Four Cries Break the Silence [Prologue 1/3]

Reading held no comfort for Uthar Hardric. Not now. Not this evening.

He accepted the fact with a resigned sigh, looking back down without really seeing at the page he had been rereading for the seventh time in half as many hours. Seven times through the page, and he couldn’t recall a word of it. Faith, he couldn’t even remember how far he’d read before his eyes had finally given up on his wandering thoughts and drifted up from dark brown ink and spotted paper to gaze up at the gently murmuring leaves above his head.

Long years had passed since Uthar had discovered the huge oak with its broad trunk perfect for resting against, near the crown of Mathamhill. He’d been a slip of a boy with no more than ten years under his belt and no desire to spend the first day of summer in the smithy with his father, when his feet had carried him into the woods west of Matham and up the cool, shaded slopes of the hill. A crumbling wall of dark limestone too high to climb had ended his upward climb, so he’d followed the small cliff ‘round the face of the hill instead, south and west to a bowl-shaped hollow fenced in by the wall of stone. There he found the oak, its roots dipping into the cool water of a small brook that rippled down the moss-carpeted cliff, pooled in a sandy depression at the oak’s waist, and then disappeared into the woods below. The oak spread its might branches from one end of the hollow to the other, and its thick head of leave blocked out both sun and ran as well as any roof might.

Uthar had immediately fallen in love with the hollow and the oak, and soon his returning feet alone had worn a bare path from the edge of the village to the hollow. Years passed, and the hollow and the oak changed from a hidden nook where a small boy could hide from chores to a reflecting place where a young man could rest and think and read.

No book in Matham had been safe from him, and all too soon Uthar was hoarding what coins he earned as his da’s apprentice on the off chance that a passing peddler might have a book or two stuffed somewhere in his packs. Gaven Hardric never shared his son’s love of books and stories, but he didn’t discourage it either . . . at least as long as the smithy work was still getting done.

Even later in life—His da long buried with his ma and the smithy his to work as he saw fit–he’d continued to come to the oak, still reading and still thinking the thoughts of a boy who’s body had grown up almost without him realizing it.

He could admit to himself—sometimes—that he’d whiled away far too many hours alone, his back propped up by the sturdy oak, but through all the years not a soul had breathed a word of complaint. Not his da, not his ma, and especially not—

And that quickly Uthar Hardric was jerked out of his ruminations and slapped down hard in the here and now.

Lenora. His wife. Was she all right?

Marking his spot with a slip of ribbon he closed the book, careful to not fold any corners, and stood, trying to ignore the sudden sweat that tickled his brow while his eyes flashed over the forest below to the village and his–their, and it would be their’s for long years yet—home, like iron filings drawn to a lodestone. He was a fool to look, he would be sent for when the time came and not a moment sooner, and even more of a fool to worry; but the Ward Ban him, he could not help it.

Matham was nestled at the foot of Mathamhill, a hundred paces below Uthar’s feet and twice that distance to the east, a scattering of houses wreathed in smoke from fifty chimney’s and ringed about on all sides by a dark, some peddlers said grim, forest of fir and pine. The land rose from the village’s edge, first gently up to where Uthar stood and the bare pate of Mathamhill twenty feet higher, then it swept higher still, westwards and upwards. From where he stood at the lip of the hollow, Uthar could follow the swelling rise of the land: forest-clad hills of which Mathamhill was the smallest, mounting up in gently rolling waves ever higher, until the trees thinned out and then finally ended, giving way to brown slopes of scree and gray cliffs—the bones of true mountains—that vaulted higher still, until even those dark shoulders gave way to white snow and blue ice half hidden by wings of cloud stained red and orange by the setting sun.

Uthar couldn’t quite suppress a shiver when he saw those jagged peaks, and he pulled his coat tighter about his broad chest almost without thinking. The old tales—the sort he’d favored as a youth—spoke of dark things and dark men living in mountains. Fearfull things that most folk–even most folk in Matham–believed were no more than stories.

At times Uthar envied those other folk, safely wrapped in their own ignorance.

At time he wondered if he’d read to much—but as always, the thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. No, he doubted that any man could read too much.

Besides, ignorance was a double edged sword. It protected some folk, kept them safe from the dark horrors that roamed the empty places of the world, things evil enought to drive a man mad to his bones. But there were some dark things that hunted men, had been hunting certain men—certain families—so long now that whatever causes had begun the hunt were buried in history so old that neither the hunters or the hunted remembered them. And all the books in the world couldn’t change that fact—as much as Uthar hated to admit it. Ignorance could kill such Faith-cursed men, kill them as sure as a bolt of lightning can split an oak to its core.

So he shivered when he looked at the mountains, and didn’t feel a fool in doing it. He shivered and envied his neighbors who had read less than he and had the blood of common men—blessedly common men—in their veins.

His gaze drifted from the far peaks down to the book he held in his hands, and his lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.

Not all the books in the world could unbury some secrets. He brushed his hand to his lips, his thumb tucked beneath his first finger—a simple sign to ward off watching eyes—and then touched his heart, inviting the protection of the Ward. Tonight he was grateful for buried secrets. The Faith send they stayed that way.

A light gleamed, flickered once in the far corner of his eye, and he jerked upright, his gaze snapping back to the dark mountains now veiled in coming night. The light—whatever the source—was gone now, but he searched out the spot it had flashed from quickly enough: a wedged gap that split the imposing wall of the mountains between two towering peaks, as if a giant had taken an enormous plow to the crust of the earth itself. His frown deepened as he watched the gap, eyes straining to spot any light. There had been an orange tint to the flash he had seen. A torch? A lantern, prhaps? Not lightning; not with that color, though the clouds lowering around the peaks were heavy enough.

The folk in Matham had no name for the gap or the peaks around it; they left the mountains alone and prayed each night that they’d be ignored in turn. But Uthar had come across the name, some years back, in a book of history he’d accepted from a peddler in lue of payment for a job done well and quickly. The book had called the gap the Pass of Althalair and had even named the two peaks, though Uthar couldn’t remember them. A thousand years ago a highway paved in stone had ran through the gap, connecting two nations whose name even the book hadn’t known. Now the road was dust—less than dust, it was buried in trackless forest along with the two countries who’d built it—and Uthar doubted that any man had walked the old highway or climbed up to the Pass of Althalair in five hundred years.

Who then, was lighting fires?

“Faith, Uthar! That face of yours looks fit to split nails on. Why, you’d think”—

Practically climbing into the air at the sound of another human voice, Uthar leaped around, landing in a wide-legged crouch, arms and hands extended to either side. He hadn’t thought to bring a knife of any sort with him, he hadn’t carried a weapon in years, and now he cursed his luck and moved forward onto his toes, ready to—

Renan Sorenth was staring wide-eyed at him from beneath his wide-brimmed, felt hat, the grin that seemed a permanent ficture on his long face sliding crookedly into a long frown. Uthar didn’t have a better friend in the world than the rail-thin farmer standing before him, but at the moment, Renen’s eyes were those of a man meeting a stranger; an unwelcome stranger at that.

“Renan, I”—Uthar sagged back onto his heels, the energy draining out of him like wine running out of a shattered battle. Scrubbing at his chin with a trembling hand he gave his friend an apologetic shrug, “I’m sorry, Renan. I don’t know what came over me.” His eyes moved of their own accord, back to the pass and the light that was no longer there.

Renan chuckled, but it sounded weak, almost an after-thought, and the farmer stepped up beside Uthar to joined him in watching the distant mountains.

“I’ve seen men fearing for their wives before,” the lanky farmer said, not turning to look at Uthar. “But you’ve a different fear on the mind, or I’m ten days dead and don’t know it yet. What did you see?”

For moment there was no sound but a growing wind out of the west. The gap was motionless, blank as a slate wiped clean and gathering more and more shadows about its rugged slopes by the moment. For a split second, Uthar tried to convince himself he’d seen nothing, just a trick of his eyes or the like. It didn’t work. He’d known it wouldn’t work.

Praying Renan wouldn’t think him Ward-struck, he turned to his friend and said, “I saw a light.”

“A light?”

“Yes. A torch or lantern moving at the base of that pass,” he gestured with one hand. “It was gone as soon as I saw it, but it was there, or I’m ten days dead and a stone-blind fool.

Renan was silent a moment longer, now studying the pass as intently as Uthar had been only moments before.

“Do you think we’ve been found out?” the farm said finally, and slowly too; the words came out as reluctantly as a fir trunk lodged in solid stone.

Cut to the chase—that was Renan Sorenth to the core, and Uthar smiled in spite of himself. Whatever trouble came Renan’s way was dealt with as calmly as another man might flick away an offending fly. The farmer was a comfort, a pillar that Uthar had relied on since the two had been no more than toddlers just off their mother’s apron strings.

There were some secrets that could never be unburied, but—the Faith be praised—Uthar Hardric did not have to share them alone.

“Could be,” he said in reply to the other’s question. “The Family has been here twenty-three years now. More than enough time for word to get to the wrong ears.”

Renan grimaced, still staring at the gap. “And it couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

That comment grabbed Uthar by the scruff of the neck and shook him. He had Renan by the shoulder before he himself knew it, jerking the man closer. “By the Faith man, thats right! What are you doing here? There’s no call to wander up here just because you can’t enter your own house!”

“The Cleansing is over and done with,” Renan said, the absent grin reforming on his thin lips. “The women called me in nearly an hour ago.”

“An hour?” Uthar repeated. It sounded more a curse when he said it.

“Aye, more than an hour now. They’dve called you too, but no one could find even rumor of you.” Renan slapped him on the back, “I had a feeling you’d be up here.”

“Well come on!” Uthar said, giving the other man one more squeeze on the shoulder before turning to lope down the narrow trail back to the village. Back home; back to Lenora.

“And what of the light?” Renan huffed, when he managed to catch up to Uthar again, fifty paces down the trail. “You can’t have forgotten already?”

“You should have sent someone, Renan,” Uthar said, not really hearing the other’s question. His mind was too full of Lenora, he ached to hold her, but was content just knowing she was safe. She had to be safe. Renan would have said said something if anything had gone wrong. “Nilana could be through the worst of it now. Faith, you could be a father already.”

“Widow Hafwood said Nilly had a good four hours left, and she’d have boxed my ears if I’d as much as looked doubtful. The light, Uthar?”

“And what of Leni? How long does she have?” She had to be all right.

“The widow seemed to think your missus’ time was a bit more in doubt. Two hours, maybe; three at the most.”

I could already be a father. The thought hit Uthar like a thunderclap and he stumbled on the trail, nearly falling before he could catch himself. Only an idiot ran after sundown, especially on a hillside trail. My child might already be waiting. Making a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob, Uthar ran faster.

Seconds later—though it seemed like hours to Uthar—lights began to wink between dark pines, and Uthar caught the first hint of cooking smoke in the air. They were there. They’d made it back to the village, and probably set a record doing it.

Renan was shouting something at him, but Uthar didn’t respond, almost didn’t hear the man, as he raced the last few steps—scattering a handful of hens like so many pins as he went—to the tiny cottage with its windows glowing gold in the darkness on the edge of Matham.

It wasn’t until he was fumbling with the gate latch—why did they even have the cursed fence?!—that he realized Renan was still making noise behind him.

“By the Faith, Renan, what is it?” Uthar shouted, and finally giving up on the latch he kicked the gate open. He turned to his friend, “Go home to your wife, she’ll be wanting you.”

“The light, Uthar.” Renan said again, and Uthar blinked. “What are we to do about the light?”

Pulse still pounding, Uthar tried to think. They needed to tell someone, that much was clear. But who? “I-I’ll go to Edin Carr,” Uthar said, setting the broken gate against the fence and stepping back onto the road. “He can rouse the rest of the Family, get the word out.”

He made to step past Renan, but the other man held up both hands and gestured back to the house. “I’ll go. You get inside and tell Leni you’ve a gate to mend tomorrow. I’ll be back here in two whistles.”

“Here?” Uthar asked incredulously, “But Nelly will be wanting you”—

“The girls insisted on being together for this, Uthar.” Renan said, already walking further into the village, “Nelly is put up in the front room. If I were you I’d go ‘round back. Leni is in your room.” The farmer waved him off, “Now get going.”

Clouds Chapter 1

August 12, Somewhere beneath Lake Nasser, Egypt

His hands felt raw as he gripped the crusted rocks. They were the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the steep slope in the darkness. Several times his tattered hiking boots had slipped out and Isaiah Conrad lurched on the edge of the precipice. The trail wound downward like a snake in the enormous cave. They had walked for what seemed like a full day without stop. The tunnel had grown wider and wider, as they walked deeper and deeper into the earth. Isaiah had held a glowing shaft in the darkness to guide his way for much of the trip. It was a simple tube of glass, but when Isaiah touched it, a blue light emitted in the darkness. Isaiah was a Mariner, and thus had a gift to charge certain artifacts made from viduro-glass with an energy known as the Mist. The Mist glowed in the darkness from the shaft giving him a vision of his foot placement.

But the path soon became illuminated from another source. Tiny twinkling lights, like stars, flickered somewhere far above. Isaiah pondered on them for many hours, wondering how such a light source could exist in the dark of the cave. He had naturally wanted to call them cave stars. They illuminated everything in a dull blue light. Isaiah could now see the vast expanse before him. It was like being in the largest cathedral that ever existed. But instead of pillars, there were large rounded rock walls curving up to the ceiling at least a couple miles above them.
Below was a vast expanse of water. Isaiah could not see the far end of the chamber but in its center, jutting out of the water, was a large island. The island looked like a perfect disc that rested on the water. Its diameter was at least 20 miles. And though they were in a cave, deep beneath the earth’s surface, Isaiah felt like he was on top of a mountain staring down on a great lake.
The island was not vacant however. It was covered in crumbling structures that seemed covered in moss and mud; large stone buildings that were crumbling against the weight of long rains, and a damp ocean like air. There were large roads, completely empty, that ran through the groaning city, and a perimeter wall that rose to full height in some places, but vanished from destruction all together in other spots.
Isaiah paused on several occasions to stare out at the dim broken city below. Marinthe! A once great nation was now rubble and history. Isaiah’s heart jumped with the sight. He wanted so badly to spend the rest of his life digging through the city. Discovering what his ancestor’s lives were truly about. It was an archeologist’s dream world. It was a completely dead city. All of the cities inhabitants had died with the cities destruction. Isaiah’s ancestors had been some of those that had escaped. They carried on much of the traditions and brought with them many artifacts, but the Mariner world was still a secret and a myth, little known to the outside world.
Nevertheless, Isaiah could not help but get excited. He imagined that his current emotions were on par with those that had discovered Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius erupted and buried it. Or like the man that discovered the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. Marinthe had suffered a similar fate, only not by volcano; Marinthe had been sunk and destroyed by hurricane, tornado, blizzard, fierce winds, and lightning—all in the same moment. Each weather form had contributed to its current state. The few accounts Isaiah had encountered described it as though the island had been flipped upside down completely and forced into Lake Nasser, which was where the island had originally existed.
For that reason Isaiah had searched Lake Nasser for years in search of any remnant or archeological sign of the once great city of Marinthe. But his flaw was thinking the city would be under water. Isaiah didn’t understand how but the city had somehow been pushed deep inside the earth...
“Conrad! Keep moving.” A raspy winded voice echoed through the air. Isaiah looked forward again. His only companion on the trip, a man who claimed to be called Triston Howard. Isaiah shuttered to himself. He openly admitted to hating the man in his mind. He wished he could push him off the cliff face, but Isaiah worried the fall would not kill him. It was only water below, and he might survive. It would be too risky. Mr. Howard was dangerous; dangerous for whom he really was. Isaiah was no fool and it did not take him long to realize that Triston Howard was in truth a man so old, he was worthy of archeological study. His right name was Amun Chenzira, and he had been an original inhabitant of Marinthe some 3,000 years prior. Chenzira had been the Emperor for a short time…
How did I end up in this predicament? Isaiah thought as he began trudging forward again. His frail knees wobbled with each step. Isaiah was beginning to feel his age. He did not think 65 year old men capable of such. That was another reason of why Isaiah had relied on Chenzira to find Marinthe; a man who had seen it, who had walked its streets and lived to the current day. Chenzira had been there, over 3,000 years prior and had been the catalyst that brought the city to its destruction. Yet somehow Chenzira was still alive. He was a man shrouded in secrets and dark endeavors. He would not have good intentions for this journey to Marinthe.
Isaiah knew Chenzira was returning to find something, probably some artifact that had aided him in the past to conquest. But what exactly that meant, Isaiah could not be sure on. He found himself, however, wondering if coming was the right thing to do at all. He was risking so much, and for what? To get a glimpse of an ancient civilization? Conrad reviewed his reasoning in his mind to comfort a swollen conscience. In all reality Isaiah had little choice in the matter to begin with. He stumbled upon something so valuable many would kill for it.
In either event Chenzira would have managed the trip with or without himself. He would have simply killed Isaiah, and taken the map to Marinthe, had he not agreed to the journey.
It had only been 2 week prior that Isaiah had made a major archeological discovery there in Sudan. It was a large glass box the size and shape of a coffin. At first Isaiah had hoped to use it as data for an analogue he was working on which proved that glass had been first created by the original inhabitant culture called the Mariners near lake Nasser. But inside the glass coffin, Isaiah discovered several artifacts of more value than a simple analogue.
Isaiah tried desperately to keep the contents of the box secret. One of the artifacts was a map, the other a weapon.
Isaiah quickly wrapped the weapon up, and shipped it FedEx to one of his colleagues, Tannon Daecraw in Oregon. Tannon would know what to do with it. He would know how to hide it.
The map, on the other hand, Isaiah kept in his possession. It was his backup plan. Too many eyes were there to witness the glass coffin. There were loose lipped traitors, and Chenzira’s persuasion was absolute.
Isaiah thanked his lucky stars for the map however, for not 2 days later, a man came knocking at his door proclaiming to be Triston Howard, a curious descendent of the Lost Mariner civilization. Isaiah knew instantly that Triston Howard was a liar and somehow in league with the Marauders. He did not realize at first though, that he was the leader of the Marauders.
Isaiah proclaimed that the map was the only thing found in the box and he agreed to accompany Mr. Howard to find the lost entrance to Marinthe. It was enough to fool Chenzira for a time. Chenzira had agreed to the trip and not made mention of the weapon. Isaiah only hoped that the weapon would remain occult. Deep in his heart he doubted that though. Whisperings would lead Chenzira to Oakridge eventually. That was another reason Isaiah regretted his decision with each step. His family was in Oakridge.
Isaiah took a few more steps and tried to shake his consciences constant mutterings. At least now Isaiah was still breathing and he would witness what Chenzira was up to… and seeing the walls of Marinthe somehow made it all worth it. For the moment, anyway.
Isaiah kept moving down the slope. Witness? The word stung his mind. Witnesses to crimes were liabilities. Chenzira would not leave him alive. Once they reached the city he had to escape. He had to hide and find his way back out before Chenzira. Then inform the academy and they could stop the evil again before it started.
There was still so much risk. The day before Chenzira showed up, the same day he sent the weapon to Tannon, Isaiah wrote a hasty letter to Patrick, his grandson. Isaiah was not sure why he did it, but he felt the need to warn his family, but he had sworn to Stephanie, his daughter, that Patrick would not get wrapped up in the Mariner world like his father had.
As long as Patrick got his letter everything would be fine. He hoped he would understand their importance. Isaiah could only hope Patrick would notice any out of the ordinary people hanging around. There would be many trying to find the weapon. Patrick would be getting the letter any day now.
A twinge of remorse etched his brow. This could all go very wrong. He would surely be killed, done away with once his purpose was fulfilled, in fact, he was already becoming more of a drag than a necessity. Chenzira had found Marinthe, and beyond doubt no longer needed Isaiah’s presence.
Chenzira was not the type to leave innocent bystanders breathing. Then Patrick and Stephanie would be next on the list. Then anyone who opposed Chenzira would be obliterated. There would be a war. A war between the Mariner’s and the rest of the world; Chenzira versus the entire world civilization above. Was it right to risk all this just to see the lost city? Isaiah’s archeological ambitions had long put distances between him and his family. It was another subject of remorse. He pushed it from his mind.
Isaiah came around a bend in the trail to find Amun hunched and staring out over the city. It was the best view yet of the large roadways and crumbled buildings. Isaiah’s heart almost stopped. There was so much history here. He imagined finding artifact after artifact that would help piece together what life had been like for the original Mariners. Isaiah couldn’t help but let his jaw drop. It would be worth it. This moment made it all worth it.
The city was covered in shadows of the cave though. The small blue lights hovering somewhere above like stars illuminated only certain angles. There was so much Isaiah did not understand. He thirsted for the knowledge though. Years down the road, Isaiah would be bringing his students from the university to witness this site. The thought was little more than a wish, however.
Chenzira groaned. He was hunched over wearing his cloak and hood. Isaiah could make out a hand gripping intently at the fabric on his chest.
“This had all been mine. Truthfully, it still is mine. Every stone, every wooden parapet, every archway, every grain of sand...every shard of glass.” The raspy voice was like listening to an old radio. He hadn’t spoken this much the entire journey. It was as though seeing the lost city, caked in shadow, was like seeing a loved one in the casket of death. Isaiah almost felt sorry for the cruel man.
A few more moments passed as both men gawked in the darkness. And then Chenzira urged them forward. He said at dawn there would be light and they could cross the channel to the island. Isaiah did not understand what Chenzira meant, or how he presumed to know so much about this underworld.
Isaiah stared downward again. It was a dizzying height, but he could now make out the movements of deep waters in the shimmer of cave twinkles… or whatever it was that gave light in the cavern. Isaiah put a hand to his forehead as they walked. He was old and he could feel the tension on his joints. He couldn’t do this much longer. He did not know how he would make the trip back out. Isaiah was convinced there was an artifact in Marinthe that Chenzira was after, perhaps even one of the 8. He did not know what exactly it would be. None of the original artifacts would be of any use though after so many thousands of years. If the Glassblower that created an artifact was deceased, than the artifact would be useless. Except for a few of them. There were 8 of them created by the hand of Demetri Idero Idune himself. They had lived on beyond his death. Many believed it was because Demetri never died, but was simply taken home to a palace prepared by the Maker inside the sun. There was legend of 8 artifacts, which Demetri had used in the destruction of Marinthe. And that these artifacts still functioned. A legend Isaiah now had reason to believe was true, after finding the weapon in the Sudan which He believed to be one of the 8 artifacts of Idune.
The thought cinged his own brow. Isaiah glanced around as though his secret might be discovered. Even thinking about it made his hands tense and his brow sweat. In Chenzira’s presence… if Chenzira only knew what he possessed, what was on its way to Oakridge in a express FedEx package. There was no telling how Chenzira would react. Isaiah had hung on his every word hoping to learn more about Chenzira’s history. How he had lived for so many years. Hoping to discover some part of his plans, but Chenzira was no fool. He had no reason, or intention of allowing Isaiah to know his schemes. Isaiah had to get away. He had to discover what Chenzira was after, and then somehow reach the surface before him and warn the Counsel at the Academy. All this before anyone discovered what else he had found in the Sudan.
Isaiah stared back at the stony cliff path they were trotting down. His legs seemed to shake with each step.
Ahead Chenzira began hacking and wheezing and grabbing at his chest. Isaiah relaxed knowing that whatever had kept Chenzira alive for so long, it was not holding him together so well these days. Chenzira looked like a sallow carcass of a man.
A wind crept up from the water below. They were treading down a steeper path and the surface seemed closer with each step. Isaiah could now smell the wet air. It smelled of seaweed and old dirt. The waters must be ancient. Isaiah wondered if there was an outlet or an inlet of any sort… if these waters ever moved? The scientist in Isaiah was coming out again. It was that curiosity that made him risk it all on this adventure. He had known from the beginning that the man who offered to take the trip to Marinthe was an enemy. But the daunting urges to see the lost city at last, to see it before he died, to be the only man to know his roots…
Isaiah sighed. He had risked it all for truth about his heritage, and he was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. It had to be. He would figure out Chenzira’s plans and disclose them…somehow. That would make his vain sacrifice a more noble cause. Then the Haloes would speed his mission. The Clouds would be guiding him.
Isaiah stared down again. They were low enough now that he could jump. He could hit the waters without dying on impact. The height was still dizzying though. Isaiah could not bring himself to do it. Not yet. Why am I such a coward?
Suddenly Chenzira stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring again out across the city. Isaiah began to wonder on the wretched man’s delusions.
“Take this!” Chenzira said, as he revealed a silver hilted pistol from a side bag. Isaiah furrowed his brow. What was this madness? Isaiah took the gun in his two hands. Was Chenzira preparing him for a duel? Was he going to give him an honorable last moment? A chance to defend himself before he died?
Isaiah cocked the gun and pointed it at Chenzira. He would not give him the chance. He would kill the Dark Seed then and there. The pistol began to glow blue as Isaiah’s touch charged the glass capsule interior. He gently nudged his finger against the trigger. All he had to do was pull, and a blue ball of liquid fire would explode from the barrel of the gun and incinerate Chenzira.
“Don’t you move…or I’ll…” Isaiah’s words sounded hallow. His hand was shaking as well. He was wavering in his boldness. Chenzira began to laugh.
“You are a fool Conrad! It never ceases to amaze me.” Chenzira removed a second pistol from his bag and pointed it out over the water. Chenzira nodded with his head for Isaiah to look. Slowly, expecting a trap, Isaiah glanced out across the water. He could hardly see anything now. A low hovering mist was gathering around the city. After it gathered like an army of mist, it ventured across the water. The mist was rolling and tumbled gently in their direction. With each bounce it became a larger heap of cloud matter. Though it did not seem to be moved by the wind, it was now channeling directly for them like a large mountain of dark and gray cotton.
“You can go ahead and kill me, but what are you going to do about the Dark Mage on its way to prevent us from reaching the city?” Chenzira’s smile was now gone. He held the pistol out, pointing at the rolling mist. The clouds tumbled to the cliff face and then pushed upwards. In seconds they would be enveloped.
“On my mark human!” Chenzira spat the words, knowing that Isaiah would obey. It burned Isaiah that somehow Chenzira still held the charge of a leader. Isaiah pointed the pistol at the cloud mass. “Wait for its core to appear.”
“How will I recognize it?” Isaiah whispered.
Chenzira snorted. “With all your clout and arrogance, the Academy still knows nothing of the Mariner world. Clinging to petty traditions, but you don’t know anything of what it means to be a Mariner!” Chenzira shook his head. Isaiah wanted to strangle the man then and there. He was not a soldier, he was an archeologist; a teacher at the university. He did not profess to know the workings of the Mages. That was left up to others. “You’ll recognize its core because that will be the first thing it reveals, in the shape of some monster, just before it smashes us to bits.”
Isaiah held his breath. He watched as the rolling, tumbling clouds pushed upwards. It all made Isaiah feel very small in a large world of danger. At the head of the tumult a large ball of mist began to churn in a circle as though it were spinning. It began to take shape. The ball of mist seemed to condense and solidify. There was an oblong ball of cloud out of which grew to large horns of mist causing it to strongly resemble a very large ram’s head made of cloud matter; riding at the head of a torrent of smoke—this was the Mage’s core.
Isaiah had heard stories, even seen some photographs, but never had he actually witnessed a Mage fully revealed to the naked eye. They were creatures made of the clouds. They were the clouds. Large roaming beasts that hid themselves placidly in the sky from the human world unless compelled to a manifestation. And now that he was seeing it, he no longer wanted any part of it. The white demon sped upwards none the less. A huge massive river of fog with the head of a ram.
Chenzira opened fire. He relentlessly pulled the trigger of his silver pistol. Blue charges sped toward the Mage. 10, 11, 12 charges were fired by Chenzira before Isaiah gathered his courage and followed suit. The cobalt bursts crashed into the cloud matter and exploded like Molotov Cocktails. They seemed to ignite large chunks of the cloud with blue laces of fire that spread, slowing the Mage’s progress until they fizzled out. The Mage shifted and 2 enormous arms began to form from the fog. It used the large arms to block the last few charges.
Isaiah wanted to run. His sole desire was to drop the pistol and run for his life—but where could he run to while the enormous creature sallied upwards.
Chenzira was stone faced and did not budge. He continued to fire the pistol at the Cloud beast whose arms were within 20 feet. Isaiah stumbled backward and fell onto his butt. He was turning to run when the Mage reached them. Its large arms and boulder sized fists began swinging at the mountain side. They crashed into the rock, as though they were solid objects, no longer just a wisp of cloud.
The whole cliff side shook and sent shards of rock tumbling to the water below. Isaiah ducked as a large arm smashed the cliff just above his head. He looked back to see Chenzira collapsing to the ground. The Mage must have had a direct hit on the Dark Seed. Isaiah watched in horror. He was frozen in place. He wanted to leap from the ledge but the desire to see what happened prevented him from moving.
The Mage hovered above them for another moment. It reached its massive arms out, that were the size of a semi-truck, above its head preparing for a final blow. But before its beastly hands came crashing down, Amun Chenzira sprung from the rock face. He jumped with a youthful energy that surprised Isaiah. He cleared the gap like a flying squirrel between the cliff and the Mage. He crashed into the cloud monster’s chest, all the while Chenzira continued to fire shots from his pistol at the Ram’s head.
Isaiah gripped his pistol and let it charge for a moment, until it was glowing, a jagged blue light. Then Isaiah fired more shots at the ram’s head. If Chenzira could keep fighting in such a circumstance, than so could he. The Mage was pounding at its chest, but somehow Chenzira managed to hold on. Hold on? To what? Somehow Chenzira was floating there in the clouds, which Isaiah did not understand at all. The cloud matter must have somehow condensed and become more solid.
The ram’s fists came crashing against its own chest, but Chenzira was beginning to get a full blue fire burning across the Mage’s face. The fire seemed to spread slowly onto the Mage’s shoulders and down its arms, until the entire storm was a mass of burning clouds. Then the Mage fell backwards and began to disintegrate into the rest of the oncoming fog. Chenzira rode the flailing monster into the bleak fog below until he was lost from view in the fog below. Isaiah expected there to be some sort of splash on the water as the massive torched ram collided with the surface, but no such sound was made. The ram seemed to disintegrate back into the mist from whence it had come, without a sound. Chenzira was gone as well.
Isaiah was left alone on the cliff face holding a small pistol and wiping his forehead with a dirty hand. He sat up and rubbed his chest. His eyes glared into the mist below but they had become a swirl of unintelligible fog once again. Chenzira was gone? Isaiah doubted it. He looked behind himself at the winding trail he had come down. He could walk away in that moment. He could return to the surface and inform the academy… he could run home and protect Patrick and Stephanie and Tannon…
Then Isaiah paused. There was a light breeze on the air. In his heart Isaiah knew he needed to press on. He needed to see what Chenzira had planned with Marinthe. His letter would be enough to warn Patrick…
Isaiah trudged forward in the darkness.

Chapter 7 Part 2/2

Alright. continuing on.

Seamus looked out over the city. They had just barely arrived, and were now surveying the metropolis that laid before them. During their travels, they had kept a watch out for any sort of satisfactory crossing point that would be usable by more than just Seamus and Zhanna. The two umbramancers could easily find their way across without any difficulty, but everyone else didn’t have the same opportunity presented to them. Disappointingly for some of them at least, no such crossing point presented itself. The supply lines ran through a very wide open area with very little tree cover.

Having reached the city, they now conducted some simple reconnaissance to figure out if they really could pass through the city. He had briefly wondered if they could skirt around behind the city up into the mountains. However looking now, that thought was dismissed quite quickly. When they said it was set against the mountains, I didn’t think it was literally up against the mountains. Sheer cliffs that had been hacked and blown apart lay behind the mountains and Seamus could see no way around that way. He briefly wondered how much difficulty they had with falling rocks. A good size boulder falling off one of those cliffs would no doubt flatten a house with little difficulty.

Barossastadt was for all intents and purposes a city. It looks much like most modern cities did, with several tall skyscrapers rising out of the ground, reaching for the sky, only to be overshadowed by the massive volcanic mountains behind them. Smaller buildings, such as homes and small businesses spread around them reaching out into the plains beyond them. Looking now, he realized that his map must have been incorrect. The city seemed to stretch from the mountains all the way to the ocean front, several dozen miles. While the metropolis section was focused around the mountain base, homes and their like stretched out for some distance. Pockmarking the surroundings, massive industrial factories belched smoke far into the sky, leaving a massive cloud of haze that hung over the city. Several roads let out of the city, most converging into the supply line that led to the portal. What had once been the main roadway that led out of the city and to the portal, and inevitably back to German to such cities as Berlin and Munich now had been appropriated as a roadway to transport weapons of war.

No matter where they went they would have to cross through the city. If only the topography had been stretched out a little further, and the elevation change from sea level to the mountains had been gradual they might have found an easier way through the city. As it was they were probably going to go right through the heart of the city. Right into the belly of the beast. He watched Adara looking out, simply observing the city, not so much conducting reconnaissance as she was simply awed by its scale. There was something about her, something almost intoxicating that had drawn him to her, since they had first met. He had heard stories about love at first sight, but he had never believed them. Now he was as devout and pious a believer as there could be.

I can’t just come out and say “I love you!” he thought. They hadn’t even met until the day before. One can’t simply fall in love with a person that fast. These things take time, they always do. That’s what he had figured with Zhanna. Things take time. Maybe in a different situation, or a different time, he would have fallen in love with her instead, but that time and place was not now. Perhaps if he kept in contact with Adara over time, and kept his mind focused and straight, rather than getting caught up in a momentary madness, things would work out fine. That sounds right.
He crept over to where Adara sat, observing the city. He looked briefly at her. Her hair glistened in the sun, and her eyes were shaded for her angling her head to keep the sun out of them. It was a very enchanting look, and he briefly forgot what he had come over to even talk about. Focused and straight. Dammit! “What do you think of the city?”

“It’s so large. How many people live there?” she asked.

“Hundreds of thousands. Seems like a lot of London has more,” he said.

“And you’re searching for one man among hundreds of thousands. It sounds incredibly difficult,” she observed.

“We’re not searching here first. You saw him at the portal. If we go there we can probably find some sort of a clue there that can help us figure out where he went from there,” Seamus said.

“But even when you get there, it is not likely that he is still there,” Adara said.
“I don’t think any of us believe that he is there for a second. But it’s a better clue than anything else we have,” Seamus said. He gestured toward the city. “In all likelihood, he’s probably somewhere in the city, but who knows where.”

Examining the city, he tried to pick out several notable locations that he remembered from the map. He was pleased to see that those sections at least hadn’t changed. The massive factory district lay in front of them, where massive smoke stacks left clouds of smoke into the air, like some field of metallic volcanoes. The Charleswelt Reichstag, the seat of government modeled after the very building in Berlin sat off to the side on a hill that overlooked the rest of the city. It seemed like an obvious spot for Crowley to be at, and if their search at the portal turned up nothing that would be the first place they headed to. It was too much of a gamble to simply storm the seat of government without reasonable suspicion, but they were at a loss as to where else they should be looking for the man.

Broussard walked up to them, while they still looked out into the city. “I think we’ve got an entry point to use for getting into the city. We’ll need to mug a few civilians to get in, or some army regulars. We’ll iron out that detail when we actually get inside the place. Let’s get moving.”

Without another word, Seamus and Adara filed in after the rest of them as they proceeded toward the city. As luck would have it, this side of the city was still fairly heavily forested so they had little difficulty in moving through the area without being seen. However as they reached the side of the forest that terminated in a great field that lay between the forest and the city, they all immediately noticed the apparent obstacle.

“Guard post,” Broussard observed.

Dammit. So much for an easy entrance, Seamus thought.

Seamus looked out at the guard post. It was a simple house with several guards sitting out in front of it. Theere wasn’t a large amount of them, but they occupied a position that made any attempt to bypass the area difficult at best, and disastrous at worst. They were going to need to take care of the problem themselves. Seamus gauged the distance between their position and the tree line before deciding that it still a little too far for him to shadow jump to.

“I’ve got this one,” Grigori said.

Broussard paused for a moment, but then nodded his head and Grigori walked forward, boldly moving out into the open, pacing directly toward the guard post. His cloth rippled in the wind and his hair curled about his face as well. The guards noticed him almost immediately, but no shots were fired. They seemed unsure what they wanted to do, and they took no actions.

Grigori waved his hand at them in greeting and called something out to them in German, They holstered their guns and one of the guards walked up to talk with Grigori. Either they didn’t notice that he was Russian, or that he had just walked out of the wilderness, or they didn’t care. The guard that was talking with Grigori casually led him inside. Another of the guards followed suit. Suddenly Seamus noticed an opening, where there was no one watching in their direction. He started to move forward, but Zhanna grabbed his arm and shook her head. He held where he was and looked at her with curiosity. She simply smirked, and pointed toward the guard post.

He paused, watching the guard post for several moments. Suddenly there was a bright flash of light, and several seconds later a guard ran out of the post, screaming as he held his face in his hands. Even more surprisingly, he was also on fire, and his skin was obviously charred and burned. The other guards outside yelled out in surprise and brought their guns out. Two run to the man on fire and knocked him down, trying to pat the flames out. He screamed in pain as they patted him down. As one, they immediately looked toward the entrance to the post, where smoke was starting to billow out from the room.

Grigori casually strode out of the building like some fiery god of war. His hands were wreathed in flames, even as he stepped through the door, his footprints remained imprinted on the ground in glowing red spots. The soldiers backed off, their eyes gaping wide open in horror from Grigori’s display of power. He stretched his hands out, and fire erupted from the palms of his hands, enveloping several soldiers in the huge gouts of flame. Some of them sprayed off shots in some futile effort to hit him, buit Grigori suddenly became a blur, using cover and shelter to avoid shots. As several soldiers fell to the ground, engulfed in flames, Grigori leaped out, and flexed his muscles. Several dozen balls of flames exploded into being behind his head and shrieked across the ground, impacting with the different soldiers. Each one exploded when it impacted on each soldier, knocking them to the ground, blowing limbs off and creating a general mess with.

A small trail of smoke crept from the top of the building as the area fell silent. Some corpses still smoldered slightly giving off the faint fumes of burnt flesh. Grigori immediately went about grabbing the corpses and hauling them into the building. Seamus looked around, checking to see if the coast was clear, and joined Grigori in his grisly work. The rest of the group headed down toward him as well to help out. Seamus noted that Adara stayed farther away with an almost sickened look on her face as he picked up a severed arm and threw it into the building.

Their effort wouldn’t keep their attack hidden, but they would still be able to bypass the area before anyone found out about it. Seamus looked toward the city. They’d need to head in now if they wanted to start making good progress. Broussard thought the same thing evidently, as he gestured for them to hurry up and move out.

Fall, part 1

All right, so what I'm looking for here has to do primarily with your reactions to the characters. What made you like/dislike them? What felt natural/unnatural? Secondarily, I'm wondering about setting and plot. What questions do you feel like were alluded to but not answered about the setting? If this was the beginning of a 250-page novel, are you interested in the plot and setting enough to put in the effort required to make it to juicier action? Muchos gracias, amigos. You're my heroes (and I'm not kidding, especially in the cases of those who are actually approaching the ends of novels!)


Fall

There was, as Connnor awoke and unhitched his sleep harness, a distinctly electric smell to the air. He closed his eyes again and took three deep breaths. His hair stood on end, his toes burned and tingled as his racing heart flooded blood back into his legs. Still not fully in control of his still-stiff muscles, he drifted into the right-hand wall at an awkward angle. His nerves sparked a brief wave of glorious natural pain from his skin to his brain when he made contact. He basked in the sensation and as he rubbed the sore spot on his forehead he laughed aloud. As he did, he felt the indescribable joy of feeling his diaphragm contract and his vocal chords focus air into a jet. His chest and sinuses shook from the force of it, and he had to laugh again, more heartily than the first time. A glowing blue light forced him to squint while his pupils slowly contracted. He was alive again, fully alive – and this time, he would stay alive. Today was the day that he left Ark behind forever, with its sleeping thousands, and would enter a real world.


The door of his cryo-pod hissed as it depressurized and opened. Connor pushed gently off of the pod wall with his still-tingling toes and drifted out into the chrome access corridor. Even after half a dozen times, entering the corridor was disorienting as down suddenly became left in the two-man wide rectangular passageway. But Connor adjusted after just a moment and took hold of the ladder on the far wall quickly and pushed himself down, where the dim arrows were pointing to “Departures.” The corridor's dim, unblinking light followed him down at a distance of about ten feet before and behind. Lower, the arrows indicated that he should go down as far as he could see.

As he descended, he twisted to look through the dim light at dozens of capsules that whizzed by. In just a few seconds, he passed no less than one hundred lives still peacefully asleep, unperturbed by the nightmares that might wait for Connor on the planet surface below –

The surface below –

Panic.

Conner was suddenly falling. He frantically grabbed the nearest ladder hold with his right hand to catch himself before he hit the ground, but he didn't give himself enough leverage to slow down. With vicious force, he slammed his cheek, ribs, right leg down against the ladder-holds, dislocating his shoulder in the process. Connor screamed and let go, which sent him bouncing slowly over to the other side of the corridor. He twisted his arm around until it popped back into place, crying out again from the pain of it. He curled up, clutching his ribcage as he tried to force his breathing down from hyperventilation. Spheres of blood stood suspended around him and on his sleep suit as he drifted slowly between the four walls until he came to rest on the left-hand side, by now tearing up with the pain of it. His whole body burned and his head spun long after he had stopped moving himself.

As the pain slowly subsided into a sharp ache, Connor wiped the blood from his mouth with his left hand and tried to control his breathing. Wiping as much of his blood on his slick sleep suit as he could, he used his fingertips to slowly bring himself in reach of the ladder again. His still-throbbing ribs convinced him that he had better not try to uncurl himself. One-handed, he slowly pushed himself down again, past the dark screens which hid lifelessly sleeping faces. Connor shivered at the thought and tried to focus instead on getting himself down, rung by rung, meter by meter.

* * *

There was only one other member of the landing group launching in Connor's shuttle. As he approached the airlock on the “floor” of the corridor, readjusting his perception of up and down back to the way it was when he came out of the cryo-pod, he paused to check one last time for blood. Looping his foot in the ladder rung, Connor patted his face down and his sleep suit. Then he rubbed the drops of blood between his hands into dust. He tried to see his reflection in the chrome walls, but the light was too dim and he was starting to feel ridiculous. Gazing up the eerily dim corridor one last time, with its hundreds of sleeping souls, Connor slowly turned himself to face the door below him – in front of him – and waited as the door scanned him, glowed green briefly, depressurized, and retreated into the walls. He pushed off the sides with his good arm and drifted through to the narrow corridor leading to the docking bay.

As he slowly drifted along, occasionally pushing himself forward against the side rail with his good arm, Connor tried to prepare himself to meet Adán Castillo face to face. Connor didn't like him much in the net, and he couldn't imagine that he would like him better in person, but he would know him in person. The idea made him a anxious, but it also had an attractive idealist element that led him to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Between those and the clobbering he'd given himself in the stomach, he felt as if he wanted to vomit, but of course there was nothing in his stomach to eject. His progress was slow, and he began to wonder if Adán would assume he had quit at the last moment and initiate the launch sequence without him. It seemed like something he would do in the net, where he was brash and bold in stories and often played the villain, once as a Colombian drug lord with a taste for torture during a six-month super-novella that had gained some notoriety. Connor had seen him around, but he hadn't ever played with him, and he didn't relish the idea of spending the next two weeks solely in the company of a man who clearly enjoyed acting out complicatedly sadistic plots, even if he was working from a script.

The corridor ended, another door opened, and Connor found himself in a small alcove opening into a brightly-lit room about 50 meters square. Its walls were smooth and white and contained twelve little alcoves, each numbered in red and the words “Ready for launch” above the door. (Up was apparently followed with the column, so it was sideways to Connor.) The walls had little other ornamentation other than the occasional cross-shaped hand hold. A bright red column, about two meters in diameter and covered in hand holds, ran horizontally to Connor in the middle of the room. At the very center of the column were four user interface panels and some other equipment which intended to hook into your sleep suit, presumably to give departing personnel an opportunity to release their bowels before takeoff. Rule number one of Ark, especially in reality: nothing wasted. If you took your business out of Ark, there was that much less to support the tens of thousands of souls that it kept alive, Connor realized.

Holding on to a hand hold to his left, he surveyed the room, looking for a sign of Adán, but the room looked as if it had been undisturbed for the centuries since Ark left the Solar System. The thought made a shiver run through him, which made his ribs ache a little. He pushed himself gingerly toward the panels at the center of the room, but in his caution he pushed off too weakly and it took him what felt like five minutes to get to the red column, but he was able to easily stop himself with his good arm and his legs. “I need access,” he said as he hooked his feet in the hand holds and pushed himself upright. His voice felt dry and he coughed to clear his throat. The user interface panel drifted toward him until it was in front of him.

He was looking as if through a door into an office with a young man sitting cross-legged on the floor behind a short desk. Behind him, there was no wall, and the office looked out onto a tropical beach where some people were playing in the surf. The young man smiled a broad smile and bowed. “What can I do for you, Connor?” he asked, pushing aside with a pair of fingers a few windows of work to the air at the right side of his desk.

“I'm looking for Adán Castillo. We were both supposed to launch from here. Do you know where he is?”

The young man looked thoughtful for a moment and then, motioning for Connor to wait just a second, started to check something in one of the windows he had pushed away. Before Connor could respond, the young man nodded and jerked his head toward the wall across from the one where Connor had entered. “He's already here, in port C8. Also, before you go, you look like a wreck. I can have a medical exam ready for you in the shuttle.”

“Is that really necessary?” Connor asked, putting on his best healthy grin. The headache, the aching joints and muscles were a very unpleasant novelty, and honestly he wanted nothing more than to slip into a virtuo bath and basking in warmth while his body was slowly healed – but that would mean going into virtuality and postponing his arrival on the planetary surface, neither of which seemed worse than aching for a while.

“I'm afraid so. You'll remember what kind of g-forces your body underwent in training, and that was in virtuo. The planet's gravity would do quite a number on your insides if you've got any internal damage, and besides, as soon as you reach the surface, you've got a lot of work to do.”

Connor grimaced and rubbed an eye. “All right, fine. Hey, listen, what's your name?”

The young man smiled amicably. “Jan. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, Jan, excuse me for being rude, but what do you know about internal injuries?”

Jan's eyebrows raised just a bit, but his smile stayed fixed. “Same way you do, Connor. It's in the public domain.”

“But have you ever had internal injuries, or even a bruise before? I mean, have you ever spent enough time outside of virtuality to get hurt?”

“That's kind of a silly question. No one has, but everyone has plenty of experience playing in scenarios to know what it feels like. In fact, as far as I know, you're the first person to show those kinds of injuries for centuries.”

“Jan, let me tell you, even the dull ache I'm feeling in my ribs right now makes scenario injuries look two-dimensional, but you know what else? It feels really good. It feels good to breathe.” Even so, Connor had to shift his ribcage a bit to take the pressure off of the sore side.

Jan's smile finally faded and he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes just enough to be inquisitive. “Are you trying to brag about causing yourself physical deformity?”

Connor stood up a little straighter, soreness notwithstanding. “No, I'm just saying I might know something about it that you don't. You don't even know how it happened, so don't tell me you can diagnose me through a virtuo panel.”

Jan suddenly seemed a good deal older as he looked out incredulously from beneath his eyebrows. Probably virtuo had shifted to change his appearance, but the knowledge didn't soften the intimidating effect very much. “Well, let's see, you slammed into a ladder, crushing your right side. Judging by the speed that would have been necessary to cause the bruises on your face and pull your right shoulder out of its socket, your dull ache might be cracked bones and you are not cleared to enter the atmosphere with a compromised internal frame. That can lead to permanent damage, and you're not allowed to hurt yourself permanently.”

“How did you know–”

“How many ways can a person hurt himself on Ark? You've been favoring your right side this whole conversation and you rubbed your eye with your left hand. It doesn't take a detective. The only question is what made you forget months of training.” Jan paused but Connor didn't have anything to say to that. Jan blinked and softened his tone slightly. “C8. He's been waiting the fifteen minutes it took you to limp your way here.”

Connor nodded and averted his eyes. “All right. Thanks. Access ended.” Jan nodded cordially and pulled his windows back to the center of his desk. The tropical vision faded and Connor was alone again in the big, empty, white room. He pulled up a bit with his toes on the foot hold to keep from drifting too much, but he over-corrected and drifted the other way. He swung back and forth for a few minutes until he was able to put his thoughts back in order.

Then he carefully pulled himself down to the column and scrambled hand and foot to the other side and pushed off carefully towards C8. He paused at the hatch and tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, but that hurt. Then he took a deep breath, but that hurt too. He closed his eyes and smirked ironically.

The question that really bothered him, though, was that he couldn't tell if Jan was a person or a program. The thought that somebody's arrogant creation could order him around, even in reality, even after he had escaped the virtual world, left him unsettled.

Finally, he opened his eyes for the retina scan, the hatch depressurized, and Connor stared into his dim, painful, realistic future.

It took him a second to realize that he was staring at the docking passageway. Grateful that no one was watching, he pulled himself in and onward to the shuttle.

Post again.

Again sorry for lateness. I got so caught up in finishing this novel (Eternity's Reach), that I spaced off posting again.

Recap: Going back to the main characters, of which we haven't read about for some time, they had just gotten Adara back into their group after leaving the German field camp.

This chapter is probably going to be hit pretty heavily when I come through it on the revision-warpath, but any input is still greatly accepted.

Chapter 7

Zhanna didn’t know why the supply lines had shut down the night before. Whatever the reason was, they had resumed running early in their trek. More trucks rattled off towards the front lines, carrying everything from troops, to guns and ammo, to food, to who knows what else. Several walking artillery pieces tramped past, and their footfalls echoed even through the sounds of their big hyper-diesel engine’s rumblings. Smoke shot into the sky, leaving a thick haze over the area that didn’t dissipate and instead lingered like some unnatural fog.

Still wary about taking Adara along with them her temper had cooled considerably since the day before, and she was even slightly beginning to warm up to her. There were still parts of her story that didn’t make sense to her, and the entire idea of selective memory loss that she seemed to be suffering from seemed too coincidental to be an accident of some kind. However she found herself in the minority and so she remained quiet, keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself.

Her face now covered with a full mask to keep the sun from burning her skin, she watched the supply lines through a shaded pair of goggles, giving her the appearance of some evil assassin or a bug-eyed monstrosity. She gestured Seamus up to her. He was dressed much in the same manner, his face covered and his eyes hidden behind shaded goggles.

She gestured towards the line, “Supply lines picked up. We’re going to need to pass through them at some point if we intent on finding that other portal.”
Seamus examined the area. The supply line itself was set in the middle of a wide open valley at the base of the mountains. Vegetation of any signifigant kind beyond grasses was sparse, and there was very few areas for them to find shelter and to hide from prying eyes. The city itself, Barossastad was set up against the mountains meaning that if they intended to continue past it, they would need to find a way around it.

“I don’t care for the situation. Any attempt of crossing it could get us caught. And it is too early in the day for us to wait until a night time crossing. The whole area is far too open,” he said. As if to further emphasize his words, an enemy airship drifted overhead. It wasn’t as large as the gunships they had seen earlier, but it was still a fairly sizable craft. It wasn’t drifting towards the front lines. Instead this one seemed to be engaging in a turn. A patrol craft watching for enemy infiltrators.

“We may need to head further up the road and see if we can find a better place to cross. The road has to come near the mountains somewhere,” Zhanna commented.
“We’ll have to see. And unless some other opportunity presents itself, we may not have a choice,” Seamus said.

“How did Adara get across? She had to have come from the same direction we’re going,” Zhanna asked.

“I think that crossing was nothing more but shear luck. I doubt she went through the city, and she had to have crossed it at some point. I think she simply crossed it at a time when there was very little traffic going across,” Seamus admitted.

Zhanna’s shoulders slumped. Damn, and here I was hoping she could provide us with some sort of useful information. She glanced up into the sky as the airship passed by. It was still earlier in the morning, and the sun was only ten or twenty degrees above the horizon. They were still several miles out from the city, and had some distance to continue bushwhacking before they arrived.

“Let’s go see what the others have to say about it,” Seamus said, and he moved back towards where the rest of the group was hiding out.

Zhanna lingered for a moment longer watching the airship glide off in the distance and then followed him back. She carefully picked her way over fallen branches and dangerous deadwood, all the while creeping along like some predatory cat, making very little sound as she moved. Her father had trained her in the arts of hunting and woodsmanship and it pleased her to no end that her current path of employment took advantage of these skills.

Seamus was already explaining to the others the current issue of the crossing. Amellia and Broussard nodded while he informed them, and Adara almost seemed to be hanging off of every word that Seamus said. Zhanna looked again and then wasn’t quite so sure about that one. There was something odd about Adara. Besides the obvious. She seemed very supernatural almost. Even if her story wasn’t true, there was still something strange about her, but Zhanna couldn’t place what it was. It’s almost as if she is hiding something, but I’m not sure even she’s aware of what it is.

Grigori continued to look on, standing almost motionless. For as long as Zhanna knew him, which had been almost four years, he had been that way. The most he had ever spoken about his past was that he had lived in Saint Petersburg, and had been imprisoned for some time for a crime that either he wasn’t guilty of, or if he was guilty, he had been justified in doing it. She had made a point of asking him several times, and each time the story changed. He killed a man, he robbed a bank, tried to kill the Tsar, and all of them were plausible possibilities.

He rarely spoke to the others. Some might thought he couldn’t speak, but she had shared many long conversations with him. He just didn’t care to speak. Perhaps he thinks his judgment is no longer trustworthy, she thought. Landing yourself in prison might do that to a person. Instead, as he had said before, he trusted her to make the right decisions, and simply followed along most of the time. If he disagreed with her, he was not ashamed to say as much.

Zhanna turned back toward the discussion at hand. Seamus was explaining the extent of the line, mostly to Broussard. Broussard nodded and listened, occasionally asking questions, but the discussion was fairly brief.

“I think that we need a better picture of what we’re looking at. Let’s move down the line and see what we can find closer to the city,” Broussard said.

They moved out, and started heading towards the city again. Zhanna took point, not too far ahead of the group. The travel was slow going, consisting of lots of bushwhacking, but occasionally finding a game trail created by one of the planet’s predators. Zhanna occasionally stopped to monitor the tracks on the ground, to check and see if this area was simply frequented by native fauna, or if he was used by any people. Her observations came back in the negative. There were plenty of signs of life along the trail, but none of the telling signs of a person’s passage.

She listened back, and Seamus was in a discussion with Adara about the conflict that they were embroiled in. Adara had asked a question about the various machines of war, and it suddenly occurred to Zhanna that if Adara was from another place, another world, then this entire conflict would seem like such a strange and alien place to her.

“The walking artillery pieces, the big ones you saw out there, were created first by the Yanks back during their Revolution several centuries back. Chap named Franklin was the person who first made them. Back then they were really nothing more but big mobile platforms that soldiers stood on and shot at people, hoping to hit things,” Seamus was saying

Adara nodded, confusion evident on her face as Seamus casually dropped words and names of people that she was completely unfamiliar with. She quickly changed the subject while Seamus was in the middle of discussing Watt’s contributions to the engines of walking artillery.

“Back on Earth, how many of these emperors and kings are there?” she asked.
“Well, it really depends on what you’d qualify as a king or an emperor. Some of them hold more power than others, and some countries don’t have them at all. Queen Victoria, bless her, is still on the throne of the British Empire after what… It’s been how long, Amellia?” Seamus asked.

“Somewhere near on a century,” she said.

“And a century was how long?” Adara interjected.

Oh, the joys of telling time on different planets, Zhanna thought. It was true. Not all colony planets orbited their suns as the same rate as Earth, nor did they even rotate as fast, as it was here on Charleswelt. They generally used the standard year schedule as it was back on Earth, but a local time system, generally divided into a metric set of time for any given world.

“Let me explain it this way. One century is one hundred years. I’m a little over a quarter that. Queen Victoria’s been on the throne for something like three times my age. It’s a fairly long time. Then you’ve got the Kaiser. He’s in charge of the German Empire, and there is also the Tsar of Russia. By the way, Tsar and Kaiser mean the same word, just in different languages,” Seamus explained.

Zhanna still didn’t understand how Tsar and Kaiser weren’t translated automatically to their respective meanings of “Caesar” through the tongues aura that Adara had kept up. A lot of magic like that made her head hurt when she started thinking about it too much. Her trade was relatively simple and easy, and she preferred it that way.
“And the Americans, you Yanks don’t even have a King,” Seamus said, smiling at Broussard.

“Damn straight, we don’t. Don’t need us the yoke of royal oppression. A representative republic. That’s what we are,” Broussard retorted.

“What’s that?” Adara asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“In laymans terms in means that the people in the country pick representatives whose opinions and morals align with theirs to represent and govern them. The idea is that the people govern themselves,” Seamus explained.

“So yours must be a very educated people, for if they govern themselves, they would have to remain very well informed on their political issues,” Adara asked.

“Erm, not quite,” Broussard said,” It’s true that there may be some unqualified for the prospect of voting, but that is the beauty of the system. Everyone is still allowed to express their own opinion regardless of their social class.”

“Except women. Their votes are worthless. And you’re not very keen on the negros voting either,” Amellia said, with a slight smile.

‘Well that’s beside the point!” Broussard said, acting very indignant. “And for another thing…” He was cut off by Seamus before he could continue.

“I think that you’ve dug that hole quite far enough,” he said.

“I’m not sure I understand the expression, but I can’t help but wonder why you think that a representative government that doesn’t represent both men and women can be fairer than any other,” Adara observed.

“I don’t think you want to hear the rest of what he has to say,” Seamus said.
Broussard glared at him, but remained silent even though he was visibly upset. Normally Broussard would have shouted Seamus down for daring to argue with him, but for some reason or another, he temper was lessened and he remained silent, instead crossing through the rough terrain, snapping branches and twigs out of his way.
“Who exactly is the man that you are seeking?” Adara asked.

She certainly is a fountain of curiosity, Zhanna thought. It almost felt like she was interrogating them, trying to find our every aspect of their lives. The majority of the conversation was working out more like some sort of political question and answer session than any sort of meaningful dialogue.

“The man that we are after is a man named Aleister Crowley. He is an astromancer who has gone rogue, and we’ve been ordered to find him at virtually any cost,” Broussard said.

“What did he do? Just one man to elicit the need for so many to hunt him down,” Adara asked.

“You need to understand first. Astromancers in our world are the elite of the elite. They can open portals to other worlds, teleport themselves and surrounding objects at will, rain fiery death from the heavens, and cause destruction on a very massive scale. They are generally kept on a tight leash, but Crowley was always a fringe worker. The Crown found out that Crowley had been creating numerous mystical groups that experimented in incredibly dangerous and sometimes forbidden magics, using his power and prestige to scam and trick people out of resources for his own goals,” Amellia explained.

“That doesn’t sound too much like someone who needs five spellcasters to hunt down,” Adara said.

“Wait, it gets better. When I say dangerous magics, I mean dangerous stuff. He used rituals in some of his retreats in Scotland and Egypt as well as numerous other places to try to summon demons, devils, and other dark powers. He didn’t succeed, but he used blood sacrifices in some of these rituals. He was exiled from Great Britain, the Americas, France and Russia, and the Germans followed suit, eventually all of them trying to hunt him down, and he fled here, supposedly with a large faction of followers,” Amellia continued.

“The followers consist of both colleagues he had when he once belonged to a society called the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, as well as a large faction of followers in a society he himself created called the Silver Star. Many of these were also incredibly powerful astromancers from all over Europe. This was a large loss on the part of the numerous empires and governments and they weren’t too keen on letting him run off with so many valuable assets. We’re supposed to find him and bring him back,” Seamus said, taking over where Amellia had left off.

“And now he has opened a portal to another world. One would have to wonder what he is up to. What is he planning?” Zhanna mused out loud.

“Maybe he thinks he can find demons in the places I came from,” Adara said.

Everyone paused, letting the comment sink in. Zhanna hadn’t considered that possibility. There were certainly strange things that she had encountered over the years that she couldn’t explain. She didn’t want to be the first one to automatically assume a supernatural cause for it, and she certainly wasn’t one who actually thought that one could summon demons or otherworldy forces. Such things certainly were at the very worst fabrications, and at best impossible to do. But even now, she wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

“Are there… demons in the place you came from?” Seamus asked, nervousness creeping into his voice.

Adara shook her head. “All I remember was that feeling of peace and contentment, and then confusion and fear, and then coming here. Something happened in the world that I passed through. It was not a natural place; it was definitely nothing like this one. I wish I could tell you more, and I’m sure you think me awfully useless for not being able to explain it further.”

Seamus grasped her arm, possibly more intimately than he probably intended, Zhanna noticed. “No, not at all like that. You’ve been incredibly valuable. I wish I could help you remember more of what happened. I’m just as interested in finding these things out.”

“Thank you, that means much to me,” Adara said with a smile, looking at Seamus.
Zhanna rolled her eyes. “That’s great and all, but this still doesn’t address the current problem that we’re facing. Namely, do we attempt a crossing of the supply lines now, or what?”

“Why do we have to cross?” Adara asked.

“Because your portal is on the other side of the supply lines. Did you forget that too?” Zhanna snapped.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Adara retorted. “I mean, why are you going to cross the supply line at all? You could just go through the city, and try to blend in there. If we got appropriate clothing for moving through there, then no one would be the wiser to us passing. Anyone attempting to pass through the supply lines would be immediately noticed, but someone passing through the city would be ignored like the next person.”

Once again everyone was stunned to silence by Adara’s observation. They could try to infiltrate through the city, even given their strange looks, as long as they kept up a decent pace, and didn’t do anything stupid, they could theoretically make their way through the urban areas, and pass on beyond that.

“It could work, in theory at least,” Broussard said. He scratched his chin absent mindedly as if he were deep in thought. “It could work,” he repeated again.

“However, let’s first check and make sure there aren’t any decent crossing points as well along the trail. There is no telling whether we might find the supply lines passing through a wooded area or something along those lines further up,” Zhanna observed, trying to offer a counter point to Adara’s suggestion.

Crossing the supply lines was easy enough, but the approach was more difficult than one might think. It was studded with gas lamps providing illumination out to several hundred yards. One could easily observe anyone approaching it without too much difficulty even on the darkest night imaginable. Eventually the lights would be put out as they would be serving no greater purpose as giving a target for the German artillery zeppelins. Vehicles passed by at regular intervals and it was too much to hope for a lull in activity like there had been previously in order to cross.

Zhanna had been tempted first by the thought of just waiting for a large gap in the vehicle line and then making a break for it, trying to cross the road before anyone saw them. However that idea had been shot right out of the sky. This was an infiltration mission and their commands had been crystal clear. Don’t get seen. If they were observed making their way towards the city, no doubt Crowley would get jittery and vanish as he had before. If virtually every major power on Earth wanted him, one did not disappoint them by blowing their cover for the mission.

If only one of the governments had been serious enough about this to give up an astromancer, then they could have simply teleported to the portal, nabbed Crowley and been back in time for lunch. But the powers that be evidently thought otherwise, and instead they had to hoff it across the country and make due with what they had.
Zhanna briefly wondered why it was that the others had decided to join up for this mission in the first place. International covert operations like this were not ones to be given afterthoughts, and the best were generally the ones picked to go. Zhanna had gone because it sounded like a nice change of venue. The majority of her time was spent training for what the Tsar thought was the inevitable invasion by the Germans. The invasion had never come, and so she had spent most of her time wishing something would happen. Grigori claimed that it was his civic duty to take part in the mission, but Zhanna suspected it was something more like an Imperial pardon. If he took part in the mission he would be forgiven for whatever crime it was that he had committed.
Broussard’s motives were obvious. He felt it was not just duty, but that he had no other choice but to accept the mission. Patriotism ran strong in that one, even if on the surface he didn’t show it as readily as some of his fellow countrymen might do. Amellia did so partially because she was ordered to, but also for much of the same reasons that Zhanna did. Interesting that the same motivation could come from such polar opposites.

As for Seamus’ motivations, they never seemed to be incredibly clear. He claimed that it was patriotism, but from what Zhanna had heard, the Irish weren’t exactly being the most patriotic subjects of the queen, especially lately. The Crown had crushed several rebellions that had taken place in Ireland, and a lot of Irish found themselves in immediate dislike of the Crown. Seamus had given no such indications that he was unsatisfied at all. Whatever his true motivations were, he had certainly made no mention of them.

Very Late Entry

Alright, recap, The various super powerful god guys are talking amongst themselves going against Rozzuul.

Sorry for the super lateness. I assure you it is not because I'm behind schedule. I should be finishing the novel in the next two weeks

The other two gods solemnly nodded and walked out of the throne room, discussing things amongst themselves. Father Mortius did not watch them leave. Instead he spent the time gazing out over the vastness of the plains that stretched out before him. He had found long ago that such features worked well to clear the mind and allow him to concentrate and to see everything that was going on in a more clear matter.
He has not the senior here, none of the seven technically were any more senior than the other. He certainly had the reputation for both wisdom and patience, and the ability to see things with a clearer mind. The Patterner partially had a head for such things, but the Soul Harvestor was far too busy plotting tactical plans, and attempting to get the edge over everyone. This plan certainly had his taint over it. The Patterner saw a chance to take control of some of Rozzuul’s holdings. Carnex was rash, and bold. She had fiery hot passions and was incredibly impulsive. These were admirable traits at some times, but were a deficiency at others. The rashness of this plan certainly had her mark on it. No doubt the two of them had planned it up and then come to him for it.

His reputation was such, that if he thought it a good idea, then some of the less informed ones would follow suit. Vermideus was far too busy in his plague gardens cooking up some vile strain of bacteria or some hazardous goo, and never had time to play the games of intrigue the others did. The Everwatch by his nature knew all that was going on, and was constantly engaged in the process of recording it all. He was completely unbiased and simply went by what the facts revealed, the element of bias would have to come from him if he were to give the All-Seeing eye a position to go from.

And Vorthul. The last of the six, millennia back had eventually lost his mind, and his five compatriots had settled with simply leaving him on the Prismatic Axis. The Prismatic Axis was the world that had been the capital of the peoples they had conquered. The entirety of the Far Realms was linked back to the Prismatic Axis. Twelve worlds, linked by twelve portals back to the Prismatic Axis. Vorthul’s mind was twisted and maddening, causing insanity in those with wills weak enough to not be able to resist it.

The Dim Lord turned back towards his guards in the hall. They had since snapped back to attention as the lustful auras and smells that permeated the area from Carnex’s presence slowly disappated. His guards were bright ones. Not only were they incredibly strong both in matters physical as well as terms magical, but they were just as strong mentally. They gave the illusion of impassive statues set up against the walls, but they kept a keen eye on everything that came by them, and they listened intently to every conversation that was held in this throne room.

He gestured towards one of them, a young woman. She was marked as one of his honor guards, and in past lifes he would have thought of her as beautiful. However that was not a concern of his now. It took him only a fraction of a moment to remember her name. Jakeera, that was it. A newer recruit as I recall, he thought to himself. She acknowledged his gesture, remaining visibly impassive as he put his attention on her. He could tell that she was at least well disciplined as she gave no sign of fear, at least outwardly toward her. However her inner thoughts and feelings were not as elusive as she might have wanted them to be. The Dim Lord was used to his subjects and slaves fearing them. And well they should, he thought. Jakeera was outwardly, as expressionless as a stone, but inside her, she was terrified beyond belief. The Dim Lord relished the fear for a moment, but this was not the appropriate time, nor place, nor even subject to be doing this with.

His guards were well trained, involving decades of work. Getting one killed wasn’t a very efficient way of doing things. He gestured for her to join him on the balcony, which she did without any sort of hesitation.

“Do not be afraid, my child,” he said, his slow and almost slothful tones echoing through the halls.

She shifted from one leg to the other, not directly looking at Father Mortius. She’ll find her nerve in time, he thought.

“Tell me, what is your perspective on what just transpired with the Sin Fiend and the Soul Harvester?” he asked.

This time she actually did look him in the eyes, with her face filled with a slight hint of surprise that he would actually solicite her opinion on such matters. She paused for a moment, thinking her answer through cautiously, before settling on what she would say.

“Great one, it seems to me that while both of the other great ones have their own agendas towards this matter, they are agendas of opportunity. I did not think they were trying to trick one such as you,” she said.

“Your answer is slightly ambiguous, child. Could you clarify your statement?” the Dim Lord asked.

The woman gulped, and paused again for the moment. The Dim Lord noticed that her heart rate seemed to be accelerating, and her brow wrinkled in concentration. To insult one of the Seven was a matter generally punishable by death. It was obvious that the woman was trying to find some way of phrasing her answer so as to make it as non-flammatory as possible. However that wasn’t his concern at this time. He had called his allies worse insults than any mortal could probably think of.

“Nothing of what is said leaves this room, so stay your fear. Speak your peace,” he instructed.

She cleared her throat. “I think that they both truly believe that the Archangel has betrayed your trust, but they both stand ready to profit by his removal,” she said. Even suggesting that the great ones were subject to such petty squabbles as power struggled bordered on treason, and father Mortius would have instantly killed any subject of his without hesitation were they here. Except his honor guard. They allowed him to bounce ideas around, see things from perspectives that he didn’t see, sometimes even rarely seeing things that he had missed, though he was still proud enough that he wouldn’t admit to it.

“You think that Rozzuul has neglected his duties?” Father Mortius casually asked.
The woman nodded. “From how they explained it, it sounds like they believe that. I don’t think they would lie about it. It would be too hard to pull off such a lie as this. Althought I’m still not certain I understand the situation itself”

“Indeed,” Father Mortius said, more to himself to the woman. He thought to himself for a moment, then turned back to face her. “Your mind is rather inquisitive. Some might considering this a most… undesirable trait.”

Instantly the woman prostrated herself on the ground, kneeling before him. She stammered, “I’m sorry, great one, I am have presumed too much, please forgive me.”
Father Mortius rolled his eyes, though due to the pitch black color of his eyeballs, no one noticed. “That is not what I was referring to. Stand up, and cease your blubbering. Some would consider it an undesirable trait, and I would normally agree with them, but your loyalty and training does you credit, therefore I shall inform you further.”

Father Mortius turned away from the balcony and slowly walked back up to his throne. He sat down in the strangely plain and non-descript chair, and rested his arms on the two shoulders. He looked back down at Jakeera, and she started back with both reverence and awe in her eyes. The ability to take someone’s life, and to choose not to. That was power.

“How much did they really tell you about our deal, little one?” he asked.

The rest of the guards looked on, not watching the exchange directly but obviously paying attention to what he said. Some veterans had been around long enough that they knew the stories and the facts, but they listened all the same. Servants and other attendants hadn’t come back into the room, since he had not bid them to come back, so he felt more at ease telling his trusted guards such facts.

“Not very much. Only that Rozzuul knew of a way out of these worlds, to find new ripe places to harvest and conquer. Places that have not felt the Seven’s touch. And that his duty was to find the pathway to these worlds,” she said, standing steady all while speaking.

“Indeed, the iterators seem to be doing their duty. However the truth of the matter is somewhat different. Me and my bretheren have already been to many of those other words. But the magic to bridge the gaps between the worlds, is, suffice it to say, beyond us. We are imprisoned in this realm, prisoners of those who would deny our power, who spit on our way of life, and mock our every turn. Rozzuul was the one who was to find the way out of it, to use the powers that others have in order to open up a gateway back to those who would insult us and let them see the truth of things,” Father Mortius explained, gazing throughout the room.

“I know it may distress you to hear that there are things that even I cannot do, but that is the truth that there are even some abilities beyond my power. I don’t know how portals are created, but others do. That is partially our reason and desire for continuing out from this place is to find and access those types of abilities and prove that we are truly the undisputed masters of this universe,” Father Mortius said, clenching his fist while he spoke.

“I see now, great one,” Jakeera said.

“It is well that you do, but know this. To speak one word of this to any outside this room, even to my kin, or the greatest of their servants is to embrace the other side and to find yourself speedily headed in that direction, far ahead of your time,” Father Mortius warned.

“Your word is my command, Deathless One,” she said.

She started back to her post without even needing to be bidden to return. She cautiously stepped there, using her scythe as a walking staff, before arriving to her position along the wall. She turned and faced back out towards the room, again standing still and at attention. She hesitated one moment, and then looked back towards Father Mortius who was now gazing out towards the blasted lands again.
“Great one?’ she asked.

“What is it, child?” Father Mortius responded with a hint of almost annoyance in his voice.

“You said you were once at the home realms. If you will allow me this one question of curiosity, I shall bother you no more,” she asked.

“Very well, you may ask, but you may not find the answer one that you desire, or one that you even want to know,” he said.

“Why were you at the home realms at all?” she asked.

“I was there, because that was the first place I was at before any others. Before coming here and conquering the arrogant inhabitants my home was in the home realm. One has to start out somewhere. So it was with me and my kin. With the exception of that wretched Archangel,” Father Mortius said.

Jakeera nodded, and Father Mortius wasn’t sure if she really understood his answer. Not only was that where he had once lived, it was where he had been born, where he had lived, and where he had since ascended. However there were some things that he flat out did not tell his servants and that was one of them. The idea that he had not always been the way that he was now, the idea that he had been even remotely like them, would certainly shake the foundation of this realm.

He watched as Jakeera walked back to her post and stood at attention. Certainly an inquisitive one, perhaps even too inquisitive. I may have to have a word with her superiors on this. A servant who thinks for themselves can be valuable, but an independent streak will cause trouble every step of the way. He turned back toward the balcony and looked back over the landscape. A change was coming, that much was certain. Will it be a change for the good or a turn for the worst? That much I have yet to figure out.