CHAPTER 28: A PLOT UNRAVELS
Keeping stride with Layla, Jack said, “If you are in fact the heir of Lemuria, why haven't you taken up leadership of the Library?” His words were hushed and his eyes were on Cloak's back—the Nysaean was out of earshot. “I think you would do a far better job than Oreus or his warmongering son, Rykar.”
“Don't you let Rykar hear you say that,” she replied with a smirk, “he hates to be challenged.”
Cloak climbed aboard his own obsidian skyjammer that hovered near the one Jack and Layla had brought and placed the silver circlet onto his head. He looked back at the straggling couple and waved them on impatiently.
“As for your first question,” Layla said, quickening her pace, “I couldn't think of anything worse. I was raised a soldier by my father. Any ounce of royal blood in me was left in the delivery room when I was born. Kings and queens were reason my people's homes and lives were destroyed. I curse the rulers of all the lands for their petty squabbles for power. If Lemuria had been under marshal law, under Mathias' command, I doubt we would have lost our world.”
Jack nodded but said no more. He understood the reason for Layla's bitterness and frustration towards the old rulers who had unwittingly destroyed their world through their own greed for power. Yet part of him envied her lineage. Jack had lived a life of borderline poverty, struggling from week to week to pay the rent; so he had never tasted the spoils of affluence and privilege. Neither had Layla for that matter—but she could if she wanted to, he reasoned.
They climbed aboard the skyjammer and were soon on the road trailing Cloak towards the Chamber of Lore.
“How did you sleep last night?” Layla asked Jack, not moving her eyes from the road. The silver circlet on her head shimmered in response to the diamond rotating in the middle of the skyjammer. Cloak's own skyjammer was some distance away, giving the couple their privacy. “The Training Hall was the last place I expected Mathias to send you.”
“Well,” Jack said, “I did manage to sleep most of the night in the sleeping quarters with Will. Then around five o'clock, Mathias woke me up and ushered me down into the Training Hall to do some early morning warm ups.”
Layla smirked. “Was that too early for you, princess?”
“Hey!” Jack laughed, nudging her teasingly with an elbow. “You're the princess here!”
“Keep that to yourself,” she said abruptly with a stern look that silenced his laughter.
Jack mirrored her serious expression, then looked about to see if anyone heard. “Sorry, I didn't—”
“Only joking!” She winked, elbowing him back.
“Ha!” he laughed, sticking his tongue out.
“Anyway, go on.”
“Then weights—those metallic discs are strange, but they really gave me a run for my money. Then a light spar with Mathias; but he suddenly vanished without saying a word.”
“Typical,” Layla said, rolling her eyes.
“He does do that a lot doesn't he?”
“Always trying to keep an eye on all things.”
“Why is that?” Jack asked.
“Because Mathias is the General of the Keepers. He is the Guardian of the High Seat, Last of the Gaianar, and the Warder of Will and I. So many titles and so many responsibilities. He is—was also your father's best friend. So right now you are his main priority.”
Jack swallowed hard, digesting that thought very carefully. He remembered the importance of the memory in his head that they hadn't pried out yet. The location of the Crown of Dreams.
The sound of the wind rushing against his hair and clothes were not strong enough to drown out that heavy thought.
“Hey, snap out of it!” Layla yelled, tapping his foot with her own. “You're stressing about the task, I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your thoughts.”
“It's hard you know,” Jack mumbled against the wind, “I am only starting to gauge its scope.”
“Gauge this!” Layla said, suddenly placing the silver circlet upon Jack's head. She was that fast he didn't even see her take it off her own head. The skyjammer stalled a bit and began to descend to the ground like a stone—the diamond spinning out of control like a compass arrow gone haywire. Then suddenly the metallic disc jolted upright at the last minute as the surprised teenager's thoughts reigned it back in. The skyjammer then came to a complete stop, hovering stationary above the road. “Your turn to steer,” Layla said mischievously to Jack.
He was about to protest; but thought against it. “The glum, responsible sort who doesn't take risks will always lose the girl,” was what Caleb had once told him. Jack smiled cheekily and winked. Channeling his friend, he said, “I'm sure there's a memory of dad flying one of these things somewhere in the back of my noggin. Let's see if I can use it!”
The skyjammer began to move forward, the diamond coming out of its chaotic rotation, steadying itself into a vertical spin. Jack grinned and pushed his thoughts through the circlet like a large exhale of air, giving the skyjammer a sudden surge of propulsion. Like Rowan's motorbike at full throttle, it took off along the road at an incredible speed. The passing buildings on either side of them quickly became a blurred haze of colours and lights.
Thomas loved skyjammers! He taught me how to fly them! Layla spoke in Jack's head with the excitement of rebellious youth. This was a wild side of her that he had not seen. Perhaps their passion under the gloam had ignited it. I'm sure you'll pick it up!
It feels familiar, already. Jack replied. Like my thoughts are are in sync with the metal. I can even control the speed by pulling my thoughts back like the reigns of a horse. It is hard to explain in words.
You're thinking too much! Just keep your attention on the road and look out for—Cloak!
Before Jack knew it his skyjammer was seconds away from rear-ending Cloak. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere. Focusing his thoughts on the obstacle, he threw his skyjammer hard to the left so both Layla and him were briefly standing horizontal. The momentum and the feet grooves in the metallic disc kept them both from flying off. A heartbeat later they were flat again, leaving a red-faced Cloak behind.
Foolish recklessness! The Nysaean's thoughts boomed after them. Just like your father!
See you at the Chamber of Lore! Layla shot back slyly, relishing his look of frustration. Her expression quickly changed to confusion however, when she saw Cloak's face—which was becoming smaller and smaller the further they distanced themselves—suddenly reveal a devious grin. Whipping her head back to the road in front, Layla saw a procession of Atlantean men on slow moving skyjammers up ahead. Jack! Look out!
Jack careened through the middle of them, dodging and weaving between the skyjammers with surprising skill and a little luck. Cries of shock and anger rose up from the men who wore orange robes and carried tall wooden staffs crested with bright coloured feathers. They shook their fists and cursed him in their language; and for some reason he understood what they said.
“Clumsy ox!”
“Curse you!”
Reaching the head of the procession, Jack barely missed crashing into a skyjammer driven by a tall, distinguishable looking man with a solemn face.
“Watch it fool!” He thundered, sweeping his staff to knock Jack off as they flew by. Jack's skyjammer veered to the far right of the road and the blow hit midair.
I understood what they said! Jack's mind exclaimed in surprise and excitement, ignoring the fact that he was almost knocked over. Why is that?
The armour must have awoken some part of your mind. Layla answered quickly. But I would be more concerned with with your driving skills at the moment. You almost hit the members of the Weaver guild!
The what?
The Weaver guild! They trade goods between the Library and your world—watch it!
Coming in the opposite direction was a khepri-ark: a large hovering vehicle that looked like a giant beetle but with the bulk of a freight train. The heavy plated behemoth was made of dark metal and was covered in spinning diamond
s, like the one used by their skyjammer, which gave off a ringing sound as it traveled. Osirian symbols were etched in its surface, which were detailed with silver and gold paint. Layla gasped loudly, and Jack managed to pull the skyjammer up at a sharp angle, just in time to avoid being smashed to pieces. He levelled out on top of the big vehicle and hovered along it, before dropping off its end and landing roughly back on the road. The force of the drop almost threw them off the skyjammer.
Ahead the road was clear. Jack laughed somewhat nervously, his adrenaline still pumping fast through is veins. “Okay, I don't think I have ever been that reckless in my entire life. I kind of feel bad that I enjoyed it.” When he noticed her quietness he added, “Please don't think—”
“I don't think that, Jack, son of Thomas,” Layla interrupted with a little, guilty smile, “I was the one who spurred you on to be reckless. And...”
He hung on her 'and' cliffhanger like it determined everything.
“... I liked it.”
Yes! He thought, then smiled coyly when he remembered she could hear his thoughts.
Layla laughed, shaking her head. “Now lets get back before the Weaver guild catches up with us.”
“Okay,” Jack said. Then he looked over his shoulder at the black vehicle disappearing behind them. “What was that thing, anyway?” He asked, slowly pushing the skyjammer forward with his thoughts.
“Khepri-ark,” Layla replied. “A solider transporter. I'm guessing its going to assist in the take back of Zerzura.”
Jack felt a shiver race up his spine at the thought of more blood shed and focused back on the road ahead.
“I see you and sister have made friends with this djinn and the half-Atlantean.” Rykar's interrogating voice broke the silence of the Inner Sanctum and pulled Vesphaeon away from his book. “An unlikely alliance if ever I saw one.”
“Hello, brother,” the smaller man replied, closing the book and standing to face the unexpected visitor. “What brings you into this domain of literature and lore, which you so often scorn?”
The warrior stepped over to his brother and looked menacingly down at him. “I have come to seek your alliance against father's irrational mind. The desert thief and the half-kin are not wanted here. They are an insult to our people and they can only bring trouble.”
“Trouble? I don't see how so.”
“You are just as blind as father,” Rykar retorted, his anger building. Vesphaeon was always good at taunting him. “First he allows those pesky lore-kin into our city; now its djinn. What will he do next? Open the gates to Alexandria and let the Egyptians know where we are? I am tired of his weak decisions and insulting mandates. And I'm tired of you and your support of his madness.”
Rykar took another challenging step forward. His chest was inches away from Vesphaeon's face. “You were so eager, so quick to embrace the culture of the natives.” The next word was hissed through clenched teeth of distain and ridicule, “A weak move.”
Vesphaeon kept his biting sarcasm in check and did not take the bait. His eyes locked with Rykar's. “Is that all?” he asked, evenly.
The taller man smirked, turned and walked away. “A change will come soon, brother. And if you are not with us, then you will be against us.”
When he was alone again, Vesphaeon sat back down and stared at the closed book before him.
“That change will come sooner than you expect,” he said, and the sarcasm was gone from his face.
Mathias paced Oreus' secret study. His head hung down under the weight of heavy thoughts. The general was no longer clothed in his modern world disguise, but wore a charcoal and bronze tunic, fastened by three metal clasps across his chest—each one detailed with dolphin-shaped buckles—and black leather pants, over the top of light-grey, pointed leather boots. One metal plate clung to his left shoulder, etched in the Atlantean symbols of the sea: schools of fish being chased by a shark, and three mermen with tridents chasing the shark.
“If the djinn is right,” Oreus said, “then we have another enemy other than Kaelan and his rabble.”
“This Bast seems quite formidable to have defeated Essios,” Mathias added, his pace unbroken.
“He put up a good fight,” the High Librarian said carefully, sensing Mathias' volatile mood. “Or so I have been told.”
Silence passed between them and the general's boots on the marble floor clacked in time with a swinging pendulum on Oreus' large wooden desk.
“There is another question on my mind,” Mathias finally continued, “that has been nagging me since we landed.”
“What is that, old friend?”
“Where was the promised backup in the Southlake woods? We were left without help.”
The question came so unexpected that Oreus mumbled and muttered in response, struggling for an answer. Finding he had none, he shook his head in confusion. “What backup? I was told you wanted to go with only Laela, Wilath and Erinaeus. You didn't want the search for Jack to be jeopardised by sending a larger force.”
“I did not say such a thing.” Mathias stood still and looked squarely at his old friend with a hard, demanding gaze. “Who told you this?”
“My son—”
Cloak swerved his skyjammer off of the road and stopped behind one of the large pillars that reached up to the cavern's roof. His back to the cold stone, he peered around its girth and watched as the khepri-ark, which Jack and Layla had avoided a collision course with earlier, passed the Weaver guild members. The orange robed merchants barely paid it any attention as its passing shadow momentarily engulfed them. The black, beetle-like vehicle hummed passed his concealed spot by the roadside and disappeared into the darkness away from the city.
Khepri-arks were built by the ancient Osirians as soldier transport ships and were one of the many types of vehicles salvaged from the desert and utilised by the Atlantean occupiers of The Library. The markings that were normally sanded off by the military officers, in an attempt to remove any Osirian iconography, was not done so with this one. Cloak studied the battle symbols scrawled over its plate-layered hulk with a burning curiosity.
“That is odd,” he whispered to himself. The black, Nysaean cloak he currently donned, shifted softly about his slender form. “The pride of Osiria for all to see...”
Letting that last thought float into the ether of unanswered questions, the Samatar spun his skyjammer around and left the concealment of the pillar, flying swiftly after the khepri-ark.
It did not take him long to gain sight of the slower moving transport vehicle. Staying relatively out of sight, Cloak shadowed the khepri-ark. His eyes glowing ever so softly in the darkness of the chamber. The occasional pillars entwined with gloam vines whisked passed him; but Cloak was sure to avoid their illumination.
The transport soon left the city and entered the landing fields beyond.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity for Cloak, the khepri-ark stopped before The Library Gate: the portal that the companions had entered the secret city by. A massive stone wall engraved with the Three Eyes loomed out of the darkness like a cliff-face shadowing an ocean floor. Two mighty pillars framed its edges, and below, at its base, was a great ramp that rose a hundred feet to a platform crowded with Atlantean soldiers.
“Something is amiss,” Cloak whispered to himself, his eyes gazing intensely at the khepri-ark.
Then as if on cue, a black plate on the vehicle's right side suddenly slid open and eight heavily armed men exited, making their way up the ramp towards the gate guards. They wore the armour of the Keeper's Assassins, but carried short, cruel looking spears.
“It must be—no!”
Cloak removed a spyglass from inside his tunic and looked at the guards again. A shimmer of blue light travelled down the spyglass' length and dispersed at the lens. It was a Farseeker Glass, which allowed its user to see through illusions. Cloak saw the Dark Tide tattoo—a curling black wave over a grinning skull—on the necks of the rebel Atlanteans.
“Infiltrators!??
? The accusation hissed vehemently between Cloak's clenched teeth. “They will destroy the Gate!”
The skyjammer hummed to life again and Cloak raced towards the ramp as if all of Osiria was at his heels.
Eight men dressed as Keeper Assassins approached the guards who lounged lazily before the gates. The Gate Watch—usually a formidable force that was chosen from high ranking soldiers of the Atlantean army—gambled on the great marble platform, playing the Atlantean game of Sling-Dice—a die tied to a piece of string and spun around like a yo-yo in intricate patterns before flinging it to the ground—while others leaned against the railing, laughing and drinking gloam ale. They did not suspect an attack and were still celebrating the return of Mathias and his patrol.
“Arai!” the captain of the guards boomed, pushing two of his colleagues aside to stride up to the newcomers. “Assassins come to take back Zerzura, I'll wager!”
The smile quickly died on his lips when the first assassin stepped up to him and slid his short-spear deep into the captain's stomach. His startled gasp was barely audible over the laughing guards, as they continued to play their dice games and drink their ale. It was scant moments later, that several glances at the impaled captain drew the unprepared watch to their feet in a cry to arms.
But it was too late. The vicious attack came quickly and without remorse.
Rebel Lemurians savagely cut their way into the crowd of stumbling Gate Watch, dispatching them before they could grab their weapons. Then when the guards had finally rallied together in an attempt to turn back the attack, the rebels hurled small metallic balls into their ordered ranks. Upon impact, the balls exploded into raging fire. The Gate Watch covered their faces in vain to protect against the blinding fire, which ate their flesh and cindered their bones.
A minute passed and all resistance were dead.
One of the rebels cried triumphantly, “For the Dark Tide!” After the words had left his thin lips, the dark haired man rushed over to a dead Gate Watch guard who lay before the great doors. His charred corpse wore a silver chest plate emblazoned with the symbol of Three Eyes. Upon his skull rested a circlet very similar to the ones the skyjammer pilots wore. The Dark Tide rebel reached down and picked up the circlet; gazing lustfully at its shimmering circumference. The words he uttered next were fierce and triumphant, “The key to the gate.”
Outside, shadowy figures moved stealthy along the tunnel walls, all moving towards the mighty Library gates that loomed ahead of them. They acted as if they shared a single consciousness: moving in unison, and swarming for cover behind the outcrops of rock that lay strewn about like a flock of black crows. When the shadows reached the dead end of the tunnel, they began to merge into a cloaked mass before the gates. Then fists shot out of out of the gathered crowd above cowled heads, holding curved scimitars that glittered like stars.
It was a silent signal for death from the djinn army. A signal for war.
Cloak stopped his skyjammer at the bottom of the ramp and leaped into the shadows. Instead of ascending the ramp and coming up behind the rebels, he ran along its base, making his way to where the ramp came flush against the cavern wall. From under his sleeves suddenly sprung iron-clawed gauntlets, which he clasped the stone wall with and began to claw his way up.
The Dark Tide rebel placed the circlet upon his head and turned to the mighty doors. His eyes shimmered briefly, then closed.
Stone groaning against stone resounded in the great cavern and the door began to slowly open. The Atlanteans formed a semi-circle around the one with the circlet and waited patiently, their spears bristling like teeth.
Cloak had reached the top of his climb when the gate had fully retracted into the cavern roof. He pressed his body flat against the ground, his belt humming to life with its cloaking powers. To anyone gazing at the far corner of the ramp, he was merely another shadow cast from the overhanging rocks.
The door had barely stopped when a flood of black-hooded djinn poured onto the platform. They rushed up to the Dark Tide rebels and halted before the one who had opened the door.
“Xharan Ar'Taarg,” a voice boomed in greeting from the throng of desert warriors. “The betrayal of your people will be your blessing to ours.”
A giant djinn wielding two scimitars stepped up to the white haired Atlantean named Xharan and grinned at him from beneath his hood.
“Bast,” the rebel replied, opening his eyes to stare upon his new ally. A dark smile crept on to his face.