Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Next to Qadir, legs crossed and idly playing with a long curly lock of blonde hair as she observed proceedings through half-closed eyes, Alison Crane, the youngest by far of the Masters, no older than Michael himself. Her youth and cold beauty belied her evil; she was ex-CIA, privy to great knowledge about the security of their foe. The knowledge she’d brought when she’d defected to the cause had been invaluable. She had been responsible for the deaths of countless enemy spies and agents over the years.

  Then finally, rising from the centre throne, the last figure of all. This man was old, Chinese, or Mongolian looking, with a long and grey Mandarin moustache and fierce eyes that seemed to flay your soul, exposing any weakness, any failing. This was Master Chen, Grandmaster and leader of the Brotherhood of the Veil. First among equals.

  Out of instinct long ingrained, Michael at once fell to his knees and placed his forehead upon the cool marble floor in deference to those that sat before him. Fear began to make itself known in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he wasn’t used to. Why had he been brought here? Had he failed? Was he to be executed? Was the rescue, his night’s sleep, the beautiful whore, all just some last minute joke, to lull him into a false sense of security before he was killed for some real or imagined error? He closed his eyes, listening hard for the metallic screech of one of those huge scimitars being drawn from its sheath. Instead, he heard another noise.

  Laughter.

  Yes, laughter, from the dais before him. Then applause. His eyes shot open in confusion and he dared to look up. Yes, Master Chen, the others by his sides, now rising to their feet (with great effort in the case of Kaspar), bringing their hands together.

  What cruel joke was this? Were they applauding his impending death?

  Master Chen opened his mouth and spoke to him, his voice strong, fierce and heavily accented, yet his tone light.

  “Rise, Michael Jenkins. Have no fear; you have served us well.”

  Slowly, disbelievingly, Michael rose to his feet, sure that at any second death would come from one of the burly bodyguards that stood patiently by the edges of the room. Master Chen walked forwards, the hem of his robes brushing against the marble floor as he opened his arms wide.

  “What’s this all about?” Michael ventured.

  The Grandmaster answered.

  “For centuries our order has been secretly gathering our strength, ready for the time our enemy reveal themselves. Whispered secrets from Beyond the Veil, guiding us, showing us how best to sow the seeds of terror, to make way for those to come. And warning us of our foe.” He smiled, revealing cat-like teeth. “And now, thanks to you, we know that our enemy are finally here. And that it will soon be time to unleash terror upon the world.”

  Still confused, Michael went to open his mouth, but jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. It was Margritte, unnerving him with the milky-blankness of her staring eyes. Had she been that close before? He could have sworn that she had been on the dais last he looked…

  “He has seen them…” she whispered, in an accent European but impossible to place. Was she French? German? “He has seen so much. They have great power and are gathering more all the time.” Her cold and dry hand reached up to touch his cheek and Michael flinched, even as her eyes widened. “He has touched the mind of one of their number; there is discord in their midst.”

  Grandmaster Chen laughed.

  “You have certainly done well, young Michael. We know exactly where our enemy are. London. That is good. We know where we should concentrate our efforts. We cannot let our foe undo all that we have worked so hard to achieve. This world must fracture, must break. The tribes of men shall not be allowed to join in unity. Our masters come and we shall not be found wanting in our endeavours.”

  “Our Masters?” Jenkins enquired. “Those Beyond the Veil? Is that who rescued me?”

  Chen slowly nodded, made to speak, but was cut off by the voice of the blind seeress who backed away from Michael, her hand raised to her mouth as she gasped.

  “He comes!”

  Chen gestured urgently with his hand, a sweeping motion that rippled the fabric of his long sleeve.

  “Bring forth another of the Chosen!”

  Margritte took Michael’s hand, guided him to the edge of the dais and turned him about to face the room. As he watched, two of the burly guards came marching down the length of the hall. Between them, the very same girl that Michael had bedded but the night before, wearing a simple robe of crimson silk. Her head was lolling, her black pupils dilated with the effects of some potent drug.

  Finally, a dreamy smile upon her young and beautiful face, she stood there upon the stone floor, swaying slightly beneath the scrutinising gaze of the gathered masters.

  “Child,” Chen spoke, his voice low, gentle, encouraging. “Do you give yourself freely in service to Those Beyond the Veil? Do you willingly offer yourself, body and soul, for the downfall of this world and for eternal glory in the hereafter?”

  The girl continued to smile dreamily and Michael wondered whether she’d even heard the man, but then she answered, her voice slurred.

  “I do. Freely, willingly. Body and soul.”

  A nod from the Grandmaster, and one of the guards marched forth with a silver ceremonial dagger upon a cushion. Smiling at it, as though twere some long-expected and desired gift, the girl reached out with slender hands to take the blade, caressing it up and down its length as she had done to Jenkins only hours before.

  “Prove yourself,” Chen commanded.

  With a nod, the girl shrugged the robe free from her shoulders till it fell to the floor, revealing her naked form; tanned skin, small breasts with dark nipples, long legs. Slowly, she raised the dagger to her left shoulder, placing the razor tip to the skin. Then, to Jenkins’ ever-widening eyes, she dragged the blade down diagonally, crossing over her breasts and down to her right hip, scarlet blood issuing forth from the long wound to drip down her curves and onto the marble floor.

  No cry of pain, no grunt of torment; but a moan of ecstasy that sent shivers down Michael’s spine.

  The deed done, she dropped the dagger upon the floor with a loud, metallic clang that rang out through the hall. And smiled. Jenkins frowned. Was that it? Was this just some ritual, some ceremony for the sake of ceremony? Wait… what was that smell that had begun to permeate the air? Strong, familiar. The scent of sulphur, fire, ash.

  The girl’s eyes, lazy and drug-addled, suddenly widened in agony. She screamed. The flesh of her arms, her legs, her chest, all suddenly caught light with a strange and fierce flame of pure black. Dark smoke writhed and boiled all about her as she screamed in pain. But still she didn’t move, didn’t run to dive into the carp pond in an effort to extinguish the flames. Instead she stood there, willingly suffering these agonies, even as she cried out in torment.

  Before Michael’s horrified and fascinated eyes, the flesh of her body began to melt and flow, taking on new shapes. She grew, becoming taller. Her limbs and chest began to swell, becoming broader. Her hair receded, her breasts shrinking to become strong and firm pectorals, her legs widening, thighs thickening. About her waist, the dark smoke was thick and heavy, though Jenkins didn’t even need to see to guess at what was happening there.

  Head back, the female scream that rose to the ceiling deepened in tone, till it become the roar of an anguished man. And finally the noise, the burning, the sickening melting of flesh, the cry of pain; it all stopped. And there was silence.

  The smoke began to clear, the strength of it, the pungency of the brimstone smell, causing Jenkins’ eyes to water. As the cloud dissipated, he looked on in wonder and fear.

  There, in the centre of the space before the dais, where once the young and lissom woman had stood, there was now the form of a man, tall, lean, muscled and with a strange ethereal quality that caused each and every person who regarded it to shiver in apprehension. The head, looking up at the ceiling, now lowered to reveal a face calm, composed, eyes closed. The hair was white, pure, b
one white. The eyes flashed open.

  Cold, grey and merciless. The eyes of a killer.

  At unspoken command, a guard rushed forth with a fresh robe, a larger one more suited to this man’s frame, wrapping it about the man’s shoulders with all the reverence of a coronation. So robed, the man that was once a woman strode forwards, eyes scanning each and every one upon the dais. The masters all dropped to one knee. Michael followed suit, somehow sensing that to not do so would be death.

  As the stranger approached, Grandmaster Chen dared look up.

  “Lord Memphias… twice in as many days… an unexpected honour.”

  “You disappoint me, Chen.” The man’s voice was as cold as his eyes. “These vessels you provide are weak. The strength of this body is being exhausted even as we speak.”

  “We will do better, my lord.”

  “See to it that you do. This body feels like it was already drained of its vigour before I even arrived.”

  Jenkins couldn’t help himself, despite the situation.

  “That was probably my fault, my lord. I do apologise.”

  Urgent looks of alarm from each of the prostrate masters, unspoken urgings to shut the hell up; all save from Alison Crane, whose wide eyes hid barely restrained laughter at his outburst. The robed stranger that Chen had greeted as Memphias strode closer, till his bare feet were almost beneath Michael’s nose.

  “I see.” Dare Michael look up? He did. The man was smiling. For some reason it was just as chilling as if he had been angry. “Rise,” Memphias commanded. “All of you.” They did as he asked.

  As Michael rose, he took an involuntary step away from the man; even unarmed and clad in no more than a robe, this man named Memphias had a look about him that said he could kill everyone here with his bare hands if he so wished.

  Michael didn’t doubt it.

  “Today is a good day,” Memphias told them, striding before them from side to side like a general inspecting his troops. “We have learned where our enemy are based. Now we can strike.”

  “We will dispatch operatives at once,” boomed Kaspar, “kill their leader before he knows what’s coming!”

  Memphias turned, the ferocity of his glare causing Kaspar to stutter and falter, before finally shutting up.

  “You know nothing of their leader, fat man. He alone, out of all our enemies, cannot be killed. I know; I tried.”

  Master Chen wrinkled his grey and bushy brow. That could not be true; according to all the legends of the Brotherhood, all the stories passed down over generations, the man named Memphias was an assassin without peer, a slayer of kings and gods.

  “The God-Bane daggers,” he asked in confusion. “They failed? How could that be?”

  Memphias snarled, the noise inhuman, more that of a hungry Jaguar. It echoed about the hall, causing even the stoutest of warriors to feel a certain dread worm its way up their spine.

  “Stone is of no consequence. His own past experiences will cause him to keep his hand out of events. Even if our masters failed to destroy him once, they have broken him nonetheless. No man can commit the atrocities he once did and live with the shame. No man could stand the hypocrisy of championing peace, when inside he carries the burden of untold deaths by his own hand.” He smiled. “No, I believe Stone will have no part in any of the battles to come. It is his followers that we need to concern ourselves with. The Woodsman. Arbistrath. Gwenna.” At that last name, Michael spat upon the floor, drawing stares from all around. Memphias turned towards him. “You know of the shaman?”

  A nod.

  “The red-haired bitch is the one that captured me in the first place. Then she spent the next few nights intruding upon my dreams, trying to glean what she could from my mind.”

  Qadir started at this.

  “Did she learn anything of import, man?” he hissed. “And think carefully.”

  Jenkins shook his head.

  “No. As you know, none of the Brotherhood operatives know any of the others at work in their own country. And, until I was rescued, I knew nothing of our friends from Beyond the Veil.”

  Memphias nodded.

  “Good.” His grey eyes locked onto Michael’s. “But I fear there is more that you aren’t telling us…”

  A pause, then Michael nodded.

  “The red-haired woman failed. But before I was transported to the surface, before you came to my rescue; a youth, another one possessed of magic powers, like that Gwenna; he came down to my cell, unknown to the others. He tried a more… ‘direct’ approach at getting into my mind.” His eyes stared into space for a moment as he recalled that initial horror, that cold feeling of penetration, but then his mouth flickered into a grin. “It didn’t go as well as he thought. The youth was cocky, overconfident. I turned the tables, managed to delve into his memories. His secrets.”

  The Lord of Assassins smiled as he listened.

  “And what did you learn, my resourceful servant?”

  “That this youth is jealous of Gwenna. He yearns for her, has done for years, but she is with someone else. And this jealousy is driving him mad, causing him to make rash and irresponsible decisions.”

  “Excellent!” Memphias laughed. “Excellent. Dissension in the ranks, this is good to hear. Stone aims for unity of all mankind but there is discord amongst his own followers. How delicious the irony.”

  “My lord,” Michael spoke, his eyes questioning. “I want revenge; upon both the flame-haired witch and the one who’s besotted with her. She man-handled me, brought me shame. He assaulted my very mind, exposing my innermost thoughts. I wish to kill them both.”

  The assassin considered this.

  “And you shall have your wish, fear not. But be patient; if we leave this divide in their ranks to grow, to fester for now, then it might play out to our advantage. In the meantime, I have other duties for you. We are going to shake this world to the core.” He made a fist at the words, then frowned, his fist smoking slightly, the wisps that came from twixt his fingers black and sulphurous. He turned to Chen. “This body is not long for this world. Already it is exhausted. I must return to Beyond the Veil, impart what I have learned to our masters. Be ready; I shall communicate our plans through the blind hag.”

  “Yes, my lord. Understood.”

  “And next time I make the long and arduous journey to this world, find me a vessel that hasn’t been already… worn out.”

  With that, a great flash of dark fire, the foul heat of which caused all gathered there to shield their eyes and stumble backwards. When the flash faded, there remained of the body only a pile of black and smoking ash that stirred upon the gentle breeze.

  At once, Grandmaster Chen barked orders, hulking guards running hither and thither as they carried out his instructions. The masters began to disperse, each with their own works to be carrying on with. Apart from Crane. She drew near to Michael, a curious mixture of amusement and curiosity in her eyes.

  “So,” she laughed. “You managed to wear out the chosen vessel of Memphias, eh?”

  “So it appears,” he nodded, wary that he was speaking to a Master of the Brotherhood, a person capable of ordering his death in an instant, regardless of how casual she might appear right now.

  She fixed him with those wide blue eyes and smiled with soft, moist lips.

  “Show me how.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow in confusion as he was led away by the hand. He had been right; life was interesting at the moment.

  Chapter Nine:

  The black Jaguar roared through the heavily guarded gates and pulled up outside the front of the building, an agent rushing over to open the door for him as the Secretary of State for Defence climbed out. It was drizzling and he’d had to cancel a perfectly good dinner reservation at Claridges that he’d had planned for weeks. But MI5 top brass had told him that it would be worth it.

  He hoped, for their sakes, that it was.

  The agent that had opened the door sheltered him from the worst of the rain with an umbrell
a. His name badge said ‘Farmer, Erik.’ Defence Secretary the Rt Hon Jonathan Andrews glanced at the man’s face.

  “Been with us long?” he asked, as they walked towards the building, gravel crunching underfoot.

  “A few years, Secretary.”

  “Oh. Can’t think that I’ve seen you around.”

  “Once of those faces that blends in, Secretary.”

  Andrews laughed.

  “Useful, in your line of work, I expect?”

  The man smiled.

  “More than you know.”

  The little entourage made to climb the steps into the great double-doors of MI5 headquarters, but then a shout from the main gates, one of the armed policeman calling over.

  “Do we have an Agent Farmer? We have a motorcycle courier here for an Agent Farmer.”

  With a nod from the Secretary, Farmer handed the umbrella to a fellow agent and hurried down the stairs. There, on the gravel courtyard, a bike rider walked across, clad in black leathers and under the watchful eyes of gun-wielding Police officers. As he drew near, he removed his helmet.

  The face beneath was olive-skinned like that of a Native American, with jet black hair that was being left to grow long and tied back into a short pony tail. In his hand, he clutched a small package.

  “Agent Farmer?”

  “That’s me.”

  “This is the package you ordered.” A glint in the eye. “Don’t break it.”

  “I shan’t.”

  With that, the courier turned, escorted from the premises by the officers, even as the agent turned back to the building and hurried up the steps.

  “What’s that?” asked the Defence Secretary.

  “New earpiece,” Farmer explained, tapping the Bluetooth device at his ear. “Mine’s acting up.”

  “Very good.”

  Into the building, now, out of the drizzle, the entrance hall wide and long, with more armed guards, a walk-through metal detector. And a conveyor belt through a scanner.