The Blood Line

by Ben Yallop

  It was only after he had used it numerous times that Box had discovered the horrible truth of the line. Using it was risky. Box had discovered something which he thought of as the doppelgänger effect. Use of the regular lines might take you to a time and place where a younger or older version of you already existed. But that didn’t happen often. The nature of the lines meant that they often connected fixed times and places so the chances of crossover were small. Still, it certainly wasn’t unheard of that people visited themselves. If one day you were walking down the street and chanced upon an older version of yourself you knew that one day, when you were older, that was where you needed to be. But most people who used the lines knew that you had to be careful. The world didn't seem to like too many versions of the same person to be too close together. Things went wrong when the same person from different times ran around together. This was the doppelgänger effect. German mythology told of the fate that would befall you should you ever happen to chance upon your own identical doppelgänger or double-walker. The price was death. In reality, things were usually okay if you visited another version of yourself only very briefly. But anything more than a fleeting glance and things sometimes started to go wrong.

  However, the Blood Line made matters worse, much worse. Clones had to separate quickly or terrible accidents would befall them. Box had seen several versions of himself die. It was not an easy thing to see. And of course one clone, Qayin, had changed everything. Box had not used the line since. He also hadn’t tried to protect any of his clones. Getting too close to them would be counter-productive and his proximity to them would make him and them vulnerable. It was perhaps why Qayin had been so successful an assassin. The clones, wary of the effect of being too close, had stayed separate and had not bonded together to stop him. Yet, he seemed to have some way of using the doppelgänger effect to make the murder of the other clones easier.

  It was only desperation that had ever led Box to find one of the alternate versions of himself. Before Qayin, whenever he had made a new version of himself Box had made sure that he only hung around the new guy for long enough to share a few thoughts. There wasn't usually much to say. For a few seconds they were identical in every practical way. As well as looking the same they had the same thoughts, the same memories, the same feelings. An exact and perfect copy. For a brief moment in time there was absolute and perfect symmetry. Two people completely identical in every conceivable way, sharing the same space. Closer than any simple set of twins. They would both know the events that had led Box to the line. Then Box would go one way and the clone the other and from then on they would be different. They would make different choices and have different experiences, albeit from the same foundation. And Box had found that new experiences could really affect who they became. There also seemed to be inherent differences or flaws in the copies perhaps as different parts of his personality, his psyche, came to the fore. After a surprisingly short time it usually became evident that the new version of himself was different in some particular way. Some were shy, others reckless, some scared, some confident. But always, they looked exactly like him. At least until they decided to wear different clothes, decided not to shave or were injured or marked. He had once met one who had covered his body completely in tattoos. That had been weird.

  But whatever the copies became and however they looked and no matter where they ended up every single one had been useful in confusing and frustrating the Riven who endlessly pursued him. Until Qayin. He had been obviously different immediately and had attacked Box almost straightaway. So unexpected had been the attack that Box had barely been able to fight himself free. Qayin was Death himself and had gone on to murder most if not all of his brothers.

  Box meanwhile had been monitoring what was going on elsewhere in the resistance against the Riven and he thought he now needed help. All the other versions of himself that he had created through the Blood Line had been as single-minded as Box in keeping the location of the Line a secret from the Riven. He had to admit that the chances of the Riven King finding the Blood Line were high. Box had often wondered what he could do about that. The time was fast approaching when Box would need to stop Qayin. But he was running out of time. Qayin was getting too close and too powerful. Box was hoping he might be able to find others who had been resisting the Riven. He had heard that there was a new hope; that a boy had been found who was powerful and had the potential to upset the plans of the Riven King. Box looked forward to meeting him, if they both survived long enough.

  When Qayin had not appeared at the market after a few minutes Box set off. He moved through the Twilight Market quickly, not stopping to look at the tables as he hurried past. Suddenly a cloaked Riven appeared out of the crowd up ahead and Box quickly turned towards a stall, barely visible in the gloom, lit only by faint flickering dribbly candles and hemmed in by dark trees above and thick bushes to the sides. He put his back to the Riven and picked up an item more or less at random as a woman, who looked very much like a fairy-tale witch, looked at him curiously from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, her face in almost total shade.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘May I help you?’

  Box looked nervously over to the Riven who was moving closer causing small gasps of dismay as other shoppers realised he was there and moved quickly away. Some stall holders were already hurriedly packing up. The Riven might be here to recruit like the pressgangers of old. Box decided his best way to stay hidden was to act normally.

  ‘Er, what might I use this for?’ he said, holding up something long, thin, shiny and dark red, which felt curiously firm and leathery in his hand. He kept his eye on the approaching black cloak.

  ‘That will bring luck to your home,’ said the stall-holder. ‘Hang it above the doorway to keep the spirits at bay.’

  Box took a proper look at the thing in his hand and suddenly realised it had a skull.

  ‘Urgh!’ he exclaimed and dropped it hurriedly. ‘What the…?’

  ‘Dried llama foetus,’ said the stall-holder, giving him a curious look. ‘All the way from the witch markets of Peru. Very powerful. Very lucky. I have horseshoes if you prefer. Proper iron. They’ll keep elves away too. Just make sure you hang ‘em the right way up. The horseshoe that is, not the elves.’

  The Riven sauntered past Box and carried on by.

  ‘Er, no thank you,’ Box said and began to move on. The woman gave a shake of her head and muttered something about time-wasters under her breath. Box hurried off.

  Suddenly a call came from behind him, loud and clear in the hush that had fallen around the Riven. ‘Hey, you!’

  Box stopped dead and turned around carefully.

  The Riven stood facing him.

  ‘I know you,’ said the black cloaked man.

  Box put a finger to his chest and gave his very best look of innocence.

  The Riven walked towards him but suddenly a kobold, whom Box hadn’t even noticed standing next to him, gave a squeak of fear and bolted. The Riven started running, raised a hand and loosed a blast of presence at the kobold which whipped past Box, blowing his hat from his head and smashing apart a stall just behind him. The table, laden with stones and crystals, exploded sending amethyst, jade, pyrite, quartz and lapis lazuli outwards in a glittering rocky rainbow as the stall owner gave a cry, blown backwards into the trees.

  The kobold ran on and the Riven charged past Box, almost knocking him over in the dim narrow space between the trees and stalls. Box could not resist. He moved his foot just a fraction, just enough to trip the Riven and send him sprawling into the dirt and leaves.

  Immediately Box had his hat in his hand and was off sideways and running himself as another stall exploded. Box saw as he ran that the blast had hit a shop selling powdered rhino horn and allowed himself a small smile. It didn’t matter where and when you came from, everyone knew that rhino horn was useless, and a very expensive useless at that.

  He dived into the darkness of the trees hoping to make himself invisible and dared a look
back. The Riven was standing immobile in the dim glow of the firelight, unsure whether to pursue Box or the kobold. After a moment of indecision he raised an arm to point at Box, his palm clearly visible in the light of a fallen candle at his feet. Box turned, ready to dodge but suddenly the Riven’s head snapped to the side.

  In the dim light Box was unable to see what had happened but then the Riven crumpled to the ground and another black-cloaked figure appeared behind him and stepped over the prone body. Two hands came up to pull back a hood but before the face was revealed Box knew who he would see. For a moment he looked into the identical face of his clone, Qayin. Then Box turned and ran. This was getting too close. Perhaps it was time for a new plan. An idea he had had that was very risky, so risky that the world was probably doomed if he failed. But then, perhaps the world was doomed anyway and a Box could only take so much. He was always running and now he was finally running out of options.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Romania

  Date unknown

  After a quick and cold breakfast Hob and Hödekin started off again. They could see no sign of whoever or whatever had passed them in the night and they saw nothing of note that day, not even a small mammal or bird although they heard strange calls from the trees. The wood was already beginning to feel endless, a never-ending oppressive twilight. The kobolds spoke little and in hushed whispers when they did. Hob began to worry that they had not followed the true course. He had the distinct feeling that they were starting to move in circles. He could not shake the feeling that they were somehow being herded towards the centre of that strange and remote place. Hob tried consulting the unusual compass he carried. It had been useful to him in the past in pointing towards a nearby line but here in the woods the needle just swung wildly without settling and he was forced to admit that it would be useless on this journey.

  The next night was as uneventful as the day had been, although they kept a careful watch. The following day the trees changed and a little more light filtered through to the forest floor allowing a little more life to emerge on the ground, which was welcome after the deep, brown, dead carpet that had surrounded them thus far. Now the floor was much greener and they began to hear the rustlings and stirrings of small animals as they went. They felt their spirits lift and walked with more confidence. Hob was reassured that they were not going in circles, but could still not be sure that they were on their intended path.

  That night, after they had eaten, they sat without a fire for the moon was bright and high and the trees well-spaced enough that light could filter through. Tendrils of mist crept around the trunks. The kobolds chatted quietly about plans for when they eventually reached the Palace of Kalapa and what and who they might find. Suddenly, Hödekin grabbed Hob's arm.

  'Look!' he whispered.

  Hob followed his gaze. Away in the trees a single, very pale yellow light was dancing through the woods. In the moonlight and mist it was hard to tell how big it was or how far away it was. They watched it jig gently through the forest. Then it stopped, apparently still quite some distance from them, but then another light appeared moving slowly towards the first.

  ‘Wisps,’ whispered Hob.

  As the kobolds watched in silence seven more lights appeared from out of the mists and came together so that soon there were nine off in the distant trees. They seemed to form a circle and once they were all together they bobbed and weaved as though they were lanterns held by a group of lithe and graceful dancers. But the kobolds could hear no music and see nothing other than the lights. All was silent in the misty woods. The lights were mesmerising and both Hob and Hödekin felt calm and sleepy as they watched the pale yellow spots move.

  Hödekin fell asleep first. He had been kneeling up, leaning against the thick trunk of the tree where they had made their camp, intent on whatever was happening away in the deep wood. He sagged back onto his bottom before gradually slumping onto his blanket. Hob realised that Hödekin had fallen asleep but he was so intent on the lights that what was happening to Hödekin seemed to be happening a long way away and he could not feel as though he minded, although some distant part of his brain seemed to tell him that it was important that he stay awake.

  In another few moments he was asleep too as the tendrils of mist crept further towards them and around the slumbering kobolds. Unseen by them the lights in the forest suddenly stopped moving and winked out.

  Adelaide, Australia

  November 1948

  Having just arrived through a line Box jogged into Adelaide train station. As he entered he cast a quick glance at a news-stand. The date on the front page of the paper gave the date as November 1948. He sighed. Back again. Destiny certainly seemed to think he should be here in Adelaide in late 1948. If he was always going to end up here he would have to find a way of leaving a clue for Tarak about his plan. He would need the help of the Secret Keeper and the resistance whether the next stage of the plan was successful or not.

  Well, at least his clothes didn't look out of place in time here, although perhaps he was a bit warmly dressed for an Australian summer. He bought himself a pasty from a nearby stand and chewed as he strode over to the area for left luggage. He liked pasties, always had. He liked the old legend that Cornish miners, covered in rock dust, used to hold their half-moon pasties by their pastry crust thus keeping the food clean before throwing the remains down into the mine for the tommyknockers, the legendary monsters who lived deep underground. The mine kobolds whom Box knew had always told him that they had found being thrown such scraps to be demeaning, but Box had noticed more than once that some kobolds had a particular taste for pastry and he often wondered whether they had liked the miners’ leftovers more than they let on.

  Having obtained the key he needed from a hiding place within the station, Box opened a locker and pulled out a brown suitcase. He sat on a nearby bench and opened the case. He took out a book and put it to one side as he inspected the other contents. Some clothes and a reel of orange thread, nothing else. As he touched the thread he fingered the tiny line in his pocket where he had sown the scrap of paper. The words 'Tamam Shud' were printed on it. Translated it meant 'finished'. He had once told Tarak Everune that he, and only he, would always carry that tiny note with him. Whenever he used the Blood Line he made sure to remove the note from its hiding place first so that it was not copied as he was cloned. This orange thread, which he used to stitch the scrap of paper back into his pocket, hadn’t been used since Qayin had appeared. He hadn’t used the line since. If ever a body were to be found with the note and those two words then Tarak would surely hear about it and would know that there was a serious problem. If the note was revealed then the original Box, the very first of his kind, would be dead and the safety of the Line could be at risk. Box liked having the note in his pocket and he often touched the tiny puckered line where it was hidden to reassure himself. It helped him to have some kind of indication that he was the original man, that he was real and first. Not that the others were any less men for all that.

  He returned the thread and clothes to the suitcase and put the bag back into the locker. Taking the book with him he ducked into an area normally reserved only for staff, using a little presence on the lock to get in. He found himself in a utilitarian, bare corridor. It was deserted. He hurried along to a similarly empty office and set the book on a table before him. It was a very rare copy of a work called The Rubaiyat by a man called Omar Khayyam. Box was particularly fond of it. Its central message was that one should live life to the full and have no regrets when it ended. He liked that message even if he couldn't honestly commit to it, not when he had been running for so long. He thought of the woman whom he had loved and left and he gave a sigh. She lived fairly close to here. It would be easy to go and see her. Perhaps that was his destiny and why so many lines led back to this place and time. But who knew if he was there with her already, or a clone at least. They had all loved her to a point, all the clones, although some had gotten over it better tha
n others.

  He flicked to the back of the book. The very last words 'Tamam Shud' had been removed. If he were to take the scrap of paper sown into his pocket he would find that it fitted into the gap perfectly. He took a pen from his pocket and thought for a moment, He didn't want to wait too long and create something really clever, but he also didn't want to make something too simple that the Riven might understand if they ever got their hands on the book.

  Working quickly he wrote a series of letters, more or less at random. He left out a few common letters but made sure he had the ones that would be needed. The second line went wrong and he had to cross it out, but in a few moments he had written it.

  W R G O A B A B D

  W T B I M P A N E T P

  M L I A B O A I A Q C

  I T T M T S A M S T G A B

  He added an 'X' above the 'O' in the third line. A sign that he had written it personally. The third line now contained the letters A BOX. Tarak would get it, hopefully. He then closed his eyes and passed his hand over the letters. For a moment they seemed to dance on the page.