The Soterion Mission

by Stewart Ross

  “And a sad one, too, though she did her best to hide it.” He paused for a moment. “I wonder what made her finally change her mind about you?”

  Roxanne lifted her tired face towards him. “A woman’s instinct, I suppose.”

  “Not a very sharp one. It took her ages to see what most people knew from the moment you came over the barricade: that you’re honest and true, and this thing on your forehead is a lie.”

  “Do you blame her, Cy?” Standing on her toes, she slipped her arms round his neck and pressed herself close against him. “Whether you do or not, her instinct picked up something else much more quickly. I think it was that which changed her mind.”

  Deep within him, Cyrus felt the first ripple of panic. No! Please, not now!

  Seeing the look in his eyes, she held him tighter still. “Look at me Cy! Look at me!”

  Gently, slowly, she removed her arms from round his neck and turned her face to the moonlight. “You see, Cyrus? I believe Taja noticed it. That’s why she kept saying we had to hurry.”

  Cyrus had seen it before, many, many times. Back in Della Tallis, it was an everyday occurrence. Sad, indeed, yet unavoidable. One just accepted it. But not Roxy, not the loveliest human being he had ever met…

  Words stuck in his throat. “How long?” he said eventually, staring in disbelief at the face that was the same and yet subtly, cruelly different.

  “Maybe five days? I first felt it when we were in the desert. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case it made them less determined to carry on. The dust in my hair helped – covered the strands that were going grey. I checked when we got here and saw my reflection in the stream.”

  “Oh, Roxy! And all I said was that you looked tired! How could I have been so blind?” He turned her round and clasped her to him. “I don’t want you to go!”

  “Silly man!” she smiled, refusing to be drawn into morbidity. “I won’t! At least, not yet. Listen, I’ve been working it out – here’s what I reckon.

  “During my Death Month I’m growing older – in Long Dead terms – by about two winters each day. Now, according to the Third Book, a man named Caesarion lived to the age of seventy-five. That’s like a Death Month of twenty-eight days. Five or six of mine have gone; therefore, if I’m like him, I’ve got twenty days or more of life! That’s enough time for us, isn’t it, Cy?”

  Cyrus had no words to reply. Through the pain of his wretchedness, he found but one consolation. It did not have to be like this. Somewhere, beyond the black mountain that loomed over them, lay a cave, and in that cave lay hope, the hope that had inspired Roxanne and that now made him determined to fulfil this mission, though every Zed in the world barred his path. Nothing would stop him. It would be his memorial, his everlasting tribute to the woman he loved.

  For much of the night, the four Constants followed the route given to them by Yash. It wound up and up, passing through tangled woods and across rocky slopes till it levelled out on a small plateau overlooking distant hills. Before them, scarcely ten paces away, the Tallins saw a pair of shadowy figures. Good, thought Cyrus, only two. That means Taja’s plan has worked and Timur is unaware what’s going on. Now for the guards.

  Cyrus and Navid had spent some time working out how best to neutralise the upper lookouts. The safest tactic, Navid had suggested, was simply to sneak up on them and cut their throats. Bearing in mind Yash’s request, Cyrus overruled him. The men were Constants, he said, not Zeds. Violence should be a last resort.

  Leaving Roxanne and Sammy in the shadow of the trees, the Defenders spread out left and right on either side of the lookouts. Then, drawing on years of experience, they crept as close as possible without being seen.

  “Hey, Asal!” hissed Cyrus from behind a boulder, hoping that the silhouette nearest to him really was that of a woman. “It’s Yash!”

  The figure instinctively reached for her horn.

  “No! Whatever you do, don’t blow that thing!”

  The second figure came up to see what was happening. “What’s going on, Asal?” he muttered. “Want me to blow?”

  “It’s Yash,” said Asal uncertainly, peering into the darkness. “Or someone saying he is.”

  “Can’t be,” grunted Shyad, lifting his horn. “Yash’s lot are patrolling the slopes overlooking the desert. They’re watching for that lot Abhay said were coming.”

  “Yes, I was there,” said Cyrus in a loud whisper, rising up enough for part of him to be visible. “I’ve found the Constants. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. I’ve got some news – really important – and you’re the only ones I can trust. Asal…Shyad…Please!”

  The two guards looked at each other and shrugged. “Alright, Yash,” said Asal cautiously, raising her sword. “Come out so we can see you. And no funny business, OK? One hint of anything tricky and Shyad will blow, got it?”

  Cyrus stood up and moved a few steps closer.

  “Closer!” called Shyad, lowering his horn. “I want to see your face. You don’t sound like – ”

  “It’s not!” cried Asal. “Quick! Blow that horn, Shy!”

  The warning came too late. As Shyad went to lift the instrument to his lips, it was dashed from his hand and fell with a clatter to the ground. He spun round to confront his assailant.

  Navid had crept up behind the lookouts as they were concentrating on Cyrus and now stood, axe raised, half a pace from their unprotected chests. “If you as much as flinch,” he commanded quietly, “I’ll cut you in half. Throw down your weapons!”

  The rest of the operation fell into place as Cyrus had hoped. It did not take long to explain to Asal and Shyad what was going on. When they heard that Yash, a good and trusted friend, had joined with the Tallins, they had no hesitation in following suit. Like the patrol leader, they admitted that they had had their doubts about Abhay and had accepted him only out of loyalty to the Emir and Padmar. After sharing their rations with their new friends, who had not eaten properly since that morning, they led them down the slope towards the entrance of the cave.

  “This is it, Roxy!” whispered Cyrus, taking her hand. “We’ve made it!”

  It certainly seemed so. Although one of the lower guards refused to go along with the “conspirators” as he called them and had to be bound and gagged, the other willingly joined the growing band of rebels.

  The first streaks of dawn glimmered through the canopy of leaves as Cyrus and Roxanne, side by side, walked slowly into the dark opening. It was smaller than they had anticipated, perhaps only two-and-a-half paces square. A few steps in, they found their way blocked by a massive, moss-encrusted wall of rusty steel into which, on the left, a small door had been set.

  Roxanne’s hands trembled with excitement as she knelt in front of the door. “Look what it says, Cyrus,” she whispered her voice breaking with sobs. “The Soterion! I don’t believe it! We’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

  Cyrus knelt and put his arm round her. He couldn’t help noticing that she already felt different. She was more angular and her bones were nearer the surface. “You brilliant, wonderful woman!” he said. “Come on! Let’s get inside!”

  “THE SOTERION,” Roxanne read, running her fingers over the rust-encrusted steel to make sure she understood the letters correctly. “CONSTRUCTED IN HOPE FOR THE FUTURE OF ALL HUMANITY. 2019.”

  She stopped. “That’s all there is, Cy. It doesn’t tell us how to get in. There’s no keyhole, either.” She straightened up and leaned back against the rocky wall. “We can’t get this far and not be able to get in, can we? That’d be too cruel, Cy. Too cruel.”

  “Of course not, Roxy! Move over a bit and let me have a look.” Cyrus knelt before the door. True, there was no keyhole, just writing and a raised depiction of a book welded onto the steel. He looked at the image more carefully. No, it wasn’t welded on, it was held by a single rivet at th
e top. One rivet meant it should swing. However, when he tried to push the plate to one side, he found it had corroded onto the wall.

  He picked up a stone from the floor of the cave and tapped the edge of the cover. Slowly, bit by bit, it swung aside to reveal a patch of clean bright steel. In its centre, clear and unobstructed, was a keyhole. Beneath it, etched in tiny writing, was a message.

  “You’re the reader, Roxy – better than me, anyway. What’s it say?”

  She stooped down beside him again and read:

  THE KEY TO HOPE OF ALL MANKIND

  BENEATH THE LION YOU WILL FIND

  “Mmm, they’re not making it easy for us, are they?” Cyrus muttered.

  He stood up and turned away from the door, calling quietly, “Hey Asal! Shyad! Here, quick!”

  The two Albans hurried into the cave. “Yes?” said Shyad, staring at the door. “What’ve you found?”

  “Where’s the lion?”

  “Lion? What’s a lion got to do with it? I thought you were looking for those book things?”

  “I am. They’re behind this door. But the key’s underneath some lion.”

  “There aren’t any lions around here,” chipped in Asal, “unless you mean that stone one – we call it the ‘statue’ – near the well.”

  “That’s got to be it,” cried Cyrus. “And that’s where we’re going next!”

  Roxanne laid a hand on Cyrus’ arm. “Don’t rush, Cy,” she said calmly. “I’ve got days left, so let’s make sure we don’t fail at the last.”

  Cyrus looked at her. She was right, of course, as always. They had no idea what was going on inside the walls of Alba. Clearly Taja’s deception had bought them precious time. But it was now full daylight – surely Timur knew by now he had been tricked? Perhaps he was also suspicious of Yash’s story about killing the true Roxanne along with the other members of the mission?

  Cyrus summoned Navid, Sammy and the third guard, Melker, to join them. After explaining the riddle of the lion, he asked the Albans the best way of getting hold of the key.

  Shyad told him the image of a lion, carved from stone during the time of the Long Dead, rested on a plinth beside the well at the centre of the Alba community. It was impossible to reach without being seen. The solid statue was eight hands tall, added Melker. It would take at least three people to move it and get at anything underneath – assuming the key really was there.

  “What about you?” said Cyrus. “Could you go back and move the statue for us?”

  Shyad shook his head. “Tricky. There are always a few archers in the square, guarding the well. And like Melker said, what’d happen if we managed to shove over the statue and then didn’t find the key? We’d be strung up for vandalism!”

  “He’s right,” added Asal. “It can’t be done secretly, Cyrus. We need time as well as security.”

  “OK, let’s try a different approach,” said Roxanne, who had been listening carefully to their conversation. “Tell me, does everyone really support Timur, the man you call Abhay?”

  “Just about everyone,” said Melker.

  Asal disagreed. Hadn’t all three of them changed sides quickly enough when told the truth? So had Yash and his patrol. The relief guards would be coming soon, and there was a good chance they could be persuaded to join the rebellion. That would give them four members of the mission, Yash’s six archers, Taja, and seven Alban guards – nineteen in all.

  “Tough fight,” observed Navid gloomily. “Nineteen against three hundred. Wouldn’t like to be one of the nineteen.”

  “I don’t think it’s a matter of fighting,” answered Roxanne. “It’s more to do with persuading. What do you think, Asal?”

  “Well, I reckon if a large enough group of us go back in peace and tell them what we know, and they see you, Roxanne – well, I think quite a lot would come over. At least, they wouldn’t fight against us. What do you think, Shy?”

  Shyad shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Melker?”

  “Risky, but it might work.”

  “The longer we wait,” said Cyrus, “the greater the chance that Timur will find out what’s going on. And once he does, I imagine Taja, Yash and all his patrol will be finished – and we won’t have a chance, either. Let’s wait until the relief guards show up, get them to join us, and then all go into Alba together. Agreed?”

  With a mixture of grunts and raised fists, they all accepted Cyrus’ proposal. Shortly afterwards, as they had planned, their numbers were swollen by the four relief guards. They were also helped by the surprise conversion of the man they had been forced to tie up. Having overheard their discussions, he said, he would now throw in his lot with his friends. That brought their number to twelve: eight Albans, two Tallins, Roxanne the Yonner and little Sammy. From a military point of view, they were puny. But armed with the truth, they hoped their strength was greater than mere numbers.

  The rebel party reached the high stone walls of Alba in good time. However, as they approached, shouting cheerfully to the guards, they were dismayed to find the gates hurriedly closing against them.

  “Hey!” called Shyad, looking up at the Defenders on the platform on the top of the wall. “You know who we are. Open up!”

  “Sorry, Shyad,” came the reply. “Not our decision. Padmar says no one’s to be allowed in without her personal permission. Not even you lot. And who are those other people with you?”

  Beckoning Navid, Roxanne and Sammy to his side, Cyrus came forward.

  “Friends!” he began. “We are Constants and we come in peace. I am Cyrus and this is my friend Navid; we’re Defenders from the community of Della Tallis. The lad is from the Gova settlement and we are here to escort and protect this woman, Roxanne from Yonne.

  “Please don’t be put off by her tattoo. She’s the only survivor from the first mission. She’s from Yonne and can read. She’s here to help you by opening the Soterion. Time is short because she is in her Death Month. You must let us in.”

  The announcement took the guards by surprise. For some time they argued among themselves before one of them called down, “We don’t believe you! Roxanne’s already here!”

  Cyrus was on the point of replying when two more figures appeared on the platform. One was a small, dark woman in a purple cloak with a hood over most of her short-cropped hair. The other Cyrus recognised at once, although he had never previously set eyes on him. Tall, deathly pale, with long, silver-white hair that only partially hid the vivid scar on his forehead, he could only be one man. Timur.

  Roxanne gasped. Although several moons had passed since she had last seen him, he still terrified her. Instinctively feeling her distress, Cyrus, Sammy and Navid closed in around her.

  As they did so, Timur began to laugh. It was a high, thin, nasty sound, like tearing tin. Although fearful, Cyrus sensed it went on too long to be natural. It was a cover. The dreadful Malik was playing for time, trying to come to terms with what was going on. As Cyrus suspected, he had seen through Taja’s disguise, but until this moment he had not realised that Yash had deceived him, too.

  Roxanne was not dead. She was not in his service, either. And never would be. It was too horribly clear: the woman from Yonne had beaten him. She would unlock the Soterion, she would share its secrets, she would be honoured. And he, Timur the Terrible, would be excluded, condemned to spend the rest of his life a mere Malik of miserable Zeds. He would never be all-powerful…He would never be God!

  For the first time in his life, the leader of the Grozny was lost for words. But as the cornered rat bites deepest, so at this moment he was at his most deadly. If power and glory were not to be his, then they would be no one’s.

  In his right hand Timur held what Cyrus had taken to be a staff. Now, too late, he saw that it was in fact a javelin. With a scream of rage, the monstrous Zed raised the weapon high
above his shoulder and, all in the same movement, hurled it with tremendous force straight at Roxanne.

  11: The Soterion

  While the other members of the mission were pursuing the path towards tragedy at the gates of Alba, Taja was holding an ill-fated course of her own. Through the gathering gloom, she followed Yash and his patrol in silence, preoccupied with her own thoughts. However, when the track widened so it was no longer necessary to walk in single file, Jannat, the tall, long-haired archer, drew alongside her and tried to strike up a conversation.

  At first the exchange was one-sided, the Tallin responding to Jannat’s questions with a blunt “yes” or “no”. Gradually, though, she began to open up. The grim look on her face eased, and by the time they reached their destination she was talking more freely than she had done for many years.

  The two women began by comparing the customs and lifestyles of Alba and Della Tallis. In many ways they were similar. Both were illiterate communities, although they knew of books and writing. They shared the Constant values of courage, respect, unity and duty, and held men and women in equal honour. Leaders were chosen by handshows, the Alban equivalent for “Mudir” being “Konnel”.

  Jannat, who was hoping to be a Konnel after the next winter, guessed correctly that Taja was already a Mudir.

  Taja gave her a quizzical look. “Is it obvious?”

  Jannat laughed. “We say that leaders are born, not made. I only have to look at you to see you’re a born leader. It’s obvious.”

  The subject led to one of the principal differences between the two communities. Whereas Della Tallis was essentially agricultural, Alba was a military settlement. The tradition went back as long as anyone could remember – legend said Long Dead soldiers had helped build its high walls of stone and concrete, the terraces rising up the lower slopes of the mountain, and the dwellings clustered around a broad square. The carved stone lion that stood beside the well in the centre of the square was believed to be another gift from these military forefathers.