Ancient Evil (The First Genocide Book 1)

by Griffiths, Brent J.

  He felt like his missing leg was cramping and there was nothing he could really do about it. How does one massage a phantom appendage? Maybe he could use his phantom hand? He snorted to himself. He was losing it.

  Mara was trying to help him use some meditation techniques to help with the pain. He was making progress, but sometimes you really just needed some high-grade pharma, courtesy of the good old NHS.

  He pressed the call button and waited for the nurse. After no response for a few minutes, he pressed again. The nurses were usually pretty responsive, as he made an effort to be nice to them and not take his self-loathing out on them. He knew that, just like anyone else, if the nurses did not like him they would do their best to avoid him.

  After his third press a young, disheveled nurse poked her head in the door. It was Angela on this morning. She had big black bags under her bloodshot eyes.

  “Hiya, Angela, do you think you can get me something for the pain?”

  Angela grunted and pulled her head out of the room. She came back quickly with a large syringe that she injected into his IV. He felt the pain decrease immediately and started to lose consciousness. As he was drifting off he saw the nurse look at the syringe in her hand and do a double-take. She looked like someone who had just made a serious error. He would have been worried, but he felt too good to do anything other than close his eyes and drift away.

  Angela was in deep shit. Like going-to-prison shit.

  She had just overdosed a patient, she was probably still legally drunk from last night and she needed to fix it quick. She ran back to the nurses’ station to get some help. She should never have been working.

  Finn looked down at his ruined body. He seemed to be floating near the ceiling. The ecstatic smile on the undamaged side of his face actually made him look worse. The half-smile twitched into a frozen grimace. It looked like the pain reliever administered by the nurse was having an adverse effect on him. Oh well.

  He saw the duty doctor and more nurses swarm into the room. He did not fancy his chances. He actually felt a little relieved that it was ending here in the hospital.

  He had been dreading the thought of leaving the hospital, ever. The thought of strangers looking at him, pitying him, being revolted by his injuries had been gnawing at him. If he died he would never have to experience that horrible naked vulnerability that he would feel by simply walking down the street.

  His vision darkened to black.

  He opened his eyes. He found himself floating in a colossal library. There was no floor or ceiling, and the shelves to either side of him stretched up and down into infinity. There were gaps between the stacks where one set of shelves ended and another started. He could see one such opening in the shelves ahead of him. He was wondering how he could move forward in this strange zero gravity library when he started approaching the gap in the shelves. Apparently the thought of moving would move him around. Fascinating.

  Looking though the gap, he could see additional stacks of shelves stretching away into infinity.

  How long would it take to even read all the titles? he thought to himself.

  “Eternity,” said a voice behind him.

  He spun around and saw a man in a plain cream robe. It was the type of robe that would not have looked out of place on Lawrence of Arabia. His skin was dark, his hair was straight and black, his nose looked like it had been broken sometime in the past and his eyes were a deep brown, almost black. Finn found it difficult to form a thought as he looked into the stranger’s eyes.

  No, that was wrong. Although he did not know this person, he could not consider him a stranger. There was something familiar that tugged at him. He felt he should know this person but could not place him.

  Finn looked away from the non-stranger’s eyes and regained his train of thought. “Is this a dream? Am I dead?” He looked around again. “It looked like I was going to be dead soon based on the activity in my hospital room.”

  “No, not dead, not dreaming, either. More like taking a break and doing a little traveling.” The man smiled. His white teeth were nearly as distracting as his eyes. Finn noticed one of his front incisors was chipped.

  “Huh?”

  “Loquacious, aren’t you?” He accent was standard public school, but not the annoying nasal kind favored by twits throughout the ages. More of a BBC News type of accent that made you feel comfortable and relaxed.

  “You’ll need to forgive me. This is a little strange. Are you sure I didn’t die? I have to tell you, this place could fit my idea of heaven. Or hell, depending on how well indexed these books are and what language they are written in.”

  “Trust me, you are not dead, but you are very close to death, which allowed me to bring you here. People usually need to find their own way here, but most fail.

  “And here is?”

  “Can you guess?”

  He thought for a minute. “The Chronicle? It’s the Akashic Chronicle isn’t it?”

  The man smiled widely, nodded and gestured for Finn to continue.

  “If this is the Chronicle, why does it look exactly, and I mean exactly, the way I imagined it would? Are you sure I’m not dreaming?”

  “I am assuming that you are seeing a giant library of some sort?” Finn nodded. “That is a common visualization. I have known others to see scrolls, clay tablets, even long, long ago, painted walls. I was worried you would see banks of computer arrays. For me and you, it appears, nothing beats a good book. Your mind is not developed enough to see the Chronicle as it really is, so your mind has interpreted the plane as something you recognize.

  “Okay, let’s assume that I’m not dreaming and I’m not dead and that this is the Akashic Chronicle. Let’s also assume you brought me here. Why?”

  The man became serious. “I needed somewhere where we could talk. I also wanted to give you some hope. Finn, I know you don’t want to, but you must live, you need to get on with your life. You are important.”

  Finn laughed a bitter laugh. “What am I supposed to do, beg on the streets and make people feel good about being whole? No thank you. I would rather die and get it all over with. Don’t you understand? Everything, absolutely everything has been taken from me.”

  “Finn, I know it will be hard, but you will survive. That you lasted this long is a testament to your strength. Although your body is broken, your beautiful, complex mind is whole. It has always been your greatest asset. You need to survive, for Bex.”

  “Bex? Bex is alive?” He didn’t know how he felt about that. It could be very bad if she was alive and no one knew where she was; that meant she could not contact anyone. What would she endure with the beasts who had maimed him?

  “Yes, Bex is alive. She is also going through a trial, a trial every bit as difficult as yours. If you survive and use your brain, you will meet her again. You are both needed, and your trials will make you both stronger.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I wanted to give you a glimpse of the possibilities. This storehouse of knowledge exists, it is real. There are other mysteries that are real as well. I want you to turn your mind to ferreting out the mysteries and mastering them. They will provide invaluable when you and Bex meet again. She will be different, but so will you. You will need to help her when you meet, and you will need to pull her back into the land of life.”

  “But why are you helping me? Are you my fairy godfather or something?”

  The figure smiled good-naturedly. “Ha, fairy godfather, I like that. It’s good you still have a sense of humor.” He paused for a second then continued. “I need you to survive, and I need Bex to survive. You are both important. You both have a destiny. Without you, the chances of the world falling under the shadow of ignorance and tyranny are much higher.”

  “What shadow, what are you talking about?”

  “I am sorry I cannot explain it now, but we are running out of time. Promise me, Finn, promise me you will not give up.”

  “I don’t really understand
what you are asking, but I’ll try. I need to see Bex, I need to make things right. Do I get to study here in the Chronicle to obtain the knowledge I need?”

  “It would not help you. You need to work on developing your talents and you need to find this place again on your own, otherwise the knowledge here will be useless. It would be like giving a six-year-old access to Steven Hawking’s library. Without background knowledge and context, all this is useful for is to find the juicy gossip on everyone who ever lived. Once you are ready you will find this place again. And when you do, I will be waiting for you and I will start instructing you, so you can navigate this place. It will never give up its secrets easily, but you will be able to learn from it.”

  “Copra fagia, it is hell. You mean there is no index system?”

  “Alas, no.”

  The room and man started to fade. “Find me again, Finn. I will make it worth your while. Three more things: be driven, succeed, and be careful not to lose your humanity on your quest for answers. We are approaching a pivotal time. I have been waiting forty thousand years for the right alignment of factors. And if you meet the Corn Knight, assist him.”

  “Corn Knight? Wait, who are you?”

  “Call me Hael.”

  His vision went black.

  He woke in his familiar hospital room. Beside him in a chair was the nurse who had overdosed him. Her mascara was streaked from crying.

  She grabbed his hand. “I am so sorry.” She stopped as she looked into his eye.

  He smiled and said, “I forgive you. Now go get me some food. I need to eat if I am going to get better.” As she reached the door he called out after her, “And get me a notepad and a pen. I need to write something down before I forget it.” More softly Finn murmured to himself, “Did he say forty thousand years? Nah, he must have said something else.”

  Northern Frontier, Year 7875 in the Reign of Enki II

  Hael looked up from the map table as Lucan reentered the command tent. The smirk on Lucan’s face indicated that he had been up to mischief. He practically glowed. It must have been something particularly nasty to have given him such pleasure.

  It had been quite a surprise for Hael to find that Lucan had been one of the officers transferred into the newly formed Ninety-First. Lucan had skirted the open disobedience so far, but he took every opportunity to be as unhelpful as possible. He resented Hael’s command and felt he would have been a much better, much stronger commander.

  Hael forgot all about Lucan as the tent flap opened again and two troopers half dragged and half carried in Bral. He looked awful. He was filthy, covered in scratches. By the limp way one of his arms dangled, Hael guessed that it was broken again. He also appeared to have fresh vomit on his chin, lovely.

  Even worse, he was not fully in control of his mental shields, radiating pain and confusion to all and sundry. The troopers supporting him grimaced as the discomfort leaked through their shields.

  Then everything changed. Bral saw him sitting at the table and a flood of relief washed over those in the tent, which cut off abruptly as he steadied his shields and got himself back under control. Bral straightened himself and shook off the support of the trooper to stand by himself, swaying gently to a breeze only he could feel.

  Hael looked over to Lucan, stationed beside the tent flap. The look of innocence on his face and his completely impervious shields were all the confirmation Hael needed. Lucan had probably implied to Bral that he was the commanding officer rather than Hael. Lucan really was a bastard.

  Bral commenced his report in a croaking voice. His voice strengthened as he went and then faded as he reached the end, his last reserves of energy spent.

  Before he collapsed, he requested accelerated healing so he would be ready for the coming battle.

  Hael frowned at the request. Bral would need to pay the price in pain again as the healers compressed the healing and pain of months into a few days.

  Although he wished he could deny the request, Hael was proud to grant it. They all needed to repay the Debt in their own way.

  He sent Bral off to the Host Healers to endure a couple of excruciating days so he would be ready for battle.

  Jalal was a veteran — he was a thirty-year man. He had been deployed to the Campaigns, both Northern and Eastern, for, you guessed it, thirty years.

  He was a good trooper, no, make that a great trooper. He followed orders without question. That was all that was required to be a great trooper; just carry out orders, don’t question them and you would be a great trooper. The problem was that he was scared. He was getting older and slower. His cunning and experience kept him alive, but it could only compensate for reduced reflexes and atrophied muscles for a finite period of time, a period of time that was running out. If only he could become an officer, he could get off the front line and be a little safer, but that was not an option. He had applied for promotion, many times, but he had no aptitude for command. For thirty years they had been telling him that he had “no aptitude for command.” He did not really know what “no aptitude for command” meant, except that they were probably right. He could hardly disagree with them if he did not know what they were talking about.

  His train of thought was broken by a piercing scream. His own piercing scream.

  The pain got the better of him for a minute there.

  He was trying not to scream, as his throat was raw from screaming and he was way past the point where giving vent to his agony offered any relief.

  He was lying on a rough wooden bench being tortured. They had been torturing him since the sun set, many hours ago.

  The Nightfeeder leaned over and applied pressure to one of his ribs with his index finger. He heard a crack as the rib snapped under the unrelenting, yet strangely delicate pressure. The Nightfeeder straightened to his full height and examined him, trying to figure out how long he would last.

  Jalal coughed and felt another scream start to build from his diaphragm. The scream was choked off by a gush of blood from his mouth. That last rib must have punctured his lung.

  Not long left now.

  He could not find it in him to hate his tormentor; he had volunteered for this, after all.

  They had started with breaking his legs and his arms and then they had tied his torso to the bench, the bench that he was now so intimately familiar with. This made it hard, no, make that impossible, for him to lose his nerve and try to crawl away. For this he was thankful. Had been able to walk, crawl or slither away, he probably would have done so during this endless night of agony.

  He was finding it hard to breath.

  He gasped twice then his breath stopped. His mental shield disintegrated as he started to drift away. He was going to die.

  He did not want to die, and that is why he volunteered for this nightmare. He wanted to live. He wanted to live forever even if it meant a life of eternal slavery.

  The Nightfeeder leant over and tried to imprint the pattern of the Nightfeeder Curse on Jalal. He drew it deep into his being, accepting each and every facet of the Curse.

  He smiled; he would be strong soon.

  Not as strong as his beautiful, magnificent Nightfeeder creator, but he would no longer be old, he would not be afraid again and death would something he dealt and did not receive.

  Aral was afraid, and he had been afraid since he had been assigned to this gathering of the True People that the Messiah called an Army.

  He engaged all of his senses in determining if someone or something unexpected was out there in the night. He was stationed at the rear of the People’s army and he was responsible for making sure that another force did not sneak up on them unawares.

  He strained his hearing, sight and mindsense to their limits but could detect nothing.

  This army that he was a part of was new — so much was new. The Messiah had changed everything.

  It had been a little over two years ago that Aral and his small tribe had received the dream, sent from the Messiah himself. They had been Compelled to
leave their home range and march to the north, where True People were being gathered together. Aral felt proud that his tribe had been found by the Messiah himself. Most tribes were found by one of the Messiah’s many shamans tasked with the Gathering.

  Though the army was large, it was a small part of the Gathering. Aral and his brethren, chosen for their strength and speed, had been commanded to annihilate the Legion of Evil Ones ahead and to capture the Legion’s commander and bring him north to the Messiah.

  Although he knew he was being disloyal for thinking it, Aral longed for the simpler days prior to the coming of the Messiah. The Messiah promised to make things better, he promised to reclaim what had been taken from them, and the Messiah’s force of will made all of the True People want that too. Aral noticed that, as the distance between the army and the Messiah increased, the force of his will waned and the more Aral thought about how little he cared about reclaiming a piece of land that had been taken from his ancestors.

  Aral promised himself that he would run away as soon as the battle was over. He could not leave his post and endanger the People, but after the battle when the Legion had been destroyed, he could run away then. Maybe he would go east and look for the fabled New City of the True People.

  Aral sensed a shadow behind him.

  His mindshout cut off as the Nightfeeder seized him.

  The official start of the battle was marked by the troopers’ roar shattering the cloak of silence that had settled over the two armies. The valley resounded with the sound of Guest war cries as they hacked and stabbed and stabbed and hacked at the Ferals with their bronze swords. The screaming disoriented the Ferals and would have disoriented the Host — though to a lesser extent — if any had been present. None of the Host served in a combat capacity in the Ninety-First Legion, or any other Legion, for that matter. The only Host present were the Healers who were holed up in a strongly warded tent over the ridge. Other than acting as Healers, the Host held the most senior positions of authority in the Legions in spite of the fact that none of them had any recent experience with battle, not since the Legions had been formed. Battle was the most important way that the Guest repaid the Debt.