by Phillip Shaw
Zen Yao looked at his travelling companion. ‘Why do I always get involved?' he thought. Here he was wasting his week off accompanying a pale, complaining westerner to one of the most sacred valleys in the world just so they could take a few pictures. Still he would mark it down as another good deed in this country. Made him feel better about the work he was doing with the pipeline. He had joined the project because of the money. China was expanding into all areas of the world and this pipeline would secure a natural gas source to carry on the growth. Zen had given up his own ambitions of being a weightlifter to earn some money. He had been close to being on the Olympic squad but didn't feel the need to compete. It didn't satisfy him. He knew that he could have made it but he was happier earning his money, enough to set him up for life to give him a real say in the world. He would rise to the top because he was the best. It would do no harm to accompany this idiot for a few days. Besides, he made him laugh.
Zen looked at Darcy, for some reason he was frozen in place staring at the screen of his camera looking at the top of the temple. Zen glanced up as well then he felt it.
The world around them was lit with a phosphoric beam. Zen was completely fixated by the temple, it was all he could see the rest of the world was just a light brighter than the sun. He could feel everything inside him aching, his heart wasn't beating, his lungs were collapsed but he didn't stop staring at the temple. He could feel waves of power coming out from the pinnacle and he felt drawn to them. He couldn't explain why but he turned and began walking away from the sunrise. Darcy followed behind. He must be feeling the same. The brightness faded and the world returned to normal. His insides began functioning again. He still felt the waves; they emanated from the temple and drew him in. all the wandering through his life, the jobs, the hobbies they were all over now. His calling had arrived. The temple wasn't ready; he had to prepare it for the time to come. His companion fell in beside him.
Darcy felt alive. He didn't know what had happened but he knew it needed to happen. The second the light had blinded him he felt a freedom, a freedom that came from knowing what your role was. The temple needed them, it spoke to them and as they looked at it they could see what had been and what needed to be again. Darcy's ties and feelings fell away inside his head. There was much work to be done. We have to protect the battlefield, others will come, they will try to control it but we will make it a fair fight. They haven't the right to interfere. No one can. The final trappings of Darcy fell away leaving only something stronger and harder. They were only here for one reason.
The ground in the Bagan region began to rumble. Tourists started running for shelter fearing a small earthquake. What they saw was something else. Slowly all the temples in the region began to sink into the ground. All, except the greatest one. It remained towering over the others, pulsing with the small tremors on the ground.
In a chop shop in Manhattan, Arbitan smiled. He lifted his head from the limbs he had broken and looked to the east. The battleground had spoken. His enemy would be drawn there. It was time for Arbitan to find his followers and harvest their work, his time was now.
4. A Lead
Jenny Darcy sat at her desk pondering. She had done that a lot recently. Despite working for one of the largest media outlets in the western hemisphere she was at a dead end. ‘It wasn't meant to be like this' she thought around the same time every day. Another favourite was ‘where did it all go wrong?'
She had been the first of her family to go to University. Ten years ago. Even her dumb brother had just graduated. Back then the world seemed to be at her feet. Jenny walked into the tutorial group on her first day of English thinking she was made for life. She walked out the same day knowing it wasn't going to be. Her tutor Mr Barnett was like a tyrant from the middle ages, put there to stifle any creativity and freedom of thought from her. In the first lesson, the two classmates in front of her had been talking yet Barnett blamed her. It set the tone for her formative years. The prizewinning essay that she kept stored from her school days, received an F grade and she suffered the ignominy of getting a zero because she had handed an essay in handwritten instead of typed. Barnett didn't even read it, just took one look and said ‘Darcy, handwritten, why do you even bother?' when the semester was over she was free from Barnett and things got better. Jenny had never been the smartest in class, she was always happy to be second or third, what got her noticed was a spark. Whether looking at something from a different angle or just taking a shot she was usually bang on. The problem was jenny had a lazy streak. It had carried on through university; she missed top grades by a mark, either from carelessness or throwing too many theories at the one problem. When the time was up she had decided at the last minute to be a journalist.
In one year of journalism class, she learnt everything she needed to know about life. Days spent chasing down leads then chasing whiskeys with the rest of the hacks. After the year, she had the chance to go travelling but she wanted to get straight into writing. Instead, she got her big chance to do an internship at Blaincorp. ‘This' she thought chewing a pen ‘is where it went wrong'.
Blaincorp was established by one man, Thomas Blain. He had a vice-like a grip over news and media coming out of London. Despite what people think they see on terrestrial TV, there was no free press or journalism in this city. Sure people put their own spin on things and might throw a risky picture of some celebrity in here or there but as far as hard facts went, Blaincorp was a deity. Thomas Blain was friends with everyone successful, Jenny had joked when drunk that sucking Blain's dick would be better for her career than winning a Pulitzer Prize. One of her companions that night, Chloe Tatum had listened.
Chloe started a few years after Jenny at Blaincorp. She was a pleasant girl outside of work but everyone on her floor soon learned this was not the normal. Chloe in work was a maelstrom of madness. The simplest issue turned into a full blown eruption at her desk. Pens, staplers, keyboards and on one special occasion a glass of water cascaded into the air when she became stressed. It would have been funny had Jenny not shared a desk with her. Jenny lost count of the times she had been sitting about to make a breakthrough in a case when the thump of a desk had sent her thoughts tumbling away like sand through her fingers. Tatum was trouble to work with but still she counted her as a friend.
The drunken night where Jenny made the sucking remark had been like an epiphany for Tatum. Jenny had been doing her usual performance for her workmates, her skills honed from university, Jenny was simply drinking the bar dry of whiskey. One cola for every double and still she was able to stand. One of the clerks remarked that he had only seen Thomas Blain himself enjoy hard liquor as much. Then jenny came out with it. Seizing up all her bravado and proclaiming it like a detective naming the suspect the now immortal words came out, ‘Maybe instead of a Pulitzer I'll just open wide and swallow my way to the top, then Blain and I will share bourbon!' Of course, this was the night Blains secretary was in attendance and Jenny had no doubts that this was why she was still at the bottom rung of the Blaincorp ladder.
Tatum had gone the opposite way, the next day she had decided to take an internal vacancy that arose to work as a memo taker for Blain himself. Anyone who had any ambitions of being a journalist knew this job was career suicide but Tatum was smarter than that. Despite her many failings she had took Jenny's joke as a career path. There was no proof of this but her rise from P.A. to Anchor of the midday news within the year was unheard of in the business. Tatum still had a kind word for Jenny in the elevator but their careers were on different paths now, one on the motorway the other one on the tow truck.
Jenny finished her morning ritual of seeing what crap was in her inbox and wandered over to the water cooler for her first gossip of the day. Nothing she did anymore filled her with any ambition or joy and she counted the seconds spent at her desk until she got to go home. Jenny's job role now as it had always been was to sift through the incoming news for Blaincorp and quickly write it into a basic press release to send up
the chain to the higher ranking journalists. The press releases were then released to the rest of the media outlets in the world after a suitable delay. In the media timing was everything. Jenny sat down again with her water bottle and imagined her pen was a cigarette. She had already had her morning smoke but this was starting to be insufficient to get her to lunch. She had even started the risky business of smoking in the toilets just to break up the day. She thought of her dumb Brother Aaron, travelling in Asia. It was easy for him, the golden child. He had been born with a knack for passing exams. He was useless at making decisions right up until the point he had to write an answer, and then he was like a magic 8 ball. Jenny couldn't make any sense of his answers but lecturers and everyone else considered him a prodigy. Jenny felt sometimes that he was being guided by a higher force, the same one that kept shitting on her.
She opened her mailbox to the usual mind numbing emails. Shift swaps, complaints about tardiness from the HR department and the days stories. Jenny's interior pretentious monologue kicked into gear. First up, political unrest in Northern Ireland, file that under what's new. Next, Abuse in local care home linked back to a film that was shown to patients, promising; link the story to the filmmaker and its stars that's an easy one for Tatum and her cronies. Footballer crashes car into his own agent. Again paparazzi fodder. ‘Hello, what's this?' Jenny said, waking from her post coffee downer. ‘Thomas Blain steps out with rising star'. This was a typical news piece released to show the human side of Blain, the fact that he was at a movie premiere with Tatum was enough to bring some bile to the back of her throat. For once there was a picture of Blain.
Thomas Blain was careful about letting his raw image into the world. He had too many enemies. Standing at six feet tall and almost the same wide he had a penchant for wearing all black. His dark hair and eyes framed his features and struck everyone who saw him. Make no mistake when Blain was in a room, the room was in his house. Blain had risen to head of this industry by procuring a few notable exclusives in his early career. Cheating Politicians, fallen sports idols and pervert TV hosts all appeared willing to share their side of the story with Blain in an attempt for redemption. He had even interviewed royalty and was tipped for a knighthood when the next honours list came round. To Jenny though he was just the most powerful man she had ever met. People in his company seemed to excel and everyone else just feathered his nest. Tatum was a perfect example, whether she went down on him or not, being in his inner circle had transformed the mental case office junior into national news anchor.
Jenny had only been close to him once. Two years ago the day started like any other, crap in the inbox, smoke in the toilets and suicidal thought in front of her screen. Then before printing off the day's press releases she had to go down for more paper as the printer was out. When she got into the lift Blain was in it. She passed herself saying ‘Hello Sir' as was common practice and stood against the back wall. Without warning, Blain nodded at her and said ‘Darcy, I had high hopes for you'. His stare was not something she ever wanted to experience again. It looked through her, picked apart her closely guarded feelings and flayed them for all the world to see. Jenny could never explain the meeting to anyone. There had been no physical contact, no more conversation but she had been broken in that lift. When she got out for the paper she had broken down in tears in the stationary cupboard. To this day, she didn't know if it was relief or despair.
The feeling of that stare never left her. It was like a cloud on her mind whenever she tried to make a decision. Interview opportunities, job offers and story breaks all came and went influenced by the feeling of Blain. People joked that once you were in Blaincorp there was no getting out, Jenny knew this deep inside. The worst thing was she wanted to make him happy; she wanted to be the best journalist in here not for her own career but to further Blaincorp.
The last story in her inbox was different. It had not been filtered by the internal servers. ‘Temples sinking spur Burma's tourist industry'. Jenny almost snapped the keyboard in excitement. She put her tag on this as her lead and started to open the mail. Blain would see her as the best one day.
At his desk Thomas Blain sat looking at the satellite feed. It was actually happening, the lessons he had been given to explain his power were true. He'd felt the waves emanating from the sacred ground in Burma; still he needed to see for himself. The deciding battle of the age would be fought here. Blain needed to make it that far. The other side would be gathering as well, seeking freedom from the carefully constructed controls on this earth. How foolish they always were it was why they lost. They chased an ideal when order was the sign of progress, he had already singled out threats in his circles, and they would be removed. Blain's ability for influence had been spotted early, he had been found and nurtured then he had grown stronger until a crescendo when the unseen beacon rose from the temple. He was at his height, with a stare he could change long-held beliefs, crack a creed and bind someone to the cause, before he had been just securing his base of power and operations, playing with the creatures' dreams and careers. Now he would begin his work anyone not attuned would be in the end. He would seek the other Magisters. Arbitan would be awake by now. Somewhere in the world, he would be loose, his leader, ready to empower his captains. He would need their support, welcome their preparations, he would seek Blain.
5. A Calling
Cologne was hot this time of year. The cathedral city attracted its fair share of visitors. Trade show enthusiasts, tourists, beer drinkers and culture seekers all sought the charms of the nondescript city. It wasn't as obvious a destination as Berlin or Munich and didn't have a decadent side like Amsterdam or Prague; it attracted people of intelligence and expertise. To Markus Stent, it served its purpose.
Markus had been in the country less than an hour. Straight of the plane and downstairs to the waiting train. All he carried with him was a steel attaché case on wheels and a mp3 player. No massive headphones for him just simple in ear, discreet. After a small beer under the view of the cathedral, he walked from the old town area heading towards the media centre. Among the modern buildings of the area one small shop stood under a railway pass. Markus reached the thick door and knocked. ‘My façade' he thought to himself. In the days of his predecessors secret knocks, handshakes and strange rituals had been commonplace, now a knock and he was into the welcoming room for the order. Markus walked up to the retinal scanner and took off his designer sunglasses and waited for the green light to proceed.
Markus wondered why the order still needed to be so secretive. There were no hoods no robes and nothing illegal in his work.
He had first been taken to a meeting place by his grandfather when he was twelve years old. It hadn't been here in Germany but back in his Swedish homeland. His grandfather Peter had been a great man. A hero in the war against fascism he had been a commando with the British he returned nicknamed ‘Snapper'. Snapper had earned this name by sneaking up behind enemy soldiers, grabbing them by the helmet and breaking their neck. Despite being revered when he returned to their small town on the outskirts of Linkoping he brought home no medals. In a war where the winning side decorated almost all their heroes Markus had questioned what he was doing there to receive none. His grandfather just smiled at him with those kind eyes of a killer and said ‘sometimes the workers don't get the wages'.
Peter led Markus one summer night to a meeting at his social club. The smells of tobacco and vodka filled the air and Markus wished his peak years away so he could join this club, they threw darts and played cards all the while laughing. After a while watching his grandfather playing poker Markus followed him into a darkened room. His grandfather turned and looked at him. ‘Markus, do you know what that is.' Markus looked up and saw a symbol on the wall. From a distance, it looked like an upside down triangle in crimson red on a white background. Moving closer he saw the red triangle was made up of rudimentary stick figures standing close together. There was one at the front then two, three, four etc... Markus looked up at pet
er and said ‘what does it mean?' Peter creased his brow and spoke slowly ‘It is a symbol, passed down from member to member. We exist in every country and the symbol is our instruction.' Markus moved closer again, ‘but it's just a triangle, how can it tell us what to do' he said. His grandfather lifted his sleeve showing a tattoo of the same symbol and pointed. ‘Always one, one in front, a focal point, we gather behind, we support, we give strength, and we serve'.
Markus had always longed to follow in his footsteps of Snapper from that day instead of his father's. His father while a good man had distanced himself from Peter Stent. Kasper Stent was simply a banker. He had seen the tattoo of his own father and said to his son it was just the mark of the social club. He hadn't been lying, Kasper knew no different. Recruitment for the club skipped a generation. Markus presumed it was a way to thin the numbers. If he had a son it would be kept from him as well until he had children. Markus remembered the day Kasper saw the tattoo on him. His face had never looked so sad; it was as if he had been betrayed by his own son. Things between them were never the same. No more games of snooker, no more jokes, just strained conversation over the dinner table. It had been no surprise when Markus left home to live with Snapper.
The last he heard his father was well, but Markus didn't care anymore. He had few cares in life except working for the order, in the beginning, he didn't know what they did. It was under the mentoring of Snapper that he began to learn. Snapper started by teaching Markus about strength. He would use many physical diagrams and descriptions all intended to show the value of being part of something bigger, a movement, a piece of the machine.
