Dark Tide Rising (Book 1 of The Bright Eyes Trilogy)

by J. M. Rojas

CHAPTER 31: METAMORPHOSIS

  Bast and his legion of djinn charged into the Sun Garden. He had seen the lone skyjammer approaching from the west and knew instantly that this was no deserter from the battle. He knew this was the target he had to capture. The agreement he made with Kaelan and his rabble for control of the Library and his people's stolen artefacts.

  “Find the Son of Thomas and bring him to me!” he growled, sending his storm-dancers in to cloak their passage. “I will make sure he is conscious enough to serve Kaelan's purpose before dying.”

  A wall of dirt and sand blew around the djinn as they ran eagerly into the gloam trees, searching for Jack and Layla. The light of the garden dimmed slightly under their dirt cloud.

  Ramose ran along side the other djinn. He had secretly joined their ranks during the scuffle with Rykar's men and was positioned just behind Bast. His cloak's deep cowl covering his identity, the young warrior hoped to assassinate the despot leader when the opportunity showed itself.

  I hope Jack and the others made it out of here. I don't understand why they would come to the gardens during the battle. Perhaps... there is something of great importance here. But what?

  Then Ramose felt someone watching him, and fear of discovery heightened his adrenaline. Slowly turning his head as he ran, Ramose saw a hooded djinn staring at him a stone's throw away. He gripped his staff firmly and prepared himself for a sudden attack. Waited for the unknown djinn to recognise who he was and yell a warning to Bast. He would be set upon in the blink of an eye, and executed there and then by his own people. Ramose swallowed hard, and waited. Neither happened. Instead, the djinn nodded to him, and appeared to give him a signal with his hands that he was on his side. Then the hood of the mysterious man lit up from two glowing eyes, revealing the pale face of the Nysaean called Cloak.

  Ramose gasped.

  Cloak's voice spoke suddenly in his head. I can hear your thoughts. There is no need to tell me why you are here, I know you are an enemy of Bast. I know you want his blood.

  Yes, I do. He destroyed my family. Ramose replied bitterly.

  Then let us take them by surprise, before Bast can stop the Rising Hope! Stop our friends!

  I will follow your lead. The djinn's said with grim determination.

  At the bottom of the ladder, William waited for them in the cockpit of the Rising Hope, dressed in a white tunic, leather-banded gauntlets and brown leather pants in the fashion of his people. Jack noticed the craftsmanship of the ship was very similar to the Silversong but much more refined in detail, as if it had been built much later. Pictograms of epic sea and sky battles were gold etched in the ceiling and gloam-orbs were fitted in alcoves in the walls, illuminating the dazzling scenes. The Rising Hope was a larger ship than anything Jack had seen—including the ones he saw in his father's hangar—and the three doors leading out of the cockpit to its other parts below made him guess just how big it really was. The pilot's circlet rested on Will's brow, glittering in the gloam-light.

  “Took you long enough,” the handsome Hy-Bresailian jested, winking at the pair.

  “You left the hatch wide open, Will!” Layla growled, slapping his arm with affectionate aggression. “You know The Library is under siege!”

  “I had to leave it open for you, otherwise I would have had to wait around until you showed up. And I haven't flew in the Rising Hope in many years; the machine needs recalibration!”

  “I'll recalibrate your head!”

  “Guys,” Jack intervened, “What if Mathias doesn't catch up with us? What do we do then?”

  The blonde-haired man stood up from the pilot's chair and turned his eerily blue eyes on Jack. “The general told me that I would take the mantle of commander. He said...” Will's voice trailed away—uncertainty and sadness lingering in his voice. “He said that if he didn't arrive with you and Layla that he wasn't coming with us. That we would have to go on without him.”

  “No,” Layla said, ignoring the pain in the eyes of her fellow alurai. “I won't accept that. He is like a father to us, Will. We can't leave him here. Kaelan will kill him!”

  “Mathias hasn't been killed yet.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked angrily.

  “In all the years that Mathias has lived, in all the wars he has survived from, he has never fallen. Not once. I believe in him, Layla. I believe that he will never pass into the Beyond, until his task is done.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Layla said in a hoarse whisper, “There are never assurances in this world, cousin. Mathias is a lucky arrow who has flown far and straight. But he may have hit his last bullseye. I saw the uncountable army racing down that road. Kapri-arks full of djinn sand-dancers and Dark Tide rebels. He can't stop all of them. We have to go back and get him. Save him!”

  “And risk that army you spoke of? Risk the mission? No!” Will turned back to the pilot's chair. Jack had never seen the jovial man so serious and so adamant with his instructions. “We must prepare to leave.”

  “Will!” Layla shouted, pulling him around to face her.

  The ground suddenly shook as an explosion somewhere above their heads went off.

  “They're here!” Jack cried, unsheathing his glaive.

  “The hatch!” Will shouted, rousing Layla to her senses. She disappeared up the ladder before he could argue that he was going to go.

  A few minutes later, Layla returned with a concerned look.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “Djinn. Swarms of them.” Layla answered. “I think I saw Bast in the field above us. The explosion did not come from his men though, as I saw dead djinn near the hatch. I couldn't see who they were fighting because of the sandstorm they've summoned.”

  “Perhaps Mathias made it after all,” Jack said, hopefully.

  “We will find out sooner than later,” Will replied and turned his thoughts to the archaic controls before him. When his mind-link was established, Will focused his thoughts on the psychic-charged diamond that controlled the ship's levitation somewhere deep in the hull.

  The Rising Hope hummed to life.

  Ramose ran through the sandstorm that had been summoned by the sand-dancers with Cloak not far to his left. The silhouettes of Bast and his personal bodyguards blotted the horizon ahead. Behind them the bulk of the army was spread out amongst the trees. Ghostly figures moving swiftly from gloam to gloam.

  They had just stepped onto the central field of the park, where the lamp-grass glowed faintly through the sandstorm, when the teenager pulled a metallic sphere from out of his desert garbs and hurled it with incredible strength and accuracy at the backs of Bast and his entourage. Landing ten feet on the turf next to them, the explosion shook the ground and a column of fire shot into the sky, brightening the field for a brief moment. The lamp-grass in the explosion's radius writhed in a supercharged surge of electricity that eventually faded to black. When the smoke cleared and Ramose approached the blast-point, Bast's body wasn't amongst the dead.

  Then a shadow flit to his right and Ramose spun to face it. Nothing. He began to spin his staff around in slow, lazy circles, anticipating an attack.

  Another shadow loomed behind him, his senses prickled, and he turned quickly to face... Cloak!

  Calm yourself, boy. Bast survived that bomb of yours, but I think he is wounded. The army behind us has slowed its advance, but have fanned out. They will find us soon enough!

  Where has Layla and Jack gone?

  Look over there.

  The teenager turned and saw a shadow on the ground. In the hazy sandstorm he understood it to be a hole.

  A way down. Cloak's voice hissed like the wind around them.

  Those storm-dancers need to be killed to stop their smokescreen.

  There are four of them. Leave it to me.

  Ramose nodded and Cloak disappeared into the gloom of the storm. Turning his attention back to the hole he suddenly saw the looming figure of Bast standing over him. The giant djinn leader limped forward on a wounded l
eg and slashed at the teenager with his twin scimitars.

  “The traitor shows himself!” the crazed djinn screamed.

  Ramose flung his staff up and caught both downward swipes. Using all his strength, he pushed the attack away and kicked Bast in the chest, sending him reeling backwards. The giant stumbled, then found his feet and launched forward with a more focused attack. His blades whirling in lightning-fast synchronicity. Ramose spun his staff into the blur of blades and knock back as many of the attacks as he could, and ducked and dodged the rest. A sudden slash on his shoulder that sent a splatter of blood against one of Bast's blades sent the teenager leaping backwards. Biting back the pain, Ramose grimaced and started to spin his weapon around in his whirlwind dance. The sand in the air sucking into a vortex around his body.

  “A young storm-dancer hoping to beat his master,” Bast laughed. “Come young warrior, summon the biggest storm you can! Your salt will still return to the desert!”

  Then in answer, Bast swung the hilts of his scimitars together, causing a resounding clash of steel as the weapons joined. The curved swords suddenly fanned out like large peacock feathers, revealing their multi-blades. Grinning darkly, the giant began his own storm dance that mimicked Ramose's.

  Soon both tornadoes were spinning furiously towards each other.

  The gloam-vines that encircled the pillars around the Chamber of Lore had been poisoned by djinn scouts. They had been sent out to blind the approach of the rebels and kill anyone they found on the Great Road. Now that their work was done, they waited patiently for the command to advance on the last bastion of resistance against their master.

  Lemurian soldiers and chamber guards gathered grim-faced against the dark, awaiting the return of Oreus. There were hundreds of them pressed shoulder to shoulder on the front lawn of the chamber, their weapons in hand. They saw the last pillar go black and heard the last sounds of battle towards the city finally die to an uncomfortable silence. From what little news they received, the army did not count on seeing Mathias or Rykar again. Their hope going out one by one like the flames of candles against the wind of an oncoming storm.

  Kaelan stood on the balcony overlooking the lawn. He wore the High Librarian's reef of silverfire leaves on his head and his body was shrouded in his black cloak. A claw-ringed hand clung to the railing, squeezing tightly, his fingers paling. A twisted madness was in his eyes, and a dark brooding hatred in his heart that was quelled only by his iron-cast will and determination. Below him, Mathias' army waited. Silhouettes in the dark, murmuring doubt and fear to the wind. Hands gripping glaives and spears in anticipation.

  “Hark, brothers and sisters!” the rebel leader cried, finally revealing himself and bringing the soldiers' attention to the balcony. A sea of voices expressed surprised awe, followed by shouts of anger. “Listen! Listen to me! Your leader is dead!”

  “The traitor returns!” a voice shouted from the crowd.

  “He must have killed Oreus!” another cried.

  “Kill him!” came yet another.

  “Please! My fellow Lemurians! People from Atlantis, Hy-Bresail, Avalon, and all the other lands of our most lustrous empire, hear me!”

  The temperament of the crowd did not give Kaelan the dignity of silence to hear his plea. Anticipation turned to fierce threats of reprisal.

  “Kill him!” one man with a long, braided beard bellowed, taking charge of the army who raised their weapons high in the air. There were sea-shells, beads and small bronze Atlantean talismans that decorated his braids, and his silver hair whipped about when he moved like ethereal serpents. A knotted brow and tense jaw darkened an otherwise proud and regal face. In his hands he held a long spear with three rings suspended by spokes along the weapon's haft, identifying him as a Auralar Knight. “Shoot him from his perch!”

  “Silence!” Kaelan screamed with a voice that was amplified by his psychic-energy. It sounded as if the words he spoke were deep like thunder and with many layers. His eyes were pinpoints of white light and they bore down on the army, seeking out the defiant ones that shone back. With each face he looked upon, they eventually fell quiet and did not speak. The darkness of the cavern seemed to grow, until finally he said, “I have not come to conquer you; but to liberate you. For too long you have lived under this roof of stone!” His hands flung up in emphasis. “For too long you have worried about the whim of those who have inherited this world. We are not craven, we are not defeated. We are the forefathers of this modern age. The gods they prayed to in their old religions. We are the kingmakers and the kingbreakers. We should be sitting on their high seats, not wallowing in their sewers!

  Then he spat and went silent. Kaelan's shadow seemed to grow bigger and his eyes were almost brighter than the sun. Full of anger, full of righteousness. “I will give you a chance. Give your children a chance. Side with the Dark Tide and we will restore your honour, restore your greatness! Turn your back on us and... die in the shadows.”

  A mournful horn resounded in the dark, which was taken up by several more and suddenly a great host of Dark Tide rebels and djinn marched out of the wall of darkness surrounding the Chamber of Lore. Some of the rebels wore Nysaean war-masks that resembled horrible water-demons, and carried long, cruel spears; and others wielded wind-hammers—weapons that could channel echokinesis—and great, razor-edged shields that could be thrown in battle. Also, a convoy of captured kapri-arks from Zerzura hovered down the Great Road and stopped before the Fathers of Osiria. Kaelan's army outnumbered the Library army three to one.

  “We have come back from exile! Come to free you from the bondage that Oreus and Aramathaeus forced upon you all. Even the wayward Toram helped build and preserve your prison. Now is the time, brothers and sisters... Children of Lemuria. Now is the time of our reckoning. Who will stand with me? Who?”

  The Auralar Knight, who stood before the Library army as the instigator of their wrath, looked at the dark forces surrounding his folk, then stepped back in line with the others. “Never!” he shouted. “You're responsible for the ransack of our city! Why should we follow you? No... take your rabble and leave, Kaelan, Great Betrayer! I will die with the old guard!”

  “Hear! Hear!” the Lemurian army cheered, and two Kratoth Knights suddenly appeared, bare-chested and displaying their gold bands. They grabbed the Auralar's fists and raised them in the air in a form of salute, bringing the cheer to a tumultuous cry for victory.

  Kaelan's face threw scorn at the Auralar Knight and he then waved an arm directly below him. “Those who do not wish death, step forward!”

  There was silence. Hesitation. Then finally a lone figure ran from the army towards the wall of the Chamber of Lore under a barrage of jeers and threats.

  “Deserter! Deserter!” the crowd shouted.

  Then another three broke for the wall. Unfortunately, one—a scared, young Avalonian man—was impaled by a soldier's hurled spear and died instantly. Using the distraction of the deserter's death, a group of twenty or more barged forward and ran after the other two.

  “Hold your glaives!” the bearded warrior shouted, lifting a hand in the air. “Do not slay your brothers! Let them bargain with the Betrayer at their own risk!”

  When the last of the deserters reached the wall of the chamber, the front doors opened and several rebels ushered them inside. The doors then slammed shut and were locked.

  “Your choice has been made,” Kaelan said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Now you will pay the price for your insolence. Your foolish pride!”

  The rebels and djinn charged at the last resistance of the Library like a mighty tide washing over a sand castle. Like hundreds of ants over the carcass of a small bird.

  “For Lemuria!” the bearded warrior took up the last call for arms. “For Lemuria!”

  Cloak dispatched the last of the storm-dancers with a poisoned dart from his blowpipe. The djinn's body dropped from its levitating position unceremoniously to the ground with his storm summoning staff.

  The
haze of dirt and sand began to fall to the earth, settling on the lamp-grass and gloams, and the djinn warriors hiding amongst the trees were suddenly visible.

  Hands rummaging in a leather satchel on his belt, Cloak finally withdrew a small shard of a red gem—what was left of the Doom Stone shard that he had used on Gha'haram in the Southlake woods. He had managed to find it when no one was watching him and secreted it away from the prejudices of the others. Its power whispered to him from his palm like an insidious voice from the pit of his darkest nightmares. It whispered of power that could be his. Power that would be his if he only...

  Looking up, the Samatar saw djinn warriors running from the tree line of the field straight at him. He was their new target. Cloak was out numbered, he could not kill them all. They would find the others in the Rising Hope and, without Mathias, would slaughter them all. He could not let that happen. Not on his blood-oath.

  Yes! Yes! The stone sung eagerly to him. Use me! Use my power! Let us merge into one!

  Dropping to his knees, Cloak slammed the shard into his forehead with all his might and screamed in immense pain as it pierced his flesh. The cavern seemed to shake with his cry as the red stone—even after his hands had dropped away—began to drill deeper into his head. Drilling through his flesh and into the bone of his skull...

  The djinn saw Cloak writhing on the ground in fits of pain. Screaming like a madman. He was being further tortured by the sting of the lamp-grass as his violent thrashing ripped them out. They stopped and watched in horror as the Nysaean curled up in a whimpering ball and pleaded for death. Then after one more convulsion... he lay still.

  Cautiously approaching, the djinn warriors held their curved scimitars at arms length in front of them. Fear was on their faces and in the trembling of their hands. They did not know what had happened to Cloak and did not want to face the same fate.

  A dark shadow suddenly gathered around the still form of Cloak, and his ashen face lit up from a red spiderweb of light that streaked out from a bloody stone protruding from his forehead. His eyes, as black as night shot open and the djinn gasped and took several steps backward.

  The body of the Nysaean, which they swore was dead only moments before, spasmed as if the lamp-grass was still shocking it. A horrible laughter then followed. A deep croaky laughter that rumbled in Cloak's chest and burst out of his cracked lips, spewing black tar-like liquid all over the ground.

  “What is it?” a djinn cried in horror and disgust.

  “I-I think it is undead. Or a demon!”

  “A Revenant!” another cried. “It is a Slave of Meztor!”

  Cloak lurched to his feet like a marionette pulled up by its strings and turned his baleful gaze at the crowd of spectators. “Now you will all die!” he hissed his threat through a black-liquid smeared mouth. His voice sounded as if it were many with varying pitches.

  Two thirds of the djinn ran screaming back the way they had come, while the braver few held their ground, somewhat reluctantly.

  Swirling black mist spun around Cloak's body like a living shadow. Then, as it swirled faster and faster around him, the Nysaean began to grow in stature. His body stretched twenty feet tall: a hideous giant whose flesh ripped into sinewy strands, revealing blackened bone beneath. His skull-like head howled like a blood-hungry wolf and the shadow tendrils around him swayed and curled like the tentacles of an octopus.

  One djinn tested his steel against the Revenant by slashing at one of the shadow tendrils. It instantly snaked around the sword and the djinn's arm, then pulled the man screaming into Cloak's cold embrace. The sound of djinn's spine cracking like deadwood resounded in the air and its lifeless body dropped to the ground, its flesh dissolving into dust. A pile of bones fell at the Revenant's feet. It had devoured his life essense.

  The last djinn ran.

  The two tornadoes crashed into each other. Staff and swords delivering a flurry of blows, both attempting to find a weakness in the other's defences. At times the staff would crack a rib or almost disjoint a kneecap, while the sword kept making numerous cuts across the other's body, a little deeper with each slash.

  Levitating above the ground, both djinn warriors used their hands and feet as well to deadly effect. Kicks and punches that broke skin and almost bones.

  When Ramose felt he was about to gain the upper hand with a devastating jab to the giant's head, Bast rolled around the blow and grabbed his young adversary by the throat with surprising reflexes and threw him to the ground. This instantly broke the vortex of sand that spun conically around the djinn. Ramose landed on his right shoulder, jarring it, and causing his staff to fly from his grip.

  Bast's tornado spun towards him menacingly, his blades flying out of the sand.

  Ramose climbed to his feet as fast as he could and began to limp away from the oncoming attack. But he was worn out, drained of all his strength; and without his staff he was also defenceless. The teenager dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl. Instantly his injured shoulder gave way and he fell face first into a patch of lamp-grass. Their lights glared in his eyes and he felt the storm of Bast baring down on him.

  A shadow blacker than night suddenly loomed above both Ramose's prone position and Bast's descending tornado. Claws as sharp as blades slashed at Bast from out of the darkness and cut into the djinn's back. The leader screamed in pain and fell to the ground, crashing not far from Ramose. His body rolled a few times then lay sprawled on the edge of the silver circle.

  “No one can stop me! No one!”

  Ramose recognised the voice. It was Cloak's... but somehow not his voice. “Erin!” he shouted into the dark mass, while struggling to his feet. “What have you done?”

  “A little modification, boy,” Cloak thundered in his multi-pitched voice. “Now quickly, enter the hole in the ground. It will take you inside the Rising Hope.”

  “But, I can't!” the djinn replied, distress in his voice.

  “Why not? Don't be a fool!”

  “I have to find Eleena and find out what happened to Vesphaeon. I saw them escape Bast before he killed Rykar. I can't let anything happen to her!”

  The giant skeleton flickered as if drifting between reality and some other dimension. Its hideous face contemplating the scenario Ramose had just given him. Then he finally answered, “Fair enough. But I will set you another task as well. You must rally the remnants of the Library who are still loyal to Oreus and help him reclaim our city! Find some of your friends in the top world if you must.”

  The djinn nodded at Cloak's disembodied form. “I will,” he swore with fierce conviction. “Good luck with the quest. I will see you here once the Crown of Dreams is destroyed.”

  “That you will, Ramose son of Ammon, that you will.”

  Then the giant horror that was Cloak turned and ran thunderously towards the hatch in the middle of the giant silver circle. It seemed to shed layers of shadow as it moved, and quickly took on the pale figure of Cloak once more. The ground suddenly shook, and his semi-corporeal form reeled back like smoke from a chimney. Looking down, Cloak saw the giant circle beneath his feet beginning to turn... and lift out of the ground!

  The hatch in the centre of the circle closed with a resounding clang!