This comment spurred a flurry of confused speculation.
The scrivener elaborated. “All of you are aware of the brutal methods which the Nephilim employ to achieve their ends. Kidnapping, murder, and potentially even global terrorism. From birth onward, members of the cult are taught that obedience is the highest virtue. In consequence, they are willing to commit innumerable atrocities at the behest of the deranged fellow who calls himself their diviner. Such is the damage that can ensue when unquestioning obedience supersedes personal conviction of right and wrong.”
“I’m not sure what your point is,” Michel Khatabi interjected testily. “But stooping to fear tactics to sway our decision is beneath you.”
“That wasn’t my intention at all,” the scrivener countered. “I simply wanted to clarify my motives for tendering my resignation as chief scrivener.”
Cries of disbelief erupted from around the table.
“Please.” Griffin raised his hand. “Allow me to finish. Collectively, we are bound by the decisions of the Circle. As individuals, we must consult our own best judgment when deciding upon a course of action. Without that necessary counterbalance, we would follow authority as blindly as the Nephilim, no matter how misguided that authority might be. Personally, I am convinced that the Sage Stone is Abraham Metcalf’s Achilles heel. If we deprive him of it, all his schemes will collapse like a house of cards. Therefore, should the Circle decide to terminate the relic hunt and declare a blackout, I will dissociate myself from the organization and pursue the Minoan relic alone.”
The assembly fell still. Shock had evidently taken the place of protest.
The scrivener gazed around at his flabbergasted audience. “Of course, I would welcome the support and assistance of the Arkana but, either way, I intend to see this quest through.” He glanced down at Cassie. “I haven’t discussed my decision with our pythia yet, so I can only speak for myself.”
Cassie jumped up beside him and took his hand. “Griffin speaks for me too. We didn’t battle our way this far to fail in the end. Trust me when I tell you that we mean to finish what we started.”
The scrivener gave a slight smile. “It would appear the two of us are in accord as to our future plans. The direction the Arkana chooses to take now rests with you, but I would hope that you understand the necessity of standing with us in this fight. The survival of the troves depends upon it.”
They both sat down.
Jun looked around at his fellow members. “Does anyone wish to offer any final comments?”
No one spoke.
The old man nodded. “Very well. I will officially close discussion of this topic. Since the chatelaine is unlikely to return, I suggest we now take a vote on her proposal.”
Cassie reached for the scrivener’s hand once more and gripped it tightly.
“All those in favor?” Jun announced. He waited several seconds, but there were no votes to count. “All those opposed?” Thirty-two hands shot up in the air including his own.
“Brilliant!” Griffin exclaimed.
“The Nephilim wanted a war.” Cassie’s tone was ominous. “They just got their wish.”
Chapter 50—Recyclables
Dr. Rafi Aboud sat in the office of his underground laboratory reviewing a batch of test results. For the past two months, he had tried, with only limited success, to develop a vaccine which would quell the strain of pneumonic plague he had created. He was running out of patience with himself. His own mild disappointment was nothing compared to the vocal displeasure of both his benefactor and his business associate Vlad. Their demands for immediate results grew more strident with each passing day.
He scanned the data before him. The last test subject had taken days to succumb. At least Aboud had succeeded in slowing the advance of the bacteria. He’d made some additional adjustments to the vaccine formulation and was hopeful that the next test might produce a better outcome. He smiled morosely. When he first began the testing process, he’d been worried about how to obtain human subjects. Much to his own amazement, his benefactor possessed an inexhaustible supply of people he wanted to get rid of. The trait seemed to run in the family.
A month earlier, Aboud had been surprised by a visit from one of his benefactor’s many sons. The young man introduced himself as Joshua and explained that he was the head of security for his father’s organization. He told the doctor that he was tangentially involved in the supply chain insofar as he was the man responsible for identifying malcontents who were then sent to Aboud’s laboratory. Although Joshua wasn’t privy to what went on inside, he did know that those who entered never returned. Given that fact, he was wondering if the doctor might help him with an awkward situation.
When Aboud followed Joshua out to the reception area, he was confronted by the sight of two of Joshua’s men carrying what appeared to be a body bag. They placed it on the floor. Joshua explained that his father had nearly been assassinated by the person now lying within said body bag. Joshua was aware that the doctor’s laboratory contained an incinerator and he wondered if the doctor might do him the favor of disposing of the remains. Considering the circumstances, Aboud felt it in his best interests to comply. He instructed the security team to leave the corpse and gave his assurances that he would take care of the problem. Joshua left satisfied, presumably never to bother the good doctor again.
Since Aboud was a practical man, he saw no point in destroying something he might be able to use later. The body was still fresh enough to harvest odds and ends. He extracted the organs and removed slabs of tissue to culture several new batches of vaccine. After he had finished salvaging what he needed, the scraps were incinerated along with the most recent test subject. The matter should have ended then and there. Aboud shook his head.
When Joshua showed up with four sentries carrying another body bag two weeks earlier, the doctor began to think he’d gone into the waste management business. His benefactor’s son didn’t bother to explain how this latest subject had come to his untimely end. The chief of security quite literally dropped the remains on Aboud’s doorstep and presumed the doctor would know what to do.
Aboud sighed philosophically and prepared for another salvage operation. Once the body had been placed on his dissection table, he performed a cursory inspection to determine if it was still fresh enough to harvest. Aboud drew back in surprise when he realized that this particular body was quite fresh—in fact, it was still alive. He found himself wondering if Joshua and his men had even bothered to check for a pulse. As things stood, it would have taken more than a simple carotid artery test to discover the feeble heartbeat that remained. The man might not be dead, but he was hovering dangerously close to that point.
The doctor immediately performed a thorough examination of the subject and concluded that it might be possible to save him. Of course, he had lost a significant amount of blood from several bullet wounds. Aboud called in his team, and they all went to work. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on the doctor. His staff had spent months inventing ever more efficient ways of extinguishing life from the human body. They soon proved to be equally adept at forcing life to remain, no matter how unwillingly. The bullet wounds were cleaned and disinfected. Several blood transfusions later, it became obvious the patient would survive. Aboud dismissed his team and took charge of the subject from there. When the man eventually showed signs of regaining consciousness, Aboud sedated him. Less trouble that way.
The doctor finished checking his test results and rose from his desk. He whistled an old tune from his homeland as he walked into the decontamination chamber where his hazmat suit hung on a peg. There he methodically donned his coverall, helmet, and gloves as a prelude to conducting yet another experiment. After he had taken care to cover every square inch of his body, he moved on to the testing area.
His technicians had already strapped the unconscious blond man into the plastic chair. Aboud attached an oxymeter to the man’s finger. Then he gave a signal to
his assistants on the other side of the glass wall. One of them waved back to indicate that the vital signs were being transmitted properly.
The doctor retrieved a gas canister from a corner of the room. Then he placed a breathing apparatus over the man’s nose and mouth. The subject twitched briefly. Aboud attached the tube from the canister to the mask over the man’s face. Then, he turned the valve on the gas canister to release its deadly contents through the breathing tube.
The man was returning to consciousness. He blinked and struggled to sit up. His eyes opened wide with alarm when he realized his predicament.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Aboud said. “No matter how brief your stay may be.”
THE SAGE STONE PROPHECY
The Sage Stone Prophecy
Book Seven of Seven—Arkana Archaeology Mystery Thriller Series
http://www.mythofhistory.com
Copyright © 2016 by N. S. Wikarski
Second Revised Edition 2017
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1—Past Perfect, Future Tense
Hyperborea – Circa 1000 BCE
The priestess stood just outside the cave entrance and pensively surveyed the landscape around her. She drew her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Her long gray hair was covered today by a voluminous woolen hood. Though it was high summer, she shivered. She doubted that her aged bones would ever adapt to this chill climate. She had been born on a sundrenched island surrounded by an azure sea—a homeland now stolen from her people.
A primitive race of men on horseback had pillaged all the great cities on the island, setting themselves up as rulers over people far wiser and more civilized than they. These ruffians were driven by a mania for conquest. They had honed the skills of warfare to the exclusion of all else. As a consequence, they possessed no system of writing, no art, no music, and the gods they worshipped were as greedy and bloodthirsty as they. Because they understood nothing, they had destroyed many sacred objects while ransacking the holy temples for treasure.
Six precious artifacts remained at great risk. They were the most revered symbols of the Mother of All: a golden bee, a dove carved from lapis lazuli, a bull’s head spangled with sapphires, a coiled serpent set with emeralds, a jewel-encrusted labrys, and the Voice of Heaven itself. If the barbarians were to lay hold of them, they would rip the artifacts apart—gouging the gems from their settings and melting the gold to make crowns for their vagabond kings.
The priestess and a dozen companions had left their native country on a mission to preserve these priceless relics before it was too late. They intended to hide them separately, a great distance apart, each one engraved with a cryptic message to lead to the next. Their journey had taken them across untold miles by sea and on land. Sometimes they rode, sometimes they walked. They had spent far too many nights sleeping on hard ground when no other shelter was to be had. They had bartered for food and survived on scraps from those who had little to give. They had dodged bandits and stray war parties. Finally, they had arrived here—the resting place of the final relic. Some of them had arrived, anyway. Most had succumbed to disease or mishap during their arduous trek to the farthest edge of the earth.
Only three of the original band still remained alive: the priestess, a metalworker, and a stonemason who happened to be his cousin. She had known both men from their youth when they’d been pledged to the service of the temple. They had since grown into master craftsmen with sinewy forearms and sanguine dispositions. In spite of the hardships of the road, the two somehow retained enough jauntiness to play pranks on one another. The skills of both had been critical at each stage of the trip but never more so than here at its ultimate destination.
One of them poked his head out of the cave and addressed her. “All is in readiness, lady.”
Wordlessly, she turned and followed him back into the dark interior which was illuminated only by a pair of torches. The two men had labored ceaselessly for weeks to fashion a clever hiding place for the invaluable object she carried. Her clairvoyance had shown her this cave and unerringly guided them to its location. She glanced down briefly at the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. Despite every manner of disaster along the way, she had never wavered in her conviction that they would ultimately succeed in finding this precise spot. And so they had.
The little band had come to rely on her intuition as a mariner might rely on the constellations to steer his ship. She had led them through many strange lands, always knowing the exact place where each of the Bones of the Mother must be hidden. She knew the wording which must be inscribed on every object—its coded message pointing to the next artifact long before any of them had laid eyes on the destination described in the clue. The stonemason and metalworker followed her instructions implicitly. Her second-sight had proven too accurate for them to doubt it anymore.
She emerged from her reverie to contemplate the cavern wall and the craftsmen’s handiwork which had transformed it into something far more complex than a flat sheet of rock.
The two men looked at her expectantly.
“Well,” the stonemason ventured. “What do you think?”
She surveyed the results and smiled. “You have both done exceedingly well.”
“All the calculations and measurements are precise,” the metalworker assured her. “Every condition must be met to open the lock. If not...” He trailed off.
The priestess nodded. “If not, our greatest treasure will remain buried for all time.”
“Better that than letting it fall into the hands of cutthroats,” the stonemason growled.
“I fear before this age is past, the whole world will fall into their hands,” she remarked sadly.
The two men stepped aside as the priestess knelt on the ground. After unwrapping the object, she held it between her hands and studied it intently. It was an oblong slab of rock, flat as a loaf of unleavened bread. As treasures went, it appeared utterly unremarkable. According to legend, it had fallen in flames from the sky at the beginning of time. Some called it the Voice of Heaven because it could speak to those sensitive enough to hear it. The wisdom of the Oracle Stone had guided her people for millennia until the barbarian hordes cast the whole world into darkness. Then the voice fell silent and guided them no more.
“Anything?” the metalworker asked.
She sighed regretfully. “It has long since stopped speaking to me. The earth is now ruled by madmen who spurn the Mother of All and shun her gifts of good counsel. Perhaps when the times have changed once more, the stone will regain its voice.” She deposited the baetyl reverently into the hiding place prepared for it. Then she rose to her feet and allowed the men to finish their work.
Once they were done, the metalworker held out a stone cylinder. “What should we do about this?”
The priestess took the object. It was a solid piece of granite, about a foot long and five-sided. Each of the five surfaces was intricately carved with symbols—the translation key to the clues inscribed on the Bones of the Mother.
“The granite key,” she murmured. “I’d completely forgotten.” She slipped it inside the folds of her sleeve. “I will find a trustworthy guardian who can keep it safe until the world grows sane again.”
The three fell silent as they studied the cave wall which now concealed the Voice of Heaven, each remembering the heartbreaking sacrifices required to bring them to this moment.
“Do you think the grey-eyed seer will find this place?” The stonemason peered at the priestess hopefully in the f
lickering torchlight.
“Only someone guided by unseen forces would have the power to unearth what we have hidden so well from the unworthy,” she equivocated. “And that is as it should be.” The priestess paused as a troubling vision of the future formed in her mind. “I see the grey-eyed one standing in this very cave, but she is not alone. There is also an aged man. In spirit, he is much like the brutes who robbed us of our homeland. His hands, like theirs, are soaked in blood. The elder and the seer vie for the stone but...” She broke off, passing her hand across her forehead. “The outcome of their struggle is hidden even from me.”
The two men appeared crestfallen at the news.
The priestess patted them both on the back consolingly. “This is not a day for sadness. You should rejoice that we have completed our sacred charge at long last. Come, take the torches and let us leave this place.”
The three emerged from the cave and collected their scattered belongings, preparing to depart.
“We can’t return home.” The metalworker’s tone was resigned. “Those savages from the north will have overrun all of Minoa by now.”
“Yes, I imagine that is true,” the priestess agreed.
“Then where are we to go?” the stonemason asked plaintively.
“There remain a few corners of this world which have not forsaken the old ways and the Mother of All. We shall live out our days in exile among such folk.”
“I don’t suppose these folk you mention know how to make wine, do they?” the metalworker asked testily. “I haven’t had a drop in months.”
“Indeed, they do,” the priestess countered slyly. “For I see both wine and women in your future.”
The metalworker chuckled, nudging his cousin in the ribs. “I knew there was a reason why I volunteered for this mission.”
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