Unknown

by Paul Kelly

  She tried to move past him but he stepped to his right, blocking her path.

  “Why were you in Svan, Sybil?” he asked again.

  Sybil could feel eyes beginning to stare at them. Over the din of the crowd and the beat of the Pulse, she thought she could hear whispering. This was not going to plan.

  She pulled Sam towards a sheltered corner of the Drum, a marble alcove set with a statue of Adonijah, the first Pulse-Master.

  “It was a routine check, Sam,” she lied, her voice firm despite her nerves.

  “Nobody goes to Svan for a routine check, Sybil.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You keep missing this Sybil,” answered Sam. “You are my business. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you, don’t you see?!” Sybil almost shouted in frustration. “This is something I have to take care of on my own!”

  “It’s about your nosebleeds isn’t it?”

  Sybil started. How had he known about those?

  “Don’t give me that look,” Sam continued. “I know you think you’ve covered them up, but you can’t hide things like that from me Sybil. These things… They only bother you so much because you don’t talk about them. They eat away at you because you do not let anyone in. Let me in Sybil, please, I can help.”

  Sybil felt her resolve begin to weaken. Sam had always cared so much, too much. Would it hurt to let him know a little more?

  “I’m trying to get into the Security Library,” she blurted out. She regretted it as soon as she said it. Entering the Security Library without permission was a capital offense. She was putting both their lives in danger by telling him. Shock flooded Sam’s face.

  “The Probe went that badly?” he asked.

  “You have no idea,” answered Sybil, the words suddenly coming out in a torrent. “They think I’m a Seer Sam! Everything I do seems to convince them that I’m cursed with the power of Prophecy. I have to know what else they know, I can’t just let this lie; I can’t just wait around until the day they come to take me away…” Her hands were trembling in fear now and she stared at them, using the opportunity to avoid Sam’s gaze. She wanted to be held by him, to ask for his help as she had all those years ago when her teachers had pushed them both through their training so quickly, when they’d only had each other to rely on. But Sam had broken under the strain of it and she hadn’t been able to mend him. His career had led him to an inferior role within society and she had left him behind. “I have to go,” she said.

  Sam did not try to stop her this time, but laid one hand on her shoulder as she passed. “Then let me help you,” he said.

  Sybil and Sam slipped around the side of the Drum, keeping to the shadows as they rounded the training grounds. The Security Library lay in the west wing, underneath one of the secondary domes. It was a little extravagant for a library, but she guessed it was justified given that it housed every secret kept in the Skylands. Beside her, Sam moved quietly, having long since discarded his chainmail vest, he wore only a white tabard atop plain woollen trousers. His stealth had surprised Sybil and she wondered how much else she had missed when she had left the Guardians. They came to a corner and knelt beside the white plaster. On the other side was the entrance to the western side of the building. Sam pointed towards the edge and held two fingers up, pointing north. Sybil nodded and Sam stepped around the corner.

  “There’s been a Breach on the northern side of the Drum!” he shouted, his voice panicked.

  There was silence and then the steady clink and clank of chainmail as the Guardians rushed after him. They did not question his words. Sam was far too highly ranked for that. They merely followed and obeyed. Sybil waited until she could no longer hear them and then wrapped her scarf around the bottom half of her face, rounded the corner and stepped into the gloom of the Drum.

  Light shone around Elijah as he soared through the sky. On either side, the Wyvern’s wings beat powerfully. He did not steer the Wyvern, he didn’t even know if he could, but it knew where to go. Either that or it was taking him into the middle of nowhere to die. Knowing his luck lately, he wouldn’t be surprised. Below him, the Wyvern shook violently, almost flinging him off. Elijah clung even tighter to it, his fingers clasped along its long, scaly neck. They aimed for the northern side of the island, the opposite end to where he had entered before. Something about a dozen Pulse-Masters being ready to blow him out of the sky otherwise. Ash had said they were beefing up the security where he had entered before, a weak point not even the Future Storm had known of. But he guessed it was difficult to get a handle on weak points when your enemy literally had the upper hand.

  Gradually, the bottom of the Skylands came into view, its rigid earthen structure frozen forever by the same shield that forced the Wyvern to zig-zag around it. Elijah gritted his teeth as he was tossed from side to side by the Wyvern’s movements, his fingers loosening with each jolt. He pressed himself closer to the creature’s body, as if he could melt into it. Why was it that only the Skylanders had thought to make saddles for these things? The wind stung his skin and ripped at his robes and he very badly wanted to be absolutely anywhere else. Why couldn’t the Skylands just be a little bit closer to the ground? Was that really so much to ask?

  The Wyvern continued its insane zig-zag pattern, moving in with each zig and up with each zag until they were level with the edge of the Island. Elijah reached out a glowing hand towards the grass, desperately trying to reach something that felt solid. Then, with a sharp twist, the Wyvern moved underneath him, flinging him off. Elijah screamed as he hung in the air for a minute before landing in a tumble on the grassy edge. He stumbled to his feet, just in time to see three Guardians sprinting towards him.

  Oh, what a brilliant spot to drop him off this was. Suddenly, he felt his arms slam to his side. He’d forgotten the Guardians had damn magical powers on their side. The Guardian controlling the Pulse stood still, concentrating furiously as the remaining two charged towards him.

  ‘Well, this was perhaps the least successful attack of all time,’ Elijah thought grimly as they thundered closer. He struggled against his bonds, the bright light of the timeline seeming to flicker just at the edge of his vision, fear overwhelming whatever ability he had. The Guardians leapt atop him, pinning him to the ground. One had a sword out, the long blade sliding against his throat. They’d invented skyscrapers, light bulbs and sound boxes since the discovery of the Pulse. You’d have thought they’d have a better way to kill someone than with a sharp piece of metal. Elijah struggled against the two of them, but he was powerless with his arms pinned to his side. Then, suddenly, his body exploded into light. He saw the Guardian’s eyes widen as crystal claws grabbed his Pulse wielding companion, flinging him off the edge. The Guardian screamed in terror as he plummeted to his death and suddenly Elijah’s arms were free. The two Guardians hadn’t expected this and Elijah wriggled from their grasp, kicking one of them in the head as he did so. The man with the sword growled, rubbing his temple, and dived at Elijah. The Wyvern grabbed him mid-dive, his feet thrashing uselessly in the air as it threw him into the expanse below. The final Guardian stared at Elijah in terror. And Elijah suddenly found that his own terror no longer mattered. The funny thing about scaring others is that it always means that they scare you less. Generally speaking, that’s usually the whole point. The timeline was there now, flowing through the Guardian in front of him. Elijah reached out with whatever hidden limb seemed to operate within him and grabbed it.

  “What happened?”

  “They think it was the miners; that they dug too deeply and too greedily.”

  Elijah looked out across a sea of people. He stood in a huge circular room. At one end of the circle was a raised dais, rectangular in shape and towering twelve feet above the ground. Eight people sat behind it. Before the dais, long benches radiated outwards in a fan shaped pattern. The rows started close to the ground so the closest occupants had to crane their necks u
pwards to see the eight figures seated behind the rectangular marble block. Over one hundred people were crowded into these rows which gradually rose in elevation until the last row at the back was at the same level as the sheer rectangular dais against the back wall. All the people were very angry.

  “We demand justice!” the man closest to Elijah roared, squinting across the room at the eight figures who were clearly in charge. “Let us hang the man who leads these mines!”

  There was a chorus of agreement. “We cannot simply -”, began one of the eight but he was rapidly cut off by a chorus of outrage by the assembled masses. They did not like the sound of ‘cannot’. The man sighed and looked apologetically at a woman beside him. She nodded, waved her hand and suddenly the man’s voice filled the Hall. “We cannot kill the mine’s foreman. He died in the Fall, just as all on the Island of Carthos. Rescue teams have been dispatched, but no survivors have yet been found.”

  The mutterings became more sullen, as if the mob were a spoiled child who had just been informed that the world had run out of sweets.

  “Where was he from?” one of the women in the Hall shouted out. “His city should be forced to pay tribute for this tragedy!”

  “He was from Prazna -”, began one of the eight leaders.

  “Forget tribute, let’s raze their city to the ground!” interrupted another in the Hall.

  “I don’t think that would be a measured response -”

  “I don’t care about measured, my wife died in the Fall, do you think her killers took a measured approach when they decided to bring down an entire Island of people?!” shouted another voice from beside Elijah.

  “My people tell me that the mine that caused the Fall was worked entirely by Earthlanders!” shouted another woman. “First they refuse to pay our efficiency tax, now they kill thousands of us and you’re just going to stand by?”

  There was a roar of agreement from the assembled masses.

  “Are you suggesting that those miners deliberately caused the Fall? Knowing that it would mean their deaths?” asked one of the leaders sceptically.

  “I’m telling you that’s what happened! Have you been to the site of the Fall, Answerer?” asked the widower, his tone contriving to turn the title into an insult. “The blood of thousands still soaks the ground! You are deluded if you think this wasn’t a deliberate attack!”

  The crowd shouted in agreement. Suddenly, they had someone to blame. That was all they needed. The eight leaders tried to restore order but soon they too were sucked into the frenzy, unwilling to speak against the overwhelming tide of hate. Steadily, from the incoherent but very single minded babble came the sounds of a decision being made.

  Elijah couldn’t say exactly when they decided to begin the war. There was no grand statement. As is the way of such terrible decisions, none of the leaders wanted to take responsibility for it. But suddenly the discussion changed from whether the war should begin to the strategy behind it. To whether Aubrey should face the invasion first, due to their wealth, or whether it should be Prazna because of the foreman. Eventually they seemed to settle on Ekriam for the single brutal reason that none of the other Earthlands were likely to support them. The eight leaders strode from the room to begin the production of the battle plans. Then the vision faded.

  Suddenly Elijah was back in the real world and staring at a very real Guardian bearing down on him with all the force that you would expect from a two hundred pound man waving a heavy piece of metal. Elijah was confused for a second, disorientated by the change in the environment. Then he saw the timeline flowing through the Guardian and felt its power chorusing through him. He threw the energy at the man, who raised a single hand to protect himself, his eyes filled with fear. Then his hand disappeared, the skin wrinkling before falling off in layers, revealing bone and dust. He screamed, collapsing to the ground, his brain refusing to comprehend the magnitude of his pain. Elijah stepped towards him and tapped his head with the toe of his shoe. He was unconscious. His arm ended in a jagged, withered bone just below the elbow that sent a shiver of revulsion running down Elijah’s spine. He turned his back on the body, facing the huge bronze dome of the Drum. He couldn’t afford to feel any sympathy for him. There could be no half-measures, not now. Somewhere, Truth was waiting for him. The attack began now.

  Sybil crept slowly through the Drum, her heart pounding. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripping down to sting her eyes. Her scarf felt itchy around the bottom half of her face. All was silent in the Drum. With Guardians stationed at every entrance, there was no need for security within the Drum itself. Then, as if to contradict her, she began to hear voices.

  “I don’t understand what the point is, is all,” grumbled one of the voices. “It’s just a library. Why’s it need all this special attention?”

  Sybil ducked back into a corridor, cursing silently to herself. There was not supposed to be anyone here. This was supposed to be simple and devoid of witnesses. This complicated things.

  “We’re lucky to have this job and you know it, Tom,” a female voice answered the first. “Why Dave here barely made Fortunate. What would happen if we stopped being useful? Sure we’d all be down to Beggers in a flash.”

  Sybil smiled thinly. They were only Fortunate, not a problem for her. She listened for the beat of the Pulse, keeping it low so that she did not alert any of them. When Sybil struck, they were powerless to resist. She let the Pulse grow to a fast, rhythmic beat and threw it directly at the three. It was not a pretty attack, but Sybil was in no mood for aesthetics. Two of the Fortunate collapsed instantly as the wall behind them exploded in a sea of broken white marble. The third dived to their left, her eyes widening, her hands bleeding. She had sensed the change in the Pulse. Sybil quickly stepped out. She couldn’t afford for the alarm to be raised. Moving more delicately, she directed the Pulse around the third Fortunate, covering her eyes and mouth and slamming her limbs together. The Fortunate collapsed, falling straight as a pencil against the wall. Sybil’s feet crunched on the broken white marble as she walked towards the corridor’s entrance. She knocked the third Fortunate out as she passed, just for good measure. The corridor extended out towards a huge, thick wooden door, lit by twelve lights inset into the ceiling above. The door was Pulse-made; Sybil could feel the air around it vibrating, reacting to its energy. It would not go down easily. She took a deep breath. Sybil would use it against itself. She listened intently and let the Pulse fill her with its thunderous, constant beat. She let it get louder than she had ever let it before. If there was anyone near her they would hear it instantly, but she was alone. She let the Pulse build, let it grow louder and louder until it hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut in pain and drew in still more. The Pulse rushed through her and she threw it at the door. It crashed into it like a wave against rocks, the force of the blast warping the air around her and forcing Sybil back even as the door sucked it in, expanding and growing steadily. All around her, she heard the grown and creak of stone as the corridor around her strained against the growing door. Then the marble cracked. Sybil sprinted back the way she had come, her vision blurring from the fatigue of the Pulse. Above her, the ceiling came crashing down, individual light bulbs shattering as the structure collapsed before her. She smiled thinly. Wooden Pulse-made doors expanded when they were attacked with the raw impact of the Pulse. Finally, a use for Pulse Observation. Sybil shook her head, dispelling her fatigue. In and out, that was all this would be. She stepped over the broken marble and into a cloud of dust.

  Sybil had expected a small room, filled with stacks of reports, neatly filed according to date. She had not expected the cavernous hall before her. The room smelled stagnant, used, like an ancient tomb which had only just been opened. On Sybil’s left a huge window, held together by thin intersections of metal, showed the evening sky. At the far end stood a huge, golden throne, framed by thick volumes of books which teetered beside it. Below her feet a lustrous red carpet lined the ground and above her a bronze
dome hung, covered with frescoes of the Conquest. In the centre of the room stood a pillar and atop it a huge power shard the size of a child’s fist. Exactly like the one she’d seen during her interrogation. She began to walk towards it and reached out one hand. Then she stopped. This was too easy.

  “Why do you hesitate, Sybil?” an old, gravelly voice asked. Sybil turned.

  Behind her stood an old man, whose withered face hung unexpectedly on a strong, firmly muscled body. He wore an embroidered robe, richly designed but about three centuries out of fashion. A red cloak seemed to creep around his body, as if trying to swallow it.

  “How do you know my name?” asked Sybil.

  “I know a lot of things about a lot of people,” chuckled the old man. “More than most people suspect, I suspect. Oh they keep me here, lock me away in this dusty old library and think they can forget all about me. But I remember them. I remember all of them.”

  Sybil reached for the Pulse on instinct, her body seeking its comforting beat. But the usually steady beat was erratic and she couldn’t grasp it. She stepped away instead, backing away from the shining power shard in the centre of the room.

  “Oh don’t be like that,” crooned the old man. And suddenly Sybil felt the Pulse seize her, not the general beat of the Pulse that surrounds all things but the very beat that she controlled, the one that she had to sync with the great beat of the Pulse in order to mould it to her will.

  Her eyes widened. She couldn’t move. She could feel the Pulse suddenly stiffening around her limbs. She turned her head to look again at the old man who was staring at her with a terrifying intensity.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice strained with fear.

  “Take the power shard, Sybil,” the old man said, his voice made of steel.

  With a sinking feeling of horror and despair, Sybil looked at the man whose face she had seen stamped on every coin. The man who her own island was named after. The man who had discovered the Pulse, who had tamed the Wyverns, who had founded the Skylands: Tommen the Great.