Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  The spirits that dwelled here were hungry, clamouring for sustenance, for something to consume in their embrace. Great whirlwinds of living flame danced above the lakes of fire, shrieking their thirst. Giants of lava strode, leaving footprints of smouldering rock in their wake. In the air, a keening cry and Stone looked across to spy a bird of living flame swoop across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke and embers as it passed.

  Fire’s realm, as with those of Earth, Air and Water, bustled with strange and alien life. This entire land, thought Stone, is where all spirits of nature were born; where the Avatars strode, so new life sprang up in their footsteps; nymphs, Sylphii, living flames, Knackers; all no more than emanations, accidental progeny formed by the subconscious power of their Avatar masters.

  And as the Avatars created life all about them, so too did the spirits themselves. Here and there, throughout this vast world that floated neither in time nor space, gateways, doorways, where the fabric between dimensions grew thin. Spirits, clambering and wandering throughout this world would often stumble upon such doorways and make their way into the real world. And when they did, they brought with them their master’s gift of life.

  Where the spirits roamed the mortal world, all but invisible save to those with the gift, they brought forth flourishing life; plants, animals, streams of water. How many spirits must have bled from this world and into mine over the years, thought Stone? Thousands? Millions? Billions? History – now no more than myth, no more than fairy stories – abounded with the tales of fairies, sprites, pixies and goblins. This place reckoned time differently to the real world; though it felt like he’d been here but minutes, perhaps hours had passed by back in London. Had these spirits been leaking into the real world back in the earliest days of man? Earlier? The days of the dinosaurs?

  Earlier still, the dawn of time?

  A thought struck Stone. The Avatars saw themselves as custodians, rather than creators. Yet how much of a hand did their children have in the creation of life on Earth as he knew it? Perhaps he would never know. Perhaps the Avatars themselves didn’t know. They tended planets across the universe – and other universes beyond even that, he assumed – as though they were gardens. Yet had they planted the original seed? He thought back to his musings as he had hovered above London; was there a creator, a being of might and transcendence beyond even the Avatars themselves?

  He shook his head. This wasn’t the time to ask such questions.

  He had come here for a reason.

  Gazing down at the sea of fire beneath him, he spied out the island of obsidian rock upon which he had met the Avatars twice before. Yet there was nothing there, not this time. He frowned; even reaching out with his senses, he couldn’t feel their presence down there. Instead, his link, the flow of power that connected him to those Masters of the Elements seemed to be tugging him in a different direction.

  Laughter, like the tinkling of glass bells, a glittery trail of light and magic whipping about him as a crowd of Sylphii flocked, flapping their tiny butterfly wings.

  “You seek us?” once asked, mirth in its eyes. “Follow, follow and you will find us!”

  As one, the sprites dashed away leaving dust and laughter in their wake.

  A grin upon his face, Stone followed.

  Chapter Ten:

  Impossible. Utterly impossible. He was the Secretary of State for Defence, privy to all information in the latest developments of military technology, at least that employed by the British forces. If this kind of advanced technology was known to man, then he would have known about it.

  He would have known.

  And yet, how could he explain this then, as he gazed down with awestruck eyes, his trembling hands clinging to the stone balustrade as London spread out like a map beneath him?

  As steel-encased hands had clasped Andrews and Evans by the shoulders, they’d been transported, with a bang and a flash and the taste of metal in his mouth, to find themselves, as if by magic, in a long room seemingly carved from stone, with great stained-glass windows set into the walls. The man, once their prisoner, now their captor, for want of a better word; he’d spoken to them, easing them into the knowledge that they were not alone in this universe, that he and his comrades were exiles, fugitives from a lost and far-flung world that had been assailed by dark and powerful forces.

  The very same forces that were even now threatening the Earth.

  Even as the man had spoken to them, a red-haired woman had pushed her way through the crowd of silver-armoured warriors. To Andrews’ and Evans’ amazement, she’d touched her hand lightly to his cheek, the bruises, the swellings, the cuts above his brow, all vanishing; his flesh seeming to mould and knit together till no trace of his beatings had remained.

  And then, after the Woodsman had spoken his piece, they’d been led across the room to this great stone bridge. And asked to look down.

  “How?” spoke the Secretary at last, his eyes having finally convinced him that this was no illusion that lay beneath the great viewing port below. “If what you say is true and we’re really aboard a great vessel,” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘Dragon’, “over a mile long, then how have we not been alerted to this? Since 9/11 we’ve had stringent measures in place to control the airspace above our city. Nothing of this size could get past our defences without us knowing.”

  One of the silver-armoured figures strode closer, his steel boots ringing loud upon the stone floor. This was a youth, no more than twenty by the looks of him. Yet his eyes had the grizzled look of a man that had witnessed horrors. And the pair couldn’t miss the fact that where one of his arms should be, there was instead a weapon, grafted onto the flesh.

  “Draconis’ wings do more than move the air; they bend time and space and even light to its will. If it so chooses, it can remain invisible to any means you might have of detecting it.”

  Evans ventured to speak, tense but beginning to relax, as if slowly realising that they weren’t about to be cast from this bridge to plummet to the ground miles below.

  “How long have you been here? Watching us? Moving among us?”

  It was the Woodsman who replied. If he bore any ill will towards the man who had so mercilessly beaten his bound form, he showed it not in his voice.

  “Some months, now. We’ve been observing the actions of the terrorist organisation that call themselves the Brother of the Veil. Seeking out their plots and stopping them where we can.”

  “But they only attacked us once…”

  Alann’s eyes narrowed and he gave a grim smile.

  “That you know of. Their ways are subtle and their operatives devoid of compassion or mercy. We believe them to be allied to the very powers that destroyed our own world. They seek to hasten the arrival of Those Beyond the Veil.”

  Secretary Andrews shook his head in confusion.

  “So you’re here to stop that from coming to pass?”

  Another of the armoured figures stomped forwards, the last inch of a cigar blazing between his teeth as he blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

  “No, secretary. That’s coming to pass whether you like it or not.” His eyes grew fierce with memories, the very shadow of which caused Andrews to shudder. “We’re here to make sure that when it does, you’re ready.”

  Andrews looked across to the agent by his side, then down to the cityscape below.

  “I… I could use a drink.”

  The Woodsman smiled.

  “As could I. Follow us.”

  ***

  “This Lord Stone of yours? He’s your leader?”

  A nod from Alann sat on the leather couch opposite, sipping from a great tankard of foaming beer. Back in the twelfth-century, the Woodsman and his Foresters had developed quite the taste for the honey-laced mead of that time. Draconis, to Alann’s gratitude, had been able to recreate a faithful facsimile of that drink.

  “He is. And more than that, he’s our salvation, our greatest weapon. And a symbol that nothing is ever too far gone t
o change for the better.”

  Andrews grunted.

  “Sounds like quite the man.”

  A smile.

  “One could say that.”

  “Will we get to meet him?”

  A nod.

  “I have no doubt of that. When, however, I couldn’t say. Though he’s amiable and open, he is a mysterious man, with an agenda of his own that us mortals will never be able to follow. Even now, he’s away. Where, we do not know, but he trusts us to carry on our mission in his absence. And he’s always here when we need him most.”

  Evans raised an eyebrow as he sipped a glass of whisky.

  “Mortals? You make it sound like he’s some kind of god.”

  “He wouldn’t say that himself.”

  “And you?”

  “He’s my King.”

  Andrews swirled the brandy about the crystal glass in his hand, staring deep into it as though it might reveal the meaning behind everything that had been so suddenly sprung upon him. He felt like he was asleep, trapped in some nightmare dream from which he couldn’t wake. Nothing made sense; everything he thought to be true seemed to have been turned on its head.

  For a man used to being in control, this feeling of being so helpless and confused was a strange and unfamiliar one. Finally, he ventured:

  “You’ve brought us here. You’ve told us about yourselves, about the dangers you say are to come. I don’t know why, don’t know how, but I believe you. But what now?” He leaned forwards, his face looking aged and tired in the orange firelight as he clutched his glass of brandy close. “What would you have us do with this knowledge?”

  The red-haired woman who had been introduced to them as Gwenna, sat down by Alann’s side. Evans noticeably shivered at her sight; he still remembered the video footage of her miraculous powers. Her speed. Her strength.

  “We want you to take this knowledge to your leader,” she told them.

  “The Prime Minister?” Andrews asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes. This world is going to have to change if we are to stand together and defeat the invasion to come. And change a great deal. We cannot change an entire world in one go, however. But one country? That we can do… if we have your ruler’s help.”

  “You propose an alliance?”

  Arbistrath snorted with mirth from where he stood by the fire. No longer garbed in his armour, instead more casual wear, he held a tankard of beer in his hand as he stared into the flames.

  “We propose a regime change.”

  Evans burst into laughter, even as Andrews fixed them all with wild and disbelieving eyes, his brow furrowed.

  “What you talk about is impossible. We can’t give over the mantle of leadership as easily as that; our country has a vast history of proud tradition. We have our own ways and a leader, democratically elected by the people. The Prime Minister will not agree to it. Not in a million years.”

  “We don’t have a million years,” the Woodsman told him, voice low, calm, controlled. “We have one hundred. And the clock is ticking. Without drastic measures, this world will be woefully unprepared for what’s to come.”

  “Then tell us what we can do! Work with the government. Show us how to use this incredible technology. Teach us about this enemy and how we can defeat them.”

  Gwenna shook her head, ringlets of red bouncing as she closed her eyes and sighed.

  “If only twere that simple,” she told him. “We’ve not been sitting here idly these last months; we’ve been listening in, watching, observing. Your government is slow, unwieldy and acts only in its own self-interests. Those elected by the people don’t represent the people, not as you might think.”

  “Preposterous,” Andrews blustered. “We are a democracy, one of the first and foremost in the civilised world! People look to us as an example.”

  Alann fixed the man with fierce eyes that caused his protestations to fall silent.

  “The people that die of cold upon your city streets,” he spoke, slowly and carefully. “Whilst the wealthy slumber in warm houses with more bedrooms than they need; are they the example of which you speak? What about the families that struggle to feed their children, whilst ‘elected representatives’ such as yourself dine in lavish restaurants at the tax-payer’s expense? Is that the example? And how about the men and women that you seem so eager to send to far-off lands, to fight and die for causes they neither know, nor understand, nor stand any hope of benefiting from the fruits of?”

  Andrews raised his head at the tirade, attempting to look down his long and hawkish nose at the Woodsman.

  “These are problems the world over, not just specific to Britain.”

  For a brief instant fury lit Alann’s face and the pair of Brits cowered into their leather couch.

  “And that makes it okay? If everyone else suffers it, then your own people must as well, without complaint, without seeking change?” He snorted. “I knew men, once. Men – and women – of character, who fought bravely for change. Fought for equality for all, rich and poor alike. They would be disappointed with how little has changed in this country today.”

  Alann rose, staring down at them, as if he was about to speak again, but then he reached down and picked up his tankard, before shaking his head in disappointment and striding off to join Arbistrath by the fire. After a few moments, Evans dared speak into the silence.

  “What was that about?”

  Gwenna stared at him from where she still sat.

  “It was about people, Agent Evans. And the very fact that you have to ask is why your government can never be allied with. Why it must instead be replaced. Your system is broken.”

  Andrews took a great gulp of his brandy, shuddering as it burned his throat, before replying.

  “What you speak of cannot be done. Parliament will not hand over power. It is unprecedented. Even should you persuade him, the Prime Minister does not have the power to do what you ask alone. The whole of Parliament would have to vote in favour of such a decision. It would take more than the words of a man, even one as passionate as your woodsman, to persuade them to part with their power.”

  Gwenna smiled, green eyes sparkling with hidden amusement in the firelight.

  “Then so be it. If it takes more than the words of a man, then the words must come from someone more than a man…”

  ***

  He’d never seen this before. A bridge, wide enough for an army to march a hundred abreast and formed of translucent obsidian like that from which his Glaives were carved, stretching off into space. How was it supported? The great columns beneath it seemed to disappear miles down into the swirling clouds of colour below. What did they finally anchor to? Or was it an illusion?

  Did they even need to anchor to anything at all, here, in this dimension, where physics, time and space were all mutable to the will of the Avatars?

  A twinkling trail that threatened to disappear from sight before him as he floated and observed the bridge, so Stone hurried on, surging through the air after the receding laughter of the Sylphii. Where were they taking him? Where did this bridge lead?

  He could sense the presence of the Avatars growing stronger; they were drawing nearer. But nearer to where? The great obsidian bridge pierced through a cloud of swirling kaleidoscope colour that obscured the way ahead and Stone followed it, the cloud bank bursting apart at his passage, revealing what lay beyond. He stopped, suddenly, in mid-flight, hovering, mouth agape at what sprawled before him.

  An island, floating in space. Smaller than the kingdoms he had left behind, but still many miles wide and perhaps as many deep, as bedrock thrust down into the bottomless void of colour and cloud. Perfectly round in shape, the land teemed with life; not just spiritual, here, but real, physical life. Trees, vast blankets of them of all colours of the rainbow, forests sprawling out for miles, thick and lush. Animals stalked down there, preying upon each other or else living off the fruits of the land. Glowing birds flew from tree to tree on trails of glistening light. Strange elepha
nt-like beasts with six legs roamed Savannah grasslands. Great, winding rivers snaked towards the edge of the island before falling into space as shimmering waterfalls of spray.

  From his vantage point, hovering in the air, this island looked for all the world like a window-box, a hanging basket outside of a pub; a great clash of riotous and joyful colour and life that warmed the heart to survey.

  Down there, Sylphii flitted and laughed between the trees, alighting upon the heads of jungle cats, causing them to roar and swipe, before darting away. Water-nymphs played and splashed in the gently burbling rivers.

  In the middle of this island, this garden, this sandbox, a vast and many tiered-pagoda of crystal rose high into the multi-coloured sky. From there, Stone could feel the emanations of power that spoke of those he sought.

  He flew on, gazing in wonder at the bustling life below as he soared overhead. In a matter of moments he arrived and alighted upon the top-most floor of the pagoda, a flat surface hundreds of feet in diameter, the floor solid beneath his feet, despite the transparent crystal of its manufacture. No roof above him on this top floor. He had an inkling why.

  An inkling that was to be proved correct.

  A flash of intense light and a boom of rumbling thunder; the Avatars had arrived.

  Fire was the first element to draw his attention; a whirlwind of living flame of such incandescence that even Stone’s immortal skin began to sweat at its fury. It floated there, but a few dozen yards away, hovering above the blissfully untouched crystal that failed to melt or even glow beneath the unwavering torture of its presence.

  Next to Fire, Earth. As usual, Stone had to crane his neck to take in even the smallest part of Earth’s immense and towering form. How tall was this giant of living rock and gemstones? How much must this being weigh? For it was no less than a mountain incarnate. That the seemingly delicate crystal beneath its train-carriage-sized feet failed to shatter spoke volumes of its otherworldly nature.