In all honesty, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into. He felt he was chasing after a dream, a hope of his people. He could see the unsalvageable wreckage of his ancient nation looming before him. To Jar, it looked more like an unsalable tower half-basked in the rising sun.

It stood as tall as a mountain but was dwarfed by the mountains around it. Buildings of rubble crowned its top. Buildings were shorn in two at the cliff edges.

The farmers didn’t look up as he passed. Those who did stared in awe at his massive stature. A full two heads taller than any of them.

As he neared the base of the spire of rock, brush became thicker and in many places were piles of overgrown, half-buried rubble covered in moss. At one point Jar had to climb over the parts of a fallen pillar as wide as he was tall. As he picked his way through the wreckage he ran across small bands of men, women and children in clothing not much more than sacks at times and not better than rags at others. They huddled together in corners and snatched at rats if they came too close. He actually saw a man catch one and wring its neck before he started to eat it, stretching the rat’s skin with his teeth.

The place reeked so much that Jar felt the stench was a physical barrier at times. Those who cared to look up at him widened their eyes with wonder and amazement at such a large man. Or perhaps it was because his clothing made him stick out. Then again, the fact he had clothing…

He picked his way among pools of grime and the tangles of twisted trees. His foot slipped and was immediately drowned in mossy muck.

This was a fool’s errand. His rightful place was to be the leader of his people, the Musai, and lead a rebellion against their enslavers.

A carving on the stones caught his eye. It was carefully carved and had no recognizable shape to it. The lines were bold with strong curves, but unafraid to bare sharp and blunt edges. He laid his hand on the stone and looked at the earthen-covered mounds the stone was upon.

He wanted to see it. The ruins of the birthplace of the Musai. According to legend, this giant rock pillar was the grave of the last Musai King and buried with him, the royal door-hammer. The hammer was the equivalent of a scepter in other kingdoms.

Jar thought back to his last encounter with his younger brother, Ovun. Ovun had taken him to the farthest part of the gardens away from the Ara-Erian lord’s palace whom Jar was under servitude to. They could see all around them across a wide lawn before bushes, trees and flowers broke up the landscape. They faced each other, only offset so they could watch the other’s back.

Ovun had turned to him, bending down to Jar’s height. Jar was short for a Musai, about two heads shorter than many of them. That stature marked him as royal blood, a deeply kept secret by the Musai people. To keep it that way they had changed how they treated short Musai and copied the Ara-Erians. Short Musai were ridiculed and bullied. Jar feared the ruse was becoming more real and less of a cover-up. It was too easy to let one’s frustration out and call it a way to keep the secret.

Ovun said to him in a whisper, “Our people are restless. We have been slave to the Ara-Erians far too long. Some have accepted it, spurring anger and strife amongst our own people. Others threaten rebellion. If they do rebel, Ara-Era will pay more attention to our cause and may once again seek to destroy any remnant of our royal blood.” Ovun put a hand on Jar’s shoulder. “Your humble stature makes it obvious to our people you are our true King. This excites them all the more. However, we lack the power to overcome our masters. Most have lost heart and accepted our fate. You must rekindle our lost nation and find the symbol of our people in the ruins of the old country. Else our people be lost forever.”

Jar shook off his thoughts and looked up again at the spire of brown and gray rock. He could never return his people to their former glory.

Jar reached the bottom of the pillar and stood amongst a mess of broken shaped stones sunk into dirt. It was drier here nearer the spire. For a moment he considered attempting to climb the spire. But no, the legends said this was a burial place. The king would be beneath the spire. Yet, how far down did the spire go?

He rested for a little bit before setting himself to the task of digging. His light was fading fast. The ground around the pillar was filled with rubble and gravel. The place Jar had chosen to dig at was the place with the fewest stones. Despite this, he ran across gravely earth and chunks of rock.

The shovel he had carried with him struck something hard. He cleared the dirt away and uncovered a surface of stone in much the same design he had seen before. He believed it was part of a capstone to a pillar. He dug around it and when it had been mostly uncovered he found it to be about his size.

He sat back and rested. He looked at the stones around him, how they were fashioned, their size and how they had broken. He could see a continuity around him, like he could tell there was a ghostly hint of what the original structures looked like. However, the picture he tried to make out of the rubble escaped him.

Jar stood and looked around himself. There was no one watching from what he could see. He found two handholds on the capstone and grunted, lifting. The stone came up, he staggered, then heaved the stone to the side. It landed with a loud crack of stone on stone. He huffed then began clearing away the gravel again.

As he set himself to his work he wondered at himself. To save his people he had always imagined himself donning the lost armor of the ancients and wielding the legendary weapons of old. He would always lead a successful rebellion against Ara-Era and stand above them brilliant, making them bow before him.

He wiped his brow. He was standing in a hole of dirt and shattered stone doing the labor of slaves. His clothes and hands were already collecting dust and smears of dirt. Not to mention how his pants and boots were caked in mud.

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up he noticed there were a few eyes watching him that shrunk away when he noticed them. He continued his work.

Eventually, he hit dirt and the going became easier. He dug close to the pillar so he could see when he would reach the bottom of it. If there was a bottom to it. His strokes with the shovel were quick and efficient and he had cleared a narrow, steep way down in a short time.

“The Musai were originally from the dirt, it only makes sense we understand it better. It even gives way before us easier than with others.” He mumbled. He dug more furiously, the corners of his mouth in a downturn. Of all the things his brother had asked him to do, this was the most obscure and unreasonable. Jar would have assailed the Great Cliffs if his brother had asked him, but dig beneath a mountain for a legend? He shook his head and kept digging.

He dug so deep that the light of the sun didn’t help him see and he had to feel how he was digging. Periodically, he had to lengthen the steep steps down into the hole. Every time he came back up to do this he noticed that more of the homeless had gathered around to watch.

The day passed by as he enlarged the hole and dug deeper, enlarged the hole and dug deeper. Soon, the sun was approaching the tops of the western mountains in an early evening. The sun became tinged with red as it dipped, the stunted, twisted forms of the trees casting deep crooked shadows over the rubble.

He looked up out of the deep hole. The sun’s red light and the shadow of the mountains was traveling up the Homeless Spire. It would be night soon. Homeless Spire, the name was for more than just the people watching him work. Jar’s own people had no home of their own. How strange that the ruins of the Musai’s halls would become home for the homeless.

He scooped another shovel of dirt and the dirt beneath his feet cracked and fractured as it weakened. He threw out his arms in reflex to catch himself. He paused and carefully stepped back.

What did this mean? Was there an open space below? How far? Three feet? Ten? Fifty? But there was an open space and something was beneath him. He brushed his hands against his knees and shook his head. There was a lot of rubble. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was more beneath the dirt. There was a chance the rubble had created a pocket of air and the dirt was only settling into it.

He lengthened the steps up the hole behind him. While he did this he noticed that quite a few of the homeless people were watching him. They slumped on rocks and laid around like sleepy drunks, watching him with unwavering, lifeless eyes. Jar couldn’t resist a shudder.

Once he had finished lengthening the steps he descended to the end of his hole. Making sure his footing was good he raised one foot and slammed it down upon the cracked earth. He foot sank into the soil as it crumbled under the blow and began to sink as it gave out beneath him. He sank one hand into the dirt wall of the hole and with the other braced himself against the rock face of the pillar in a moment of panic. The dirt gave way beneath him and disappeared into a black hole under the lip of the rock pillar.

He scrambled back and bracing himself on the walls with his feet he kicked more dirt down the hole. He went back up the slope of his hole and lengthened the slope once again, digging further down and widening the hole at the bottom. Eventually, the dark hole at the bottom was large enough for him to fit through. It seemed the open space was below a lip of the Homeless Spire and he could tell the dirt was piling up. The space wasn’t too deep.

He paused in his work then climbed back up the steps and looked around him at the people watching. “Does anyone have a candle?”

There was silence for a moment and then someone spoke up. “We don’t have much of anything you black-hearted pig’s wallow.”

Well, he hadn’t really expected much of anything.

He sat on a rock and looked at the sky. He wouldn’t have light for much longer. One by one the people slunk away as they saw there wasn’t a show anymore. Then, one returned with a few short stubs of candles in his hands and flint and tinder. The man’s smell was horrible and he was filthy, but Jar took the offering, thanking the man. He went back down into the hole and put all but one of the candle stubs in his pocket. He lit it with the flint and tinder with some difficulty and descended through the hole.

He slid down the pile of dirt into a chamber. The light of the candle didn’t carry far but he was able to make out a few glimmerings here and there. He took a few more steps and his sandaled feet slapped on stone, echoing throughout the chamber. He bent over with the light. What he was stepping on was a dusty mosaic. He wiped a hand across it and it revealed vibrantly colored stones of blue and green.

He gasped and instantly coughed on the dry dusty air. What was this? The remnants of a ruin? How was it not crushed into powder by the spire? Maybe, maybe the legends were true. He breathed deeply, as if to suck the hope of the idea into himself. He coughed on the air again. He removed the top half of his tunic and removed his undershirt, using it to wrap over his nose and mouth, then put his tunic back on.

He wandered a little more and came across gold and silver coins spilling from chests. They were extremely dusty but he picked up handfuls of the gold ones as much as his tunic pockets could hold up. He had to take some out when the weight of them made his trousers fall.

He paused and a needle of fear pierced through him as the darkness surrounding him seemed to close in and everything went dark. His candle had gone out. With difficulty, he was able to relight another one. When he had lit it his heart was still beating fast. He had to search the chamber before his light went out. He let his doubts fall to the side. He knew there would be no coming back after getting candles in the village. The wealth, everything would be gone when he came back.

He walked a little further and something caught his eye upon the ground. The new candle was little more than a pool of wax in his hand now. Any race but a Musai would have dropped it by now from the heat. He fished another candle stub from his pocket and lit it up. What he had noticed on the ground was a crack in the mosaic.

He followed it and it widened and more cracks showed up around it. They all appeared to be coming from one direction. He followed for a few more steps and saw by the candlelight a step rent by wide cracks. Jar stepped up and as he did so the light caught the dim figure of a crouched-over man. Jar flinched back but when it didn’t move he then cautiously stepped closer. It was a statue of a man, larger in stature than Jar and it was wearing ornate robes. The statue was at the top of the steps.

The figure of the man was crouched on one knee where the cracks originated from. He was doubled over with his chest against his other knee. His back and hands were against the ceiling of the chamber as if it were crushing him and he wore the expression of great pain and exertion. His mouth gaped open in a mighty silent scream. The muscles of his body seemed to almost burst from the delicate carvings of his robes.

Jar’s mouth gaped open. He stepped around the statue and his light illuminated something behind the man. It was what looked like a shattered stone throne. Gold leaf glinted in the candlelight. The statue was positioned as if the man had just come out of the throne to catch the stone pillar above him. Something else caught his eye at the edge of the candlelight at the foot of what he believed to be the throne’s diadem. He stepped closer to it. It was a crown. Jar’s heart thumped against his chest. The grave of the last King, this was it?

He reached for the crown. It was a strange dull hue with gems inset into it. It’s design was simple. It was fashioned as a large ring. He touched it and it felt like it was made of stone, cool to the touch. He wiped off the dust but the dull hue remained. It was made from a stone that was unfamiliar to him. He attempted to pick it up but it didn’t budge. He tried again, using more force. Still nothing. He set the candle that was almost burnt out to one side, brushing the wax off on his trousers. He braced himself over it and took ahold of the crown with both hands. He lifted up with his arms and legs with his entire might, letting out a yell. The mosaic stones let out small cracking noises beneath his feet and the crown lifted, one inch.

He let it go as his muscles fatigued and it slammed back to the floor letting out a loud boom that echoed throughout the room. The stone beneath the crown was rent and cracks spread out from the impact. Jar breathed heavily as he lit another candle.

Something spoke to him from the legends he had been told and he recited it out loud. “Can a lost kingdom be reclaimed? Can it be remade? Strong is the King who creates a nation, strong is a King who keeps a nation, strong is a King who saves a nation, how much stronger is a King who pulls a nation from its own ashes? No, the nation that survives its burning is an act of god, not of a King.” Jar shook his head. This crown was the crown of a nation in ashes. He couldn’t bear its weight, he couldn’t save the nation in ashes. What kind of man could lift such a weight?

Jar tiredly walked back over to the statue and gazed at the tortured face. It bespoke fear, resolve and pain.

“The whole country fell, but the King held it up with bare strength. His family and his people escaped the country’s fall, but the King gave his life, turning to stone as his country’s last foundation.” Jar recited. It was what little he remembered of the children’s story his mother had told him.

Jar trotted back to the edge of the chamber where the edge of the rock pillar met the dirt. He followed it all the way around but could not find a place where the rock pillar met the stone floor. Jar returned to the diadem. This was the only place where the ceiling met the floor. The entire rock pillar, as tall as a mountain and as large as the sprawling grounds of a palace, was held up by this one stone figure. Jar almost felt a physical weight on him from the massiveness above him.

He remembered what he had been searching for in the first place. The royal hammer. The symbol, the true symbol of his rightful place as lead of the Musai and symbol of the power he bore with him. He lit his next to last candle and made a quick sweep of the area again but there was nothing. He quickly shifted the dirt along the edges at spots that looked promising but turned up nothing.

Quickly, before his candle petered out, he quickly searched the piles of gold coins. Still, he found nothing.

He gritted his teeth. “A fool’s errand!” He seethed. “I’ve humbled myself enough for your whims brother!”

He turned to go but something caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it before but there was a pile of dirt on the diadem next to the throne. When he had walked around there hadn’t been any such piles of dirt except at the edges.

He ran his fingers through it and his fingers caught at a cloth beneath a layer of dust. He paused, trying to stifle the hoped welling up inside of him, then pulled the cloth away, rising dust and revealed a long staff with a large hammer head on one end as large as an anvil. A door-hammer. An ancient weapon devised by the Musai to crush the gates of castles. This one was ornately glyphed with names upon it.

He reached out his hand as if to touch it but didn’t. He remembered how the crown would not be lifted by him. He almost pulled his hand away but it was right there in front of him, the royal hammer, he was sure of it. The crown wouldn’t lift but an inch yet this hammer was far larger. He took in deep breaths, fear of what might happen seemed to squeeze his chest. How could he return to save his people without the Musai’s royal scepter? The very fact he had found it but had been unworthy to lift it would crush his people in despair. Instead of saving his people, he would doom them. If he failed here, he wouldn’t be able to return. It would be easier to say he hadn’t found it at all.

The candle flickered, then went out.

Jar suddenly felt like he would lose the hammer in the darkness forever and reached for it and took ahold of it. The glyphs gently started glowing in the darkness and as he watched, another name was slowly etched under the list of the others. Jar Ramzar, his name was added beneath the name of the mythic last king of the lost kingdom of the Musai, Klaric Ramzar.

Jar breathed in deeply, then coughed from the dust. Tears started flowing from his eyes. What he was holding was the mythic standard of the nearly forgotten royal house of the Musai. His hand clutching the long handle of the hammer shook. Relief washed over him and he heaved a few more breaths, steeling himself. He had to be strong.

Jar knew the weight of the hammer’s head was much greater than that of the crown. It was an ability of the Musai to have much strength in comparison to their size, but they also had an art in making their armor and weapons easier to carry. Would he be able to lift it? Jar took a few more breaths, trying to calm himself, then lifted. The hammer flew up as he used too much force. He stopped it and it tapped the spire’s underside making a quiver pass through the stone. Jar flinched, as if he might cause the stone to fall upon him.

He felt it in his hands. It was heavy, but very easy to swing and hold. Its handle was long enough to bring the head of the hammer to his chest if stood upright. He set the hammer to the side and lit his last candle. He looked at the hammer more closely. It’s design was simple. The haft was made from wood. The head of the hammer was square with a broad head on one side with shallow points. The other side narrowed like a wedge into one large point. It was unadorned except for the Musai glyphs that reflected the candlelight. He touched the rows of names, he felt the sharp edges of their etchings and lastly, he touched his own name beneath the rest. He flipped the hammer and on the other side he found the glyphs organized so his name was above the others. “Above and below his forefathers, a King will be,” he quoted, “Above as he is living with his forefathers dead, but they give his foundation, below because he bears the weight of his forefather’s people, their failures and their triumphs.”

He closed his eyes and let himself be absorbed in the feeling of great responsibility that washed over him. The hopes of his people were with him. The hopes of all the generations past, those present and those to whom he would hand the scepter over to one day.

He hefted the hammer upon his shoulder and passed by the stone form of his ancestor. He took another long look at it, committing the sight to memory, then found his way back out. He found a larger crowd had gathered around his hole and some glanced up as he came back out. It was dark out now.

He looked at the decrepit people in front of him. He could attempt to come back for the rest of the treasure, but he knew it would only cause a political scene as different parties attempted to claim it for themselves. He was far from his own land and on his own. The treasure was useless to him. How much he wished he could use it to fund the freeing of his people. He made a decision.

With candlelight in one palm casting wavering light on his tall form and the mighty hammer in the other hand he addressed those there. “I, rightful owner of what lies beneath, give up that right to any who may claim it for themselves.” With that, he walked away. He saw the man who had given him the candles and he reached into his pocket, setting the scepter of his people aside. He pulled out a handful of gold and silver coins and gave them to the man. “This is the very least of your share, friend. You gave most everything you had when you had nothing to help me.”

The man’s jaw grew slack with astonishment.

Jar picked up the door-hammer and walked through the shattered ruins he had just inherited as he heard the exclamations of surprise behind him.