by Chris Fox
“Where are we going?” he asked, looking around for any features of note. There was nothing about this place to suggest why they’d come here. No landmarks, and no structures of any kind. They were in the wilderness, the largely untouched south of France.
“To a sacred place,” Isis said, trotting up the trail. She moved quickly, and they struggled to keep up. Long minutes passed as they wound up a narrow trail. Isis eventually stopped, though Blair couldn’t see any particular reason why she should have. She turned to face them, a wide, childlike smile lighting up her features. “We have arrived. It is still here, by some miracle.”
“What is it?” Blair asked, stopping next to her. He followed her gaze to a hole in the ground, just barely large enough for an adult to crawl through.
“Is that a cave entrance?” Liz asked, teeth chattering as she rubbed her arms. She hadn’t chosen to shift, for some reason.
“Yes,” Isis said, kneeling next to it. “Let’s get inside and out of the wind. It will be warmer in there, particularly after we start a fire.”
She moved to a nearby bush and started breaking off small branches, then quickly gathered larger ones that had fallen from a neighboring tree. Her movements were quick and economical, as if she’d practiced them hundreds of times. When she’d finished she ducked into the cave entrance, shimmying through with surprising familiarity.
Liz gave a shrug, following her inside. Blair waited a moment longer, blinking a few times as he began considering where they were. He thought he knew why this place was familiar now. He’d seen a documentary about it. The Cave of Forgotten Dreams. If this was the same place, much of what the world knew about Cro-Magnon culture had originated here. Blair shifted back to human form, squeezing into the narrow opening.
“Isis,” he called, rising from a crouch just inside. His eyes began adjusting to the dim, but he could still barely make out anything. “Where are we, exactly?”
“This was my home, once,” Isis called back, her voice echoing from deeper in the cave. Liz was already disappearing into the gloom, so Blair followed. His vision was much sharper than it had been as a mortal, and the slight light from the cave entrance lit the place like day.
He slid down part of the cave floor, catching himself against a stalagmite. This place couldn’t have been more different than the underworld. It was slick and damp, the sound of water dripping everywhere. Blair rose into a stooped crouch, inching past the low ceiling until he reached a place where he could stand. Liz and Isis stood before a wide wall. Both stared up at something painted there, and Blair’s jaw dropped when he saw what it was.
“My god. We’re in Chauvet. See those brown lines on the rock above? That’s a wooly rhinoceros. This place is even older than you, isn’t it?” he asked, moving closer to join them.
“It is,” Isis said, her tone reverent. “My tribe lived in the valley below. We hunted game when it was warm, and retreated here when the snows grew too fierce. I don’t know who painted those. They were created countless generations before my people. My grandmother taught me that they’d always been there.”
Blair was beyond shocked. It was one thing to understand how old Isis was, another to see proof. The cave paintings of Chauvet came primarily from two periods, one called the Gravettian, about twenty-six thousand years before the present. The other was thought to be older, perhaps as old as thirty-two thousand years.
“Most of the creatures drawn here are extinct now,” Blair said, leaning in close to study the art. A beast had been captured there, the towering predator taller than a man even on four legs. “This one is a cave bear. I bet those must have been fierce.”
“Fierce enough, when we were mortals,” Isis said, giving a shrug. She turned to face him. “We never returned here after we changed. I wasn’t even sure it would still be here. But it is, and that gladdens me.”
“Do you think Ra will come here?” Liz said. She ran a hand along the stone, tracing a horse drawn from some black material.
“Definitely,” Isis said, giving a nod. Her smile vanished. “She and I were near-sisters, once upon a time. We made many fires here, shared many tales. She can feel the key Blair possesses, and as she gets closer she will track it to this location. It is my hope she will honor the sanctity of this place, and keep the peace.”
“That’s a lot of trust to put in an enemy,” Blair said, more than a little skeptical.
“Ra was and is honorable. We may not agree on much, but she can be trusted to keep her word if she gives it,” Isis said. She stood up and wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’ll set up a fire. You two see if you can scrounge up some game. We’ll likely be here for a day or two before Ra arrives.”
“So we just wait for her. Then what?” Liz asked, tone more harsh than Blair had heard her use with Isis. “We’re trapped, and if she attacks us we’re done.”
“I don’t know,” Isis said, eyeing Liz soberly. “It may be that we meet our end in this place. Fitting, as it is where it all began.”
50
Heavy Price
Jordan slid down the cliff side, using the armor’s internal gyroscope to help keep his balance. He landed in a shower of rock sixty-three feet below the top of the cliff, on a narrow ledge with a few scrubby trees clinging to the white rock. Below, not more than a hundred feet distant, lay the ship he’d been pursuing ever since the storm. The hull had a silver sheen, despite the cloud cover. It appeared deserted, though it was possible the crew was below decks.
“Guess there’s only one way to find out,” he muttered, leaping to a ledge some forty feet below. Two more leaps and he was standing on the wide area where the ship had set down. Jordan expected his beast to make some comment, either about caution or rejoining his pack. Yet there was nothing. The trip here had been extremely lonely, highlighting just how dependent he’d grown on having that inner voice at his disposal. With the beast, he knew he was never truly alone, and that kept despair at bay when he was going through the worst of the things he’d had to endure. Where had it gone? The last time he’d spoken to it had been the day he’d donned the armor.
“Blair? Liz?” he bellowed, using the armor’s internal microphone to amplify his voice. It echoed off the surrounding cliffs, disturbing a smattering of crows who winged their way skyward. There was no other response. Jordan walked to the ship, unsure how to proceed. “Blair? It’s Jordan.”
Nothing. He walked a full circuit around the ship, which was featureless. Not a single rivet, bolt, or discernible means of entry. Jordan knelt next to it, peering under the ship to see if there was a hatch. Nothing. He activated the powerful light above his right shoulder, panning the beam slowly across the bottom of the ship.
Jordan was completely unprepared for his sudden flight. One moment he was kneeling there, the next he was soaring into the sky like a very ungainly bird. He twisted, facing the ship. A massive silver werewolf crouched there, amber eyes narrowed as she watched his flight. For a split second, Jordan thought he was seeing Bridget, then noticed this werewolf was larger. A terrifying memory of having his arms torn off leapt to mind, and he realized with a shudder that he’d just run afoul of the Mother. Again.
He gathered the suit’s armored legs underneath him, landing in a crouch. The heavy armor pulverized the rock, sending a spray of gravel shooting out. He kept his balance, though. “It’s me, Mother. Jordan. I’ve escaped from Ra.”
The Mother blinked twice, then slowly straightened. She stopped baring her fangs, and began walking toward him. Three paces later she was in human form, the shift happening all in a blur. She paused a few feet away, staring up at him. “You made enough noise to wake the slumbering dead. When I saw you, I feared the worst. What is that strange contraption you wear? I recognize it from your time among the house of Mohn, but this armor feels different. It smells…wrong.”
“Hades gave it to me,” Jordan said, walking back to the ship, though he kept his distance. No sense getting any closer to the Mother than he had to. “If it smells w
rong, you can blame him and his friend Vulcan. You’re right that it’s very similar to Mohn’s X-11. I don’t know where Hades got the design, and honestly I don’t care. I just wanted to get away from Ra. She collared me. I’m still wearing that collar, but the armor seems to have muted its influence.”
“Collared?” Isis said, blinking. Then her mouth tightened. “That cruel bitch. She’s used one of the shi-dun.”
“Two,” Jordan corrected. “She used a second collar on Steve. So far as I know he’s still playing meek servant for Irakesh, and still spilling every secret he can to Ra. Anything he knew about you, or about us, she knows now too.”
The Mother’s scowl could have curdled milk.
“That cannot be helped. Steve will be dealt with in time,” the Mother said, stalking up to Jordan. He wasn’t quite as tall in the armor as he’d have been in wolf form, but she was still tiny beside him. She stretched out a hand and touched the armor, then closed her eyes. She was silent for a long moment before speaking. “It is as I feared. This armor is tainted. Dark iron was used in its forging. The suit you wear is demon-crafted.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Jordan asked, genuinely alarmed.
“On the one hand it means the armor is far more powerful than the simple steel used by Mohn to make its weaponry,” Isis said, folding her arms as she stared up at him. “On the other, it means your armor has a primitive consciousness. It is neither alive, nor dead precisely. That consciousness is linked to something greater, a master you might say.”
“Wait, the armor is alive?” Jordan said, struggling to keep up. “Alive how? It’s just a piece of metal.”
“Dark iron is imbued with the blood of a potent master,” Isis explained, clearly disgusted. “A god will shed his own blood during the forging. This creates a link between him and anything created from the metal. Such creations are always powerful, but come with an awful price. They were first created by Set, used during his long war with Osiris. If Hades has spoken truly, which I still doubt, then my husband has now adopted the same methods as his treacherous brother. That gives him a tremendous advantage in the coming battle.”
“How so?” Jordan asked.
“You are, in essence, wearing a part of the armor’s creator,” the Mother explained. “I do not know the extent of the influence that will grant, as you are a Ka-Dun. During our own age, those who wore armor or used weapons crafted from blood iron often fell under the influence of the item’s creator. They could be made to kill their family. Turn on their liege. For this reason its use was banned by most Ark Lords. Set was the exception, but when he was finally overthrown we thought all knowledge of dark iron had passed from the world. That is why I find the idea that Osiris might have adopted its use so troubling.”
“Well, that’s just fucking lovely,” Jordan said, clenching an armored fist. “So my options are remove the armor and be controlled by the collar, or leave the armor on and worry that Osiris can seize control of my body at a critical moment. What the fuck do I even do with that?”
“Take heart. Taint takes time. Months, even for those of weak will. Someone with strong will can resist for years,” the Mother said, giving a sympathetic sigh. “Why don’t we start by removing the armor? Then I will see what can be done with the collar. Perhaps we can remove both. It will be difficult, but the shi-dun were crafted by Ptah. I know his work well and might be able to find a weakness.”
“All right,” Jordan said, through gritted teeth. He moved his thumb and forefinger in a very unnatural motion. It had been purposely chosen because it was something you’d never do on accident. That motion triggered the exit sequence. The armor would power down, and he’d be able to remove it.
Or that was what should have happened anyway. The HUD stayed lit. He tried the gesture again. Nothing. Jordan roared in anger, slamming a metal fist into the side of the cliff. Shards of rock flaked away from the impact. “I can’t. The armor won’t deactivate.”
“Clever. Clever and incredibly devious,” the Mother said, eyes narrowing. “I suspect once the armor has been donned it can only be removed by its creator. Such a measure makes you effectively a slave.”
“A short-lived one,” Jordan countered, trying to calm his breathing. He wanted to kill something. Hell, he wanted to kill everything. “I can’t eat with this thing on. Sooner or later I’ll starve.”
“That’s unlikely,” the Mother said, shaking her head slowly. The motion tossed her silver hair over her shoulder, exposing a pale neck. Jordan longed to wrap a gauntleted hand around that neck. “The armor will keep you alive. It works much like Sunsteel. It will absorb energy from the sun, and use that energy to sustain you. Unless we can get you to an Ark where I can experiment on the armor, you are trapped. Permanently.”
Jordan closed his eyes, hanging his head. This was too much to bear, but with the armor he couldn’t even end it. Even suicide was denied him.
So Jordan opened his eyes. He met Isis’s gaze. “Then I’m going to make Osiris regret making me into a weapon. I’m going to kill that fucker, and I’m going to do it slowly.”
51
Dragons
“Sir,” Benson said, bursting into the room. Her heart was thundering, the blood pulsing through her neck in a way that pulled Mark’s attention from the ancient book. It took immense will to force his eyes up to her face, but he could still feel her heartbeat. She seemed to sense something, expression growing uncertain. “I apologize for the sudden interruption. It’s just that—”
“What is it, Benson?” he asked, rising to his feet. He’d been at this for hours, to no avail. A lot of clues had been buried in human mythology, but the tome had yet to yield any great secrets.
“You’re going to want to see this, sir.” She spoke more rapidly than usual. “There’s activity. At Stonehenge, sir.”
“Show me,” Mark said, stalking to the doorway and following her up the corridor.
The room he’d taken was tiny, with linoleum floors and cracked plaster walls. It had been a storeroom when he requisitioned it, and it stank of mildew despite the thorough cleaning that Facilities had given it. That didn’t matter. His personal comfort was secondary to quick access.
Ops was only four doors up the hall, and he strode in briskly. People leapt to attention in a way they never had back in Syracuse. It wasn’t that they hadn’t respected him there, or even that they hadn’t feared him. Both had been true. No, the difference was one of degrees. Before, they had feared he might fire them. Now they feared he might devour them, and with good reason. He could smell their fear, hear the symphony of heartbeats. He wanted to feed, and the primitive part of their brains knew it.
“What am I looking at?” Mark barked, striding to stand before the wall-mounted television. He missed the much larger screen in the Syracuse facility, but one worked with the tools at hand.
“It looks like we’re just in time. We picked up seismic activity consistent with that in Peru,” Benson said, tapping a sequence on her tablet. The screen’s image changed, focusing on a moonlit field. The only recognizable landmark was Stonehenge itself, a tiny ring several hundred yards away from the field where the camera was centered.
The ground began to shake, trees swaying, though he doubted there was any wind. Then something burst from the earth, a black spear tip that shot skywards. Mark went cold, recognizing the enormous structure that bored from the earth. It was just like the others, a jet-black pyramid visible only because of the moonlight. Up and up it climbed, emerging from the earth until the ground finally stopped shaking.
Mark studied the image, noting that the Ark hadn’t destroyed Stonehenge the way the one in Cairo had the Great Pyramids. The ancient ring of stones sat at the foot of the Ark, just like the Sphinx sat at the foot of the Ark in Cairo. Was that significant?
He watched, trying to focus on the image and not on the thunderous heartbeats around him. He smelled sweat now—that and more thick, tangy fear. These people were right to fear him. Mark knew that
if his composure slipped for even a moment one of them would die.
“Sir, movement,” Benson said. She pointed at the screen. “Something is emerging from the Ark.”
Figures emerged from the southern face of the Ark, a steady stream of them, bipedal but otherwise inhuman, completely black, bursting forth like bats fleeing from a cave. If not for the moonlight, they’d have been invisible. They scattered, disappearing into the night.
“Give me some data on these things. Telemetry. Size. What do you have, people?” Mark asked the room at large, but his gaze landed on Benson. Fear lurked in her gaze, but it was less than it had been the day before. Familiarity bred contempt after all. Even a monster became normal eventually.
She brushed dark bangs from her face, almond eyes going unfocused as she examined the data feed the other analysts were gathering. “Sir, at a glance the trajectory of the creatures covers a wide radius. If I had to guess I’d say they’re scouting. If our read on their velocity is correct, they’re going something like forty miles an hour. That means that the first wave will reach London in two hours, assuming they don’t turn around.”
“And you didn’t see any of these creatures return to the Ark?” Mark asked, running his tongue along one of the sharp new incisors he’d gained from his transformation.
“No sir,” she confirmed.
“Then these are almost certainly long-range scouts,” Mark theorized aloud. “Get six drones airborne. I want them combing the skies for these things. Go high altitude, and don’t engage unless absolutely necessary.”
“Of course, sir,” she said, keying in commands on her pad.
Mark turned back to the screen, surveying the Ark. What was inside? Osiris had dropped hints, but beyond painting Set as some sort of tyrant he’d said little.