermin the Ozlukar had acquired from the Yn'gul years ago. There was a colossal Yig'xe village down there, though seemingly abandoned. They're probably all in the palace, he thought.
Zugor reached the shore first but knew better than to break the surface. The others arrived next, then Ruga last. Someone sniggered at the fat, slow champion loud enough for him to hear it. Ruga gained a murderous glint to his eye and drove a meaty fist into the face of Bolgug, who had been too far away to be the one to laugh but was close enough to the champion to be made an example of. Amidst the teeming masses of Ozlukar arriving on the islad, the event was unnoticed. Following their master, the rest of the gathered men bit their tongues. Ruga would get his soon enough. Revenge was like the weather on Ozun: always a blink away from turning nasty.
The Lapis Room
Palace of the Ushtar Uzgoth
Palace of the Ushtar Uzgoth
The Lapis Room took its name from the gargantuan lapis lazuli blocks that made it up, polished to a mirror sheen to look like a slice of the unbroken sea. This was where the god of the Ozlukar, the Ushtar Uzgoth, undertook the difficult task of rulership. The chair sat in the middle of a whirlpool, foamy waters whipping around it in a way the old warlord found most soothing. Across it was a long, stone table in the shape of a semicircle, where his council of advisors sat. The table was low to the ground and beside a second pool, this one still but the waters warmed by steam piped in from the geothermal vents deep below. The members of the council could easily reach the table while laying back and floating in the pool, fat hands taking enormous portions from the feast assembled before them or dunking barrel sized tankards into the wine trough.
"M'lord, the time for action is now."
The easy quiet of the room turned to icy silence. Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to the speaker.
"The Grippli have ambushed three of our slave convoys now. Two of those weren't even going to the Grippli in the first place!" Roared Shoshog, warlord of the Madhlug tribe.
"Forgive his outburst, your holiness. Only you have the right to make such declarations." Cooed Gulzhug, who had no formal title but was something like the high priest of their new religion.
"Don'chye ever tell me what I do or don't have, you worm!" Shoshog snapped back. "It's time to do something! Maybe when we raze their homeworld they'll learn some goddamn respect."
Shoshog and Gulzhug turned to their God for answers, who seemed not at all preoccupied with answering them. The Ushtar Uzgoth was an old man, older than all the rest of them. He moved slowly even for an Ozlukar, and spoke only when he was cajoled into it. He did not seem so eager then. Enormous even compared to the largest amongst them, the mountain of bone and blubber seemed content to lean back onto his throne, letting the water rise up past his ample belly. Slave concubines dutifully massaged his shoulders, neck, and head, tiny hands nimbly applying pressure and kneading out knots in ancient muscle. Others fed him morsels of food so that their master needn't more save to chew, while others emptied cask after cask of wine into his goblet, bringing it to his lips to drink. Indeed, with his eyes closed and his enormous chest gently rising and falling, it seemed the Ushtar Uzgoth would rather sleep.
Wait. Thought Lurg, chieftain of the Blogshakor tribe. He IS asleep!
"Boss." He said, raising his voice ever so slightly. The Ushtar Uzgoth did not stir.
"Boss!" He yelled, slapping his hands down onto the table.
"Urgh. . . hmm?" The warlord responded, smacking his chops. "What was that, Lurg? Din' catch it." He said, eyes half opened.
"I was saying, boss, that Shoshog is right. We need to do something about the Grippli." Shoshog beamed, Gulzhug glowered. The Ushtar Uzgoth stared down his advisor, Lurg feeling as if the god-king was peering into his very soul. He watched the man's second, malformed head drool, its one functioning eye lazily sweeping over the room as if half-heartedly looking for something.
"They're your vassals, boss. They swore an oath. That's supposed to mean somethin'. But they've hit the Shackle Road three times now, even though only two of those were there to collect their tribute. Sent some boys to investigate but they shot at 'em. Lost a few hundred brothers that way." He explained.
"Oh? First time I'm hearin' 'bout it." The Ushtar Uzgoth responded. Lurg bit his tongue. That was unusual. He wondered just how much time the most powerful Ozlukar in history was spending cooped up in his chambers, isolated. But that didn't make sense to Lurg. He knew the Ushtar Uzgoth was illiterate, just like most of their kind was, but he at least had somebody read the reports to him, if nothing else. Lurg wondered if he was getting the reports at all. But that was an issue for another time.
"No matter, your holiness." Gulzhug interrupted. "Remember that King Krök has been good to us in the past. He swore an oath to you without a fight, and it didn't take much arguing later to get him to sign over Mlougus. We have a mutual understanding. Why rock the boat over what I'm sure is a misunderstand-"
"Y'can't let 'em get away with this!" Shoshog raged. "I say get the boys and we hit 'em hard. Maybe they'll learn manners after we loot two or three of their planets clean.
The Ushtar Uzgoth held a hand up and the room fell silent. It was all the signal they needed to know their leader was thinking. They knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.
"Where's the Avan ambassador?" He barked at no one in particular.
"I don't know, your holiness. Should I send for them?" Gulzhug asked. The Ushtar Uzgoth grunted in affirmation.
"Get on the horn 'n tell 'em I want 'em here now. Can't make this decision without 'em." He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. At once his eyes closed and he reclined back into his chair. The slaves began again their massaging and once more the room was filled with gentle snoring. Resigned, the others helped themselves further to the feast. Gulzhug whispered something to one of his slaves, this one wearing nice enough robes to suggest some kind of special duty. The critter scampered off in a hurry. Lurg rang a bell and called for more slaves. If he could do nothing else, at least he could get a massage while he waited.
