Web of Fire Bind-up

by Steve Voake

  But Hekken was under no such illusion. He was well aware of the shadowy paths that they had all chosen in their quest for ultimate power. He knew that the darkness in the prophecy referred not to humans but to Vermia itself.

  And therein lay the problem. The prophecy was working against them and time was running out. He would have to find a way of making Odoursin see the truth.

  If they were to win, then the Dreamwalker’s Child would have to die.

  Ten

  High in the mountains above the city of Vahlzi, the Olumnus people – or what was left of them – still lived quietly in their mountain caves. They followed the ancient teachings of Salus, who they believed – even now – walked between the worlds of Aurobon and Earth, guiding those who sought to restore them to their proper state of harmony.

  While the Mazrian tribes worked the land, the Arbous people colonised the forests and the Nomads roamed the great deserts of the north, the Olumnus alone had worked secretly to fulfil their ancient purpose of maintaining the balance of life on Earth.

  Moving unseen through gaps in the fabric between the worlds, they repaired damaged crops, guided underground springs to the surface of lands ravaged by drought, fought clandestine battles to keep pests in check and helped even the tiniest of creatures adapt to a changing world. The Olumnus so loved the Earth that they devoted their lives to it.

  But then Earth’s people became industrialised. As their cities grew, the Olumnus had found it increasingly difficult to keep pace with the huge changes that followed. The battle to preserve the balance of nature became much harder.

  It was at this point that a group of younger Olumnus began to copy the technology that they saw on Earth, rapidly developing their own in an effort to keep up with the changes.

  The Olumnus Elders became afraid for the future stability of their own world. They worried that Earth’s mistakes would be repeated, bringing greed, pollution and war to Aurobon. They accused the younger ones of going against the teachings of Salus and ordered that all new technology should be destroyed.

  But the young Olumnus refused and were banished from the mountains for ever.

  And so they had come as settlers to the western plains and built the great city of Vahlzi.

  Eleven

  Vahlzi took its name from the desert flower which – for a few brief hours after the rains came – covered the surrounding plains in a riotous explosion of blooms, ranging in hue from the deepest red to the palest of yellows.

  The name was appropriate, for over the years the city had grown into a huge and delicious confusion of sound and colour; its narrow cobbled back streets twisting erratically beneath the feet of traders as they piled their stalls high with dried fruit, spices, salted fish and wine-skins filled with dark, sweet-smelling liquids.

  In contrast, the streets widened towards the city centre, sweeping past modern, white-walled courtyards towards the main street, where bridges of intricately carved stone arched their way across the River Naiad. Along the banks of the river, pebbled walkways meandered past neatly kept flowerbeds and sprinklers hissed and shimmered over bright emerald lawns.

  It was here, on the main road that led back towards the old part of town, that Commander Firebrand paid the cab driver and stepped quickly out onto the warm pavement. Night was falling and already the streets were alive with people in search of a good time. A young couple barged past him, arguing loudly above the music blaring from a nearby club, while further down the street a group of men staggered drunkenly into the path of a hooting taxi, hammering their fists onto its bonnet as they passed. A thin, bony-faced woman in her early twenties called out to him from a shop doorway where she crouched next to a mangy, undernourished dog.

  ‘Hey, mister. Spare us enough for a hot meal?’

  Throwing a handful of loose change into the woman’s hat, Firebrand waved away her thanks and turned a corner into an adjoining street. From here he negotiated a series of narrow, dimly lit alleys, walking quickly past steaming kitchens and fire escapes hung with washing until he emerged at last on the edge of a small square. In the middle of the square was an overgrown park with a few trees and a little pond surrounded by iron railings and a gate.

  Pushing the gate open, Firebrand heard the hinges creak and felt the rust flake beneath his fingers. Moving through the dark-green shadows, he listened to the sounds of the city floating through the night air and noticed that they were fainter now, like a radio playing softly in another room. He kept on walking until he stood before a large block of stone that marked the centre of the park.

  The stone was black, cube-shaped and twice Firebrand’s height. Ancient signs and letters covered its surface, embedded with the tiniest fragments of crystal that glittered with light despite the relative darkness of their surroundings.

  The Foundation Stone, he thought.

  Firebrand stared at the strange letters carved into the stone so many years before, stared at the dead language that was forgotten by all but a few, and began to read what his father had once taught him to know from memory:

  Herein lies the first stone of the new age. Our city shall rise from the dust and the true of heart shall forever preserve the purpose of the Olumnus. But all must know this: that knowledge is power, but power without wisdom is the path of destruction; and the greatest of all wisdom is love.

  Firebrand remembered his father telling him of the legend that somewhere at the Foundation Stone’s core lay the Earthstone, a magical stone of great beauty and power. It was said to be a gift from Salus himself, a reminder to the Vahlzian people that the fortunes of Earth were forever linked with their own.

  ‘Your faith must be like the Foundation Stone,’ Firebrand’s father had said. ‘Strong enough to shield your heart from the many storms that will try to destroy it. If your faith should crumble, then your heart will be lost.’

  Despite his ancestors’ split with the Olumnus over the use of technology, Firebrand still believed in the old ways, still tried to follow the teachings of the Olumnus. Like them, he wanted to restore order, balance and harmony in both worlds.

  It was the proper way of things.

  He stood up, walked across to the stone and placed his hands upon it. It was cold and solid beneath his touch and he felt a keen sense of its permanence; of the days and the years whirling past its calm and silent centre. He thought of his ancestors bringing the stone to this place all those years ago. They had believed in a better future back then. What would they think now?

  Before the war, Firebrand and Odoursin had been friends. Using their knowledge of new technology, they had successfully developed the Insect Programme and led many joint missions to Earth. But after the death of his brother in the air crash, Odoursin had lost all faith in the old ways. He quickly lost interest in protecting the Earth and became determined to overthrow the Vahlzian government and seize power for himself. His army of followers had struck without warning one night, and although the Vahlzian army had succeeded in driving them out, the battle had left thousands dead.

  Now, while the people of Vahlzi tried to maintain the old values, Odoursin continued to build up his forces in Vermia. Firebrand had always known that Odoursin was ambitious and hungry for power. But he had still believed that Odoursin was on the side of good, right up until that terrible night when he had betrayed them all, tipped over the brink into madness by the loss of his brother.

  Intelligence sources showed he was now developing a new and deadly weapon that he wouldn’t hesitate to use against the people of Earth. And that, of course, would only be the beginning.

  Power without wisdom is the path of destruction…

  Firebrand stared at the Foundation Stone, illuminated by the coloured light from the three moons that hung above the treetops. He had come here this evening with a mind full of doubts, his faith shaken by setbacks and betrayal. But as he touched the ancient stone and remembered his father’s words, he felt his faith returning. Whatever happened, he had to believe that the origins of the pro
phecy lay rooted in the goodness of the past; that these difficult times were simply stepping stones out of the darkness.

  Removing his hands from the stone, Firebrand thrust them into the pockets of his overcoat and looked up into the night sky. There had been no word for three days. The signs were not good. But then of course, he reminded himself, Skipper was highly trained in covert operations of this nature and no one had expected a quick result. He had to push his concerns to one side and believe that she could get the boy out. Failure in this particular mission was not something he would allow himself to think about.

  This time the stakes were too high.

  Twelve

  Sam awoke to the sound of shouts, keys rattling in locks and the metal clang of cell doors being flung open. It was still dark and he guessed it must be early morning. Rubbing his eyes, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He could only have been asleep for a few hours and his right side ached from lying on the cold stone.

  A key turned in the lock and his cell door swung open. A guard stood silhouetted in the doorway with a long black baton in one hand. He pointed it at Sam.

  ‘Get up!’ he shouted.

  Sam put a hand on the wall and levered himself to his feet. ‘Where am I going?’ he asked.

  ‘Just move out, prisoner,’ barked the guard, in a tone that suggested it would be unwise to ask any further questions.

  As Sam stepped out of the cell, the guard turned him roughly so that he was facing down the corridor. A line of prisoners stood motionless outside their cells, all dressed in the same grey material and staring straight ahead.

  From behind him came the sound of a little cough, the kind that someone makes when they want to be noticed.

  Sam turned and saw another line of prisoners stretching the other way. But his eyes were drawn to the small figure standing in front of the cell next to his own.

  It was a girl with short, tousled blonde hair the colour of dirty straw. Although only a few inches smaller than Sam, she looked tiny compared to the other prisoners, an impression that was heightened by the fact that her prison uniform was at least three sizes too big. Despite having managed to roll up the legs and sleeves, she still looked as if she was trying to fight her way out of a large tent.

  But what struck Sam most about her were her sparkling blue eyes. They shimmered with light, like the surface of the ocean on a summer’s morning, and, for the first time since arriving in this terrible place, he felt the loneliness begin to drain out of him.

  The girl brought her hand up in front of her chest and gave him the tiniest of waves. ‘Hello, Sam.’ She smiled warmly at him.

  ‘Hello, Skipper,’ Sam replied. He was about to smile back when a sharp blow in his stomach doubled him over and left him gasping for air.

  ‘Eyes front, prisoner!’ yelled the guard, jabbing him again with the heavy baton. He grabbed Sam by the front of his uniform and slammed him up against the wall. Sam cried out in pain and fright.

  ‘You’d better be a real fast learner, son,’ the guard whispered nastily as Sam struggled to get his breath back. ‘Cos if you ain’t, me and my stick are gonna teach you real quick. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam, his voice shaking. ‘I understand.’

  He struggled to stand up straight again and tried not to show his fear. His body was bruised and he ached all over.

  ‘Now fall in, prisoner!’ shouted the man.

  As Sam limped over to join the others, he caught sight of a cross-eyed Skipper pointing at the guard’s back and scratching under her arms like a chimpanzee.

  In spite of the pain, he managed a weak smile and took his place in the line.

  The column of prisoners halted at the tall iron gates on the far side of the courtyard, waiting for them to be unlocked. Although it was still dark, the stars were beginning to fade as morning approached, and the moons lay hidden in cloud.

  Over to his left, Sam could see a group of new arrivals standing on the unloading ramp, caught in the cold glare of the metal lamps that shone from the top of the wooden huts. A group of men had been separated from the others and made to stand to attention, facing the wall. They were chained to iron rings and a guard was trying to hold back his dog as it barked fiercely at them, straining at its leash. Sam noticed that the guard was smiling. He shouted something to one of the other soldiers, who laughed loudly, his smoky breath forming like a small ghost in the bitter morning air. Sam shivered and turned away.

  The gates creaked open and the prisoners moved forward once more. Sam saw how thin and undernourished they all looked, shuffling along in filthy grey uniforms, their sad hollow eyes staring out at a life that had become merely an exercise in staying alive. He remembered what he had heard on the radio about enemies of the state being re-educated. Some education, he thought bitterly.

  After following a muddy path through the woods for about a mile, they emerged in an open expanse of land where hundreds of trees had been recently felled. The ground was dotted with roughly hewn tree stumps and piles of freshly cut timber were stacked up on either side of a long straight road that stretched away into the distance. Running alongside the road was a high fence topped with razor wire, curled over in an arc to deter intruders and prevent escape. Sam breathed in deeply and caught the scent of sawdust and pine needles on the icy wind.

  Beyond the fence he could make out groups of buildings dotted across the compound and what appeared to be vast squadrons of aircraft laid out as far as the eye could see. Powerful searchlights played back and forth across the area, their white beams occasionally sweeping along the line of prisoners and forcing Sam to screw up his eyes against their harsh light. In the middle of the whole set-up was a tall building with large windows around the top which Sam presumed was the control tower. He felt sure that it was an airfield of some sort, but where were the runways?

  The road branched off into the compound, which comprised of row upon row of military barracks, vast aircraft hangars and a complex of workshops and factories with chimneys belching black smoke into the darkness. The gates swung open and a barrier across the road rose with a mechanical whine. In the distance Sam could hear the hum of electrical generators and the muffled sound of heavy machinery whirring and thumping through the stillness of the morning.

  As they continued their way across the compound Sam noticed that Skipper had moved up the line and was now walking beside him.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘Pretty impressive, huh?’

  ‘What are you doing, Skipper?’ Sam whispered anxiously. ‘Get back in line. They’ll kill you if they see you!’

  ‘Relax,’ said Skipper. ‘There’s only two of them now and they’re just thinking about the end of their shift. Look.’ She nodded towards the front of the line.

  Sam looked around nervously to see who else might be watching, but discovered to his relief that the guards who had escorted them from the prison had gone. Only two remained: one at the head of the column and another one bringing up the rear.

  ‘What is this place anyway?’ asked Sam. ‘It looks like an airport or something, but there aren’t any runways.’

  ‘What would they need runways for?’ said Skipper.

  ‘Well, how else are the aircraft going to take off?’ said Sam. ‘Maybe they just store them here or something.’

  ‘Oh, they take off all right,’ said Skipper. ‘Believe me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.’

  Sam was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  The prisoners at the front of the line were disappearing around the corner of a large building and, as they approached it, Skipper said simply, ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  They turned the corner and Sam let out a cry of shock, put one hand up to his mouth and used the other to steady himself against the wall.

  A few metres away, the huge green eyes of an enormous horsefly bulged from its monstrous head, suffused in the half-light with a dull metallic sheen. It was the size of a jet fighter and it crouched above them
on six gigantic legs, each covered in coarse black hairs the thickness of industrial power cables. Two sharp, scissor-like blades protruded from its mouth and folded back behind its thorax was a pair of translucent, smoke-coloured wings with black veins running through them. They moved slightly in the breeze and the sound was like canvas flapping in the wind.

  Sam felt a small hand in his and the next thing he knew he was being pulled away from the wall by Skipper, whose strength was obviously much greater than her small frame suggested. She looked at him apologetically.

  ‘Sorry, Sam,’ she said. ‘I should have warned you. Not a pretty sight, are they?’

  She brushed some dust from his arm and then pushed him forward as others began to overtake.

  ‘Better keep moving. We don’t want old Stick Boy teaching you any more lessons, do we?’

  Sam stumbled forward and fell into step with the others, unable to keep his eyes from the incredible sight that surrounded him. He realised now that the lines of aircraft he had seen earlier were in fact massed ranks of huge insects. In spite of his initial terror at encountering these monsters at such close range, his natural curiosity was already beginning to take over.

  The nearest insects were all horseflies of the type he had seen in his bedroom. When was it? The day before yesterday? Longer?

  It already seemed half a lifetime ago.

  They were lined up in rows of maybe twenty or thirty, and the rows stretched away in columns that reached far into the distance.

  Up ahead he could see several fields covered with more insects, but these appeared thinner, lighter and more graceful. Their legs were skinny and their slender abdomens pointed upwards at an angle to their heads. A long tube tapering to a sharp point stuck out from the front of each one and Sam immediately recognised them as mosquitoes.

  ‘Look over there,’ said Skipper proudly, pointing towards the control tower.