No Turning Back
Descendants of Ancients:
Volume 1
by Sharon T. Rose
This work is copyright 2011 Sharon T. Rose and is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit Creative Commons or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA
Cover photo used in compliance with Creative Commons and credited to Rahim Sonawalla
To the One who chose to graft me into His family.
Prologue
Casserion of Ivrithan was a beautiful city. Founded twenty leagues up the Trivine River from the shores of the Salome Sea, it boasted a major port, a brand-new Rail-Road, and electrical lighting in all of the business sector. Even most of the housing districts now had gas lamps and indoor plumbing. The poorest sectors, of course, claimed no such luxuries, but they were still cleaner and neater than, say, the cities ruled by Shon Hondle, the lord of Amalrich.
There were many parks in Casserion, each kept trimmed, mowed, and planted by both city agronomists and those who lived near them. Children often played there under the supervision of nannies, governesses, and occasionally parents. Young lovers strolled along, shyly holding hands as gentle breezes stirred their clothes the way whispered words stirred their hearts. Old men and women sat on the sunny benches, watching beneficially over all.
Modern buildings had begun to rise over the time-grayed structures, casting long shadows both morning and night. Horse-drawn carriages shared the cobble-paved roadways with newer, noisier electrical carriages. Drivers change little, even with progress, and there was as much clamor for right-of-way as one could expect anywhere. The commodities exchange building just off the wharf hummed with activity; pallets of goods moved on and off ships, barges, and caravans. The securities exchange building in the heart of the city was louder, with bells, chimes, and frantic men rushing about with vital scraps of paper.
Out on the streets, grocer's boys called gaily to passers-by, proclaiming their wares. Cloth merchants and tailors dressed men, women, and children in fine fashion while the rag-booths provided serviceable garments to the working class. The pie shop stood next to the butchery, each trying to under-bid the other for the coin-conscious customers' favor. An elegant lady could exit from a fashionable electrical carriage and pass a businessman on the side-walk. He could turn the corner and dodge both a vagrant in an old army coat and cap and a line of giggling, round-faced school children with their teacher.
On the western hill was the great University, the cathedral of learning that drew students from around the world, even so far away as Tuvaul and Nieun, those poor countries on the other side of the oceans. Near the very heart of the Casserion was the great Sanctuary Dome, the largest worship hall of the Sacerdotists, who believed in serving the community and helping the poor.
Casserion was a growing, thriving, and vibrant city with much to offer anyone who walked her streets.
And like the rest of the planet Alluvia, it was also a war zone.
Chapter 1
The impact blows half the building out, blasting debris half a league into the air to fall as missiles on the screaming populace. Dust washes into the street, inflicting tears and coughing on scrambling by-standers.
Shapes flash through the haze, moving too quickly to track. Another explosion; this one takes out an entire grocery, dropping the upper floors of the building to the street. The strange humming that precedes the blasts brings cries of fear to the lips of many caught between the fighters.
The huge shadow that flashes past the fine lady and her e-car raises a gust that rips her hat from her head; she screams in terror. The smaller shape that dashes past the school children shoves them so roughly to the pavement that two of them will never rise again. A hum, a blast, an explosion of impact. Amid the screams of fear are screams of rage. Another hum, the whistling of a small object flying through the air. A tiny impact followed by a shriek of hatred.
Two more blasts without warning, crashing into the cobbled pavement near the last glimpse of the large figure. Bricks and mortar rain down on abandoned carriages, horses, and bodies. Feet pound the pavement erratically. Harsh breathing is now the primary sound. A small breeze lifts a corner of the dusty shroud on the now-quiet street. A hint of movement; more humming, more blasts. The breaths come now in pained gasps.
Another quiet whistle through the air ends in another tiny impact. Another scream rings out, this time in despair. The thud of body on pavement follows, then come sounds of weak movement.
The breeze, bolder now, parts the curtain of destruction, revealing both the standing and the fallen. The man on the ground still struggles, his face twisted in pain and desperation. He tries to rise, tries to grasp his chest, tries to get away from the approaching figure.
He glares up at the inhuman figure towering over him and spits.
"I know you, Alleathon Naichen. You will never win!"
Alleathon Naichen says nothing. He lifts a small, round object and flings it at his foe. The man flinches, unable to dodge. The metal ball strikes his head, and he screams again. He keeps screaming as the ball, fixed to his temple, begins glowing softly. After a moment, the scream fades to nothing as the man drops fully to the street. The ball rolls several paces away.
Alleathon reaches down to collect it. As he grasps it, movement erupts from behind a ruined carriage. His gaze snaps up, solid red eyes tracking. A second figure appears, a woman, glowing hands pressed to her chest, about to extend them outward. Humming fills the air. Alleathon shifts his weight, ready to leap.
Another figure bursts from hiding, plowing into the woman. She screams in rage, but the blast does not come. The small figure in its tattered coat slings the woman around, using the momentum of the charge to throw her into the alley-way just beyond. It follows her. A few more screams come from the woman. The last is one of terror.
No Turning Back Page 1
