Rise of Prophecy Page 17

  Now, they turn to the one known as ‘Old Mother,’ to bring forth her ancient medicines; this was not the figure who sat in the temple just beyond the mountains; that was a decoy. The ‘Old Mother’ who saved Liviana was never one to be seen by ordinary people.

  ~AT THE BOTTOM OF THE MOUNTAIN~

  The platform completed its descent, leaving Liviana and Mica facing a deep grotto. At the center is a marvelously carved stone platform. Raised above it is a gentle waterfall. A tree sits in the middle, quite out of place in this desert. A pond holds water with an eerie electrical glow.

  Off to the right, seated eighteen feet up into the rocks, a dwelling can be seen. A solitary candle burns in a cavity in the shape of a window. The air is fresh, giving a pleasing atmosphere of peace in the place.

  Mica turns off the light from his armband. He looks at Liviana with disbelief in his eyes. He feels her hand taking his as they stroll to the stone platform.

  “This is the real Harappa Temple,” Liviana explains. “Old Mother lives there.” She points to the stone dwelling. “We will wait here.”

  They drop to the ground, with Liviana leaning on the short inside wall, and Mica cuddling up on her. There is no smart comment or complaint from him, just a silent form of reverence for the place. They close their eyes to take whatever gift of sleep they can have.

  -BACK AT THE TEMPLE-

  The area with the tents is quiet, with no one moving about except three figures dressed in dark clothing. They walk about as if searching for someone. Like a pack of wolves, they step through the area, peeking into the tents.

  One of the men points to an area at the far wall, pondering on their strategy. He raises his hand to wave the others over.

  -PRINCE TIMON’S ROYAL OFFICES-

  The skyscrapers of Atlas rise high into the sky; some reach over 100 levels while others stand a mere 30; Prince Timon’s office spaces occupy the twenty-first floor of one of the many shorter capital buildings. It was not as high up as he would have preferred, but he rarely spent any time in this place.

  Timon’s audience room is spacious, with high glass walls bringing the life of the city inside. There is a corner for working, an area for eating, one for entertaining. Tonight, he hosts Prince Varna, Bana, and two high-end escorts.

  The two princes sit in the entertaining area, reminiscing about stupid things. Bana fumes in the kitchenette, preparing refreshments with two almost naked girls.

  “Get away from me you creature,” Bana hisses as one of the girls caresses his arm. He looks over to the men, wishing he was in their midst.

  The chest of sacred texts sits on a center table; the men stare at it.

  Varna point to the chest, “Are you going to share Timon?”

  “Are you sure you want to know what I am up to cousin?”

  “I can make a good summation of what you’re doing.” He looks over at Bana. “Us Aryans are not as oblivious to the world as you may think.”

  Timon chuckles, “I would hope not. Go ahead then, enlighten me.”

  “Our alliance…” Varna pauses. Satisfied they can’t be heard, he continues in a whisper “…to attack the Illyrians is not enough for you. So, you’ve been searching for Lumeria, for the power allegedly hidden there.”

  “That’s good. I knew you would figure it out eventually.”

  “You could only keep your so-called research in the southern wastelands hidden for so long.”

  There is a smile on Timon’s face. “It was honest research at first. That is until some artifacts were found. They presented clues, directions to the mythical Lumeria.”

  “You do realize that is all it is, a myth. Do you really think you will find power there? More importantly, if it is real, can you control it?”

  Timon picks up one of the books. He fans through the pages, stopping at a random section. He displays it to Varna. “These books were part of the great library of Thoth, our ancestor. In it contains the ways and means to control that power.”

  “You’re hedging your bets. You don’t think Aryavan is ready?”

  “I know you are not ready.” Timon’s accusation puts a scowl on Varna’s face. “Don’t be naïve Varna. If we went to war with all of Illyria today, your forces would be decimated, and mine would be crippled.”

  A brief silence passes; Timon begins flipping through the pages.

  “Can you read it?” Varna asks.

  “Barely; my sister can,” Timon responds. He looks over to Bana, “Wine!”

  As if on cue, Bana sashays over with a silver platter of expensive wine glasses. The two girls join the group, with each taking a pitcher to a prince. Timon returns his book to the chest then looks at Bana.

  “Be a good boy now, secure those will you,” Timon says to Bana.

  Bana grabs the chest. He takes it to an open safe just above a fireplace. A roaring fire crackles beneath. He sticks the chest in the safe then taps a brick on the ledge. A large painting slides across the wall.

  “I would have thought you would want those at the palace,” Varna points out.

  Timon looks at him intently, “Trust me. They are not safe at the palace. Too many sticky hands. No, they shall be safe here.” There is a look on Varna’s face, one which shows he is not convinced.

  “Very well,” Timon says. “They are merely baiting a lion.”

  “Bait? All this is a game?”

  “It’s a very, very big lion,” Timon says while playing with his escort. “If you attack it head on, you may get eaten, but, feed it well; it will lead you to its den. When it’s asleep, then you attack.”

  The girls giggle, not caring what schemes are being discussed. They only do their job, and they do it well. The princes continue to entertain themselves with the girls. That is Bana’s cue to go outside to chat up one of the servant boys.

  -LATER-

  The audience chamber is dark; it is midnight. Timon and his guests have left, seeking entertainment elsewhere. They will not return tonight, for the social escapades of the princes are well known.

  A slight rumbling comes from the ceiling; sounds like drilling. After a few seconds of the noise, a tile slides off revealing a gaping dark hole. A hood pops through with red hair falling out of the garment.

  Like an insect dropping to the floor, Lyra attempts to be as quiet as she possibly can. She activates her armband, bringing up a ‘V’ shaped field of light. As she faces it to the walls, hidden areas are revealed. She doesn’t see what she wants, so she makes her way to the fireplace.

  “Now where would you be? Ah, obviously,” she mutters as the image of a safe is displayed. She hurries to the front door.

  She carefully drags a cabinet to the door, attempting to block the way in. Not satisfied, she piles a chair on top of it. She freezes as movement can be heard coming from outside. It is silent once more. Lyra runs back to the fireplace. Her armband begins to ‘beep,’ which startles her. She quickly touches her earpiece concealed beneath her hair. She is more annoyed that she did not silence the thing rather than the call coming in.

  “What?” She snaps at Rovina on the other end.

  “Where are you? You were supposed to stay here until I returned.”

  “I can’t talk. Is there any change? Did something happen?”

  “No…just get back as soon as you can.” Rovina hangs up.

  Lyra looks for a hidden switch through the ‘V’ field. She sees it; success, the large painting slides off to the side.

  The safe’s door has a series of buttons with a display. This would not be the first secured container Lyra has had to break into; included in her resume of mayhem is the occasional high-end theft. This should be a quick in and out. Great name for a restaurant. Hmm, I’m hungry, she muses.

  With lock picking tools in hand, Lyra begins to work the mechanism. She attaches a tiny transmitter the size of a fingernail near the display, then continues to stick her ‘picks’ in the old-fashioned key-hole. She smiles with the ease at which her band’s digital helper is c
racking the combinations. Suddenly, alarms go off.

  Instantly guards are at the door, pounding, pushing. Lyra tries to remain calm.

  “Work the lock, work the lock, don’t look,” she tells herself.

  The pushing on the door intensifies. A crack appears. Guards shout from outside; How bad could it be…two, three? Lyra wonders. She continues to work the lock, but then curiosity takes over; she looks at the door. You Looked! She complains.

  A victorious ‘click’ brings relief to Lyra’s panic. With haste, she tosses the books in her waiting satchel. Time to leave, she declares silently.

  The doors burst open. Seven guards rush in desperate to catch the thief. One draws a pistol. Before he could get a shot off, a vase hits him squarely on the head.

  The other guards surround Lyra, trying to push her in the center. The hole in the ceiling is too far away, and the goons are blocking the door. She looks behind her at the wall of glass. No bitch, don’t do it! She warns herself.

  They are 21 floors up. The structure is sloped slightly; this gives Lyra an insane idea. There would be no time to contemplate success or failure; two guards begin shooting at her. She dives for cover behind a couch.

  She quickly taps a switch on her armband, bringing up a display of her hover-bike. She points her pistol at the glass wall. She empties her gun. Shattering windows let the howling wind blast in. Trying her best to avoid the bullets, Lyra dives out.

  Fear overcomes her for a moment; that wash of uncertainty that blasts through your soul. Her body hits the downwards slope of the building, dropping rapidly. She desperately tries to steady herself. There is a straight drop coming up, somewhere around the tenth floor; she has to hurry.

  She stares at her knees, fearful to look beyond that. Her stomach clenches up; even more than it did at the first fall. Gravity is pulling her down, the wind is blasting across her face, and her backside is numb from the ride down. She anticipates the drop off the side then leans her body forward, pushing off the edge.

  There will be no time to think, with only one chance to get it right; she unhooks a small box from her belt. The casing falls apart revealing a thin coiled line with a hook tip at an end.

  She sees the hover-bike rising rapidly on the third floor, then the sixth, now level with her body. She misses it by a foot. Quickly, she launches the line at the bike’s frame. The cord wraps around a protrusion to secure itself.

  The line quickly tenses up as it absorbs Lyra’s falling weight. She holds on for dear life, trying not to scream with the pain of the constricting cord around her arm. Her fall is slowing as the bike begins to descend; hover-bikes could fly at altitudes of 120 feet.

  Shots fly past her head from the guards high above. The bike fires thrusters as it nears the third level, then the second, now the first. Lyra is on the ground, ready to throw up whatever junk she ate earlier on. She frees herself of the cord, jumps on the bike, then speeds off.

  That was a close one, she admits to herself. Now the problem was her cargo; it was too ‘hot’ to take back to the Furry Chariot. She speeds through her pre-planned escape route; narrow alleys seem never ending on her way to safety. There was one place Lyra could think of that would work as a hideout. She smiles with determination then realizes Damn it. I’ve got to pee.

  -AT THE SACRED TREE IN HARAPPA-

  The soothing darkness accentuated with the glowing blue light from the pond water has put the two visitors to sleep. They lay like children, bundled up together in the corner of the raised platform. Not much would be able to wake the exhausted travelers, not even the approaching intruders.

  Three men come upon them behind the short wall. They look at each other signaling their intentions, trying not to make a sound. This would be an easy kill, a quick bounty.

  Two men make their way behind the sleepers, positioning themselves close to their victims’ throats; they draw daggers. The third intruder stands over them with his rifle pointed, ready to shoot. The rifleman nods to the other two. Their blades move in to make their cuts.

  A subtle noise alerts the third man. He looks up quickly. The other two pause, expecting trouble.

  An old woman, no taller than five feet, holds a staff three feet off the ground. She slams it on the stone floor creating an intense wave of light.

  There is a sound which starts as a low drone, then turns into a high pitch, matching the light quickly flowing towards the intruders.

  The men scream as the beams pierce through their bodies, dissolving flesh. They appear to be burning where they stand, like paper embers flying off in a light breeze. It takes but seven seconds for their screams to end; their bodies now turned to ash.

  Liviana and Mica are awake, frozen in place, looking on in fear. They both snap their heads back to see the one called Old Mother standing there with a smile on her face.

  “Old Mother,” Liviana declares in awe.

  Their savior stands there looking at them with love on her face. Her grey hair, weathered clothing, and delicate appearance makes her look like a grandmother, but more importantly, safe. They just lay there, not sure what to do next. Old Mother looks at them with a smile.

  -SAMIRI’S LAIR-

  It is the early morning above the sewers of Atlas; of course, down in these parts, it is always perpetual night. The creatures of the dark always move about not caring what time it is. This holds true in the lair of Samiri.

  The wretch sits on the ground close to an urn with a roaring fire. He has a small pouch in front of him; he regards it as if praying to the contents. A sound in one of the tunnels alerts him. He grabs the pouch, quickly hiding it in his tattered rags. Ayala appears limping.

  She is bloody; a sight Samiri cannot recall ever seeing. She makes her way over to the urn, stopping three feet away from her master. She holds her broken arm then looks down to the ground.

  Samiri is irate. “You have failed me yet again. One simple task and you could not even do that,” he snarls.

  “The soldier surprised me; he is strong. I will not fail again.”

  “You let the son of Arias beat you. You should have prepared yourself.”

  The watcher’s eyes widen at the mention of ‘Arias’; it is as if she is surprised. She puts her hand in her inside jacket pocket, holding on to the cylinder of Alexius’ blood.

  “Well, did you at least draw his blood?” Samiri asks.

  “No, master. I failed at that too,” Ayala says while regarding the floor.

  Samiri’s anger begins to show on his face. He wants to spring up to her throat, to rip out her spine. As he starts to move his sacred pouch falls out of his rags, making a rattling sound as it hits the ground.

  “Get out of my sight!” he screams.

  Ayala turns away from Samiri. She limps off to a side tunnel, still trying to process the revelation of Arias’ name. She looks at her master. He has resumed the worship of his pouch. She continues her departure, happy to be away from that creature.

  Samiri empties the pouch’s contents. Three small broken parts of a golden disc scatter on the stone. He arranges them into the circle they once were, but there is a piece missing. All the parts are metal, with gold plating over them.

  Out of Samiri’s sight now, Ayala creeps next to a small drain; dirty water flows from places all over, emptying into the underground pipes. She retrieves the cylinder of blood, and cracks open the seal. She pours the contents into the flowing water then lets the vial fall.

  Chapter 16: No.1 Aryan Food Restaurant

  The sun is up in Harappa. The events of the past hours were unexpected; disturbances were things Old Mother was not used these days. She has lived here for a long time, unscathed by the conflicts of the world. She now stands in her stone carved home, stirring a large steaming pot of porridge. Her guests sit at a wooden table, anxiously waiting for breakfast.

  A crisp autumn air flows through the always opened windows; the magnificent tree is visible from here. Small potted plants sit on the window sill with small insects buzzi
ng around them. Laughter echoes from outside. Liviana jumps off her wooden chair to observe. Old Mother walks by Mica and rubs his head.

  “Are those children from the temple?” Liviana inquires.

  “Oh no, they live here in the canyon. My caretakers, you can say; their family roots go back deep.” She chuckles like a happy granny.

  She places a small bowl in front of Liviana, then a large one for Mica. She smiles as she walks to the pot. She stirs some more while inhaling the aroma.

  Old Mother waves at Mica, “Come on children, help yourselves.”

  The pair dart to the stove like hungry children. They heap the porridge into their assigned bowls, eager to start the meal. When they return to their seats, they find Old Mother sitting there, ready to watch them eat; it’s as if she just materialized at the table.

  “Thank you. You are too kind,” says Liviana.

  “You and I have seen our share of hardships,” Old Mother says to Liviana as she hobbles over to Mica. She caresses his head once more; he is just ‘soaking it up.’ “But these children, they are about to face horrors.”

  Liviana looks at Mica, happy to see him content. “What do you know about the sacred ‘Texts of the Amon-I’?’ she asks Old Mother.

  “Be careful of that word…Amon-I,” the old woman cautions with a smile. She hobbles back to the table.

  How did she make it down below so quickly? Mica silently wonders about the events earlier in the night. He continues to eat his meal. Old Mother looks at him as if she heard his thoughts.

  Her face is stern now, “It is a name lost to time; one which an ancient evil has been pursuing.”

  “I am afraid they already have the sacred texts; we are attempting to retrieve them at this very moment,” Liviana interrupts.

  “The time of the awakening is at hand,” Old Mother warns. “Even if you find the resting place of the forefathers, then, only the Amon-I will return their essence.”