A Dyad in Time Page 13

  Nearly done, she thought and walked to the room that contained her ring, focusing. Slowly pushing to door open wide she saw the final man standing there. He’d scaled the wall to reach the bedroom and forced his way in through the window having seen past the initial deception. As the door swung open she saw the man land on the floor and move his arms and legs in frantic, angular movements that she recognised as the dark order of magik.

  “Barren sun, savage twins. Swift end and cradled tomb. Devastate.” A gruff voice murmured, filled with hate. On one knee the man looked up, red eyes blazing. He flicked his arms outwards and down with rage whilst looking at Anne. Energy pooled into a hand axe shape at the end of each hand, glowing red to match his eyes. “I have been given license to bring you in by any means necessary.” He growled. “We’ve never failed in finding and-” He paused before grinning maliciously and finishing his sentence, “-detaining our prey.”

  I’d best make this brief Anne thought, goading the man with her eyes. Quick as lightning, the man-daemon flung itself at Anne, flailing deadly blows at her without restraint. She moved as if possessed, dodging everything the creature threw at her, biding her time. The thing didn’t seem to slow or tire, its attack ceaseless and deadly. Breathe she thought. See its flow. Find its weakness. Then she saw it. Her white eyes flashed, causing the flurry of axe blows to slow momentarily. To her that is, not Red Axes.

  “My turn.” She whispered in the creature’s ear, moving inside its defences and seeing its eyes widen with surprise. Dragging its back foot with her, two fingers found the back of its knee. Swinging its axe backwards, two fingers met the shoulder joint. The other axe followed but at snail’s pace considering two limbs were now paralysed. Two fingers found the top of the ribs near the offending arm, followed by another two at the base of the spine. The axes faded, and the body fell forward, completely paralysed. Red eyes faded, to be replaced with angry ones.

  “Shhh, Weyaal. Rest now.” Anne placed two fingers on the man's eyes and closed them gently. Her eyes returned to their normal colour and the light from her hands dissipated. Serenely, she stood up and walked over to a jewellery box on the dressing table. Sitting down, she placed her hands either side of the box and then opened it with knowing gestures. The ring couldn’t help but stand out in the box. It was surrounded by other tasteful, beautiful items but it was shining white. Gingerly, she picked it up and slipped it on to her ring finger before slumping back in the chair as memories crashed forward in a wave.

  * * *

  Trøst and Ludus had barely left the hospital building before they heard the familiar noises of destruction from where they’d just come from. Looking at each other across the roof of their car, doors only just opened, they knew they needed to see what was going on. Stepping back and slamming the doors simultaneously they sprinted back towards the ruckus.

  Red Cloak barely moving despite their pace, they rushed through corridors and slammed through rooms to reach their companions. Looking towards the room that Anne used to be in, they saw a gaping hole and sprinklers showering water down into the space. Agape was lying up against the wall when they first saw him. Then he struggled to his feet, bracing himself and slipping on his own blood, battered and bruised. On the opposite side of the room Pragma was in his familiar fighting stance, coiled like a snake ready to strike but in terrible shape. Breathing hard, bleeding and squinting from one eye he was assessing his opponent.

  Trøst saw an old friend, amongst new. Cleric Augustine, a woman who easily looked as though she’d recently risen from the grave, was stood in between her two attendees, wide feet and slow, liquid arms moving from one man to the other. There wasn’t a scratch on her. Her chest moved slowly and purposefully, breathing with even strokes and eyes flicking left to right before looking forward at a blood-red cloak. Looks about right, Trøst thought and upon the aged nurse seeing her, the woman's demeanour changed from an experienced warrior in the middle of a battle to a polite old monk. She bowed very low from the waist, towards both of her injured opponents in turn, hands together in prayer and respect.

  “Thank you, brothers. I haven’t exercised like that in a long time.” Her eyes landed on the beautiful woman, with Ludus stood behind her, ready to fly into the fray. “You have trained your Sløv well, Isabella.” A wrinkled smile appeared across her face. “However, four of you may be too much for an old woman like me.” The geriatric lady slowly pushed her geriatric wrists together and said with a geriatric voice. “I surrender.”

  “What in kai’s name happened here?!” Trøst exclaimed as Ludus placed magik-infused handcuffs on the prisoner. She knew exactly what had happened, thankful at not having to intervene herself.

  Agape explained with a tired voice and holding his ribs with one arm. She used the void to keep us from using our magik and…”

  “And what?” Trøst questioned with annoyance.

  “She toyed with us like puppets Hältia.” Pragma finished with a wheeze.

  “You should not be so reliant on your magiks, Weyaal.” The old woman laughed.

  “Quite.” Trøst chastised the two men before looking at the empty bed, thinking her Sløv had actually gotten away lightly. “Where is Anne?” She asked, already knowing the answer and rubbing her eyes with thumb and forefinger in annoyance.

  “Escaped. Using magik, Hältia.” Agape admitted sheepishly.

  Trøst sighed before asking a question she already knew the answer to. “How?”

  Pragma nodded towards the ancient frame of the woman in handcuffs who was smiling even wider now.

  “Of course.” Trøst said before walking towards the hole in the wall, redness flowing behind her. She stood in the centre of the space, silhouetted against the setting sun, hands gently clasped in front of her. “Where have you gone Eve?” she whispered into the countryside.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - TALL TALES

  Khar was halfway out of the circular room before he realised that K'Chool wasn’t moving. Thanking Surelikai he’d received no punishment, he couldn’t wait to get out of The Master’s chambers and disobey the last orders he received. There was no way he would simply go back to being poor old Khar within the monastery, ignorant, oblivious and powerless by other people’s assessment. The Master wasn’t who he appeared to be, and The Betrayer needed investigating.

  “What shall we say is our punishment Surelikhan?” K'Chool said after seeing the wink, standing solid and immovable.

  “Yes, Sojela. We cannot have everyone thinking you are above reprieve.” He resumed stroking his beard momentarily.

  “Say that you have been assigned an extremely degrading task that you, a) cannot and b) wouldn’t want to talk about. I am afraid I will need to put you both on latrine duties for a while too so there is a more visible punishment. You know, make an example of you and all that. Also throw in that I threatened exile and a few other devilish things I favour when punishing dissidents. That should keep prying minds away for now.”

  Satisfied, K'Chool didn’t wait another moment before bowing low and turning on the spot to leave the room. The Master watched them leave his circular room with a pipe dangling from his mouth, smoky green fumes escaping the end of the ornate tube. Khar had always been an interesting Sojela to him and he was glad he’d formed a close relationship with their strongest Sojela. He would need her, he thought, especially if they were to investigate how The Last Word got out. When they’d disappeared out of sight he sighed deeply. “Did you hear that, Mo?” He spoke softly.

  “Yes, Obed.” A voice echoed from the shadows. “I thought we had more time too.”

  “Someone activated Eve ahead of schedule.” The Master said to the open room as Mo stepped into the light.

  “Agreed. I’ll send Cleric Augustine to the hospital to find out what she can and protect Eve, if necessary.”

  “You will need to start your own investigation as well old friend. Strings are being pulled here that should have stayed buried.” A puff of green smoke surrounded The Masters face as h
e stared after his two guests, ancient cogs turning within his timeless head.

  Khar and K'Chool couldn’t believe what they’d just been through. Both of their minds were racing, unable to sort through the mess and think clearly. Walking quickly through the room of stories and respectfully nodding at the countless animals, they began to furiously discuss the implications of what they’d just experienced.

  “The Master has been lying to us for years K'Chool. He’s a fraud.” Khar let out excitedly.

  “All those public shows of discipline and rage. There must be a reason for his deception, Khar. We should not think he let his guard down without reason.” She trailed off, thinking hard before looking over at the man beside her and stopping them from walking any further.

  “I am sorry you saw that in your dreams Khar.” Her tone matched how she was feeling. “It must have been difficult.”

  “It was. Even though I wasn’t there, I could feel everything. The heat from the coffee machine, the gusts of wind from the door being left open, the confusion that surrounded the woman and then sorrow and rage as that thing came out of her.” He was lost in thought when they reached the door. “I need to know more about her K'Chool.”

  “I know, Weyaal. The Master will not be pleased if he finds out you went against his orders.” She said it out of habit more than anything else, understanding Khar’s desire to probe into The Thousand Curses history.

  “Have you ever heard of anything like this before? Any mention of this kind of magik in the histories?” K’Chool shook her head. “Why did I know her name as well?”

  “I feel this may be just one of many questions we need to answer.”

  “Let’s visit The Archive.” Khar suggested.

  “That crazy old man?” K'Chool scoffed. “You’ll be lucky to get anything useful out of him. He’s been lost in The Nameless histories since before my time.”

  Khar laughed. He liked The Archive. The head Sojela historian and he had spent many hours together, discussing theories, long dead pasts, named Lucids, and more. He’d personally witnessed The Reaper infestation, the coming of The Nameless, the birth of The Protectorate and the slow decay of their worlds. The Archive was saddened by the fall of their order and told cautionary tales of the new regime they were under. Not once, had the old Sojela needed to refer to a book when asked a about any subject, his memory sharper than his age suggested. If anyone knew anything, it would be him.

  “You never know. You just have to ask the right question.” Khar smiled and broke into a weird trot, hopeful Cleric Aitch would know something.

  * * *

  “Khar, my boy!” The Archive smiled warmly, opening his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. The doddery old man walked out from behind his huge desk, pulling his glasses away from his nose to drop onto his chest. A gold line of light held the glasses in place as he moved slowly. Leaning towers of books surrounded and covered the desk at the front of the library where the tiny, hunched man made his home. Rows upon rows of leathery books of every shape and colour then marched off into the distance, meticulously catalogued and managed by The Archive and a few bored fledglings. Khar regarded them as he walked into the room, smiling at their misfortune for being rotated here and having to put up with the frail man and his wandering, pointless ramblings. Not that he ever minded his rotations there, but he knew how they talked about the senior cleric. Khar spotted a few rickety library carts partially filled with weighty tomes and beautiful ladders standing patiently, waiting to be put to task. The cloaked and bent figure made his way towards Khar, shuffling on tired old feet and almost bumping into him. Acting surprised, the old man came up short and looked into Khar’s eyes, hands held delicately behind his back, a silver-grey eyebrow raising unnaturally high towards a wrinkled hairline.

  Khar laughed before pulling a small wax package from behind his back, neatly held together with twine. Decades dropped away from The Archive’s face as he excitedly received the gift with both hands, squealing with delight. Without a word the creaking bag of bones turned and made his way back to his desk, placing the package in the centre of the leather setting, with the utmost care. K'Chool rolled her eyes as they followed and pulled up chairs, scared not to move too suddenly just in case they caused a book avalanche. Like the fledglings, she saw her time spent here as a necessary component to her training that she never took seriously. The old man frustrated her in how long he took to tell stories and how fastidious he was with the books he guarded. She also felt he was a belligerent old codger sometimes, left behind by time and needing to change his ways.

  A perfect example of this was the errand they needed to run en route to see the Sojela historian. Khar explained that The Archive had offended the head chef over half a century ago, meaning that the old man only ever got the most basic of meals. Khar couldn’t remember the details but it had something to do with the chef’s overuse of certain spices when making Mandarin dishes. Aitch seemed to have a particularly strong point of view on the cuisine, critiquing the man’s culinary skills as well as levelling some personal slander at him for good measure. He wasn’t even a huge fan of Mandarin food, but took the opportunity to offend the chef because of an earlier offense levelled at him. The old man liked the back and forth, using it as a form of entertainment in the years lived at the monastery, no real malice contained in his actions. This time however, he’d gone too far. The chef’s response was providing a limited menu from then on and, blessed Surelikai, no cakes. Soft, liver-spotted and crooked hands untied the knot and patiently removed the layers of wrapping. Two sets of eyes watched another's widen with recognition and glee.

  “Battenberg!” The old voice exclaimed, looking up at Khar with watery eyes. “My favourite.”

  Khar nodded respectfully, knowing that would be the closest he would get to a thank you before waiting on the old man to start either eating, or talking. He wasn’t sure which just yet.

  “So, why are you here, Weyaal?” The question formed absently on the old man’s lips, but there was a sharp mind behind it despite the feigned shaking voice.

  “I need you to tell me about The Last Word.” Khar said gravely.

  “I see. Now I know why you brought me this.” A greying head bowed slightly towards the re-wrapped package. Apparently, The Archive was saving his treat for later.

  “Where did you hear this name?” Aitch was maintaining his doddery façade with more shaking words.

  Khar went on to describe the events he saw in his dream, after taking a few moments to prepare himself. Little sleep, fluctuating emotions from visiting The Master, the revelations that meeting brought, and having to relive a nightmare twice, brought fresh anxieties and fear that drummed up sickness in his stomach. K'Chool’s hand, found its way to his. Warm, comforting and encouraging, he borrowed the resolve he needed to begin. When he’d finished the re-telling of the story for the second time, energy seeped from his bones and muscles, causing him to slump heavily in his chair with a whimper. The last words of the story hung in the air, waiting to be picked like apples from a tree, but the old man left them there, ripening for a while, choosing his moment.

  “You have never heard this name before?” Aitch believed in the power of names. He felt that if you could name something, it gave you power over it. He also believed a name could have power over you too.

  “No.” Khar replied mechanically to searching, penetrating and very old eyes.

  “She was a very promising young wytch before she was turned from us.” The old man began. “Passionate, smart, driven and talented. Incredibly so.” His eyes drifted, remembering a bygone time before returning to the lesson.

  “Now, as you know, most Lucidfolk can practice magik, where the lucky ones, with dedication and time, become accomplished in one of the four higher orders. But every now and then you see a student of the arts who can effortlessly channel magik. It just, comes to them. As easy as breathing. Before we lost her-” The Archive was looking directly into Khar’s eyes whilst talking to them both,
“-she had shown interest in The Barren Sun order as well as The Eternal Light.” He let that sink in for a moment, letting the power of the named magiks take effect. His students also knew that practising two higher orders of magik was unheard of, save for wytches and wyzards of old. “She even started casting without incantations.”

  “What?” K'Chool exclaimed. “That’s not possible. Only Surelikai herself was able to do that.”

  “So our histories say, Weyaal. However, there are a handful of cases beyond our great creator who can do the same. We just prefer not to discuss them openly.”

  “What do you mean, we lost her?” Khar interjected, not caring for the power of the wytch, just in the history of her.

  “She used to be one of us. She was also very close to becoming a Dyad.” A hammer hit Khar in the chest at hearing this, heat swelling up through his body as he felt nausea consume him again. There hadn’t been a wytch, Nahgwal coupling for centuries and to hear that this evil creature was due to become one, sickened him.

  “Who was her Nahgwal?” The Archive looked like he was struggling to recall the names and details of the story but Khar knew that it was more than that. Not once, in all their discussions had he struggled to name the spell, or recall the Elf, or tell of the weapon. Emotions were barring the passage of knowledge.

  “An ancient.” He managed, deciding that was enough detail for the two young ones in front of him. “Who she murdered.”

  A second hammer blow smashed into Khar’s chest. “You’re telling me we made, The Betrayer? We trained her in some of our most powerful arts - two of them - and wanted to couple her with an ancient one, who she killed!?” Anger was slipping into his voice. “Why did no one stop her? Why did no one see it coming?”