THE AWAKENING: Part One (The Lycan War Saga Book 1)

by Michael Timmins

  “Your magic won’t affect them, My Lady.”

  She knew that voice, it was different though, as if unaccustomed to the words it was saying.

  “Then perhaps you could take care of them for me.” She paused making sure she was correct in her assumption. “Syndor.”

  She sensed he was pleased. She was correct. But why did he sound so, how best to describe it? So, uneducated. As if it was difficult for him to talk.

  “Of course, My Lady.” He answered in his stilted manner. She could hear him shuffle around momentarily and the light shining at her went dark. Spots flared in her vision momentarily as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. The boxes pointed at the wall were still on. She was able to see Syndor now. He stood there holding two ends of the colored rope, each with a different looking knot at the end. On one end, she could see the flash of metal as it picked up the light from boxes at the other end of the room. Syndor looked at her and smiled. Judging from the knots of the many other cords lying at his feet, his satisfaction was because he had guessed correctly about the one pointed at her. She took a moment to allow her eyes to take him in. He looked the same, yet she was sure some time had passed since Sylvanis had killed her. She looked down at her chest. Her clothes were stained from blood that had seeped from the knife wound in her chest, though the wound itself was no longer visible. She let her fingers run across her chest. Not even a scar. She wondered how long it had been. She looked back to Syndor. He was dressed in a strange manner. His shirt was held together not by string but some strange circles and the fabric his clothes were made of were unknown to her. On his feet, he wore some strange closed sandals that were white in color. She took another look around the room and noticed the body. It was a female lying just behind the light boxes. Blood pooled underneath her and her lifeless eyes looked up from where she lay — a look of surprise on her face. Kestrel turned back to Syndor.

  “Your work?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  He frowned.

  “Yes. I have worked very hard to keep this room secret all these years so that your… resurrection would not be interrupted.” He nodded to the body. “Kathy, although she didn’t know it, came very close to destroying the work I did all these years and may have even prevented your spell from working.” He paused momentarily to allow her to take in what he said, to understand the gravity of it, and, she guessed, understand the amount of hardship he suffered to keep her safe.

  “It was unfortunate I had to end her life. I was just trying to figure out a way to cover this all up so your body would once again be safe.”

  “Well, you needn’t have worried, Syndor. My body was protected by my spell. There was really nothing anyone could do to affect it.”

  Syndor shook his head.

  “Many things have changed, My Lady. We are not in the same world you left. Almost two thousand years have passed, My Lady.”

  Kestrel felt her breath catch in her throat. Could it be possible? Two thousand years? She never conceived of the spell taking that long to take effect. No wonder Syndor was dressed so differently. She couldn’t even imagine what had changed in that amount of time. She allowed her senses to delve into the Earth. She noticed it was unsteady. The Land had shifted, which she assumed was why her spell had come to fruition. Beyond the unsteadiness of the Earth, she sensed it was at peace in the vicinity of the Calendar. She probed more out and then recoiled in pain. The Earth was wounded. As if cut in many places and its life blood allowed to seep out of it like a punctured wineskin.

  She moaned, “Ah, the Earth bleeds.” Her eyes closed to the momentary feeling of pain.

  “Yes, My Lady. Much has changed. Many things will break your heart. Man has not treated the Earth with the love it should. Oh, there are many who cry out for the murder of Earth to stop, but there are others who are either apathetic to the pain, or revel in it.”

  Anger flared in her eyes. This is why she had cast the spell on herself. This is why she allowed Sylvanis to end her life. She knew! She knew one day the Earth would call out to her! Call out for her help. Plead with her to wipe out the civilization man wrought. Return him to the place he had started. Man should fear what the Earth would do if he took too much, or destroyed what gave him life. She returned, at the time the Earth needed her the most.

  “Show me,” she demanded through clenched teeth.

  “I think there is something else you should see first,” Syndor said to her hesitantly.

  It was only his trepidation that halted her from demanding once again to show her what man had done. What could possibly give him pause when he knew how desperate she was to see what she was up against? He crossed the room to her and offered her his hand. She stared at it for a moment then stood, ignoring the proffered hand. For a moment, she wished she had taken it as the blood that had sat still for so long in her body rushed downward to feed her legs. She took a moment to steady herself and flattened out her dress to cover her unsteadiness. Syndor’s hand dropped to his side and he motioned with his other hand for her to follow him to the wall holding her spell. She strode purposefully and looked at her spell. It was still there as if she had carved it yesterday, not thousands of years ago. Kestrel looked back at Syndor and he looked at her. She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “Look below your spell. Look closely.”

  Kneeling, she did so. At first, she saw nothing other than the wall looked wet in some spots and glistened from the light that shown upon it. Finally, it became clear to her she wasn’t looking at random wet spots upon the wall. No. She was looking at letters. She knelt in front of them and ran her finger below each word, growing angrier with each line.

  “Curse her!” she yelled. She tried to rub the letters off, and even though the wet blood came off and stained her hands, a stain remained upon the wall.

  “If you let it alone for a moment it will grow wet again. It is as if the earth was bleeding the words.” Syndor muttered behind her. He had obviously tried the same thing, probably, a lot longer ago and closer to the time of the writing.

  “So Sylvanis found a way to try to stop me again? She would be reborn when I returned? Well, then, she is just a baby now, isn’t she? She would not, of course, choose the method I choose. No. She would see it as a perversion to not allow your essence to pass on, and instead, keep it in stasis until a future moment. She would instead choose a more natural way, as she would see it.” Kestrel stood, walked to Syndor, and placed a hand upon his chest.

  “That gives us the advantage. While she is suckling upon her mother’s breasts, I will be exacting the Earth’s vengeance upon those who have harmed her the most. If we get lucky, we will locate this babe in her mother’s arms and destroy her before she gains awareness of herself and her power.” She smiled at Syndor, and he shivered in fear. Not for himself, but for those who would stand in Kestrel’s way.

  “But first, you must teach me of this new world. We must also find your brothers’ spawn and begin to raise our army. We must be ready for Sylvanis’ guardians as well. They will be awakening just as we have.”

  Syndor smiled at Kestrel. She hadn’t changed. Her mind was always looking ahead at where to strike next and how not to be struck back.

  “Well, I have spent many years locating and keeping track of the Trues’ lineage,” Syndor said. “The only one who remains upon the Isle is Por’s line. The last male in the line is the one called Blain Connel. He lives in London now.” He noticed Kestrel’s frown. “That is the capital of England, the country in which we are now.”

  “Well, he will have to wait a little longer. I obviously need to learn as much as I can about living in this time before I am ready to move around and look for him.”

  “That is true, My Lady, though I fear he will start to change, and without our guidance, he may cause problems and unwanted notice before we are ready.”

  Kestrel considered his words for a moment. She smiled a wicked smile.

  “You are right, but these people have not seen a Were
before, am I correct?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, then they will learn what it is to fear the unknown. It will cause havoc in their lives and they will be uncertain as to what they know and what they can do. No. Let’s allow the Trues to figure out for themselves what they are capable of doing. We shall gather them when the time is right.” She looked around the room; she needed to do something about this. She walked up the stairs to the outside and breathed in the fresh air. The moon hung bright and low in the sky as if it rested on the tree-line in the far distance. The stars in their multitude sparkled and pinpricked the dark heavens by the millions. In the distance, she could see areas that glowed on the horizons as if some great fire burned unfettered. Something else caught her attention, the pair of lights moving with great speed a short distance away from her and the low roar she could faintly hear coming from its direction. As she watched, it passed by her and was followed by a pair of red lights. She watched as more and more were coming from the same direction and now also from the direction the other ones had gone. She was mesmerized by what she saw.

  “Those are cars. They are like carriages, yet made from metal and other materials. They also move by the burning of a substance drilled out of the earth called oil. They can move at incredible speeds and there are millions upon this earth all over the roads. In fact, we will be taking one back to the inn.”

  Kestrel nodded her head. This world was truly amazing and strange. She felt something she hardly ever felt... fear. She felt afraid of these new contraptions. She remembered a question she had.

  “Why does your voice sound different Syndor?”

  “Ahh. It is because I have not spoken in this language in over a thousand years. The words are difficult for me to remember how to make. I have spoken English, the language of this land, and many others, for so long, my accent has gone.” He moved next to her as she continued to watch the cars pass by.

  “That is also something we will have to remedy. You need to learn English. I will be able to cover your lack of English by saying you are from some other country. Most people wouldn’t be suspect, unless we run into someone who speaks the language I claim you speak. The sooner you learn English, the better.”

  “I agree. I hope you are not tired, Syndor. It is time to start my education. Let us take this car back to the Inn and you can start by telling me everything that has happened in the past two thousand years.”

  Syndor sighed. He wasn’t going to like these next few months. Kestrel was very tenacious. She would not stop or slow down until she learned everything she felt she needed to know.

  “Okay, the first thing you must learn is my name is Samuel, not Syndor. No one knows me by that name, nor is that name even remotely common among people these days.” He watched her mouth the name Samuel a few times before she nodded to herself she had memorized it.

  “We should also figure out a name more appropriate for you.”

  “Nonsense. I will not change my name. If others have a problem with it then I will curse them. They will learn my name is not something to be trifled with.”

  Syndor bowed his head in acquiescence.

  “Very well. Let us go then.” He moved to his vehicle and opened the passenger door for her. She approached it warily and looked in. Her eyes roved over the inside, scrutinizing the console. She examined the light affixed to the roof that illuminated the inside. After apparently deciding it was safe for her, she lowered herself in and onto the seat.

  As Syndor…Samuel closed the door, she nearly screamed when the light went out in the vehicle, but she kept her composure, relieved when Samuel opened the door on the other side of the car and the light came back on. He sat down beside her and shut his door. The light went out again. He took something out of a slit in the side of his pants and stuck it into a hole in the side of the post that stuck out from the long panel that ran the width of the car. He turned it and this time she couldn’t help herself. She allowed a little yelp as the car thundered underneath her. She felt the thrumming of the car and the gentle roar coming from the front of the car. She almost slapped Samuel as he smiled at her. He could have warned her. He moved his hand to the side of the post and turned something else. Two lights shot out from the front of the car, lighting up the Calendar, its pillars and stones strewn upon the ground.

  “Wait,” she said and closed her eyes for a moment, drawing strength from inside her, and some from the Earth. The power built and reached its peak, she released it in a violent spell, shaking the Earth once more. The altar stone collapsed in on itself as the ground below it buckled. The room that once had existed below the Table was destroyed. Its walls collapsed and the ceiling caved in. When the shaking stopped, it looked as if the earthquake had not only toppled the stones, but also collapsed the ground on which the altar stood.

  “There. Hopefully, this will keep people from realizing what happened here. It will look as if your lady friend died in the collapsing of the chamber.”

  Samuel did not look happy the body of his former lover lay buried beneath rock and earth, but he said nothing. Instead, he moved a stick poking out of the middle between them and the car started to move. It was a smooth ride, not like a horse or carriage. But this was a thing of metal, a thing made from the Earth’s body and life blood. It was something she would use, for now; until she could destroy it like everything else man has taken from the Earth.

  Blain hated waiting. He was not a patient guy. He stood in line at McDonalds behind an older lady who smelled like wet dog hair. Having watched her stare at the menu for the last five minutes, Blain had waited long enough. The clerk behind the counter feigned patience, but you could tell she had waited long enough, too. Blain decided it was time for action. He bent down so he was near her graying hair by her ear and said in a quiet, deep, menacing voice.

  “Look, bitch, if you don’t make a decision soon or get out of the way, I will take the knife I have in my pocket out and slice your throat from ear to ear.”

  He wasn’t sure she heard him, given she was an old broad, but when she stopped fidgeting while looking at the menu and slowly turned to walk away from the counter, he knew she had. When she was about to the door she looked back over her shoulder and Blain smiled at her. It was not a friendly smile; made even scarier by the fact he was missing a couple of his front teeth. The smile turned into a grin at the memory of the bar brawl, where he lost the teeth, about two months earlier. The old lady quickly turned around and nearly ran out the door. Blain couldn’t help but keep grinning. That lightened his day up a bit.

  He loved to use his size and his brutish features to scare people. He was a pretty frightening sight, he figured. He stood at one point nine meters, and weighed just shy of one hundred and twenty-two kilos. He was a little paunchy, but most of it was muscle. He had kinda started packing on a bit of a gut when he began to drink more heavily. His black hair was greasy and slicked back, which made his already large forehead seem larger. His eyes were beady, as if he was always trying to see something far off. He wore jeans unsuitable for wearing in public. He had bought them before his heavy drinking days. They rested under his gut, making it seem more pronounced than it was by their tightness.

  Blain was a fan of the fifties, and he loved to wear his leather jacket over his white tee. With his hair slicked back he always felt he looked like John Travolta, most people didn’t agree, although his mum always said he did. She was the one who got him interested in the fifties, always watching “Grease” and playing fifties music. It was in the fifties when men were tough and women loved the bad guy. That was his kinda time. Sometimes though, the bad guy wasn’t always the right choice, as his mum found out. Her second husband beat her till she bled to death. The bastard was sitting in the recliner when Blain came home from work and found his mum lying bloodied and broken on the floor next to the TV blaring some late-night talk show. The man didn’t even have the decency to beg for mercy as Blain proceeded to cave in his skull with his fist. He wasn’t sure how many t
imes he hit him, but somewhere along the way he broke his hand. Even broken, Blain continued to pummel the bastard.

  That led to his first stint in the slammer. Two years and out for good behavior. They might have given him more, but the judge felt that given the circumstances, it was understandable, though still punishable, for what he did. They gave him five, but he kept his nose clean, and when it was time for review, his record showed he was a model prisoner, so they let him go. Six months later he was back in. This time it was for robbery. Sixteen months that time. He learned his lesson. Now, he didn’t pull a job unless he was pretty sure he would get away with it. So far, he had been successful. He had done two or three robberies and a couple of paid hits for some unhappy businessmen, and the coppers hadn’t even questioned him. Most people would look at him and take him for not too bright. They couldn’t be more wrong. He had a very sharp mind and could examine a situation and figure out in seconds how he could turn it to his advantage. He also had an incredible memory, almost photographic. He could walk into a room and then walk out in a minute and tell you, in detail, what was in that room, down to the smallest detail. He discovered these skills very useful in his chosen profession.

  Blain turned back to the cashier. She looked a little pale, so he figured she heard what he said. He tried to give her a disarming smile, but it only seemed to unsettle her even more.

  “Will this be for here or to go?” she asked, emphasizing the “to go” part.

  “Here.” Let her squirm, he thought.

  “Umm, okay. Well, what can I get you?” She swallowed hard when he said it was for here and she looked at the manager four times as if trying to will him to come and take over. He was oblivious to her as he looked over some sort of checklist. Probably a cleaning list he was going to happily annoy the workers with.