The
Temple of Arrival
The Empowered Ones Book Two
M.S. Olney
Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Olney. All Right Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
*US readers please be aware this book was written by a British author in UK English
Cover art by:
Reza Ashfarr
Other Books By M.S. OLNEY
The Sundered Crown Saga-
Heir to the Sundered Crown
War for the Sundered Crown
Quest for the Sundered Crown
The Sundered Crown Boxset
Tales of Delfinnia -
The Nightblade
Danon
The Empowered Ones-
The First Fear
Terran Defenders Series-
Terran Defenders: Genesis
Terran Defenders
Unconquered Series -
Unconquered: Blood of Kings
Audiobooks-
Heir to the Sundered Crown
War for the Sundered Crown
The First Fear
The Asylum
The monotonous tapping of water striking stone was comforting to Skit. So too, was the constant flickering of the torch ensconced into the slimy stone wall of the cell that had been his home for nearly two decades. He gazed through half-open eyes at the iron grate acting as the door to his cell. The howls, yelps and whimpers of his fellow inmates, now that was something that still scared him. It was the sound of madness and insanity; it was the sound made by the Broken. It was constant, and in those first months sleeping had been difficult, but the saying that a man can get used to anything over time had proven true.
He clenched his jaw as he breathed in the damp acrid air. His back was moist with sweat, and his lice filled tunic covered his emaciated body. The cell was small, containing a pile of straw that acted as his bed, the flickering torch that was his only source of heat as well as light and a small dripping pipe that provided him with water.
The sound of iron grating on stone caused him to sit a little straighter. It was very rare that anything different happened to break the tedium of his self-inflicted imprisonment. He only ever saw the caretakers once every few months when they came through and dropped off food. The yelling and cries of the other inmates grew louder and louder until it grew to an almost deafening pitch. Approaching footsteps came from the darkness of the corridor. A shadowy figure appeared in front of Skit’s cell door.
Skit’s ruined eyes could just make out a silhouette standing in the flicker of his torch.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a strained whisper. When was the last time he had spoken out loud? He couldn’t recall.
“An old friend,” came the reply. Skit’s eyes widened at the voice. Fear twisted in his belly.
“No. Not you. You’re no friend of mine. You’re the reason I’m in here.”
The figure stepped closer revealing himself.
It was who he had feared most. Vavius.
“Now, don’t be like that Skit. We were friends back in the day. Fighting side by side against the Supreme and the Imperium. We were good at it too.”
Skit waved a skinny arm dismissively.
“We were fighting the good fight until I learnt the truth about you and what you did. I wonder if during all this time the others ever figured it out?”
Vavius crossed his arms, his green cloak looking black in the dimness of the Asylum.
“To answer your question, they never did. Although I’m sure, they know some of the truth now. And it doesn’t matter. I’m this close to it Skit; I finally have the map.”
Skit looked away and spat in disgust.
“Congratulations,’ he replied his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘Who did you betray for it? Tarv? Yin? Or perhaps Cleo?”
Vavius chuckled humourlessly.
“Two of those three are dead. I won’t tell you which. I’ll let it haunt your dreams while you cower in this hell. Why choose to hide here? Of all places.”
Skit shook his head in despair at the words. How many more would die for this man’s lust for power?
“I hide here because I know it disgusts you. It represents the worst of us. I’m just surprised it took you this long to find me.”
Vavius gripped one of the cell door’s iron bars and placed his face to the cool metal.
“You know why I’m here. I need your help. I need you to read the map. I tried to make sense of it myself, but it’s written in ancient Aeranyth. There’s only one man I know who could read such a language, and that’s you Skit,” Vavius explained taking a scroll from the pocket sewn into his cloak. He pulled the string, unfurled it and pressed the parchment to the bars.
Skit squinted at it for a few moments and chuckled.
“I cannot read it,’ he said shaking his head. “You’ve wasted your time coming here.”
“You’re lying. I know you can read ancient Aeranyth,” Vavius snapped.
He narrowed his eyes as he channelled his Anger. His limbs grew, as the emotion acted as a conduit to the Power. With ease, he ripped the iron door from its hinges and tossed it casually down the corridor. The crash of its impact set off the Asylum’s inmates, their howls of madness rising until that was all that could be heard. He stepped into the cell and forcefully placed a gloved hand to Skit’s forehead. He closed his eyes.
Skit screamed, but the agonized sound was lost in the howls of the damned.
“So, you need a cypher to read it,” Vavius muttered as he tore his way through Skit’s mind. His eyes widened as he learnt where to obtain one.
“The Venerable Chamber archives,” he said, before lifting the now unconscious Skit over his shoulder and departing the Asylum.
***
Part 1
Rebellion
Chapter 1.
Mines of Hestra
Elian pulled the hood of his red cloak tighter and adjusted the black mask covering his scarred face. From his vantage point atop the windswept and long-abandoned watchtower, he looked out over the vast desolate landscape of Hestra. For as far as the eye could see, the land was pitted with great scars that marked the heart of the Imperium’s mining industry. Each pit was worked by tens of thousands of slaves from right across the Supremes’ Empire. Somewhere down there in that maze of tunnels and misery was his parents and the other captured denizens of his home village of Fork. A sound came from far below; it was one of the many trains that carried fresh slaves into the meat grinder. The engine was barrelling down the tracks towards the nearby rail depot. A perfect way in. He crouched and braced himself. Channelling Anger, he felt the Power surge through his legs. He jumped. The leap taking him out above the train tracks far below, whistling air filled his ears as he fell, his cloak billowing out behind him. With a thud, he landed on the roof of the train, the impact creating a dent in the metal. Rising from the landing, he kept low and made his way towards the locomotive. In the carriages beneath his feet came the desperate cries of hundreds of men, women and children. With the rebellion spreading across the Imperium more and more people were being rounded up and sent to the mines. Hestra was the main source of iron ore and coal, the commodities that fuelled the Imperium war machine.
Maintaining his balance, Elian reached the rear of the locomotive. Thick black smoke rising from the chimney obscured him
from the driver and stoker’s view. Lowering himself from the roof of the carriage he reached down to the carriage’s coupling. With Anger, he gripped the pin and pulled. With a satisfying clunk, the locomotive was detached from its human cargo.
Quickly, the engine sped on, but the carriages fell back as they lost their momentum. The slaves were now safe. Once Marcian and his force of Liberators arrived they would free them from their bonds.
A surprised shout came from behind him. The engine crew were now aware of his presence. The burly soot covered stoker gripped his shovel tightly and advanced. With a shout, he swung the makeshift weapon, but Elian tapped into Fear allowing him to move at incredible speed. With ease, he dodged the stoker’s clumsy attack and shot out a hand. He grabbed the end of the shovel and with a burst of Anger hurled the stoker from the speeding train. He didn’t look to see the mess the man made from striking the iron tracks at over sixty miles per hour. His attention fixed on the driver who reached for the small pistol in his overalls pocket. Elian narrowed his eyes and focused on the panicking driver. His breathing increased, and his pupils widened as he channelled the emotion of Anticipation. The world slowed to a crawl, and the driver before him appeared to split into several ghost-like images. It was a bizarre sensation witnessing all the possible movements of a foe at once, but as Elian had discovered in recent weeks, it was also invaluable. The ghostly images blurred until one became solid. His senses snapped back to reality, as sure enough; the driver pulled the pistol from its holster. Before the man could aim Elian dashed forward gripped his arm and delivered an upward strike. The driver’s arm snapped with a sickening crack causing him to scream in agony. Elian hurled him from the engine to share the same fate as the stoker.
He leant out over the side of the speeding engine. In the distance and quickly approaching was Hestra’s central depot. The place where dozens of trains were loaded with cargo from the mines. Destroying it would deliver a solid blow against the Imperium’s ability to bring resources to the city’s and factories. Picking up one of the spare shovels he rapidly plied the engine's furnace with more and more coal. Each input sent the train lurching forward. Satisfied with his work he stepped back, cloak flapping wildly around him in the wind. With a grunt he snapped the engine’s break before launching himself off the now wildly out of control train, to backflip onto the tracks. Anger strengthened his limbs, absorbing the impact of the landing.
Still in a crouch, he watched as the train smashed through the depot’s outer gatehouse to careen off the tracks and plough through several sheds and storehouses, shattering them into splinters. With a deafening crash, it slammed into a warehouse that exploded in a spectacular fireball. The shockwave of the blast ruffled his hair and cloak. Thick black smoke and flames shot high into the sky.
“End of the line.”
*
The mines were in chaos. Gun battles raged, and cannon fire boomed as the Hestra garrison fought desperately to fend off the attacking Liberator forces that were flooding in from the countryside. Marcian’s elite, Blue Coat Liberators were on the rim of the pits, hammering stakes into the ground and beginning to abseil down. Elian ran along the wooden platforms connecting each of the huge pits. Any Imperium troops he encountered he dispatched quickly and without mercy. All feelings of guilt or remorse for harming other beings were long gone. Vavius’ betrayal and the burns he had suffered in Asta had numbed him to such sentiment. Lizella’s choice too had played its part. He could not afford to feel pain, not when the uprising was depending on his powers now more than ever. He leapt over a squad of musketeers to strike from behind. With a punch, he sent two of them flying off the platform and tumbling into the vast pit below, their screams fading as they fell. A bayonet stabbed close to his face slicing a gouge in his mask and forcing him to step backwards. He could feel warm blood running down his face from where the steel had grazed his already scared and burnt cheek. The soldier attacked again, but this time Elian ducked the thrust to bring a knee hard into the man’s chest, his Anger enhanced limbs crushing the steel plate armour. With a gargled cry the man collapsed to the ground. Musket balls pinged off the platform as Imperium snipers took up positions around the mine. Above and behind, Liberators fell as they were picked off by the superior shooting of the enemy. To his surprise, he spotted a figure sprinting along the rim of the pit. Their purple cloak whipping about them as they engaged some of the snipers.
“Who is that?”
Whoever the mysterious stranger was, they were buying the Liberators time to pull their wounded to safety. Seeing that the snipers were under control, Elian pressed on along the platforms. His target was the Commander’s fort located at the far end of the pit complex. He could see the stone structure looming over the landscape and flashes signalling that its long guns had joined the battle. A whistling noise signalled incoming rounds of high explosives. They struck the far side of the pit blasting huge chunks of earth high into the sky and with a deafening rumble, the side of the pit collapsed. Even from his location, Elian could hear the screams of Liberators who were sent tumbling into the pit and buried alive by the catastrophic landslide. A huge cloud of dust sprayed high into the air as the avalanche buried everything and everyone in the pit beneath.
Behind him came running footsteps. He tensed, but it was a soot covered Marcian and a small squad of Liberators who jogged into view. The leader of the Liberators blue coat and tricorn hat was covered in a layer of dust, in his hand was his trusty rapier.
“We have to take out that fort. Its long guns are going to bring this whole place down on us,” he said breathlessly.
Elian nodded.
“I’ll deal with the fort. You free the slaves. There’s an internment camp in the next valley. Get them out,” he replied. Without another word, he set off towards the fort.
*
Lizella was on her stomach, musket held tightly in her hands and crawling for her life. The battle was vicious; the Imperium was hell-bent on defending the mines even though the countryside around them had risen in revolt. Since Asta, conflict had engulfed the Western Imperium as slaves threw off their bonds to fight side by side with the ever-growing ranks of the Liberator army. If someone had told her just six months previously that she would be crawling through mud and blood in Hestra, she would have called them mad. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the upheaval the world was experiencing. She reached an outcropping of rock and leant heavily against it. Musket balls struck the ground and pinged off the stone. She peeked over the rim of the rock and spotted the sharpshooter that had her pinned down. The man was hiding behind a pile of stones and lying prone on a small ridge. She ducked back down just as the shooter fired again. The bullet whizzed over her head. She dared not think about how close it had been. She braced herself against the rock and took in a few rapid breaths. She tightened her grip on her musket and let herself relax, picturing her target in her mind’s eye. Marcian had been an excellent teacher, but it had been Erin, one of the leaders of the Liberators in the weeks following Asta that had made her a crack shot. Remembering what she’d been taught, she rose from her position, rested the barrel of the musket against the rock for stability and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked violently, but she was prepared for the recoil. The bullet struck her target dropping the sniper with a faint cry. Cautiously, she peeked around the rock before sprinting across open ground. Behind her, more Liberators were abseiling down the steep cliffs. The amount of fire they were taking was fading suggesting that the defenders were falling back. Ahead of her was a low squat stone building, its guards having long since fled. She drew closer and could hear shouts and screams emanating from within. The shouts grew in volume; she could see arms desperately waving through iron bars. Her eyes widened as she realised why the imprisoned slaves were panicking. Stood in a row in front of the building were six wooden barrels joined together by a long steel chain that had a thin string running through it. A fuse! A gunshot sounded from above. Another sharpshooter was hiding am
ongst the rocks further up the valley.
“He’s trying to ignite the powder!” cried one of the slaves their voice filled with terror.
Gritting her teeth, she ran toward the barrels; she didn’t have much time before the sharpshooter reloaded his weapon. Reaching the cell door, she slung her musket over her shoulder and pulled out the pistol she wore on her hip.
“Get back and get ready to run,” she ordered.
“Some of us are too weak to flee,” a sickly woman whimpered from within the cage.
Lizella swore under her breath. The woman was right. Most of the occupants of the cells looked half-starved or diseased; they would never be able to run. She looked at the chain and her stomach flipped. She had no way to cut the chain protecting the fuse. To shoot the chain would ignite it and she’d have nowhere near enough time to reload for a second shot.
“Look out!” warned a slave.
Lizella threw herself to the side as a bullet struck the ground where she’d been standing. She landed heavily before coming up in a crouch. She wouldn’t be so lucky next time; the marksman was talented. What she needed was the help of a Gifted.
A flash of red from above caught her eye. Elian!
He launched himself from the rim of the pit, his cloak billowing out behind him like the wings of an attacking bird of prey. Like a striking falcon, he swooped onto the shooter. Elian kicked the soldier’s gun from his hands before hurling him from his hiding place. The man screamed but was promptly silenced when he slammed headfirst into the rocky ground below. Elian jumped down to the valley floor and sprinted over to Lizella.
He gripped the chain, snapping it and the fuse clean in two. He looked at her and nodded before bending his knees and launching himself high into the sky. Then he was gone, taking the fight to another part of the mines.
The Temple of Arrival Page 1
