by Ben Yallop
Hödekin put his foot down as a look of wonder crossed his face. Then he looked up sharply. ‘I can see why we don’t want the Riven King to find it. Hmmm, how many times can it be used?’
‘There is no limit,’ said Tarak. ‘Although Box has discovered that its use does not come without risk. He created many other versions of himself but the last version of himself he created will be the last. He will never use the Line again.
‘You see, the Blood Line reveals something very interesting about the concept of self. The new versions that appear are somehow different, perhaps not always immediately. But it does not usually take long before, although the clone might look identical in appearance to Box, he begins to behave differently. No two seem ever to be precisely the same. It’s as though the brain in the new version of Box has different parts of the subconscious float to the service. Box has seen clones arrive who have very different personalities, he has met fresh clones with different accents. Time just makes the differences more pronounced. If at the point of creation the differences are slight then as the two separate and live different lives and have different experiences so they emerge as different people, even though their experiences and memories of their life are the same to the point when the clone was created. But the last version of Box to emerge from the Line was wrong from the very start.
‘He calls himself Qayin and he is the reason that Box will never create another clone. Qayin has tried to kill every other clone and even his maker, Box himself. He is extremely powerful and dangerous. It seems that killing oneself somehow confers life force so that the murderer becomes more, his presence strengthened. And so Box has always been on the run as have all the other clones. And ever since the Riven King heard of the Line he has been trying to catch Box and his clones too, so far unsuccessfully, so that he might learn where the Line is. It is why the King searches under London. The number of clones still alive is now, we think, pretty small although we can’t say for sure. They are very good at hiding and with the possibility of reaching the entirety of the world, in any time, through a line there is a lot of variables, a lot of places to hide. Even so the King has caught some and they’ve taken the secret to their graves. Qayin has killed many others. What is uncertain is what Qayin would do if he were ever to succeed in becoming the last one remaining. Box has long suspected that at that point Qayin would probably turn to the Riven.
‘Qayin has been relentless in his pursuit. Box himself has gone to every era of man trying to shake his pursuer. In creating Qayin he has doomed himself to wander. Perhaps he ought to stop and fight, but he has seen so many of his clones killed that I don’t think he fancies his chances. Stories of their deaths echo through history as legend no matter in what time or place they hid. You may have heard of Abel, killed by his brother ‘Cain’. But now we think he may have killed them all but Box. His life’s work looks like it is just about complete. It is why we must act now, before the King finds that doorway.’
‘So, you think this Qayin will turn to the Riven once all the other versions of himself are dead?’ asked Hob.
‘I don’t know for sure but yes, that is my guess. He seems like the kind of man who just wants to see world burn. I wouldn’t think it will be long before the Riven take him in and use him for their own ends. Once a man has killed so often he doesn’t just stop. If he does become the last Box I can’t believe that he would keep the location of the Line a secret any longer.
‘Anyway, none of this is currently your problem friend kobolds. It is good that you are ready. I wish you the very best of luck in Kalapa. I fear we will need every bit of luck we can get.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Atlantic Ocean
November 1872
With both the Riven and Qayin chasing him Jephson had run, just like every one of his brethren, the clones of Alfred Boxall, always had, and both the Riven and Qayin had been pretty close behind him more than once. Both were too powerful for him to do anything else but run and hide. He guessed that being one of the very few who knew the location of the Blood Line was enough to ensure that he would always be chased by the Riven. He wasn’t sure why Qayin was so keen to catch him and kill him. It was probably just because Qayin was mad. Whatever the reason he was another person who knew the location of the Blood Line. He hadn’t revealed its whereabouts either, but who could guess why not. That would mean understanding the reasoning of the truly insane.
Still, the Riven King knew the power of the Line and would not stop until he found it and copied himself and that made being Jephson a dangerous thing indeed. The King knew that the Line was in London and that it was underground and near a plague pit; that was what the legends said. People using the underground trains had seen yeren and Riven searching for the Line. But luckily, so far, Allende had them looking in the wrong places. There was only one person who would ever reveal its location to the Riven, and that was Qayin. And as for him, well he was too busy trying to kill Jephson and Box and the others. He wanted to be the last of his kind. Who knew what he would do when he had killed them all?. There were not many left, if any. In his flight Jephson had crossed time like a stone skipped across a lake but, tired of running, he had eventually succumbed to gravity and settled, just like the stone. Hiding out at sea seemed to be working for him so far. He only hoped he wouldn’t sink.
He had decided to call himself Jephson, it was not a name that had been given to him. Choosing a name was something everyone who stepped out of the Blood Line had to do, they couldn’t all go around calling themselves Alfred Boxall. Some picked a name very quickly, perhaps because of one of Box’s latent or subconscious memories, a thought he was having at the time of creation. Some, like Jephson, took a little longer to decide on a moniker. But the name had just sort of come to him and it had felt right. He had wrapped it around himself like an old, warm coat and had found that it had fit and was comfortable. Where the idea of the name had come from he couldn’t say. Of course, when you used lines to move around through time to arrive in new places with new people you could introduce yourself however you wanted. But to establish a sense of self Jephson had preferred to pick a core identity to stick to, to distinguish himself from others. Jephson had sometimes wondered though whether Box and a new clone had ever got muddled up, disagreed over who should be Alfred Boxall. Had that ever happened? Was the man everyone thought of as Box the very first and original version? Did it ever happen with identical twins? Imagine parents with twin babies. One night the babies are dressed in the wrong nightclothes and the parents don’t notice. For ever more the younger thinks she is the older and vice versa. But then, what did it actually matter? As a great man once said, what is in a name? You can call a rose anything you like and it would still be a rose, it would still smell sweet.
Jephson looked out to sea, the ship creaked as it crested another small Atlantic wave. The ocean was calm today. There was hardly any wind. Jephson continued his musings, there wasn’t much else to do when the ocean was like this. It was, he thought, funny how the Boxes were all different. He remembered when he had suffered from seasickness. Well, did he remember? That was Alfred Boxall's memory wasn't it. At a moment in time the original Box had stepped through that line and Jephson had been created, and now he didn't suffer from seasickness like his creator. Strange. Now he loved the sea. The feel of salt spray on his face, the wind in his hair, it all just felt right. He didn't even mind the hard work that was required of him on this old ship. He liked feeling that his body was strong, hardened by hauling ropes in storms. There were very few people who could survive such a difficult life, but he felt that he flourished aboard the ship. And the Riven couldn't reach him here. He would see them coming a nautical mile away especially on a day like today when the sea was calm. Hardly any wind stirred the sails and the ship moved hardly at all using currents more than anything.
As he stood on the swaying deck, coiling rope, he became aware of a hum and he stiffened, the rope forgotten momentarily in his hands. There was a line ahead in the s
hip’s path. He could feel it, his presence tingled as it drew nearer. He supposed that he shouldn't be surprised. There were lines all over the place, apparently randomly scattered. Why shouldn't the ship pass near them from time to time? After all the Bermuda Triangle was riddled with them. Why shouldn't there be one here off the coast of the Azores? Funny that he should be thinking of Qayin, the Riven and his former life just as they approached a line. Maybe he had picked up its hum subconsciously before they drew near enough for him to be properly aware of it. Still, it made him feel tense as they approached.
As the ship drifted slowly forward the nearness of the line made his skin tingle and he had to suppress his nervousness. Then he felt the ship slide over the location of the line. It was beneath the surface, not far underneath perhaps. He shook himself and continued coiling the rope. The sun continued to shine out of a blue sky and he allowed himself to relax again.
Unseen behind him a figure in a black cloak broke the surface of the water. A hand grasped netting hanging from the side of the ship. The black figure pulled himself from the water and began to climb aboard.
Jephson was just finished with the rope when he heard the first cry. It came from the back of the ship where he couldn’t see. A moment later there was the splash of something large hitting the water. Jephson moved cautiously to where he had a better view of what was happening. There was more movement now and more cries began to sound out over the still waters. The other sailors were realising that something was wrong and they swarmed up and over the deck like a disturbed nest of ants. Jephson peered around a corner and saw a flash of black cloak as someone sped through a gap. More cries came and more splashes. They had found him. He backed away in fear, unable to think.
After delaying for a precious few seconds he hurried to the captain’s cabin. If he was going to escape he would have to be able to navigate. He grabbed the instruments he needed. As he stood there another body fell past the window, flipped out and off the deck and into the water. He hurried back above deck to the lifeboat and hastily detached it. It fell towards the sea, landing with a splash. As he stood to begin his descent down towards it a black-cloaked man appeared in front of him. Qayin. Jephson fired off a blast of presence at him but the clone was on him in an instant, slamming a cupped hand over his ear. ‘How strange,’ thought Jephson for a split second and then he was falling.
He had only been unconscious for a few seconds he thought when he opened his eyes. Nothing much seemed to have changed although when he tried to move he found that he was dizzy and unsteady. Then Qayin, using presence, lifted him up and over the side of the ship. He hit the water with a slap and plunged deep so that he had to kick hard to reach the surface. But he was a strong swimmer and managed it with ease. As he looked about he saw that a number of sailors were treading water, oddly all were silent. They stared up at the ship. Jephson looked up too. Qayin stood high up on the edge, immobile, his black cloak stirring softly in the light breeze. The rest of the crew must have noticed the resemblance. Qayin looked down expressionless at the entire crew of the Mary Celeste.
Then Qayin moved to point at a sailor, his arm straight, his forefinger outstretched. Qayin slowly lowered his arm and there was a cry as the sailor disappeared below the surface, pushed down with presence. Pandemonium broke out then as the sailors tried to swim in all directions, some back to the ship, some out to sea and out of sight, but Qayin raised both hands, his fingers splayed and as one they were all, except Jephson, pushed below and held there to drown.
Within seconds Jephson found himself alone at the surface as an entire crew struggled and fought for breath unseen below his feet. He tried to use presence and to move back to the ship but he could not move other than to kick just enough to keep himself afloat. Qayin kept his eyes fixed on him. After what seemed an eternity Qayin, high above him, relaxed. Bodies silently bobbed to the surface.
Now Qayin smiled at Jephson. His face was identical but, in truth, they looked little alike. Jephson could never have managed such an evil leer. On one level he supposed he could technically have managed it, but, he thought, only true mad hatred such as Qayin held could properly master such a look. Qayin convulsed briefly, a twitch that started in his face and then moved through his body causing a shoulder to jerk up. For a split second Jephson felt the hold of Qayin’s presence judder, but he was too slow to take advantage and before he could move he was gripped again. Qayin cocked his head and seemed to look beyond Jephson for a moment.
‘What are you waiting for?’ called Jephson. ‘You got me, you win.’
Then he felt something bump his leg behind him. He gave a cry of surprise. Then the first fin glided past him.
Qayin made sure to hold Jephson’s body at the surface until he was sure the sharks had eaten their fill. He then dropped into the lifeboat using presence to push it back towards the line. Behind him the Mary Celeste was deserted. It drifted on silently as bodies jostled in its wake and blood turned the sea red.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘So, we go in the same way we came out of Kalapa?’ said Hödekin looking at Owd Hob’s new clothes, a set of lightweight leather armour over simple clothing. He had trimmed his beard and his hair too. The kobold had decided to stop using the name Weewalk and had once again taken up his regal name.
‘There were only ever two ways in. A front door and a back door. The front door in Tibet has been destroyed but the line we used to escape the Palace is still there, deep in the forests of Romania. It’s well-guarded though and it won’t be easy to get to. But maybe the two of us can sneak through.’
‘Romania?’ said Hödekin ‘Isn’t that where Transylvania is. Is Count Dracula, the vampire, the guard?’ Hödekin said it with a smile but Hob answered with a straight face.
‘Vlad the third, a vampire? No. Mass murderer? Yes. They didn’t call him the impaler for nothing. It was his father Vlad the second who picked up the Dracula nickname. Draco is Latin for dragon, Vlad the second joined the Order of the Dragon, which pledged to protect Christianity in the area at the time, I forget when.
‘It was a writer called Bram Stoker who developed the vampire legend of Count Dracula. But there are much worse things in Transylvania. Transylvania means literally ‘the land beyond the forest’ and it is through the haunted forest to the land beyond the line that we must travel. We’re going to Hoia Forest. If you think the legends of vampires are scary you should try spending the night in Hoia.’
‘What’s it like now? I haven’t been near since we came through,’ asked Hödekin.
‘Well, ever since we kobolds came out of Kalapa and crossed into this world the line that exists there has been heavily guarded. Even humans have realised that there is a doorway there. In the forest is a large circle where nothing grows. It is guarded by something, an ethereal host put there by the Riven to prevent the kobolds from returning to the gateway which leads home. A group of wisps of some sort.
‘Humans talk of them as poltergeists. Reports of Hoia Baciu Forest talk of sightings of ghosts and the appearance of faces. People complain of a sense of malevolence and have found themselves pushed and scratched by an unseen force. Even the trees are strange in Hoia, growing twisted and warped. It has strange orbs, disembodied voices, the works!
‘One such story focuses on a five year old girl who wandered into the woods and got lost. The story goes that she emerged from the forest five years later, wearing the same untarnished clothes that she wore on the day she disappeared with no memory of what had happened in that interval of time.
‘Hoia itself is not very large. We’ll have to approach it on foot from out of the hills around it which are still fairly remote and home to lynx, wolves and bears. Not to mention moss people and wychkin.’
‘And, we'll have to pass Shuk too?' asked Hödekin,
'Yes, Shuk is the Lord of the garoul, if they can be truly thought of as having a leader of such a hellish pack. Shuk is certainly recognised as the biggest, strongest, cleverest and most dangerous of th
em all. He once killed a friend of mine. She was in a church in Bungay in Suffolk. Shuk ran down the aisle, killing her as she prayed before charging out again. She didn't have even a second to turn her presence on him. The door at the end of the church still bears the scorch marks from his claws where they became hot as they struck sparks on the stone floor so fast did he run. That's the worst of Shuk. He's big and powerful and smart but above all he's fast. Like a shark, you won’t even see him coming until his teeth are around your throat.'
Hob stood and stroked his beard.
‘And what do you think we’ll find when we actually get there?’ asked Hödekin. ‘If we even make it. We haven’t spoken to anyone who has been there since, since that day.’
Owd Hob shook his head. ‘I don’t know but I hope that there may be a good number of kobolds still living there, and some others too. But I have heard that something terrible haunts the ruins. Something left behind after the Riven’s attack. There’s been nothing confirmed. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.’
Adelaide, Australia
Sometime in late 1948
Alfred ‘Box’ Boxall sat on a stool at the bar, an empty beer glass in front of him. He called the barman over and ordered a whisky. He drained it quickly and stared into the mirror behind the bottles which stood on the shelves in front of him. Suit, tie, sensible haircut. He didn’t quite look like he was in his early forties but with alcohol blurring his vision slightly it was difficult to be sure. It was quite a while since he had got drunk and the room had begun to spin a little and sooner than he had thought it would. Even though he was tipsy he was alert and ready. He couldn’t afford not to be. Soon his nemesis would come for him.
