Cover Art by A. G. Chaudhuri
Gold: chemical name – Aurum, symbol – Au;
Name derived from the Latin word meaning ‘Shining Dawn’
PROLOGUE
The quaint little district of Vorsmok was fast asleep.
The full moon cast a silvery glow over Mount Katlun, the dominant crest of the great mountain range that encircled the tiny settlement. Like a silent ever-vigilant sentinel, it stood in the distance, covered in snow and guarding over the small populace ignorant and blissful in the snug embrace of the Sandman. Well past midnight, the roads were completely deserted and the houses were all dark... almost all, except for one.
In a solitary cottage near the periphery of the forest where the settlement ended and beyond which the land sloped up abruptly, a single window glowed faintly. Inside, an old man lay awake on his bed, staring at the night lamp jutting out of its wall-socket, counting the hours go by. Like most nights, he could not sleep.
Ever since his wife passed away three years ago, his life had come to a standstill. At seventy-four and well into the twilight of his humble existence, he had little to look forward to, other than to wait for the eventual darkness to claim his weary soul and take him to the land of eternal light. To re-unite him with his lost love. His sons were all grown up. They had their own fishing businesses now and their own families to take care of. And although they would visit him frequently, the old man was becoming lonelier every day.
Finally, unable to banish the countless irrational anxieties from his head, he threw back the covers and sat up on his bed. He took a moment to steady himself, and then stood up slowly and reached for his robes. Shuffling into the kitchen, he searched for his thermos. There was no need to turn on the lights as the room was bathed in ample soft moonlight that filtered in through the large glass windows. A glint of steel caught his eye, and he lifted the canister and unscrewed its top. As he poured himself a cup of previously brewed coffee, he looked out at the moon smiling back at him. It was beautiful, almost magical. He was suddenly reminded of his wife. God knew how much he longed to be with her, how much he missed her warm company, and how much he craved to just hear her speak.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze. Such thoughts made him sad. But he refused to dwell on them. She would never have wanted him to. Still lost in thoughts of her, he entered the cozy living room and put on a heavy fur-lined long-coat over his robes. Making his way past the cold hearth and opening the main door, he walked out onto the porch. The night was chilly. He shivered and stuffed his wrinkled hands deep into his pockets.
Located near the southern tip of Whiteland, Vorsmok was a close-knit colony of just over five thousand people, mostly fishermen and whalers. While the rest of the country had evolved into a progressive society, matching strides with the greater part of Eurasia and the developed world, Vorsmok remained a rustic community of simple people who relied solely on fishing and whaling and the export of fish products and whale-oil for their survival. But lately, as fish stocks declined and whales faced extinction, many of the young and aspiring ones had begun to flock to the bigger cities of Whiteland in search of more lucrative means of livelihood. But there were some who refused to leave their roots, and those who were fiercely protective of their local heritage. Thus, Vorsmok remained frozen in its own time capsule, undaunted and undeterred by the forward march of civilisation.
It was a very peaceful place, quite unlike the great cities of the west – the cities that never slept. Over here, people turned in shortly after sundown. Recreation if any was limited to a handful of small pubs and diners located near the main square. Sometimes, the men had to stay away for months, out in the rough seas in search of large hauls. But sooner or later, they would return home to their waiting families. Life was often tedious. Many desires remained unfulfilled. Nevertheless, the very absence of the complexities and pointless insecurities that symbolised urban life ensured that they were all safe and blissful in their simple cocooned world. Happy and content, the very feeling of togetherness was sufficient to overcome any sense of inadequacy.
The old man smiled inwardly and looked up again at the moonlit sky. It was indeed magical. He stood motionless for some time, silently admiring the beauty of the enchanted night.
Suddenly, his vision blurred and rolled.
He gripped the porch railing to keep his balance.
‘Another tremor?’ he wondered.
Mild quakes had been happening for the last couple of months, although there had been no official warning of any kind. He waited, trying to figure out if the tremor persisted. But it did not. It was just a momentary thing, lasting for a mere fraction of a second.
Or maybe, it was the deep-fried sausages he had for dinner, he surmised as he prepared to head back into the comfort of his living room. But then, he detected a foul odour, pungent and oddly irritating. His nose began to itch. Sneezing loudly, he looked around but could not discern the source of the unwelcome intrusion. In spite of his age, he had keen eye-sight and the night was bright enough for him to see clearly.
He shook his head in dismay. ‘Must be imagining things again’ he told himself and was about to move in when suddenly without warning, the ground below his feet began to shake violently. It was accompanied by a deep rumble. Like distant thunder.
He stumbled and fell down.
Within seconds, the tremors became more intense, thwarting his frantic efforts to get up. The silence was rudely shattered as screams erupted all around him.
“Landquake!” somebody shouted close by “Out! Get out now!”
The old man caught hold of a post and struggled to pull himself up. The rumble reached a deafening crescendo and the ground convulsed menacingly. As if a thousand thunderbolts had charged down from the sky, to burn and scour the earth below. Instinctively, he turned towards the mountains, and his face lit up with an eerie orange glow.
The great Mount Katlun was on fire.
Its peak was no longer there. Instead, a great column of fire and ash was spouting forth, shooting up high into the sky and bathing the land in a bloody haze. The mighty volcano which had remained dormant for over five thousand years had suddenly erupted with the repressed ferocity of an exploding sun.
Chunks of molten lava and pulverised rock, some as big as dumpsters, rained down on the town below. The old man fought hard to regain his footing. He turned to look at the road. People were out there, neighbours, friends and family. They were screaming and running erratically, not knowing what to do. Many of them had already piled into their trucks and trailers, and were pulling out of their garages.
A great ball of fire whistled down from the sky and crashed into the neighbouring house, obliterating it in an explosion of wood and glass, as many more started pounding the hapless inhabitants of Vorsmok. The shock wave threw the old man off his feet. He hit his head hard and almost passed out. As the faces of his sons and grandchildren flashed through his fading consciousness, he forced himself to stay awake. Pain numbing his senses and warm blood trickling into his left eye, he tried to focus on the raging volcano. An enormous roiling and smouldering mass of fire and smoke was rushing down the slope at an incredible speed towards the terrified people. And his house was right in the middle of its path.
Aged body trembling with the effort, he stood up slowly and stared at the rampaging inferno. Even in the face of this stark terror, he became surprisingly serene. Eyes closed, he mouthed a silent prayer as the superheated pyroclastic cloud washed over him, incinerating the charming little district of Vorsmok in a matter of minutes.