Chapter 14: From My Hands to Yours
Alight mist rolls over small hills just outside the dusty Illyrian border-town of Harappa. There is a slight layer of frost on the ground mixing with the brown color of the land. Some trees are scattered in the landscape, not the kind you will find in the lush forests of Illyria or Atlantis. These were the kind you would find in an arid place. Such was the condition of this one-time oasis called Harappa.
Before the Great War, this was a lush land teaming with wildlife. Harappa was a trading town on the border of Aryavan; the truth is that it was more Aryan land than Illyrian. The people were pure Aryans who took advantage of the economic prosperity of Illyria, while still adhering to their Aryan culture; the same holds true three thousand years later.
Devastation from nuclear-type weapons overcame the area. Deserts formed, life was decimated. It was not until a mysterious group of refugees settled here that the town was resurrected. Since then, Harappa was considered neutral territory during the Illyrian conflict with Aryavan.
Today, the town is a sleepy one, with a population of roughly fifteen thousand strong. There are no armies here, nor are there any from the ranks of the Priesthood. Only religious sorts who follow some ancient cult, long dead to the rest of the world.
The town itself covers an area of 377 acres. Stone buildings inside Harappa’s walls glisten with the ever-present sun. Foot traffic is frequent, although you will see many ox-drawn carts. There is a feeling of poverty in the place; this, of course, is what an outsider accustomed to the more delicate things would feel.
With their heads covered with cloaks, Liviana and Mica make their way down a dirt street, heading towards a remote corner. An ancient temple exists there. Today is a special day, a holy day. It’s one where the religious gather to pay homage to the long-dead Mithra, a goddess from the ‘time before.’
Mudbrick buildings litter the narrow street filled with open-air peddlers. Flowers, ceramic ornaments, fruits of all kind are displayed. These are offered to the ‘holy-rollers,’ as they make their way to the temple. Why would one ever think these people are Illyrians when they are clearly Aryans? Mica thinks to himself.
“What?” Liviana asks.
“I didn’t say anything…except that I’m hungry.”
“Oh don’t start. We’re almost there.” Liviana stops at a baker’s stall, grabs a loaf, drops a coin, then breaks the treat. “Here.” She gives him the smaller piece.
“Some wine would be nice,” Mica complains but silences himself after getting a sharp look from Liviana.
They walk briskly to a corner, eating the bread; it is baked with cheese and a generous serving of cilantro.
The thickening crowd can only mean one thing; the temple is near. A left turn merges into a slow-moving crowd of hundreds, flowing into a bottleneck at the temple entrance.
The structure is constructed of limestone with intricate carvings on the walls. Demons, strange animals, warriors drape every square inch of the temple’s face. It is a haunting image to see the peculiar religion existing in this backward part of civilization. The many devotees chant names of long-forgotten deities, bearing no resemblance to anything the strangers have witnessed before.
“What makes you think the old crone will see you?” asks Mica.
“My father once told me that she is the keeper of secrets. I cannot trust that Lyra will retrieve the ancient texts, so we come to Old Mother to learn what we can.”
“If anyone can get those books, it’s Lyra.”
Liviana looks at him curiously. She hands him her unfinished portion of the bread, which he takes gratefully.
“Even though she will cut your throat the first chance she gets; you still praise her?” Liviana asks.
“I deserve it, just don’t tell her that,” Mica admits.
They begin their push through the crowds, squeezing past all sorts of worshipers; old, young, smelly, clean. The task seems almost impossible at this point. Nevertheless, they carry on, hoping to gain an audience with the one called ‘Old Mother.’
-THE STREETS OF ATLAS-
Vehicular traffic is as it always is at this time of the morning, unforgiving. The noise of the hustle and bustle is ever present in the commercial district. Tall buildings block out most of the sunlight.
High Priest Calis was gracious enough to pick up Alexius at the pier, a gesture welcomed by the young soldier.
They sit in the back of the comfortable car making their way to the local garrison. The journey from the port district to their destination, which is located on the opposite end of the city, would usually take thirty minutes without traffic; in this mess, it will be another hour before they arrive.
“The one thing I miss about the country is the free open roads. Not this infernal noise and commotion,” Calis explains.
“The price to pay to live in this cesspool,” Alexius admits.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. So, you are still determined to make your way to the Far Wes Continent?”
Alexius smiles, suspicious of Calis. “That’s what’s planned unless fate intervenes.”
There was something about this priest, an unnerving feeling. Alexius could not put his finger on it just yet. The interest Calis had taken in him was uncomfortable, with an ever-present sense that it had something to do with Arias’ journal. More importantly, the family heirloom he had inherited seemed to be mixed up in the theft of the ancient books.
“I can’t wait to see Deidra,” Alexius says. “She will be upset I did not ask her to meet.”
Calis struggles to find the right title, “Is she your…”
“No…” Alexius answers smiling, “…just a friend. I’ve known her half my life now. She is a loyal confidant.”
“It’s good to have trustworthy friends these days. I hope you will consider me as such.”
The driver is becoming frustrated, which is evident in his grumbling. He very aggressively swings the car into a nearby alley, then speeds down a clear path to another street.
“The day is young. Tell me, Lord Calis, what was my father and his secret circle up to?”
There is some hesitation from Calis. He begins to speak, but then has a look of fear as he glances at Alexius’ window. A large truck slams into the side of the car, sending it crashing into a wall. Everything instantly goes black.
A five-foot-seven slim figure dressed in dark clothing and a cloak jumps out the truck and makes their way to the smoking vehicle. Shattered glass is everywhere. The wind blows over the figure’s hood, revealing a female in her mid-twenties, with a blonde head of hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail. Subtle tattoos mark her face.
The traffic has stopped. People stare at the agile woman making her way to the crash. No one attempts to step out to help, they only observe.
The attacker yanks off the door between her and Alexius; he is unconscious. She drags the soldier’s large frame with ease, not looking back at Calis’ motionless body. She loads Alexius into her vehicle then gets into the cab. With some maneuvering she clears her truck from the area, quickly disappears through an alley.
It doesn’t take long before the emergency services arrive. Pedestrians have now gathered around the crash site, looking on at the seemingly lifeless High Priest. An older lady begins to weep when she recognizes Calis.
A paramedic attending to the injured man raises his hand to another, giving him a ‘thumbs up’; the weeping lady sighs with relief. As with any event in Atlas, the media arrives, setting up their broadcasts. Still, no one knows what just happened.
-SOMETIME LATER, IN THE OLD QUARTER SEWERS-
One marvelous innovation of the first builders of Atlas was the complex sewer system. They by no means invented it but improved upon older models from Hyperboria. It is as complex as the subway system, with tunnels leading to various parts of the city. Each area has a designated address which can be traversed by refugees and villains alike.
They all look the same; murky, damp, dark, filled with rodents. The dismal su
rroundings do not affect the woman currently observing her chained prisoner. She stands quietly against a wall. Six feet in front of her, Alexius is tied to a metal pipe.
A thick chain wraps around his wrists, traveling seven feet up to the ceiling. He hangs from his wrist, stretching his body to the ground. His knees are bent, his head is down, his body is limp. Slowly, he begins to regain consciousness.
Everything is blurry as his eyes open. The pressure on his wrists is now becoming apparent, he begins to straighten out his legs, standing slowly. There are only a few inches of relief as the chain eases tension. He looks at the female.
“Who are you?” Alexius demands aggressively. He shakes the chains, testing their strength.
“I am Ayala, a watcher of the old order,” the woman responds.
“What the fuck do you want with me?”
Ayala moves closer, never smiling, never expressing emotion. She looks up at her prisoner, paying attention to her distance. She knows he could wrap his legs around her, or fire off a kick.
Ayala looks Alexius in the eye, “My master has sent me to collect you, and for the secrets you carry.”
“Look, lady, I don’t know your master, and I don’t have secrets. Now let me down!”
The watcher dips into a concealed pocket in her jacket, producing a small cylindrical device about six inches long, one inch thick.
A small needlepoint at the tip worries Alexius; he begins to struggle. “What are you doing with that?”
“Blood contains secrets which can be hidden away,” Ayala explains. “Only to be revealed by those who know how to find them.” She lifts his shirt, exposing skin, then sticks the injector into the bare flesh. “Secrets are in your blood…or not. My master will decide.”
Alexius’ blood flows into the tube. She couldn’t do this when I was out? He thinks to himself.
For a moment, Ayala’s guard is down as she secures the cylinder. Alexius uses this opportunity to pull on the chains, lifting himself off the ground. As he rises, he raises his right knee, connecting it with the watcher’s jaw. She stumbles back. He drops back to the floor then springs back up again, flipping his body with upward momentum.
His feet are flush with the stone ceiling for a split second. He springs off toward the ground, head first. The tension created on the chains as he yanks with his fall, causes the metal pipe to break. The chains fall free to the ground.
He uses it as a weapon, connecting the surprised watcher across her body. She falls to a corner, quickly moving to avoid another blow. Alexius removes the chains then springs at Ayala; he is surprised at his sudden agility. He glides down on her, channeling his power into his right fist, throwing it at the watcher’s face. She moves like the wind. His fist crashes into the stone wall, creating rubble in its wake.
Ayala connects him with a powerful kick to the face, sending him reeling. Alexius blocks her path, causing panic to step in. If I could get to the river, she contemplates. She sees a nearby crevice with a channel. She charges, aiming at Alexius’ stomach.
He blocks her quick hands. He picks her up, slams her on a wall while still holding on to her; he slams again, and again, like a dusty rug being beaten on stone. He feels her body go limp.
Alexius tosses Ayala’s body towards a far wall. Her head hits hard on the stone. Her body rolls into a depression then splashes into the water. It flows towards an outlet to another area leading out to the river.
~WATCHERS~
Since the time of the forefathers, there has existed the order of the watchers. They were numerous once, but through the ages, up until the time of Persephone, there were only dozens left. The order had seen a decline due to flaws in their engineering; intentional genetic manipulation. They were a hybrid race designed by the Anuk.
Initially, they were made to assist the great Anuk rulers in all things; military matters, religion, even government were areas they served. They were, in essence, the first Priesthood. As eons passed, there was little need for the sect of unique humans, for the multitude of man seemed to be a more docile workforce.
A watcher is primarily a hybrid of Anuk and man; not a mixed race as in the later interbred population, but rather the product of DNA encoding. Like a mass-produced vegetable, watchers were grown at specialized facilities. The early products made to live for thousands of years; companions to the long-lived Anuk of their age.
After the forefathers’ time, when the Anuk only lived a fraction of their predecessor's lifespan, the watchers’ genome was manipulated; they were subdued, life shortened. Some heretics described it as being ‘domesticated.’ Their worth was devalued to that of servants, serving the house to which they bore allegiance.
Watchers were now susceptible to an encoded ‘death date,’ which ensured they would expire after they were needed no more. Ironically, a secret band of watchers began to procreate, evolving past what Anuk scientists had programmed out of their genome. This miracle in part ensured the race would live on. The future generations were not numerous as hoped, and they did not possess the abilities of their ancestors.
Speed, stealth, enormous strength persisted; super intelligence did not. The ‘loyalty’ trait was still ingrained in them, but at the onset of the Great War, the order fractured into heretics and loyalists. One side served Thoth of house ENki, the other house ENlil.
Some survived the ‘Black Death,’ in part to their mixed heritage, but many died off. Soon they faded into myth. They exist in the shadows; a mystery lost to antiquity. They only now emerge at this time of the awakening, and their intentions are unknown.
-AT THE BROKEN TEMPLE, OLD QUARTER-
The old-quarter of Atlas is a dismal place. It is home to some of the less fortunate citizens and refugees from the borderlands. Ghettos are spread out in a three-mile radius, plagued by rampant crime.
A small town exists near a river that flows into the ocean. The residents there are mostly poor merchants, serving the area as best as they could. They even have a small bazaar by the water, peddling their merchandise to earn an honest, and sometimes dishonest living. The civil patrols do come by, but they allow the illegal activities to persist; here corruption runs deep in the police force.
Nearly twenty years ago a grand temple stood near the river; now it is just a dilapidated shell of what it once was. When cheap urban housing was being constructed, a street formed from the temple onwards. The structure in a way serves as a marker to the edge of the township.
The temple was never torn down, as it was looked upon as holy ground. That did not stop vandals from ransacking the insides, nor did it prevent drug dealers from setting up their stations within. Today, it serves as a meeting place for Prince Varna of Aryavan, and Archon Inias. Two cars are parked in front of the broken building.
Varna steps out of his vehicle. He is a sharp looking man, about thirty-six. His features are rugged and muscular, his skin tanned from the eastern Aryan sun. He sports a neatly cut short beard, which accentuates his short hair and expensive dark clothing.
He steps on to the deteriorating stairway, then heads to a group of five men standing at the entrance. He sees Archon Inias smiling warmly at him. He also notices the four bodyguards who are carrying side arms. He laughs at the thought of betrayal; he welcomes it.
“Archon Inias,” says Prince Varna.
“Your Highness,” Inias responds with a smile. “I trust you were free from incident on your way here? Shall we go inside? These parts are not kind to royalty; less so to nobility.”
Varna smiles at Inias’ reference to himself as being ‘nobility.’ It is true, he was soon to be bestowed with the title of Archenias, ‘The Grand High Priest of the Priesthood,’ and High Priests were usually considered ‘Lords’ in their own right; but these mere men were not noble in Varna’s eyes. The two men disappear into the structure, followed by a servant carrying a chest. The others remain outside.
Unseen by the group, a solitary figure is observing the activity behind a far wall. Lyra drops her binocular
s to check her sidearm. She carefully retreats alongside the wall towards a far entrance to the place.
Inside the temple, broken statues, garbage, and graffiti are everywhere. The interior is dark; water dripping makes an echo in the filthy surroundings. Varna and Inias stand not too far from the entrance, taking advantage of the light outside. Inias’ servant holds quietly with the chest in his hand. Varna looks at the servant, then back at Inias.
“Oh not to worry, he can’t hear a thing,” Inias explains. “Most of the personal servants in the priesthood are deaf. We see to it early on.”
“Are these the books for Timon?” Varna asks pointing to the chest. The servant opens the box, displaying the sacred texts. Varna picks one up.
Inias smiles, “Nomad terrorists attempted to steal these in Illyria. A strange coincidence is it not? What do you suppose Prince…”
“Who knows what my cousin’s intentions are,” Varna quickly interjects. “I am not privy to his motivations.”
Inias decides not to press the issue. He looks at Varna trying to read the Anuk symbols. He tried to translate a few passages himself, but the entire attempt was all too frustrating. There were many interpretations of each word. Each carried a different meaning based upon the pronunciation.
“I mean no disrespect,” Inias interrupts, “can you read the text?”
Varna slams the book shut causing an echo, “Sadly, my family’s lack of pure blood ancestry dismisses us to any…pure knowledge. No, I cannot read the text.” He tosses the book back into the chest.
“This transaction will not be on record as agreed,” Inias states.
Varna nods. He moves closer to Inias, “I am afraid I need more of your assistance.”
There is a brief silence; Varna motions the servant away. He dips into his jacket to retrieve a small tube.
Curiosity overwhelms the Archon, “I am your servant of course. What is this?”
“From the expedition Timon has in our southern islands. You know the secret one to find Lumeria.”
Inias’ eyes widen with the accusation. He becomes noticeably uncomfortable; his lips tremble, “Did they find it?”
Rise of Prophecy Page 15