Mentally patting myself on the back I turn to see what was next, but the silence is ever-present. Nothing changes in front of me, but the wriggling and cries begin anew, growing in intensity and vileness. The clawing and scraping invade my body, feeling like it’s under attack. Spinning, I see all the bodies I’d just put down writhe and gurgle, body parts and decimated flesh crawling back to their owners. I watch in horror, hearing the filthy, pervasive sounds of meat slurping, of bones cracking, of voices moaning with dread and hunger, as the writhing continues before it stops suddenly. Then without warning, every single body stood up at once. Unlike before, these creatures now glow a slight red, coming at me much faster than before. Staying calm, I know this is just a test, however dangerous and painful. Tingling. Bliss. Strength and purpose. I attack. Sharper than before I go about my business with renewed intent, and just like before, I leave a swathe of bodies in my wake. A one-man army cutting through enemies like swallows on a breeze. It was almost beautiful and when I’m done I stand there alone, breathing steadily as small wisps of steam come from my shimmering jet-black fur.
Writhing. Squelching. Crunching. Wriggling. Crying. Clawing. Scraping. Redness. They’re even faster. More ferocious than before. The glow in and around them has intensified, their dead eyes fixing on me. Tingling. Bliss. Strength and purpose. Fear began to take hold as I look over at Djoonga. He’s as dull as the blackest night. Even though I think I’m making progress, he doesn’t change, and I despair. Teeth sink into my forearm and I crush the head that held them with ease. They’re much faster. They’re much stronger. They’re leaving their mark on me. It’s as if all my fears were attacking me at once. All my evil deeds embodied by these zombies. I can feel my strength waning. The fire in me is going out. All of my skills from before I lost Eve and from the rooms are useless. Panic sets in as claws scrape down my back, drawing dark red from me and showing me I can be hurt. Tiredness and fright become my new masters. They’re undisciplined and wasteful masters. I can fell the terror growing, and my fire dims in the part-moments. I can’t move my left arm and looking over I realise it’s pinned by an incredible number of deads. My right arm feels absent and looking that way I realise it is. My line of sight follows on to where I partially remember it being torn off and I see it’s being devoured. Torn apart and out of my reach, shock takes me. Pain replaces my previous masters and dismay stamps out my fire. I can feel biting and gnawing all over me now. Chunks of muscle and fat are being torn and thrown away, each tooth or claw visiting fresh pain upon me. Blood and meat are being swallowed right in front of me by unfeeling, unseeing nightmares. I’m being eaten alive and I wonder if it is time I paid my debt.
Struggling, my fire sputters and coughs, suggesting I’m not done yet. If I could just get out, I’d be okay. If I could just get clear of this mass of hunger I could heal. With tremendous effort I rally myself, not willing to give up yet. Every bite from these mindless creatures is a reason to fight back. Each time the pain comes I feel myself burn brighter. Only I can get myself out of this mess, so I master my feelings and my body to do just that. The suffocating mass of bodies crowd out even the small light that was left in the room. I’m being crushed with the weight of the evils on top of me, drowning in half bodies and feeling helpless. No. I am not helpless. My turn to crush. My turn to bite and claw. My turn to fight. Somehow, I struggle parts of me free, flinging bodies left and right with inexplicable strength. Armless, I find myself standing, kicking and dealing out my own death with teeth of iron and jaws of steel. Whatever had been on top of me moments before was now scattered around me, passing into their own endless sleeps at my behest. Now I just need to get out, so I can heal.
But they aren’t sleeping. Dropping to a knee and looking around, blood pours out of me from everywhere. I don’t know how, but parts of me are trying to heal themselves, trying to piece me back together in time for the next attack. I didn’t know I could do that so quickly, thinking that my Bjørneskinn was the only way I could repair myself that fast. Reminding me of my situation, rivers of pain run in all directions through me, wanting me to stop and give up. How can I go on in this state? I don’t have the strength to withstand another attack, so why try? The pain is winning and wants me to take my own endless sleep, but I’m not ready. Looking over myself, I see my fur is still shimmering in places that aren’t stained with body parts and fluids from creatures I didn’t know existed. I marshal myself, willing the pain and doubts to the back of my mind. I find the strength from some unknown reservoir and stand tall against the terror before me. My fire burns brightly and my eyes gleam. I will not pay my debt this day.
Writhing. Squelching. Crunching. Wriggling. Crying. Clawing. Scraping. Redness. But they’re so fast. They’re too fast and too many now. I panic momentarily and draw on the last of my energy reserves. I give everything I have, drawing on places and memories to fuel my survival, but it isn’t enough. I drag, kick, punch, bite and rend with my body and soul, but my discipline falters. I will every part of me to fight back and destroy the dreaded creatures that are trying to destroy me, but my strength fades, and I’m pinned again. Feeling those teeth and that pain on repeat. This must’ve been how those soldiers felt in the trenches when I came for them. The Native American Indians would’ve been through what I’m going through now when we attacked. Hopeless. Powerless in the face of something stronger, something deadlier. Djoonga was right to not send anyone in here. The price is too dear. The debt too large. Maybe it is my time. I would pay my debt this day.
“I’m sorry Eve.” I gasp, closing my eyes for the last time and welcoming the endless sleep with open arms.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - JUDGEMENT
Patience Gerard. Think this through. Lars Engen just killed two Protectorate employees, trying to cover up the unsanctioned use of magik that he and his team masked earlier. He’s keeping this dark and new magik, marked by a strange unknown symbol, under wraps. He cleansed a scene, even though he wasn’t the closest Venatoré, and also tried to put a knife in the back of Enyo. A knife that was now gnawing at him. He knew Lars had always been a blunt weapon his organisation used as a last resort, but these actions seemed extreme, even for him. The pain sank a fresh bite into him, so he used his anger against The Protectorate to push on. They have; been forcing ascensions, knowing it would break their new recruits’ minds, Vaughn says they’ve been taking all kinds of creatures, including Naïves and Nahgwals to sector forty-seven and covering up their disappearances, and they’ve been doctoring files. The Hammer was right. Something and nothing was happening here, Lars just one example amongst many, of the extremes they were willing to go to in order to keep the secrets, secret.
“Hältia.” Eris was hanging up her phone whilst pacing towards him. Gerard hadn’t even noticed that she was speaking to someone whilst he was processing. “The portal was sanctioned by one of The Nine. The Fall.” The breath caught in all their throats at hearing the mention of a Nameless. They weren’t prepared to deal with such a being should it come down to it and if he was behind this, they feared for their own skins. Gerard recovered his composure first and looked at her, his cool eyes telling her she could go on.
“It authorised Lars to use a prisoner from Babylon to make it.” The irony in the name of the Lucidfolk prison wasn’t lost on him. Of all the maximum-security prisons in their world, he found Babylon the most interesting. Not because it housed vile criminals from all the races, all the prisons did, but because of how it was run. There were no walls, just an endless desert that surround the inmates and would kill them should they venture into it. They were all allowed to live in the city however they wished and without security interventions. At least, minimal interventions. Guards were there and not there. Present but untouchable. Mirages that could harm and not be harmed. A stunning piece of magik from the old days Gerard had the privilege of witnessing when met the warden during his academy days. A surprisingly generous, kind man on the surface, but from the stories that reached Gerard’s ears, he had a r
uthless and cruel temper that was often vented on his charges.
The warden took great pleasure in talking of how the Naïves still marvelled at The Garden’s beauty from the old days. Another stunning piece of magik, one that was also lost to the Lucidfolk now. When pressed, the warden didn’t know which wytch or wyzard had established this place, but he couldn’t think of a better cover to keep prying eyes away. The hanging gardens that evoked such romance, more accurately resembled a shanty town, its location lost to the Naïves, a dream washed away by time and memories. Gerard remembered walking the filthy streets as one of the mirages, taking in the sights, sounds and smells that would haunt his waking and sleeping mind. The residents were pitiful, fighting for survival and kept in squalor as punishment for their crimes, forced into sub-Lucid conditions as a lesson to others.
“Which prisoner?”
Eris didn’t know where the line of questioning was going but was saved by her training at Gerard’s hands. Without thought, years of it being drilled into her brain, she’d asked her contact for extra details and luckily, they came through for her. “A Vaapa Maailma believer.” She said, trying to guess at her masters thinking.
“Why not someone from The Bermuda Triangle?” He whispered to himself. That place housed some of the vilest people from both worlds within its walls, so disposing of someone from there would be more efficient. Make the portal sacrifice to get an agent in field quickly and get rid of an offender worse than a Vaapa Maailma. During the long cold, when the rules governing keeping a society peaceful, peaceful, were deemed less concrete, The Protectorate had run out of room in their own prisons. Instead, they incarcerated the overflow in places they established in the Naïve world, which would remain hidden to them. Gerard was impressed by The Protectorate’s ingenuity during that time, creating a rich source of energy to be used for portal travel as well as keeping criminals away from the public. ‘Better to use a lifer, (who deserves it), then an innocent from the streets,’ was the party line when they were tied up quelling The Reaper invasion. The Nine had established the organisation during darkness and turmoil, an impressive feat whilst fighting a war at the same time. For the longest stretch, Gerard respected who he worked for, believing that the systems in place would prevent another long cold. Prey for warmth, his mentor would say at the end of each day they spent together. He missed him now, more than he knew. He wished for his guiding hand in this mess.
“We must leave.” He said suddenly, clarity cutting through him like a scythe. Like the knife wound scratching at his back. They were buried in the heart of enemy territory, which only a few hours ago felt safe and familiar to him. No doubt, Lars would’ve communicated what was happening, so their time had run out. Orc eyes stayed transfixed by their screens, the fuss of the portal, extra bodies and blood not phasing them, save for one golden eye that cast about slowly. All other eyes looked at Gerard expectantly.
“And not alone.” He stood tall, the anger of his realisations about The Protectorate providing strength and purpose. “Parod, how is Tor doing?”
“He chose to go into the Transcendence room.” He paused, mouth part open to carry on before he stopped himself.
“What is it?” Gerard asked.
“Never before has anyone completed that room or gotten there as fast.” Still amazed at his progress, Gerard was thankful for the Werebear’s pace. If Parod had never seen this before, it meant no one in the network had seen it before. It meant this man was something else, unseen by The Eye’s that watched over them. It meant this man was something different, and he could use that.
“Good, we will collect him on our way out.” He thought the aid of a Nahgwal this powerful would be necessary for their escape, so he made for the door. Without moving the rest of his body, Parod blocked his path with his arm, a golden eye filled with concern looking down at him.
“Be careful Elias. I have been searching the network after you brought these irregularities to me.” The gold, serious and purposeful looked into Gerard’s core.
“They showed me how the truth has been hidden. I can see the patterns now and have found countless disturbances I wish I could un-see. They are doing more than just disappearing Nahgwal. There are case files buried in case files, carrying the same record markers as our anomalies from earlier. They’ve been disposing of Våpen who were not using the Barren Sun magik too.” If Parod’s eye could turn deathly black to mirror his serious tone it would have, but even with his sobering intent blatantly written across his face the gold gleamed brighter than ever. “That symbol the sisters told you about earlier. I have also found record of it. Hidden from all Eyes. It’s Necromancy.” Gerard’s core shuddered at hearing the word, his mind reeling. Sylvane had talked of a Necromancy symbol, maybe they were the same, maybe they were connected. Gerard clasped Parod’s forearm, the Orc reciprocating the gesture and they both silently nodded to each other.
“Be careful Parod. Until judgement comes, and I ask for you, stay safe.” He released his grip and made for the grey door, grey handle and grey corridor once more.
“Look after him.” He said over his shoulder to the other two Orcs.
“About time something interesting happened around here.” Gerard heard Magra say in Orcish.
“Haverforth, with me. The rest of you, secure the exit to the Transcendence room. I need to have a word with the prince before we leave.” Gerard got to the door, took a breath no one would see and reached down for the grey handle. The grey door gave way and he walked the grey corridor to Sylvane’s grey door. The white line of paint followed him the whole way, the cheap, broken lighting making the corridor more interesting. He hoped he’d never come back here and took another unseen breath. It was strange to feel so differently towards a place he’d counted as a home until recently. He grasped another grey handle and pulled through another grey door to meet with a Vaapa Maailma leader. He looked around, the room exactly the same as he left it. Same dark stain. Same dreariness. Same dirt and mess ferrying the past through it. The unsettling mingling of noises, emotions and visions still disturbed him. The disjointed energy still yanked at his heart. The clamminess formed again, uncomfortable on his skin. The only real difference to the scene this time was in Sylvane. He was sat taller this time, looking stronger. A few scars and small bruises all that was left from his interrogations. Mostly gone, mostly healed.
“Mr Stroud.” Same peaceful and warming tones as before. Same fatherly and concerned voice. Patient. “The symbol you saw on the bodies at the mass grave. What did it look like?” Gerard wasn’t sitting this time, he was stood a few feet in front of Sylvane. Still patient.
“A loose spiral with a cross through it. Why?” Sylvane leaned forward, trying to read the enforcer stood before him.
Gerard ignored the question, pressing on with his own. “How many others, like Alika, have you found?”
“A handful.” Sylvane was mournful in his response but stayed focused and concentrated on Gerard. “Nowhere near as many as we lose to your recruitment process.”
“What do you know about section forty-seven?” Gerard was seeing Sylvane’s point of view very clearly now. The Protectorate wanted control. Power for the Powerful. Hearing his side and matching it to his own thoughts, what The Hammer had told him, Vaughn’s observations an what happened to his Sløv, and the events of the last few hours, he was sure the organisation he’d given his life to was broken. Rotten. Sylvane spat at hearing the name, blood caked curls of hair dancing around his face angrily.
“That place is cursed. We know nothing about what goes on in there. Just what goes in and what comes out. Death.” That was enough for Gerard. He motioned to Haverforth, suggesting he release Sylvane.
“Are you sure, sir?” He said nervously, pulling a small blade out of his waistband and waiting. A solemn nod was all that was needed to sway him into releasing the Werewolf prince.
“We wouldn’t do that if we were you.” A voice scratched into the air. Gerard recognised it instantly, recalling past
encounters with one of The Nine. It sounded very similar to what he’d heard before, words mixed with clicks, scrapes and shuddering noises from somewhere different, somewhere else. The nausea inducing frequency nearly reduced Haverforth to his knees, but the small man kept his composure as best he could. He stumbled on to stand behind Sylvane, defiant and wilful in completing the task assigned to him. Gerard hadn’t move at hearing the voice, having practised maintaining his own composure with The Hammer. He waited. Patient.
“We have let this go on for long enough. You will stay where you are to be judged, Elias Gerard.” It was the stain on the back of the wall Gerard knew. Focusing on where the sound was coming from he knew it was right there, that smudge of deceit and evil. It was moving as the words came from the unseen master, a sickly movement that vibrated with the sounds it uttered.
A Dyad in Time Page 39
