The Calypsis Project Boxed Set (Books 1-2 - The Echo-Alpha Duology)

by Brittany M. Willows

  “We have arrived,” the pilot announced as he brought the dropship to a shuddering halt outside Shindar’s western wall. With a sweep of his hand, he opened the circular hatch and activated the gravity lift. “I will remain here until you return.”

  Kenon gave thanks to the pilot, then descended the lift alongside Echo Team. Thankfully, Shindar had managed to escape the worst of the storm. There was a general haziness in the area, and only a light dusting of sand covered the streets.

  Even better, it seemed they were beginning to rebuild—to repair the damage of the Nephera’s first assault. The debris had been cleared away, piled near the walls. Scaffolding hugged the empty shells of houses soon to be, and construction crews set fresh foundations while cleaners swept the pockmarked streets.

  After witnessing what the Nephera were capable of on Thei’legh, it was a wonder so much of the city had survived the attack.

  Parker pored over the area. “Which way to the temple?”

  Jhiral turned to the rippled mountain that ran alongside the city walls. “Up there.” She pointed to a ridge jutting off the mountain face fifteen meters above, where a set of spiraling pillars flanked the entrance to the Silver Forge. A winding path led from the city gates to the temple’s entrance.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Carter asked, squinting at the plumes of smoke rising from the mountain’s highest peak.

  “A volcano, yes. Shindar was constructed upon a bed of volcanic rock. That is why this place is often referred to as the fire plains,” Jhiral explained. “There is no reason to worry, though. This volcano has been dormant for centuries.”

  Jenkinson did not seem convinced. “Well, let’s get up there before the damned thing springs a leak and starts spewing lava all over the place.”

  Echo Team passed through the gates and ascended the steep path, stirring up a thin layer of ash that had settled upon the smooth stone. The higher they climbed, the muggier the air became.

  As they reached the ledge, their headsets sparked to life: “I am receiving reports of Drocain troops in the vicinity,” Levian warned over the comm. “Squadrons carrying light arms have been sighted outside the city, approximately four kilometers from your location. It appears they are not yet aware of your presence.”

  “Copy that, Commander. We’ll keep an eye out for them.” Lieutenant Jenkinson replied, then looked to Alana. “Carmen, head inside with Alume and Valinquint. The rest of us will stay out here and watch for enemy activity.”

  Alana stood a little straighter to make herself appear more alert and nodded sharply. “Radio me the second you see anything,” she said. Despite her efforts, she could not hide (her exhaustion.

  Her eyes were glassy, cheeks puffy and red. After they left Thei’legh, she had retreated to the seclusion of the Legacy’s pod bay and remained there in the company of her own sorrows for the duration of the trip. When the time came to disembark, she had returned to the team with a faraway look on her face.

  It pained Kenon to see her like this. He wished there was something he could do to ease her suffering, but he hadn’t a clue where to begin. Even her teammates seemed reluctant to speak to her. They merely offered kind gestures, such as a hug or a reassuring touch.

  Jhiral led Kenon and Alana to the doorway tucked into the mountainside. A blast of balmy air greeted them as they entered the temple. Much of the heat was produced by a series of trenches running the length between the smelting furnaces. Lava drawn from the magma chamber deep underground flowed through these narrow channels, lending minimal light to those who worked here.

  It was within these darkened halls that seasoned blacksmiths toiled away to create the finest weapons and armor any Drahkori could hope to see in this age. Today, however, it appeared that most were crafting locks and tools to assist in the reconstruction efforts.

  Something about this place made Kenon feel strangely at home. Perhaps it was because the noise, the gloom, and the musty scents of minerals and soil were reminiscent of the mines where he used to work. He had spent countless hours in those tunnels after graduation. They had been of the few places he could visit without being disturbed.

  These days he preferred company. The thoughts that plagued him of late had become far too troublesome to manage, and to be left alone with them would only drive him mad.

  The three of them soon came upon a wide room filled with peculiar smell of corkus shards—the violet-gold shavings of a mineral reputed to have healing properties. When heated, the shards released a spicy-sweet fragrance into the air, which was preferable to the metallic odor in the outer halls.

  As Kenon looked around the room, he realized they were not the only ones here. Several Drahkori were kneeling on woven mats of grass and wood, their heads bowed over the spherical candles they cradled in their hands—just like his vision. It seemed they were too deeply involved in their prayers to notice the temple’s visitors.

  “Here.” Jhiral tapped her claw against one of the tapestries hanging from the ceiling. Among the countless strings of ancient text painted upon the fabric, one word stood out in particular.

  Vykord.

  “So what does it say?” Alana asked.

  “I cannot read it. This is a language I am not familiar with. But there should be a somebody here who can . . .” Jhiral withdrew from the text and turned about, searching the quiet halls for anyone who could translate the foreign tongue. She stopped when another Drahkori entered the room,

  This one was dressed in heavy black robes almost identical to the set the female in Kenon’s dream had worn, and even under the shadows cast by her cloak’s large hood, the golden tattoos on her cheekbones were clearly visible.

  She must be one of the Silver Forge dancers, he surmised.

  She walked over to inspect the them. There was neither fear nor surprise in her expression as she scrutinized their armored forms, and she merely regarded the small human girl between the warriors with curiosity.

  “Greetings,” she said. “My name is Sypher. What brings you to the temple tonight, visitors?”

  Jhiral dipped her head respectfully. “We come seeking information. If you would spare us a moment, we could use some assistance.”

  “Of course. How may I offer my services?”

  “What can you tell us about the vykords?”

  A wary look flashed across the dancer’s face.

  “Please,” Kenon said. “Their history may hold the key to ending this war. Tell us what you know, and spare no detail. We are not followers of Athenna; you will not be condemned for your beliefs.”

  Sypher relaxed again. “Unfortunately, even our knowledge here is limited. Only a handful of the original records remain intact. Most were lost during the Purge, and the pretender’s mercenaries slaughtered our scribes before they could restore the damaged documents. However, I will share what I have learned.” She moved past the trio and lifted her own candle to the scripture, illuminating the metallic paint. “Your generation knows them as the old gods, but we believe they were the true gods. The vykords were divine beings forged by this world, born from the ground upon which we stand. Ancient scripts like these claim they possessed soul stones in place of their hearts, and that these crystals were the source of their extraordinary abilities.”

  “What kind of abilities?” Jhiral asked.

  “It is said they were capable of blinking—jumping from one location to another in an instant. They could also bend certain matter at will, direct energy, and even breathe life into machines.” Sypher ran her fingers across the fabric, then motioned to a mural further along the wall.

  The carving depicted an elderly Drahkori floating weightlessly above a pedestal with his arms outstretched. Embedded in his sternum was the crystal of which she spoke.

  “Bhelios Kin’Sedrin, Born of Light, was a vykord,” she said. “He was the first emperor of Dyre, and it was he who bestowed upon us the technology Athenna later destroyed.”

  Jhiral’s tail twitched. “What of the other vykords?”


  “From what we can tell, Bhelios’ brethren did not interact with us lesser beings to the extent that he did. Because of this, very little is known about them aside from their names: Kin’Amor, Kin’Ivis, and Kin’Rysif—born of air, ice, and stone.”

  “Kin’Delor . . .” Kenon whispered the name. If the temple had no record of him, then there could have been many more vykords the dancers were not aware of.

  “Born of Shadow.” Sypher tilted her head. “Where did you learn this name?”

  Kenon’s head snapped up to meet her inquisitive stare. He had not intended to say that aloud. “I must have read it somewhere,” he lied, assuming it would only stir up trouble to mention his visions. “Please, continue. What happened to the vykords?”

  “Like Bhelios, they vanished. Some say they achieved transcendence, others think they abandoned us . . . But history tells of a great war that occurred nearly one hundred thousand years ago, which may be connected to their disappearance. Sadly, we know nothing of the war other than it happened. And I am afraid this is as far as our knowledge goes.”

  “This has been very enlightening,” Jhiral said. “Thank you for your time.”

  They exchanged a bow, then Sypher returned to her business. She tiptoed down the hall, reigniting burned-out candles on her way to collect the offering baskets. Each basket was filled to the brim with flowers, food, and various trinkets—gifts left in the hope that Bhelios would answer their prayers.

  Once the dancer had moved on to the next room, Kenon approached the mural and reached up to Bhelios’ image. Lodged in the tarnished copper within the etchings of the vykord’s crystal was a glittering shard of blue and purple, not unlike the jewel Doramire possessed.

  “I was born with a hole in my chest,” Kenon said quietly, tracing the gem’s outline with a claw. “When the healers looked beneath the flesh, they discovered an opening in my bones of this same size—almost as if something were missing.” He lifted his other hand to the tube rooted where the hole had once been. “My heart was weak, deformed and displaced. I was given no more than a year to live, even with this system. But I survived. Not only that, I prospered. My mother called it a miracle . . .”

  “Kenon, what are you saying?” Jhiral’s voice adopted a skeptical tone. She had already guessed what he was alluding to, and clearly she thought the idea absurd.

  Truthfully, Kenon felt he was grasping at straws—searching for anything that might explain his dreams, the hallucinations, and his importance to the Nephera. Why was he the only one who could activate Calypsis? What made him different from the rest of his kind? Of all the leads they had found thus far, this was the first that actually seemed to make any sense.

  “It might be a little far-fetched,” Alana said, “and maybe we don’t have any solid evidence to support it, but we’re in no position to rule things out. We came here looking for answers, and this is probably as close as we’re going to get.”

  Jhiral pivoted on her toes and headed for the exit. “In any case, there is nothing more for us here. We should get back to the others.”

  Kenon went to pull away from the mural. As his fingertips brushed over the jewel fragment, every muscle in his body went into spasm at once—sending shooting pains down his arms and legs.

  One second he was in the Silver Forge, the next he found himself in the desert from his dream.

  It felt different this time, however—more alive and real than before. The ebony forest was overshadowed by a canopy of auburn leaves, and water now flowed through the previously empty riverbed. There were new things that had gone unnoticed during his first visit as well.

  Towers wavered in the heat haze on the horizon—the rippling silhouettes of a grand metropolis. Many bulbous ships soared over the angular spires, hauling great loads of cargo across the city.

  Kenon spun around in search of Doramire and spotted the old vykord lounging under a tree by the river. He marched across the pale sands and demanded to know what happened, worried he may have passed out again.

  “Fret not, child. You are perfectly safe,” Doramire said, watching as the stream shivered at the tug of the breeze. “Your physical form stands where your consciousness left it. Your comrades will notice only a brief absence of attention. A minute in here is merely a fraction of a second out there.”

  “Why did you bring me here? Take me back!”

  “I cannot. You came here of your own volition. An accident, perhaps, but this was your doing all the same.”

  “You mean to say that crystal in the wall sent me to this place?” Kenon lashed his tail across the sand. “Is that why you led me to the Silver Forge, because you knew this would happen?”

  Doramire rose to his feet. “I led you to the temple because you needed to understand what I was—what my brethren and I were capable of. I thought it would be easier to hear this from your own kind, rather than a being you were reluctant to believe existed.”

  Kenon hung his head. Even now, he was skeptical. No one else could hear the vykord, nor could they see him. But which was better: to pursue the unknown, or submit to the possibility that these encounters were nothing more than a figment of his imagination?

  “What happened to the others?” he asked, choosing to embrace uncertainty. “The dancer we spoke to said the vykords disappeared without a trace and were never seen or heard from again.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, we did not abandon them. We fought for years to remain amongst our people. In the end, we had no other choice. We had to make ourselves scarce—to protect not only us, but all of those around us, for we were being hunted.”

  “Hunted? By what?”

  “By whom,” Doramire corrected. “The Nepheran High Lord sent his siblings, his seekers, to track us down and seize the power we possessed.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Their galaxy was dying. Many of its stars had gone dark. Their planets were overpopulated, polluted, riddled with disease, and the few that were not colonized had already been stripped clean. Then they found our galaxy, ripe with habitable worlds—the perfect canvas upon which to paint a new life. And so, with the last of their resources, they built Calypsis.

  “The weapon was meant to clear the way for mass colonization. But to sustain a machine of such might, they would need a substantial energy source. So they scoured the systems far and wide, and soon enough, their scanners detected traces of an extraordinary power radiating from the Phoenix System. However, it was only when they arrived on Dyre that they discovered this power belonged to us. To the vykords.

  “Sol requested our help, and we agreed under the impression that his machine’s purpose was to bring life to barren worlds. When we learned what his true plans were, we refused to offer any further assistance. At first it seemed he understood. Then Kysel went missing, and Iska several days later. Shortly after their disappearances, our link to them was severed.”

  “What do you mean?” Kenon asked.

  Doramire reached up to the gem embedded in his chest. “These crystals, our Caelevits—They did more than grant us power. They connected us on a deeper level than most could ever comprehend. We were bound by a thread that transcended time and space, and when one of these strands was severed from the rest . . .” A pained expression crossed his face. “It felt as though I had lost a part of myself.”

  Kenon cast a solemn gaze upon the water.

  “That was when we figured out what had happened: the Nephera had murdered Kysel and Iska in an attempt to harvest their Caelevits. Another fell victim to the same fate before we went into hiding.” Doramire moved a few paces up the river. “Years passed, Sol became desperate. He launched an attack on Dyre, released a plague into our midst . . .”

  “What did you do?”

  “We fought back. Avhelliss gathered an army, and together we lead an assault on Calypsis. However, it was not until the end of our journey that I realized—it was never our duty to destroy the weapon. It was yours.”

  Kenon gave him a quizz
ical look, and he went on to explain.

  “The seekers were too strong. We could not defeat them. However, they could not maintain their strength forever. Without a vykord, the Nephera could not activate Calypsis. And with their resources dwindling, their troops would eventually starve. Their machines would plunge into disrepair. When that time came, the torch would fall to you. But in order for you to live, we had to die.”

  Kenon furrowed his brow. “What does that make me?”

  “You are limited reincarnation of Avhelliss Demor Valinquint, reborn to complete our mission. Though you do not share the same mind, his being is embedded in your soul. It is this imprint that connects us.”

  “I am more than that, though. Aren’t I?”

  Doramire turned away. “You are not ready.”

  “Not ready?” the young warrior retorted. “We are running out of time. The Nephera are hunting me as they did your brethren. They have slaughtered thousands in their attempts to capture me, including my friends and their kin! You know this, yet you deny me the truth of my very existence?” He swallowed hard, a lump in his throat. “I am sorry, Doramire. I will not proceed until you tell me what I am.”

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, a tense fog that continued to swell until Doramire decided to speak.

  “Kin’Sevor . . . Born of Blood,” he said. “You are a vykord conceived by mortals—something that should not have been, but was. Veldin often dreamt of your name. We searched for you for centuries to no avail. Now I see why we could not find you.”

  At once, every last one of Kenon’s thoughts scattered. “No.” He shook his head. “No, you’re lying. Sypher said the vykords possessed crystals that granted them extraordinary abilities. You said as much yourself! I do not have one, therefore—”

  “You were meant to,” Doramire interrupted. “Had you developed inside a cultrik chamber, you would have been born a pureblood with a Caelevit to show for it. You, however, are a hybrid—meaning you have the essence of one running through your veins. This is what makes you the key to Calypsis. This is what makes you special.”