The Prophet Box-Set: Books 1-4

by David Beers

  “Is that Veritros?” the boy asked.

  “Yes,” Corinth said.

  “How long have you had her head?”

  “A thousand years or so,” Corinth said, as if he couldn’t remember the exact date.

  “What’s it mean?” the High asked, unsure why his God had pulled a dead woman’s head out.

  “It means you should ask yourself what you want, when it comes to the weapon, my High Priest.”

  “What I want?” the little boy looked up at the face that was not his father’s.

  “Yes.”

  The High Priest didn’t know how a decapitated head meant such a thing, but who was he to challenge Corinth?

  “I think I’d like her brain.”

  “But not to stop the weapon?”

  “No. Just for me. To keep.”

  Corinth nodded. “I don’t see any problem in that. For so long you have focused only on My will. I think your own needs should be taken into account.”

  “What about Veritros?” the little boy asked, looking at the decapitated head. The skin was pale, but otherwise, didn’t look like the years had laid much claim to it.

  “What about her?”

  “I know the truth about her. I know why we won last time. Perhaps with that truth we could win again.”

  “I’d only ask you what you want, my High Priest. If you want the world to end, then let it. If you want to try and save it, then do so,” Corinth told him, His head sitting upon the father’s neck.

  “You don’t have a preference, my Savior?”

  “No, not anymore. You’ve been alone long enough. You’ve been loyal to me, some would say much longer than you should have been, and I will reward that. You can have whatever you want, and forget about Vertiros and what she may or may not have known. Think only of yourself.”

  This morning, the High Priest awoke at the same time as every day previously for innumerable years. He awoke with his mind finally in tatters. He had thought himself going insane for some time, but when it finally occurred, he didn’t even notice. Corinth told him he could have whatever he wanted after being alone for nearly endless years.

  The world didn’t matter anymore.

  The Black didn’t matter.

  Survival didn’t matter.

  Of all importance was the girl’s brain. The High Priest lay alone in his bed as he had for most of his life, and fantasized about the brain lying next to him. A small vat, perhaps one that fit perfectly to its round shape, lying … on his chest? Yes, that sounded superb. He could watch it move up and down, up and down, in perfect harmony with his breathing.

  The High Priest hadn’t known he was lonely, but as he thought of the brain, he realized the desolation of the years behind him. All of it spent without anyone. All of it spent worshipping Corinth.

  The High’s reward would be great. He would hold the brain as the world ended, and finally know what he’d been denied for so long.

  The Pope wasn’t a general, had never been trained as one, nor ever desired war. Yule was a peacetime Pope, or at least he had been. The Lord did not ask his servants’ preferences in matters of the universe, though. He simply gave commandments and it was his servants’ duty to pick up whatever yoke He threw down.

  The Pope sat in the back of a very large transport. Thirty people were in front of him, none of whom he actually knew. They, of course, all knew of him and were loyal subjects of the true God—the God of Abraham and Isaac. They had answered his call and were now fighting an undeclared war, all because he said it should be so.

  None of the other Ministries knew this was taking place.

  Certainly the High Priest and the True Faith didn’t.

  Yule was breaking all international laws in his quest for this woman, and those in front of him were aware. Yet, they were here. He was here.

  The plan was simple: procure Nicki Sesam at any and all costs. Their transport was a massive war bird, as the General called it. They were flocked by what Yule thought of as pigeons (wearing a smile as he did so). Three hundred smaller transports encapsulated the war bird, creating a weapon inside weapons.

  They were hours away from the One Path. They encountered attacks along the way, people launching projectiles from the ground at their ships, but those in front of Yule handled it all admirably. A couple of deaths—and Yule would pray for their souls if he survived, yet he was proud of those carrying the yoke the Lord forced upon them.

  He knew where Nicki was; Daniel had remained behind and continued his contact with the girl. They possessed the firepower to do what was necessary; Yule wasn’t worried about his own weapons, but what those holding Nicki might do. Would they kill her rather than give her up? Yule didn’t know because he couldn’t understand the High Priest’s mind.

  None of this should be happening; the world should be fully united behind the Nile River plan, but instead, Yule was here, operating a covert war to steal back an Old World citizen.

  He shook his head and closed his eyes.

  Anger rose in the pope, and he didn’t want to entertain it right now. He needed to focus on God. He needed to remain calm, because that was God’s will. Not his anger, nor his judgment of a man he didn’t know. All of that was ego, perhaps even Lucifer. Maybe everything around him now, besides his men serving, was of Lucifer—trying to distract him from what was important. The world would never be as he wanted it, because there was sin, and to rage against it now would just be the ravings of a foolish old man.

  Yule prayed.

  Lord, I do not believe you want to sacrifice your creation to this creature we don’t understand. Any being that brings such death and destruction is outside your love and grace. So many dead, so many wounded, and all at the hands of this weapon, sent by a creature that doesn’t live within your law. I need your strength now, to remain focused on what is important so that I may do your will and help rescue the faithful. In your son’s name, Amen.

  Yule didn’t open his eyes, but remained resting, feeling God’s love bask over him. He was at peace, and though that would change very, very shortly … at least he felt it for a time.

  Message received.

  The First Priest turned around so that he faced the transport’s outer wall, losing sight of the ship they were following. He knew the message was important, the High Priest’s nanoID implanted inside of it.

  Show me, he said.

  The message played.

  My First Priest, your mission has changed. After much meditation, Corinth’s will has grown clear in my mind. The weapon’s death is secondary. Whatever happens, the girl is to live. Your mission is to ensure that she makes it to me.

  The First Priest heard the message inside his head, though he had to play it back three times. It wasn’t making sense, the words discombobulating as they flowed through his mind. Finally, though, the message clicked in place and the First realized the High truly was insane.

  The last time they spoke, the High Priest commanded the First to kill the weapon. There had been sense in that, even if in doing so, it meant the First Priest would die. This, though? The First’s mission now changing to deliver a girl to the High, as if she were his concubine? And at the possible expense of the weapon’s continued existence?

  He was glad he had turned away to read it, sure his face revealed things he didn’t want Brinson to see.

  He did his best to quickly regain his composure; he needed to turn back around momentarily, and he must not show any of his feelings to Brinson. The two of them had climbed aboard a larger transport an hour ago, one that could hold 10 to 15 people, but for now only carried them. Brother Manor had remained in Brinson’s transport, it falling back for his ‘safety’.

  Which was partly true.

  The First Priest did want to keep him safe, for now at least. If they all survived this, he had plans for the young man. Plans for the young lady standing behind him, too.

  The First Priest turned around and looked at Brinson’s back. She was staring forward to the front
of the transport, watching a tiny speck in the distance. It was the Disciple’s ship; their armada was following it—invisible and further back, but there all the same.

  The First Priest had to make a decision now. Up until this point, he’d been unsure exactly what to do. Kill the weapon, or do his best to make it to the High Priest, then kill him.

  The decision had been made, though—practically for him. The High Priest could no longer serve; his decisions weren’t rational and his leadership would only end in disaster.

  He knew it was a gamble, sliding past the weapon during the attack on the girl, killing the High Priest, and then turning around to wage war. He’d take it, though. Killing the High Priest while another battle raged … it was his best chance.

  “We’re changing plans, Sister,” the First Priest said.

  Brinson turned around, and the First Priest saw the hate inside her. He didn’t know who had planted the original seed, whether it was the weapon or her new lover, but the weed had rapidly grown over the past few days. Looking at her face, he wondered whether she loved Corinth at all anymore, or had that passed as well? Was she joining this cult, ready to follow the Black?

  “Why?” she asked.

  She never would have asked that question when she first sat before the Council, so frightened she was nearly shaking.

  “We’re no longer here for the weapon. We’re here to protect the High Priest, and to do that, we’re going to wait until the weapon attacks, then slip by him. Our new goal is to surround the High Priest’s residence, and ensure his survival.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Your Holiness,” she said, “I’m unsure what is happening here, and it’s making me uncomfortable. What is more important than killing the weapon? What are we here for, if not that?”

  “Sister Brinson, there are things happening you’re not privy to,” the First said as he took a step forward, closing the distance between the two. “Your job here was to make a connection with the informant, which you’ve done. I’ve granted you the ability to control much of the force we’re now commanding, but don’t let that gift make you think you have the right to question me.”

  Crimson flashed up Brinson’s cheeks and she looked down at the floor. So, she wasn’t completely lost yet, not if she still recognized who he was, and thus who she was. The two may stand on the same floor, but that didn’t make them equals.

  “Now, Sister,” he said to the woman still staring at her feet. “I want this transport to fall back another half mile. We’re going to watch the battle from here, because I’m sure the weapon will attack. No matter what happens, our goal is to ensure that this transport makes it to the High Priest. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Holiness,” the woman said.

  The First Priest stepped around Brinson and made his way to the front of the transport. The ship was tilted upward, coming into the One Path through its bottom, all the ships going the same pace as the speck he now looked at. It had slowed down considerably, and the First Priest hadn’t known why at first. He did now. The High had told the Disciple he had an armed escort on the way, and the Disciple should wait for it to arrive.

  We’re here, the First Priest thought. Let’s make sure the High gets what he wants.

  “Your Holiness,” the woman said from behind him. “The weapon … He’s not going to stop. Our goal may have changed, but … I’ve met him. I’ve seen him. If we’re going to get that transport to the High Priest, then we’re going to have to kill him, all the same. There isn’t any other way, because if we don’t, he’ll keep coming.”

  That is how the First Priest wanted her sounding. Helpful, but not brash. Obedient.

  Things may yet turn around.

  “It’s okay, Sister. There are plans at work that you’re not aware of. We’ll make it to the High Priest whether or not the weapon is alive.”

  Nicki felt him. She didn’t need any gray reservoir of rage to fill her eyes. Not anymore. He was here, and the closer she got, the more she understood about him. He thought of himself as a prophet, as the Prophet.

  He’d come for her.

  He was here to kill her.

  Nicki stared out of the transport. She couldn’t tell exactly where he was, the Prophet. He seemed to fill the entire space, as if the gray energy that filled his eyes was already filling the skies before her. Even if she couldn’t see it, she knew it was there.

  The two people in front of her had no idea. Neither did her father, residing inside her head and relaying words back to unseen people. All were blind to the man surrounding them.

  Nicki had made her choice; she once called this person the dark man, the one she now knew as the Prophet. He might be from the Black, but she didn’t know that for sure. What she did understand, thanks to the person at the front of her transport, was that she was a part of the Black. The gray that filled her—that power—it wasn’t the sight nor anything else stemming from her.

  The Prophet wanted her dead and Nicki believed him right. She didn’t understand the fire hanging above her, nor the attack that nearly killed her a half day before, but she didn’t care to either. If she was part of the Black, then she shouldn’t exist anymore. That’s all she understood. Anything else happening around her? The people who had kidnapped her? It was all distraction.

  Evil should die, and Nicki recognized it in herself.

  Perhaps no one had ever been more at peace as they went to their death.

  Rachel Veritros

  Rachel Veritros didn’t understand how the Ministries knew about the Nile River.

  “Why?” she asked. “How did they find out?”

  “We’re not sure,” was the only answer that came back.

  And for Rachel Veritros, the why didn’t matter in the end. If they knew where she must go, then perhaps that only showed the Unformed’s strength. Even those who hated It were drawn to It, knowing innately where the Union would take place.

  Rachel Veritros didn’t consider a lot of options. Instead, she did what came naturally to her, she met force with force.

  Millions from across the globe traveled to the continent once known as Africa. Rachel called them, alerting them that the time was near, and to ensure the Unformed’s crossover, they must come. Her followers answered the call in droves. They came without questions or concern for their own lives.

  The Ministries took up on one side of the river, winding up and down it. They commandeered buildings and campsites were erected; it appeared that everyone who survived Rachel’s war had answered their call.

  Rachel Veritros’s people took the river’s opposite side. They packed in deep against it, with only water separating them from their sworn enemies. No one crossed, and despite a few errant attacks, the people waited. All of them living in a strange land, watching the sky for Veritros to arrive.

  Rachel looked down upon them from high above. Her transport couldn’t be seen from the ground, at least not without specific technology. Perhaps the Ministries had it. Perhaps her own people had it as well; she wasn’t concerned. If they could see her, no one fired. Maybe they hoped she would remain in the sky forever, never descending to finish the war that they knew was already lost.

  Rachel Veritros was only waiting, though—both for her people to finish arriving and for the Unformed to tell her the time had finally arrived.

  Her lieutenants sat at the front of the transport, she in a back room to herself.

  Her eyes were closed, though beneath her eyelids the gray raged its silent fire.

  Is it time? she asked, sitting in the Beyond’s blackness. She was looking upon the Unformed, her God whose existence had been denied, but would never be again. Is it time, my Master?

  The Unformed sat beyond the barrier, its white presence as massive as a planet, though hazy.

  It said nothing back to her, but only hovered, perhaps watching her as well.

  On Earth, millions sat below Veritros, waiting on her word to commit murder, but she didn’t consider them at all. T
he Unformed was all that mattered, Its direction was all she craved.

  Tell me it’s time, she pleaded. Give us respite from wanting. Give us what we seek. I beg you.

  The white orb without eyes stared blindly back at her. Rachel looked on with unflagging devotion. The same devotion that had carried her across years and struggles, obstacles that would have crushed other people. The question from earlier was gone, destroyed. It didn’t matter what the Ministries asked, nor answers that Rachel couldn’t find. Rachel only wanted Its permission to complete what she had chased for all these years.

  And finally, she felt the Unformed, just as David Hollowborne would a thousand years in the future.

  It filled her, nearly consumed her, but the words were clear.

  Come to me.

  Rachel Veritros stepped out from her back room.

  “Take us down,” she said.

  Her lieutenants followed her directions and the transport descended until it hovered only 100 feet above the ground. The doors opened up on both sides and Rachel walked to the edge. She saw the millions—millions—of people beneath her, none looking up because none saw her yet.

  Someone finally did, though, and it must have looked as if Rachel was flying. The ship invisible, but her standing in the middle of the sky.

  Screams roared up to Rachel’s ears. Her lieutenants stood behind, looking down at the crowd, surely feeling nothing short of awe.

  “UNION. UNION. UNION.”

  The millions shouted as one, all of them killers, having shed much blood to come so far.

  “UNION. UNION. UNION.”

  “It’s time,” Rachel said to her lieutenants. “We finish it now. Fire on the Ministries. I’m going down.”

  One of her lieutenants rushed behind her, readying the transport’s weapons. Rachel didn’t move at all, only continued listening as the shouts filled her ears.

  Two shots blasted from the transport’s front, red fire streaking through the sky and obliterating a building across the river. Flames burst to life across the river, and the screams of the wounded rose above even Rachel’s followers.