MILLENNIUM (Descendants Saga)

by James Somers

  The keystone pierced the firmament, obeying the will of the stranger. Bright white light trailed from the object as it blazed toward the lock waiting below. Traveling many times faster than a bullet, the keystone suddenly impacted with the lock, fitting precisely as it was meant to.

  White light, brighter than the sun at noonday, shattered the night. A blast wave erupted from the lock, smashing trees flat for hundreds of miles in every direction and setting them ablaze. The man waxed triumphant, remaining unharmed by the massive explosion.

  A gateway opened. From within, three sets of eyes peered out. A giant claw, with talons as big as Clydesdales, emerged from the darkness.

  This image faded into another, and Donatus realized that he was experiencing another waking dream. They had been coming more frequently over the past few weeks. He rarely slept anymore. Each time the vision was a little longer, exposing more of a future that was too horrible to be believed.

  He saw Tidus from a distance. A shadow overcame its serenity and sunshine. The next moment, a terrible power slammed into the city, wasting its buildings and monuments like sand driven by the wind. Even the forest and stream and mountains beyond were not immune to this effect. When the realm of the Lycans was washed almost completely away, the vision took him to another city among the spiritual realms.

  Each time the result was the same. The city and the people and the surrounding countryside were all wiped away like chalk from a chalkboard. Last of all, Donatus dreamed of his own city of Xandrea. Here, he had married his wife. Here, they had raised four children, of whom Tom had been the youngest by far. He tried to wake from the nightmare, but it would not release him—not yet.

  As before, Donatus was forced to watch as the looming shadow approached and covered the city. Attempts made by the people to fight this calamity were feeble at best—like ants fighting against a tiger. Though he hoped desperately for a different outcome, Xandrea shared the fate of the others. In the end, the entire spiritual plane had been washed clean of life and of purpose—its very creation only a formless memory.

  Donatus woke in his chair, screaming. His caregivers, who had been employed of late to keep an eye on the ailing King of Xandrea, tried to restrain him from his thrashing. They spoke soothing words, hoping to reach him in whatever nightmare world his mind had conjured. He glared at them all, wide eyed and mad with fever, proclaiming the end of all life as they knew it.

  Urgency

  Twilight reigned in the land of Greystone. A decade ago, the Superomancers and the spell casters among Tom’s people had come together in order to close one portal and open another. This new portal would be secure and link the realm of the vampires with the mortal world in the country of Russia, not far from the Siberian territory.

  The stronghold, from which Tom and Charlotte now ruled over thousands of vampires, had been expanded over the past ten years to include more construction above the frozen surface where the sun shone down. The sun did little to actually warm the land. But vampires preferred the cold.

  A young boy waited patiently in the dark shadows that filled the Keep. He had been taught by his instructor to use his surroundings to his advantage. In the six years he had been in training with his parent’s Master at Arms, Cole had become proficient at doing exactly that.

  His target, a Lycan man, walked lightly through the corridor leading toward the Keep’s kitchens. A mess hall resided there where palace servants could come to eat. The morning meal was almost underway and this man had made a habit of coming here to eat with the others, despite his higher rank.

  As the Lycan turned into the vestibular area before the mess, Cole leaped from the shadows. He carried no weapons today. He had trained his body to be his weapon. That was how his master, Ishbe, had instructed him.

  Silent as a ghost, only the change in air movement betrayed him. His target waited until the last moment, ducked and then caught him by the leg as he passed over. The Lycan spun him around once and then hurled Cole at the wall.

  But his master had trained him well. Cole shifted his weight, hitting the wall with his feet. He sprang back at the Lycan, tucking at the last moment to hit the ground below his target’s counter attack. He rolled between the man’s legs, coming up behind him to kick the back of his knee.

  As the Lycan stumbled, Cole somersaulted over his shoulder, kicking back with his right foot at the man’s face. The strike was blocked. Cole then ran down the corridor, rounding a corner with the Lycan hot on his heels. Only, when the Lycan looked for him, he had disappeared.

  Cole dropped from the ceiling onto the man’s shoulders, producing a knife from his uniform. The Lycan clasped his own throat with one hand, trying to stop him from cutting it while reaching back with his other. Cole sliced across the man’s wrist quickly and then stabbed down at the base of his skull where he remained unprotected.

  “A kill!” the boy cried gleefully.

  The Lycan stopped struggling instantly.

  “You’ve just received a blade to your brain stem,” Cole crowed. “You’re dead, Ishbe!”

  “All right, All right,” Ishbe said.

  Cole hopped down from his shoulders and stood before his master, tucking his wooden knife back into his sleeve. He couldn’t help but grin as Ishbe turned to give his observations. It was a rare event that Cole managed to get the better of him, even with a sneak attack. He wanted to relish it, but not seem overly prideful.

  Ishbe was grinning also. “That was very good, Cole,” he admitted. “However, there were several times when you might have ended the fight sooner. Do you know?”

  Cole responded immediately. “The knee,” he said. “I could have produced my weapon and cut tendons there as I passed, incapacitating my enemy.”

  Ishbe paused, examining his student. “What about throwing your blade?”

  “As you’ve said on many occasions, Master, a warrior need not take the risk of sacrificing his weapon. You might have sidestepped the blade, or intercepted it to use against me.”

  Ishbe smiled openly. “Very good. You’ve been listening.”

  Cole smiled. “Oh, I always listen, Master. It’s the only way to beat you.”

  Ishbe nodded. “Cole, is there any seven-year-old as wise as you?”

  The boy seemed to contemplate for a moment before arriving at his conclusion. “I do not know of any, Master.”

  “Pride?” Ishbe asked, grinning.

  “Practicality,” Cole answered.

  “Did you consider invisibility?”

  “You see through glamours,” Cole replied.

  Ishbe gave him an uncertain look. “How did you know that? I’ve never told you.”

  “When I disguised myself as one of mother’s servants last month, you spotted me.”

  “Bravo,” Ishbe said. “Thinking outside the box. For that, you may request some candy from Cook after your morning meal.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Cole said. “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Then you are dismissed,” Ishbe said. “I’ll catch up with you on the training field in six hours. Until then, you have the day for yourself.”

  Ishbe patted him on the shoulder and walked on into the mess hall. Cole inhaled deeply, satisfied with how the morning was going. He had killed his master for the third time and he had shown resourcefulness and ingenuity for which he was rewarded. He would see Cook about his treat later. For now, he wanted to explore—which meant spying.

  One of his favorite pastimes, when he had time to himself away from his studies, was to make his way through the Keep without being seen. He usually remained invisible either by glamour or subterfuge. Today, he had decided to stay out of sight using the shadows.

  Cole leaped twelve feet straight up out of the torch light into the darkness, clinging to the ceiling like a fly. He crawled along the corridor in this way, heading toward the throne room where he hoped to find his father. His spider like abilities he had inherited from his vampire mother. However, his father had gifted him with other abiliti
es like the use of various animal forms and his limited skill to teleport and spell cast.

  He came into the Atrium situated before the throne room, avoiding detection by the vampire guards present at the doors. A chime sounded. Cole recognized this as pertaining to the gateway dedicated to travel between Greystone and Xandrea and Tidus. The chime served to alert the guards that someone was coming through.

  Cole waited expectantly. His grandfather, Donatus, might be coming to visit him. He had not seen him in nearly a month. His mother and father had explained to him that his grandfather had not been feeling well recently. He couldn’t help but wonder why.

  A reaction occurred upon the circular granite pad set into the floor specifically for the portal. A prism effect, portraying the spectrum of light in short flashes, delivered an elf man into the Atrium. The messenger from Xandrea walked immediately toward the throne room, coming face to face with the royal guards.

  “I have an urgent message for the king concerning his father,” he said.

  The guards gave him the briefest of examinations, having seen this particular messenger on many other occasions. Cole had also seen him before, since he often loitered near the throne room, incognito, in order to see who might be coming to see his parents. However, he had never gotten the man’s name. If he had, he would not have forgotten it. He never forgot anything.

  Always, there was the hope that visitors might be coming to see him. On regular occasions, his friend Sadie came to Greystone. The royals of Tidus, Brody and Sophia, were friends with his parents. They usually made the journey every couple of months, or he and his parents made the trip to Tidus.

  Apart from his training with Ishbe, these were some of his favorite times. On the last trip to Tidus, he and Sadie had crossed the river with their parents for a picnic on the edge of the forest. He had been overjoyed when the fireflies came out that evening. He and Sadie had caught several hundred apiece and then set them free before bedtime.

  The guards opened for the elf messenger, allowing him into the throne room. He walked in, and they closed the doors behind him. Cole appeared directly behind the man as one of the guards, seeming to have followed him inside. He caught up quickly, carrying a pike like the guards outside, as he escorted the messenger before the dais where his father now sat upon one of the two thrones set for his parents.

  The elf barely regarded him as he approached the dais. “My lord,” he began with a bow. “I bring urgent news of your father.”

  Tom regarded him. He wore a beard now, which he often commented made him look older, more kingly. The beard, like his hair, was fiery red. This gave him a strange appearance for an elf, since most of them, except his father and Laish, had very blonde hair. He wore a robe. Though it was fine enough for early morning affairs, he wouldn’t have worn it later in the day. Charlotte had not made an appearance yet.

  Cole bit his lip slightly when the messenger spoke as he had. He had worried about his grandfather all this time, and this news carried only ill tiding. He watched his father and the messenger, but he was careful not to speak. He had never perfected the art of doing voices like his father.

  “Go on,” Tom replied gravely. He seemed to dread what he was about to hear.

  “My lord, our king has gone mad,” he said. “We fear for his life because of the condition that he is in. Our healers have been able to do nothing to soothe him.”

  “The visions?” Tom asked.

  “He claims the end of the world is coming,” the messenger continued. “We don’t know what to do now. His power causes terrible things to be seen in the city, mirages that frighten the people, my lord.”

  Tom held up his hand wearily to stop the recounting of events. “I will come to Xandrea,” he said.

  “Thank you, my lord,” the messenger said, bowing. “You must be able to reach him. We cannot. All the city fears for his life.”

  Tom started to say more, but he took notice of the guard standing next to Xandrea’s messenger. The man was looking toward the floor with tears running down his face. The guard glanced up at him. His lip trembled before he looked away again.

  Sighing heavily, Tom turned his attention back to the messenger. “You may take your leave,” Tom said. “I will come to my father by midday.”

  The messenger bowed again and then turned to go. The guard almost let him leave without an escort. Cole tried to catch up to the man. But, when he turned, his father caught him by the shoulder.

  “Not so fast, son,” Tom said.

  Cole’s guard disguise faded as he turned around to face his father. At age seven, he only stood as tall as Tom’s chest. His vampire guard glamour had rendered his height at six feet.

  “How did you know?” Cole asked, his lip still trembling.

  Tom smiled down at him. “Breed warriors don’t cry.”

  Oliver walked into the London office of William Gladstone. He wore a black suit and walked with his wolf’s head cane tapping the polished oak floorboards. Gladstone rose from his desk to meet him.

  “Oliver, so good to see you again,” he said, extending his hand.

  Oliver reciprocated the gesture, giving him a brief but firm shake. Neither of the gentlemen had aged much over the past ten years. Perhaps a bit of additional gray in their hair and a few unwanted pounds.

  “Please, take a seat,” Gladstone suggested.

  He sat down in one of the two leather chairs provided as Gladstone returned to his desk chair.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve tried on several occasions to gain an appointment,” Oliver said. “Unfortunately, your spare time seems very limited.”

  “We’ve been very busy, as you’re probably aware,” Gladstone replied. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but there has been so much work to do.’

  Oliver smiled. “Yes, well, you’ve certainly made remarkable progress restoring the city. It really is a miracle.”

  “I can’t claim all of the credit,” Gladstone said, humbly. “After all, Donatus sent a fair number of spell casters to aid the human workers in their tasks. And, of course, time heals all wounds.”

  “Hmm, yes,” Oliver muttered. “However, I’ve also noticed that the new parliament does not include any Descendants. I wondered why. After all, I myself served for a number of years.”

  “Actually, it has been my wish to attempt to return the city to some measure of normalcy, Oliver. I’ve only utilized human politicians. It is their city, after all. Surely, you’re not offended by that.”

  “But you are a Descendant, William,” Oliver said. “And, if I’m not mistaken, you were a strong supporter of both Black’s initiative and Grayson Stone.”

  “Surely, you didn’t come here to dredge up the past. Stone has been dead for a decade. Those times should be forgotten.”

  Oliver grinned slightly. “When the past is forgotten, its mistakes are usually repeated.”

  “I’m a politician now,” Gladstone said. “My agenda is only to see British power restored along with this city. We’re well on our way towards achieving both. Do you protest?”

  “No,” Oliver said, straightening. “As I’ve said, you are doing a magnificent job with the restoration. After all that has transpired in London, I was surprised to see so many willing to come back to this place.”

  “How could they stay away? London is their home, as well as ours.”

  “But the stories of vampires and werewolves?”

  “After ten years, they are little more than stories,” William said. “The memories of one generation become the legends of the next. Past horrors are quickly replaced by day to day hardships that must be endured. They want to forget. Those who can’t, find solace in their drink, or they turn to the Church and allow the priests to explain away their horrors in the confessionals.”

  Oliver sat forward. “And you no longer believe we should be ruling over them?”

  Gladstone sat back in his chair. “Rule over them? I’m trying to shepherd these people. Aft
er all they’ve been through, wouldn’t you say that we owe it to them—to restore order to their lives?”

  Oliver nodded. “And what would your masters say to that sentiment?” he asked.

  Gladstone gave him a puzzled look that appeared to be genuine. “Who are my masters?”

  “Anubis and Southresh.”

  Gladstone stood to his feet. “What’s the meaning of these accusations? I know nothing of Anubis or Southresh.”

  “They were last spotted in London, here in Whitehall to be precise,” Oliver said. He was looking for a certain type of reaction from the Prime Minister.

  “Ten years ago, perhaps,” Gladstone said. “My understanding was that Grayson’s death returned them both to Tartarus.”

  “Perhaps,” Oliver allowed. “Or they’re only in hiding.”

  Gladstone laughed. “Hiding for ten years? That seems very unlikely. No, my friend, if you’ve not seen them in all this time, then they must be Tartarus.”

  Oliver waited a moment and then nodded. He hadn’t sensed any deception on Gladstone’s part. Perhaps the man was simply that good at lying. He was a politician. Of course, he could also be telling the truth.

  Standing, Oliver decided that he had no present reason to dispute with him. “I’ll not take up anymore of your time,” he said. “I do hope you’ll consider taking on some Descendants in Parliament. Our influence was always an important aspect of what decisions were made for the Empire.”

  Gladstone nodded. “At the very least, I’m here to see to it that the humans don’t stray too far from our expectations. By the way, I had heard reports that Donatus was suffering delusions recently. How is he? Doing better I hope.”

  “I’ve not seen him,” Oliver said. “But I’ll tell him you asked after him when I do see him. Good day, William. You really have done wonders.”

  Gladstone expressed his thanks again, but did not come around the desk this time to bid Oliver farewell.

  The door to his office opened with a thought from Oliver. He paused before stepping out. “It was a shame what happened to Disraeli,” he said. “I never had the opportunity to speak to you about it. Suicide, wasn’t it?”