Prologue: The Council Of The Brethren
Gryal Repa turned away from his stargazing to look at his desk, where a charred piece of red paper lay amongst a mess of star charts. Although he had previously memorised this message, he glanced at it once more.
To Lord Repa,
A meeting of the Brethren has been called by His Lordship Warren Marz for one o’clock your current day. Prepare your hall for all members’ arrivals. This concerns the Archk.
Yours sincerely,
Lord Murner
As he picked up the letter, it disintegrated. Sighing, Gryal looked up into his mirror that stood erect at seven feet tall, a home for many a spider. Brushing the cobwebs aside, he stared back at himself, examining his features for the umpteenth time. Little light was coming through the towering ornate window, but his bright blue eyes illuminated his face in the murky gloom. His bald head hadn’t changed, not since its creation. Gryal raised a bony hand to the mirror, as if to check it was a mirror, not a window with a stranger looking through. When his fingers touched the glass however, he only confirmed that it was not anyone else; this was truly how he looked. He could have sworn that there had been someone standing behind him in the reflection, but it must have been his imagination.
Oh well, it wasn’t too bad. He’d just have to convince himself he wasn’t too ugly. Well, he was kind of handsome, even though he happened to be dead. That wasn’t to say he’d ever been alive. Being dead just meant that your energy, what makes you you, inhabits a place beyond what was generally specified as ‘the universe’. His skeletal form looked much more ominous than he would have liked. He was getting too old for this. When he’d taken the post as overseer of the transfer of souls, he’d never thought he’d get bored. Gryal just wanted some time away from the job. He might have retired to Earth, if he could survive there...if he could taste. That was another occupational drawback. That servant who had delivered Mordrin’s letter might have tasted good, he didn’t know. It just tasted bland. It wasn’t that he even needed to eat, it was simply a habit which, despite being a compulsion, had no real profits. He pulled his black robes tighter around himself.
*
The Entities’ vessel sank gradually into the Rift. The neighbouring Tower was still crumbling in the flames around the ship, its inhabitants trapped inside, unable to escape the conflagrations. From the blackened hangar, the Chariot sped across the scene. It was nothing by the standards of the Towers, but to those of Earth, it would have been larger than any vehicle capable of flight. It comprised simply of a crescent, with a thin bridge extending from the middle of the inside arc. Having no regard for the doomed souls it was abandoning, the Chariot ripped its way through the rubble and to its next destination: Gryal’s Tower.
*
Gryal at this point was seemingly gliding across the floor. It was as he rounded the corner that he noticed Lord Stark Vingfamyn hurrying down the corridor towards him. Stark was a portly man, so much so that he was probably taller lying down than standing up. His rag of greasy, tomato-red hair was flying everywhere as he pelted at top speed on his equally fat legs. Stark stumbled to a halt at Gryal’s feet, wiping a flood of sweat from his crimson forehead with a grimy handkerchief. Gryal inched backwards, trying to stay clean for the meeting.
Looking down at the man who only reached his torso, Gryal growled through gritted teeth, “What do you want?”
Why the Entities had made an Immortal such as this, he didn’t know.
“Warren felt it necessary to send me to tell you that he’s waiting in the hall.”
“There’s no need to use that tone about my brother,” he snapped.
“He’s my brother too,” added Stark under his breath, his rare show of bravado evaporating rapidly at Gryal’s countenance.
“Come on, I am going to the hall now.”
Warren heard Gryal’s footsteps a minute before he arrived. The Waters of Lution rippled at his touch, and the image evaporated. The Chariot vanished from sight, yet he knew he’d see the rider soon. His head whipped up as Stark fell onto a chair, spluttering. Rubbing his neck with a muscular arm, Warren watched Gryal take his throne at the Table of the Brethren. He enclosed the Waters in his fingers and lifted it up to its blackened shelf.
From behind him, Gryal announced, half-heartedly, “And here they are, the last of us Immortals: Lord Mordrin Murner and Lord Petti Lance. I must say, Mordrin, are the formalities in your messages entirely necessary?”
Warren returned to the table and sat with his humanoid fellows. Petti kept to the shadows however; ever since the accident he rarely showed his face in public, at least when he wasn’t hunting. Warren’s attention was drawn back as he noticed Gryal looking at him.
“Sorry?”
“I said,” Gryal rasped, with more than a note of impatience in his voice, “what news do you have on the Archk? I understand that’s why you called this meeting?”
“Oh, um...yes, the Archk. Right, we know that since the Entities deemed it to be too vital an artefact in their quest for the meaning of our existence, it’s been lost to us, correct.”
“Really? I didn’t know,” chipped in Mordrin, his sarcasm enriching his words as much as he could make it.
“Very funny. Since our records were damaged the Archk has been lost to us in the void....”
“Well done, you’ve read a history book,” Mordrin couldn’t keep the impatience from his voice now.
“I’m surprised, Gryal old friend,” said Warren incredulously, “I would have thought you would have taught our newest member when to shut up!”
Mordrin, who had been about to retort, caught Warren’s stare, and shut his mouth in embarrassment. If he’d had blood under his thin skin he would have blushed.
“Thank you,” Warren sighed. “We have the Watch; as we know, all we have to do is tip the scales of power and we’ll come out on top. We might have to reopen the Apocalypse.”
Stark found his voice at last, “Where is this going?”
“The Mancynn.”
These two words put the room in a dead silence. But it was not Warren who had spoken, it was Petti.
“Correct,” confirmed Warren.
“But what would we do with the Mancynn? Use him to attack Earth?” queried Stark.
“Of course not! Haven’t you been listening in any of our prior meetings!” cried Gryal. “Do you not remember what happened to Khaonat? When he tried to conquer Earth, we lost Atlantis! Our last beachhead!”
“Yes, that was helpful,” mused Warren.
There was no sarcasm in Warren’s voice. The others looked at him quizzically.
“I mean, if Atlantis hadn’t sunk, we wouldn’t have the advantage.”
They continued to stare at him with their mismatched eyes, a slightly shocked expression resting on their faces, some of them contemplating the validity of his words.
“Let me explain. Without Atlantis, the humans don’t know of the Postern. It is with this that we can lead the Towers to the Apocalypse.”
Stark was still not convinced, “What has that got to do with the Archk?”
“I’m saying that if we don’t find it soon, we may have to follow up on our contingency plan. I realise that up until now, quite contrary to my character, I have been against that particular strategy, but now I am prepared to go along with it. That being said, if anyone gains any further information on the whereabouts of the Archk, I urge them to come forwards.”
They all seemed satisfied, all apart from Gryal. It was something Warren had said, the tipping of the scales, it had awoken a sly, snake-like recess of his mind. Images were swimming in front of him, an experience he had not had before.
“Egypt,” he murmured.
“Pardon?” asked Warren.
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling that the Earth-country Egypt is important somehow,” he reiterated.
“There’s no evidence that Egypt has anything to do with the Archk,” uttered Warren. “Are you sure you are fit to be our leader? You have been at this for a very long time. If you need me to take over…”
“I’m fine.” He didn’t know what had got into him.
“Very well.” It was short and decisive. Warren turned to the group, “Petti, take care of Chaos. We don’t want him ruining things...again. We all know what we each have to do. We can be, and will be, victorious.”
Everyone stood to leave, and Petti crept out into the light, next to Warren’s chair.
“How can you know they won’t use the wand against us?”
“Don’t worry, brother, the weapon is securely hidden.”
Gryal still felt as if there was something else inside of him. He knew they had to go to Egypt, but he didn’t know why.
Suddenly, the doors slammed open, and a woman, tall, with short, neat, black hair, dazzling yellow eyes, fangs, and jade skin, strutted into the hall. She surveyed the room with a sharp movement of her head.
“I can take you to Egypt.” Her voice was sweet, but with a hint of someone who will look you in the eye and tell a lie without a care.
Gryal stepped forwards, “You are no longer part of this organisation. You have never been an Immortal. You have nothing of benefit, Mierdi. Get back on your Chariot.”
She laughed, “But I know the enemy. You’ll need my help defeating humanity.”
It was Warren’s turn to make a hoarse laugh, “Our goals are more complex than you think. I’m glad to see that during your last failure, you didn’t get a glimpse of our intentions. Anyway, we wouldn’t need your help, no matter how easy or hard the stratagem.”
“And do you remember what happened last time you got involved with us?” Gryal joined in. “You could barely control the Jackal.”
“You honestly don’t know, do you? They’ve destroyed an Adsindrarian!”
The shaking in Stark’s voice gave him out to be the only one of the group shocked by this news, “No they haven’t.”
“Oh yes they have, just over four thousand years from this Tower.”
Gryal grinned (well, tried to grin more; he was a skeleton, a skull is always grinning), “Then the other Adsindrarians will be angrier than usual. This can only mean that the endgame is getting nearer. Let’s go.”
The Brethren Lords walked out past her, into the inky-black corridor beyond. Gryal was the last to leave. On passing he spared a glance in Mierdi’s direction with his blue eyes. In a flash, she clasped hold of his wrist.
“You will go to Egypt,” she hissed.
Gryal felt a prickling sensation at the back of his eye sockets. He stared at her unfocusedly in a dream-like state. He wrenched his yellow eyes away from her.
“Yes mistress.”