Sunday, 26 January 2014
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
2.21.3.3.1.389
‘The islands have fallen silent and we dare not find out why. The Emperor and The Court believe that the ice has frozen their sinister hearts into submission but that is not what we believe. There are rumours in the market that they are building something. Others say that their forms may change at will, or they have taken the Priestesses souls for their own gain, and their image for their own design. We are being told nothing.’
August 5th Axere - Undisclosed Location
For those that fall victim of storms, the dead, some miraculously float away and drift to land. For some of them, this means unconscious and unfortunate floating to desert islands, although beautiful, deadly and baron. Some wind up on another ship have starved, half mad. But those that have sailed too close to the waters near the Bermuda and suffered its wrath, well those men and women, although alone, drift to civilized shores. These people speak their tongue, although many are not native to it. They live their lives at their own pace to other societies and they never, ever leave.
Across the Carachi Mountains
As the First Chair of the council raised from his seat, he disrobed himself and sternly addressed his fellow councillors. “As you know we have been dealing with the women under the wing of the Matriarch. And for some time now we have been building up to a moment I have not yet released to you. The time is now. We will entrap them with covert agents in designed riots and associated activities. We will attack the leader of each brigade in succession among each rank till we reach the white woman ourselves. Powerless and with no minion standing at her side we shall take back our people’s freedom.” Cheers of approval came from the chamber. “The rules of the empire must be enforced and we all know their past with these. New modifications to the Code of Laws have been made to legalize our actions. Do I have your support to carry out these new laws and for what I have named operation ‘Eburnus Pave’ or for you less scholarly White Peacock? My assistant here will hand out reports of the matter.” As he spoke a man of little distinguish but broad form hurried round the shadows and delivered each council member a document on the new laws.
“Under the treatment of Sentinels, amendment two, surely death is not the right course of action. Life imprisonment suggested in the previous amendment and public humiliation will surely suffice?” Another councillor spoke.
“The people of the Ohrianian Alliance have no major dealings in this matter. From the perspective of Cassian and the Regency a shock tactic will impact greater than just a humiliation. We cannot risk the escape of any Brigade leader. If there is a rescue attempt we will kill on site. I’m sorry if this does not appeal to your senses but times are worrying for us all and these women need to be stopped before other matters get out of hand.”
“Agreed.” The Ohrianian Chairs started to talk amongst themselves
From the opposite side of the table the four chairs of the Cassian council stopped talking. The Councillor for Treasury questioned “Who will be responsible for register of Defender names?”
“Augustine Caplin who has been recently employed will deal with the names.” Murmurs again arouse from the chamber, mutterings between each party rose.
The Councillor for the Treasury coughed and all fell silent. “Can we trust him?”
“I have had several meetings with him.” His eyes darted again. “His handshake is firm and his loyalty boundless. We have also placed him under the Iron Contract. You should know the penalty for breaking this, even the newest councillor on the Cassian council.” The newest councillor started to sweat a little his leg started to twitch as he succumbed to the nerves he had tried to hide. “Sorry to have put undue focus on you. Are there any more queries?”
“I understand the amendments made to the treatment of Valeons but why the change to the treatment of Ordained?” There came a few concurring noises.
“I see this may be an issue un-raised in the council before I joined. We all know that Ordained have little power on our soil. They barely scrape a criminal record between them. The Valeons on the other hand have a strong underground network and of course as we have found out first hand, still with inherit abilities Exploitation of these powers will prove imperative if we are to carry out our plan. These women know what they are doing, confuse them with any sort of distraction created from a Valeon and we have the ideal circumstances to apprehend. I do hope you can empathize with me in a greater concern for our people as a whole, rather than a few that may be slightly inconvenienced. The Ordination are like marbles when compared to the boulders of the Valeon and Sentinel threats.”
“I will always feel this is not right, but as first chair you do have our people’s lives, minds and hearts at the core of your concerns. The Cassian council consent to these changes.”
“The Ohrianians consent to the changes.”
“The Regency consent to these changes.”
“I would like to thank you for this meeting at such short notice. As a gesture of appreciation I have offered up provisions free of charge to all vessels and for those who travelled by carriage, these provisions have been divided up between your council members and delivered to your homes. The council is adjourned.” Each separate council left together into private coaches that waited outside. Curtains were drawn back to reveal a busy street, lined wit houses and shops. The council chambers were one of the best kept secrets in the entire empire. Not only was it in plain sight, everyone knew about it. The Aristotle building was home to ancient artefacts of the Mediterranean . In a mock reconstruction of one of the temples to Zeus a door was placed at the back, far from the restrained view of the public. Behind here was the room to the council chambers.
“Could you please clean these up?” Said the Minister. “Oh and tell the scribe thank you for such delicate work.” He pulled some papers out of the drawer where he had sat before making his speech. The indistinguishable man hurried again back round the room, lighting the candles on the wall and snuffing out those on the table. The ambient glow and the widow light was more than enough so the curtains were shut a little. As the servant left the room he knocked shoulders with another person. A gentleman, devoured by worry and in obvious plight. He shakily apologized and slid himself through the door, his eyes darting from this way to that checking every structure and feature.
“For the sake of the Empire man stop acting like that. You will be more noticeable than coal on snow.” The Minister welcomed with a defensive tone. “Now what has brought you here? Right after a council meeting I may add.”
“It’s them, they know. I hear them. I hear them.” He stressed.
“Anthony who knows what?” The Minister raised himself and held the man down on his chair in one swift move.
“Them, you know them. The Empress is gone and they know.”
“Calm down Anthony. You haven’t told anyone have you?”
“I swear on the Empresses life no.” He started to hysterically laugh. “That’s funny isn’t it. Nobody knows where she is. If she's alive or if she's dead. Not even us.”
“Will you keep your voice down! Just sit there while I close the curtains. As he turned his back, Anthony started to pace the room. “For the love of the empire stop it. You’re going to get this place found out.” The Minister shouted back. “Plus you’re putting me on edge now explain who ‘they’ are!”
“The women, the women. The women under the white feather, the daughters of the peacock, they know, they know, I tell you, I didn’t tell them, so stop shouting at me, they know and I did not tell them.”
“Anthony…will you please calm down.” He said sternly. Anthony cowered behind a potted fern. “Come out from behind there."
“They know, the women under the white feather. The daughters of the peacock, they know, they know.” He started to repeat this phrase over and over again till he started to babble.
“Anthony. I am sorry that you had to brave the winds of the Bastion, and come back with news and somehow still alive. Only a few have been able to come back and I was stupid to belive that you would come back unscathed. May there be a blessing upon you. I will find a doctor at St Hellion’s unit. The remote setting outside of Isoquia will you a world of good... Magnus.” He shouted.” Stop guarding that door and come in here.”
A large man, thick as two planks of wood and stronger than granite walked heavy footed into the room.
“Will you take this gentleman to my private costal ship. The small one. Ask the driver to take him to Pankhurst Island
The oaf grunted and walked out with Anthony still shaking. “Poor, Poor man.” He sat back down shaking his head and sighing. “Now where is my document from Devasse? Ah.”
Emmet looked over an updated report by Councilman Devasse who had called for a greater effort to find more Ancestor sites, be it archaeological ruins or caves at the start of the year. He stressed that it should be on focused on her province’s islands. That was to say the Ohrianian islands of Isoquia, Lupatis and Ardere. There had already been findings such as the Temple Complex of the Isoquian Jewel and other settlements. Lupatis was famous for being the resting place of the Ancestors before they became enlightened and rose up into the steep jagged peaks and plateaus to become closer to the moon.. Ardere was bare of all life. Nothing could live there; the soil was burnt and mainly comprised on pumice and ash and the air was tainted with residuals of pyroclastic eruptions from the volcano. So the focus turned back on Isoquia once again.
The report stated that the Sand Villages of Isoquia became over run with Imperials. Researchers, documenters, explorers and archaeologists all took roost like bats in the wooden huts of the locals homes. Houses became barracks, the local market became base camp and the small ports were inundated with ships. The Isoquians became trapped in their own homes. They couldn’t venture into the rainforest for fear of subzero temperatures that the jewel caused during the many moon phases and couldn’t force the Imperials out, for fear of being arrested for treason. All they could do was wait for them to leave.
It took a few weeks and a lot of suffering at the hands of the wildlife and the temperatures, not to mention the living conditions until scholars found what Councilman Devasse was looking for. With the unlit night sky the rainforest kept its tropical state. This was the time that the teams would venture in for an all night and day trip. There weren’t many of these excursions, only three and the last one proved to be fruitful. Fruitful enough for the whole of the Imperials to be recalled and to evaluate their finding back on San Helio. Nothing further came from the expedition apart from increased harsh warnings and restrictions placed on the rainforest..
In Devasse's report Dr Jacob Lyall and a class from Mehnos Academy somehow was given permission for a field expedition to the Isoquian Jewel. The rest of the report was more hastily scrawled than documented by a scribe. Devasse was talented in storytelling and her reports read more like tales that government documents but this was by her hand, and that meant something was deeply wrong.
The Birds of Paradise were squawking and singing; the wildlife was abundant and peaceful. The plants gave birth to flowers and the flowers gave birth to colour and new life. Dr Lyall and Professor James Thorne and their respective classes had arrived over at one of the Sand Villages via a smallish boat from the Docks of the Academy. They carried along with them expedition equipment, books and research and rations. But nothing could beat the food of the Sand Tribes. The tribes caught fish from the sea, wildfowl from the forest and herbs from practically everywhere. They made their own charcoal and they made their own huts, self sustainable with the wildlife around them. They lived high on stilted abodes but built to last. Some of them were even centuries old and were passed down through each generation.
It was already about seven in the evening and the tribe’s hospitality danced long into the night. Wondrous food, music and entertainment, and one of the best nights sleep in a long time. Emmet tutted, this document was littered with metaphor and atmosphere, it was almost too thickly laid on to read, let alone bare. They would set the next day, as that following night there was predicted an eclipse and supposedly the inscriptions on the ruins of the Temple Complex lit up with a bluish white light that supposedly helped regenerate the forest and keep the power of the jewel, and that had to be documented.
So the day came and the class left. They decided to bring along a local, Marhan, instead of their map. He knew the forest like the back of his hand; he alone would lead them through.. It took a few good hours from dawn until they reached a complex. Its ruins were covered in inscriptions and the buildings were masterful to behold. What was strange thought was that no animal was to be found. There were no birds flying overhead in the clearing. No animals scurrying about on the tree line and no insect underfoot. They shook it off to be consecrated ground and the powers of the Ancestors protected this site from the animals that could devastate it. But there was no jewel, there was no tower, this was not the right temple nor had and living man stepped onto these ruins for eons.
Underground the guardians awoke from a ravenous slumber, the steps of the class echoed in their ears as they trespassed on the temple ground. They scattered, leaving their nests and carcases for the fresh delivery of meat. This was obviously conjecture. She didn’t know any of this, she couldn't have. It was hard to tell how much of her report was fact or fiction. Above, the class and the teachers were still discovering their surroundings. They had set up a small camp fire and settled in for the night. The jewel wasn’t here but it would still freeze them if the lunar eclipse wasn’t on the verge of darkening the sky. They could work by candle and crystal light. The fire cracked and the embers glowed. The sounds of snapping twigs and branches were masked by the discussion of tonight’s event. The eyes were unnoticed by the children eating barbequed foul. The high pitched screeching was mistaken for an animal that was harmless. And the swaying of the trees was attributed to the unfelt wind, and the fire grew dim.
The moon began to darken as the scriptures began to glow. Everyone fell silent as the show began. The carvings in the pillars of the temple started to glow first. It was a gentle glimmering but it was far from the bluish white that was expected from the Jewel temple.. Rather a bloody blazon red. What seemed to be impossible began to happen; the other writings began to catch, like wildfire with the glow. Nobody knew what was happening but they were entranced by this mystery.
What then came was a screech that froze the blood in the children’s veins. Another that sent shivers up the spines of the innocent. And a final scream that echoed in ruins. The guide and the teacher urged the children to move into the temple structure away from the edge of the forest. This is what the guardians wanted. Trees around the clearing began to sway and the cracking of trunks terrified the souls of the class. The light from the ruins began to glow fiercely, making it impossible to see out from the temple.
Figures snarled their way closer to the temple. A girl at the back screamed and everyone began to panic. Nobody found out why she fainted but she was lucky, mistaken for dead but froze to death after the eclipse. The figures began to circle them, their shape on eight legs. Matted hair and claws. The light from the ruins blinded the sacrifices as the guardians, swift and ferociously, tore into their soft flesh. It was over in a few seconds. The pain those children must have felt could never be described. Their blood now poured into the writings chiselled into the floor, gushing to a small crypt coffin made solely out of black marble. The blood still following the engravings flowing vertically up the sides of the coffin until every single inscription on it was filled with innocent blood. At the centre was a small design unremarkable yet so familiar filled with the remaining blood.
What happened with the added presence of blood was quite extraordinary. The glow from the ruins was seemingly sucked back to the temple. You could see the lights under the blood seeping back to the design and the blood began to boil. When all the lights had disappeared back to whence they came, and as the eclipse began to fade, the blood began to be absorbed by the temple and the coffin. It's very foundations began to rumble and the stone started to warm. Where the blood used to be there was a distinctive smell of smoke and burning flesh. The bodies of the dead were dragged off back to the nests of the creatures.
Jacob, who had ignored the warnings of going alone to relieve himself had spied the horror and ran, he knew if he got lost the cold would kill him, but it would be better than being eaten alive. With the first light of the moon, refracted in the Isoquian Jewel, showering pure cold upon the rainforest, he ran as far and as fast as he could. Only to fail reaching near the end of the rainforest and froze. But the gods took pity on him, some say, and only hours later the villagers from the Sand Village found his body and brought him to a fire on the beach. The cold had just slowed him or perhaps it was some mystical healing but his heart was still beating, jsut. He was taken to Saint Hellions for treatment and later interviewed by Astri, the Dean of Mehnos Acadamy, while on his bed. At the near end of the interview Jacob’s condition worsened, and a fever began to develop. His whole body rose in temperature rapidly. Nothing could be done. Astri had left as he had ‘pressing engagements’ but as his last footsteps left the reception of the hospital Jacob violently, with scream filled agony that would haunt some of the nursing staff till their graves, burst into chaotic flames. It was over in seconds, but what seemed like minutes for him. His suffering was over.
“She certainly does have a unique flair for the reports. Unfortunate that half of this might be more fiction than fact. Genevieve will not be happy about this but she will give me a proper report. I just hope her wheelchair is all terrain.” He chuckled to himself and looked around for appreciation of his humour but realised he was alone. He signed the letter he had penned while reading folded it and stamped his insignia into the wax. “Magnus, deliver this letter to Madame Genevieve Castillo and ignore any insults she may give you. I believe the date is near her husband’s disappearance and she won't be in the most sociable frames of mind. Especially after she reads this.”
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
From the Blossom Year
of our Empress
05.17.03.03.01.02
“‘We, I mean they, let the world become
hell once; do not let it happen again. This diary is for the future, of which
we hope to return to. If we do not make it, this journal shall survive,
somehow, documenting the beginning of our downfall. We knew there was something
in the shadows, we knew they would not be prepared. They are all pacifists with
not a single weapon among them, yet they are still content to bicker amongst
themselves, not knowing they could start another rift or divide these islands
even further. Do not, for the sake your lives let any two near Lonargh’s
artefacts or the temple near the foundry! The world will become consumed in
flames of hatred, war and pestilence. For the Muses and for all those who still
live, stop his resurrection.”
July 12th Genova, Italy: Fontana Bar -Back Room
“What do you mean she’s left the country?”
“I’m sorry Boss. We lost track of her outside of Fredo’s last night, we
heard from the dockyard that she left soon after. The rain didn’t help either”
“You know what? I think that rot gut got to ya. You got sloppy. Boys, can
you take him for a little walk would ya? He’s put me evil and it’s hard to
restrain myself if he’s still in my sight.”
“But Boss. Senior Brogetti. No, I, no...” He protested till the sound of
his dragging feet on the tiled floor stopped and gunshot hung in the air. Today
was not a good day. It wasn’t even lunchtime and Senior Tiziano Brogetti had
blood on his hands. Not for the first time however; but for in his lapse of
composure, he had forgotten to get information before the lackey was executed. He paced his office, his brogues clacking
against the floor. The coffee on his desk started to grow cold as he tried to
figure out what to do. One slip of that serpent tongue, one warble of that songbird;
and he flew across the Atlantic, looking over his shoulder at every turn. Where did she go? She was the key to
this whole thing, her scarlet hair, her siren’s ditty. You find Cassandra Shriver; you find Cobra and his traitorous law
loving words. He was a man that could stride oceans if he wanted to, in
this case he did, he could kill anyone, which he had, but to be truthful about
the matter, that he couldn’t be bothered with.
He would tell his follows, his lackeys, those who stood in awe and fear,
that they were running from the law. A romanticised outlaw, an idealised
pirate, in fact, when he moved they moved, when he decided they needed to leave
New York, they followed blindly. Their moral on the other hand, was a different
story. A few kills here and there to inspire fear helped, but to keep them at
their sharpest, they had to fear the dark, the street corner, and the sirens.
He was on a mission of revenge and had decided to leave because he needed this,
for himself, his honour. This sort of man saw himself above the law, reproach,
handcuffs and jail time. He needed no other reason, to leave, and his men
should need none at all. This power he had, the control, the presence, the
image, was to him, godlike. He revelled in but knew it needed to be maintained
against insubordination. But mortals fall foul of their own kin and emotion,
and both of these usurped his sound ruling of his heart and mind. The traitors must be punished. Retribution,
justice.
The smell of tobacco, coffee and that of the pavement after the rain
perfumed the air. The back room of anywhere let alone this insignificant bar
was nothing but beneath Tiziano. The opulence of New York, its bars and clubs
overshadowed anything that Genoa had to offer. The walls were thinly covered in
plaster, the overhead lamp dangled off a chain. There were cobwebs, crates and
various bottles of spirits, most unnamed. This wasn’t a matter of comfort, or a
matter of style. He needed to find the girl and the traitor she was with, and
for fear of casting his own shadow over the city and scaring them, this dingy
back room was the only place to keep hidden. For the couple of days he was to
occupy this tiny little office, he had set up some form of home. Mirrors, a
painting or two, a sturdy carved desk and a leather chair. The bar next door
provided all the fresh coffee and liqueur he desired and the food was tolerable.
It could have been worse, but this was the lowest he had ever been, well
aesthetically. He sat down and sipped at
his espresso. He judged himself in the mirror
on his desk, adjusted the ivory buttons on his ecru suit, ran his fingers
through his hair an savoured the smell of the coffee. I guess we should leave. A pity they didn’t stay, but they value their
lives, s lot more refreshing than that brother of hers, timid, on his knees. I
shouldn’t have let him live. Traitors run in the blood, but his patheticness it
was too easy, there was no sport. Perhaps after he finds out she’s dead...that
might put the fight back into his spirit and fire into his heart.
He sighed, the last few seconds of what should have been of Karl Shriver’s
life played back in his mind. The memories of a failed execution disappointed
and angered him. Karl had spilled his guts all over the floor of his shop. His
sister had fled and told him nothing. He hadn’t even met that snitch
Serpentine. He was as clueless as a fence, but he was blood, his death would
have brought her out of the wood work, and that traitor of a boyfriend with
her. His hair was matted, his glasses broken and on the floor. The cardigan was
ripped and his trousers torn. Half of the damage was done before Brogetti’s
boys turned up. He was pathetic, weak. A gun was pointed to his head and all he
could do was sob. Sob and fumble around for his glasses. There was no...confrontation,
no resistance. He wasn’t ready to die but too scared to challenge. There is
only one proper way a man bows out of life, through his own means, and accepts
it with open arms. Of course, some never had that luxury being at the end of
one of Brogetti’s men’s’ guns. But they had caused their own death, but
Shriver, no, he knew nothing and when the executioner called was like a rabbit
faced with a steamroller when it only knew horse drawn carriages. He couldn’t
do it, he couldn’t ask them to pull the trigger. In anger he trashed the shop,
breaking the glasses and the optical equipment. If he couldn’t end his life,
then he could end his career.
Brogetti ordered his men to ready ‘The Phantom’, a bespoke clipper ship,
for sail. With only a day sail ahead of him, he could catch the traitors and
still travel in luxury. He wasn’t a man to mince his words or his orders and
the fear instilled by his tone made a three day set up turn into mere hours.
Lorenzo and Sergio returned from disposing of the body just in time to
familiarise themselves with the boat once again. Brogetti had travelled to
Italy by plane but a boat was much more, earthy, grounded, regal. He had
command over his men so why not at sea? Sergio was the first mate and navigator
and also Tiziano’s right hand man, the dumb gun behind that hand was Lorenzo,
his first kill was only hours ago and although excited the blood, the mud, and
the burial was still in his head. His heart had not become hardened like
Sergio’s but his passion that was something Tiziano could recognise in his
younger self. Although to treat him like a son, take him under his wing, he
rejected the whole idea. Family is blood and marriage, not a few words and a
gentle nudge. He would dishonour his family’s memory by even thinking such a
thing more than once.
“Tiziano, the boy wants to know why we’re taking the ship and not the plane?
Apparently he gets sea sick.”
“Marinello, Lorzenzo, we are taking the boat, not just because they have
taken a boat and it would make sense to follow them to the next port but a
plane is not elegant, refined. A plane has no weight to its existence. You must
treat history like a dear relative. To lose touch would dishonour both you and
your family’s name.”
“But sir the boat is...”Lorenzo was cut short by Sergio’s warning gaze,
although passionate, crossing the boss could not save you, no matter how much
he identified with you. “...I understand sir. Your charts are in the captain’s quarters,
and the rest of the boys are already on the boat. We’ve been told by a few men
at the docks that the boat they left on was headed to Bermuda, presumably to
change for a plane to the mainland. They aint got long on us boss. We can catch
them.”
“Marinello, not ‘can,’ but will. And you will see to that.” The tone in
Brogetti’s voice threatened Lorenzo. He gulped, not wanting to be the next on
the bosses hit list. The success of this chase and this voyage was in his
hands. Although Sergio was the one who would be steering. The
bar owner was thanked with a punch in the stomach and the threat of torching
his establishment left as a parting gift. The walk was downhill through the
winding streets, women could be heard chattering through the white framed
windows. The sun had waned behind the clouds and those same women gossiped
still while closing the dark green colonial wooden shutters in preparation for
rain. With the sun in hiding the usually warm pastel orange plaster of the
walls and tan stone that decorated the outside of the houses instead gave the
presence of gloom and the sunny passage ways between them loomed with shadows
and grey akin to the brickwork of the paving. Rain was coming. It started to
spit with rain and Brogetti and the two that accompanied him sheltered under
the archway of Chiesa di San Siro before a brief and frantic run, dodging the
open air as much as possible, to the dockyards and to Brogetti’s personal
warehouse.
He and his men stood underneath an
awning while ‘The Phantom’ was being quickly supplied by drowning unnamed
associates. Brogetti smiled, it was nice to know he didn’t have to lift a
finger, or that any document, word of mouth, print or blood stain would lead
back to him. He checked his suit for any imperfections, and removed stay
threads. There was nothing worse than a stray thread. Image was everything, you
had to be able to command without saying a word, inspire fear and awe with just
presence, and looking like you dressed in rags, well that would never do. The
weather had to be braved, though. There was no chase if the boat wasn’t
sailing. After much deliberation, the command was given and Lorenzo was sent
forth into the rain. Minutes past, and although the rain was letting up,
Brogetti opened up the newly acquired umbrella and walked with quiet confidence
to the boat, while his two associates, one wetter than the other, walked with
shivers and annoyance.
The crew assembled on the rain soaked deck, there was no salute as
Tiziano walked across inspecting his men. There was no maritime formality, they
were his men, his boys, to the law his casual associates and acquaintances.
They were not pirates, navel officers, no, they had never touched water,
breathed in the salty air, caught a cross wind or sailed against the tide. All
they knew was how to follow orders. They stood nervously, one small thing out
of place and one fo them would be overboard with a bullet in his chest. Tiziano
surveyed, then turned to head below deck. There was an audible collective sigh
of relief but the last sigh...Tiziano turned on his heels drew his gun and
fired blankly into the crowd.
“You are as one, you obey me as one, you defy me as one but you should
never stand alone, you dogs don’t have names, numbers are too good for you.
Under my watch you are not individuals, so do not draw attention to yourself,
for you could be slapped in irons or bleeding out on the floor.” A hushed
silence fell upon his men, the body of one of them was quickly covered over by
the crowd. One or two even stood on top, the man, the corpse, had never
existed. That was all they knew.
Tiziano headed down below deck, the creaking of the wood against the
waves and the footsteps on the planks pleased him. This was it, history. He
breathed in every last ounce as he walked the narrow corridors to the engine
room. The reinforced timber frame was kept hidden under cargo nets, sacks and
crates. There was only the slight glint of metal that would show the modernisation
of the ship. It was practically flawless. The engine room however was something
of a bone of contention, it had to exist for the ship to not just rely on wind
power alone but it broke the immersion. And it was for this reason alone, to
what all of his men believed, was why nobody but he could enter. There were some
that doubted his mechanical prowess, but for their own hides they never spoke
of it. The ship had been moored in Genoa for quite a while, like a holiday home
on the water. Some doubted it would even run as none had seen it. The ship was
the perfect shell, kept in immaculate condition, but to have no mechanic on
board, if the ship was to lose power, the engine was to falter, they would
drift. One or two thought of leaving, they feared of drifting, but their boss,
had eyes everywhere and guns pointed at them from the shadows. So while the
crew finished setting up Tiziano closed the door behind him, bolted it shut and
turned on the electric light swinging from the beam above him.
It was dark, not to say that the light didn’t illuminate the area, but
the engine was substantial and the light dim in comparison. He peered over the
engine and blew the dust away, always careful not to damage of stain his suit.
After rubbing is eyes and glancing over the lock again he removed a cigar
holder from his breast pocket. There was always an oddity about this cigar
case, everyone who knew him, or feared him, knew that he did not smoke but that
cigar case would never leave his side. He slowly opened it with his left hand
to steady it, briefly glanced back at the lock and revealed a cigar sized
crystal. He was very careful with it, he dare not drop it and the fear in his
body language showed that he had reasons why. It didn’t glow, sparkle, nor did
it seem radioactive or abnormal in anyway. To the untrained eye it was a paperweight.
He gingerly held it to the light, an examined the inside. The golden red tints seemed
like crystallised fire and the etchings on the inside, the remains of some ruin
or a mad mans scribble it was hard to tell. He eyed the lock once again and
listened. Nothing. With steady hand and steel nerves he placed the crystal into
a small slot in front of him. A compartment seemingly designed for it. Brogetti
stepped back and tapped the crystal with his finger, a distinctive yet brief
tone that could only be made by a crystal or glass chinked in the engine room.
What seemed like frozen fire started to seemingly burn for a few seconds and
the engine sparked into life. There were no coal or petrol fumes, this was not
the catalyst to start the burning of fuel. No this was the lifeblood of the
engine; this small crystal, creating enough power to move a frigate across the
ocean, even against potential storms. Brogetti was satisfied, his ever so
slightly fraying nerves were pulled back together and the engine room door was
bolted and locked. Weather permitting it was time to leave.
The wine bottle smashed against the wood, ‘The Phantom’ drifted in
silence out of port. Brogetti had chartered a course which skirted the
perimeter of the Bermuda waters with a chance to dock to find the whereabouts
of Cassandra the Serpentine. It took only a few weeks for the frigate with is
minimal ‘crew’ to reach the edges of the Bermuda waters. Through a bespoke
telescope from stolen from Karl Shriver, Brogetti could see the local islands,
their ports and people. There was no ill weather to speak of, no rising waves,
and no darkening skies. The journey as a whole had been easy. The sea, bathed
in twilight, seemed to be made of glass, spilling over the horizon without a
ripple.
Lorenzo was on his second consecutive shift, and he had only the stamina
for one. After fetching the umbrella for his boss in Genoa he had contracted a
sickness, some feared it to have been pneumonia but the ship’s doctor dismissed
those worries and put him back to work. He hadn’t been cured, but being one of
only five men on board to have any knowledge of seamanship, he was never allowed
a break. Sergio, was meant to have taken the helm as First Mate, but an unpredictable ‘affliction’ had
befallen him, rendering his navigation
skills and much of his coherency void. He had been struck down when visiting an
odd island, uncharted and inexplicable. As ‘The Phantom’ had reached the island
Sergio was struck by a profound notion to land on it himself, alone. So without
a word to the Brogetti, took one of the three small boats at the side of the
ship and dropped down into the ocean. The crew meanwhile were discussing the
possibility of scurvy on board and if the small island would bare any useful
fruit.
The oars in the water glided as though he was rowing through air and in a
matter of minutes he had beached the craft. He could see the continuous strip
of sands around the edge of the island, hemming in the small amount of fruit
trees and palms. There was however a dense centre to the island. As he
approached a cold wind breathed down his neck, vines tried to clasp at his
legs. A protruding rock covered in moss and slime stood in the shadows. Sergio
brushed away the lichen with haste, his thoughts grew erratic his actions
became frantic. He clawed away at the stone, cleaning and cleaning, till all
was left was the black marble and the inscriptions. A perfectly sculpted cube
lay before him, blacker than the night sky. The inscription was in English,
Italian, German, Arabic and every other conceivable language. His mind tried to
make sense of it all. He traced his finger over the Italian inscription,
tracing out the words. The lord will come.
The shadows will rise. As he traced the last letter he pricked his finger
and bled onto the carving. The blood started to multiply from that single drop
and in horror the first mate backed away falling over a branch and stumbled
further back. The blood filled every inscription, till it overflowed. The
marble started to dissolve, the phrase echoed inside Sergio’s head,
intensifying with every reverberation.
The boat that had been rowed to shore, bumped up against the side of the
caravel. Lorenzo helped Sergio tie the boat back to the ship and with some of
the other crew hauled him and the boat back up. There was no yelling or
screaming, no shouting, no arguments. Sergio denounced the island as barren of
fruit or life and walked to his cabin clinging to a small metal idol in peace.
As his body hit the bed the fever grew from inside of him. His eyes once a deep
hue of green were bloodshot in a blink, a cold sweat and shivers, mixed with
mumbles of “The lord will come. The shadows will rise.” The ships doctor
couldn’t tell if it was some disease he picked up or poisoning from a fruit but
they left the island immediately in hope that they would not fall to the same
fate.
So, despite Lorenzo’s limited
ability, he was drafted to steer the
ship. While at the helm, he began to succumb to the idyllic waves rocking him into sleep.
Lorenzo, wrapped in slumber and tied by its threads, gently turned the wheel to
the left. This was not on the charts. The slow swerve went unnoticed by the
crew, and not until Lorenzo had
rested his entire body on the wheel, and its movement had dropped him to the
deck, did he realise his error. He shook himself awake, sprang to his feet, and turned the wheel back to its
original position, but the damage had been done. The course was changed, and
the rudder had become tangled in drifting seaweed. The Bermuda Islands drifted
to the right until they became a blip on the horizon. The rudder was stuck in
its position and no amount of frantic pulling at the wheel or shouting at
Lorenzo from Tiziano, no number of latitudes or longitudes worked out by
compass, could have change the
destination.
There was something odd about the way ship was now gliding in the water.
The hum of the engine that had been tuned out by the crew had ceased without
alerting anyone. Tiziano looked up at the sails, there were for show, to give
the impression of an old seafaring vessel but the wind in them and the
silence...could the ship really be powered by the sails alone? He pounded the
deck and flung open the door to lower decks.. His men hurled themselves to the
walls, they did not want die from just being a slight inconvenience. In the
darkest reach of the ship he found the lock to the engine room broken. He
inspected it, with narrow eyes. This was done by man. He listened, the room was
empty and so was the corridor behind him. He entered slowly, trying to not
imagine what his logic was telling him. He switched the light on and peered
down at the crystal holder. To his lack of surprise he found it gone. His one
greatest secret, gone. The hows and whys were not the thoughts running through his head, no,
revenge and justice piled upon themselves. This time, the culprit was now on
the list. They had a weapon that could take down buildings, skyscrapers, it
could kill as easily as it could power the engine. He must have known it was here. Whoever he was. All this time, waited
and waited till we reached Bermuda. The traitor, he will pay. Tiziano
turned on heels again with a tight grip on his pistol, but it was too late, the
glass started to crack.
There was a sudden surge of waves and foam. Surf lashed against the deck,
taking anything that wasn’t nailed down or too heavy to float to a watery
grave. The shattering crests brought forth winds of unimaginable magnitude; the
force of just one gust could take the breath of a man. Lorenzo grappled wildly
with the wheel. It started to gain force with the wind’s hands now guiding the
ship. A struggle between them ensued. It is human nature to struggle against
mother earth to survive, but against
this storm, this was asking the impossible. The hands of the wind gripped
tighter and tighter, and then with a glee filled thunderclap twisted the wheel
from Lorenzo’s grasp; then flung him overboard.
Seawater poured in from every nook and cranny, over the sides of the ship
and onto the deck. Barrels rolled over the sides, doors of cabins flung open
and shut. Tiziano, already below deck, took the next best thing to his prized
crystal and grabbed the metal idol from Sergio’s room, locked it in his cigar
case and prayed for his life. The water engulfing the ship could only be
described as the entire ocean at work. The rain came down in bullets. It pierced
its way through the planks and portholes, drowning every crevice. The lightning
and thunder clapped, and sparked its way into the tempest. The raging storms
against the Phantom had boiled into
pure electricity. Sparks of the lightning hit the main mast, bringing it
crashing down to the deck. Its force smashed through several lower decks and
through the people in its path. Its stump burned fiercely, unnaturally. The rain should have dampened its blaze, but it
raged on, fed on the wood as the ship sank around it. The glass settled. The
stump burnt alone among the wreckage. The rage of the storm returned to its
thunderous home with one last resounding and hallowed clap of thunder.
The bodies of the crew littered the sea. Pieces of wood, charred at the
edges, supported some of the
corpses. There was no forewarning and no signs in the sky. This strike on the Phantom seemed more personal than
natural, but there was no denying it
had done its job. The ship was no more and its crew were dead. The gentle
swirling of the waves rocked the souls of the departed into a tender sleep. The
docile skies whispered brief harmony as the bodies fell through the glass into
the embrace of the water and the sand. The flotsam and jetsam floated silently
in search for land.
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