Zein: The Prophecy Read online

  ZEIN

  The Prophecy

  By

  Graham J Wood

  Rachel, Joe and Becky thank you for your love, patience and support which helped a frustrated writer achieve his dream.

  Love always.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 – Southern Quadrant – Earth Colony 1992

  Chapter 2 – Western Quadrant – Present Day

  Chapter 3 – The Awakening

  Chapter 4 – The Museum

  Chapter 5 – The Federation Fair

  Chapter 6 – Fair Tavern

  Chapter 7 – Unwanted Visitors

  Chapter 8 – The Party

  Chapter 9 – Old Friends

  Chapter 10 – The Quest

  Chapter 11 – The Theatre of Dreams

  Chapter 12 – The Emergency Portal

  Chapter 13 – The Core

  Chapter 14 – Dinner

  Chapter 15 – Sickness

  Chapter 16 – New World

  Chapter 17 – The Pod

  Chapter 18 – Base Station Zero

  Chapter 19 – The Palace

  Chapter 20 – Eastern Quadrant

  Chapter 21 – Bluejack

  Chapter 22 – Reunion

  Chapter 23 – Production

  Chapter 24 – Battle for the Core

  Chapter 25 – Clear and Present Danger

  Chapter 26 – The Bunker

  Chapter 27 – Boundaries

  Chapter 28 – New Alliances

  Chapter 29 – Consequences

  Chapter 30 – Task Force

  Chapter 31 – Final Call

  Chapter 32 – The Aftermath

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Southern Quadrant

  Earth Colony 1992

  Weariness and strain were etched on the warrior’s face. In his arms he held a bundle of cloth. The bundle moved and a tiny foot escaped, kicking strongly to push past the confines of the cloak wrapped protectively around the vulnerable body. A little hand poked out and grabbed hold of the man’s bushy black beard. He gently removed the hand and wrapped the cloak more tightly on the still struggling figure and looked at the face peeking out. The brilliant blue eyes gazed up at him out of the innocent face. They showed no fear. The pendant around the baby’s neck, with the interlocked Blackstone Arms of two golden seckles entwined, was large against the delicate bare skin.

  On the fourteenth floor of the Southern Quadrant Palace there was a hive of activity: aides, soldiers, civilians ran back and forth clutching armfuls of documents and orders. The warrior ignored everything and everyone, including the soldiers standing guard saluting him as he hurried past. As Head of the Royal Guard he was the highest decorated officer in the army. He had risen through the ranks during the border wars with the Eastern Quadrant. Although no longer in his youth he had retained the muscled body of a much younger soldier, hardened by strict discipline and daily training. Tonight he had the fate of the once proud Blackstone Clan in his arms.

  As he approached the large doors at the end of the corridor the two soldiers on guard saluted. He acknowledged their salutes wearily and marched through the newly opened doors.

  The State Room was large, once accustomed to holding splendid summer balls in the Zeinonians early years on Earth. He remembered wistfully that on those magnificent occasions visitors across the quadrants attended in their hundreds, with Lord and Lady Blackstone playing splendid and dutiful hosts. Now, the glamour had faded, with the tired walls pockmarked from decay and little attention.

  At the end of the hall, next to a gold, jewel-encrusted ornate throne, a group of officers stood over a divan. Reclined on the divan was a heavily bandaged man. It was Lord Logan Blackstone, Chancellor of the Zein people. The bandages were like a patchwork quilt across his upper torso, and they were seeping blood and unhealthy looking yellow pus from the deep wounds. The warrior took all this in as he approached the divan.

  ‘You have your orders. Hold until the last civilian has been safely transported to the Western Quadrant,’ a commanding voice ordered. The warrior noted the strength in the command and the clarity in the voice. He wasn’t surprised; all the Blackstones had throughout history led the Zein people with firmness and fairness in equal amount.

  Lord Logan Blackstone watched the departing officers with much sadness. He raised his eyes to look into his friend’s face. His face lightened slightly.

  ‘Greetings, my good friend,’ he said, raising his injured body painfully up from the divan.

  ‘Chancellor, please do not exert your body, you are injured and need to rest,’ said the warrior. Lord Blackstone ignored him and pulled himself up until he was standing face to face with the warrior, his extravagant height placing a shadow over his friend. He bowed in formal greeting, which the warrior returned without hesitation not taking his eyes from his leader. The warrior saw the strong face, clear blue eyes, square jaw that he had always trusted. Unspoken truths passed between them. So much character and energy, the warrior thought, it was simply unjust what had happened.

  He had been fighting side by side with Logan when he had been attacked by six of the Ilsid. Before he could come to his aid, Logan had cut down three of the men, and then one of the other Ilsid soldiers had caught him with a mortal blow whilst his back was turned. The blow had penetrated his force-field by some dark magic and he fell stricken. The warrior had dispatched the other assassins and managed to carry Logan to the Palace before embarking on his rescue mission. That had been only a few hours ago but Logan was already extremely ill.

  Poison blade. His temper flared at the thought.

  Logan Blackstone, ignoring the darkened look on the face of his old friend, looked down to the bundle of cloth which held his son.

  ‘Lady Melissa, Belina?’ he asked quietly. The warrior gently shook his head. Both Lord Blackstone’s wife and daughter had not made it, leaving the male twin the only heir to the royal bloodline. Logan momentarily closed his eyes, holding back the grief and despair.

  He opened his eyes and tenderly removed the bundle from the warrior’s grasp and pulled the cloth down further to gaze on his firstborn’s face. Then he looked back up.

  ‘Malkin.’ He called the warrior by his favoured name. ‘My strength fails me, soon my son will be the only hope for Zein and Earth,’ Logan stated firmly. Ignoring the protests of Malkin, he collapsed back onto the seat still holding the baby.

  ‘My powers diminish, the remaining power I have is channelled into supporting the depleted zinithium batteries. Soon my power will be gone and I will move to the Exalted Heights, following in the footsteps of my father.’ He smiled sadly at his friend. ‘I have failed my father and grandfather who set out to create a new life in this galaxy.’ Malkin frowned with concern at his master.

  Logan, noting the sadness in his friend’s eyes, pulled himself together and announced in his best authoritarian voice, ‘My friend, I charge you with a task.’ Malkin dropped to his knees expectantly, awaiting his orders.

  ‘Anything, my Lord,’ he respectfully answered.

  ‘You will take my son and go to the Western Quadrant. There you must teach him everything he needs to know. I have seen in my visions that his powers will be one day the greatest of any Blackstone, greater than any clan member both here and on Zein, although, there is another.’ Malkin immediately knew to whom he referred to. Logan paused for breath as the pain from his injuries caught him unawares. When the pain receded he continued.

  ‘The Western Quadrant will fall, Malkin.’ He stared directly at him. Malkin struggled to take in what Logan was saying. ‘Yes, my friend, the Western Quadrant will hold for a number of years but the
re are darker matters at hand and the same treachery which saw the fall of the Southern Quadrant will affect this quadrant. My good friend Lord Southgate will not be able to resist for long. My son’s future lies within the human land below.’ Pain wracked his body and he struggled to retain his focus. Malkin waited patiently.

  Logan sent his magics deep into his body to ease the pain, He continued through gritted teeth, ‘Look to Lord Fathom and the Core; he will need their support as well as the humans in the Underworld.’ He used the name given to the countries and cities of Earth that resided underneath their carefully constructed quadrants.

  ‘The production of zinithium is the key to our return to Zein,’ said Logan, struggling, coughing up blood into a cloth. Malkin made to assist him but was waved away.

  ‘No, no, my friend, my time has passed, my powers are weak and the future is unclear; however, I have a recurring vision.’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘In this dream my son will want to face his uncle far too early with his powers still developing. If he does this he will be defeated. Advise him not to challenge my brother directly. My brother cannot be beaten easily – remember the Prophecy. Now go with the grace of Tucan.’ He intoned the name of the great God of the Zein people.

  Logan bent forward and kissed his son gently on the forehead and then thrust the young infant back to Malkin. He then pulled two ornate seckles from his cloak.

  ‘You know what to do with these,’ he said. Malkin placed the seckles safety into his large cloak.

  Malkin stood up and saluted. His Lord returned the salute and then collapsed further back onto the reclined seat, barely conscious.

  ‘Physicians,’ Malkin shouted and the Blackstone medical staff hurried into the room and tended to the Chancellor. Malkin took one last look at Logan and then turned and walked out of the room.

  Malkin quickly made his way down the many stairs as the lifts were out of action with all power diverted to the security grid. He glanced out of the window on one of the landings. He was now on the eighth floor of the Palace and could see across the well tended lawns to the Outer Palace Wall where a fierce battle raged.

  The Royal Guard, the elite of the Zein Inter Galactic Expeditionary Force, had fought the insurgents street by street, house by house. The sound of battle cries and the dull thump of the photon blasts echoed through the night.

  How did they get so strong? Malkin thought.

  The Palace itself was a massive building made from the elaborate stonework of the gifted Oneerions reaching high up into the sky. The Palace rested against a high mountain that gave it a natural defence from behind. Next to the Palace was a large entrance into the side of the mountain, its hangar doors open. The cave held the Central Transportation Portal, which could move equipment to all parts of the quadrants. The haulage portal, specially designed to receive the deposits of zinithium from the Core, was in a separate building to the side of the main hangar nearer the parade ground. Its doors were closed.

  The warrior watched as the enemy gun-ships pounded the Outer Palace Wall from their base at the edge of the nearest village, Kemu. The tell-tale blue crisscross of the security grid ensured the blasts glanced off but each blast reduced the power of the grid. The remaining Royal Guard were running back from the village with the insurgents close behind them.

  The Blackstone photon gun-ships hovering near the front gate laid down a withering wall of fire that for a moment pushed the insurgents back. It was futile, the enemy levitation tanks outnumbered the royal gunships by five to one and one by one the defensive gunships were blasted apart. The remaining remnants of the guards and civilians were pouring through the gates. The blasts were indiscriminate with guards and civilians being killed by the score. The Eastern Quadrant army of the insurgents closed in for the kill.

  ‘Close the gates now,’ demanded the Officer of the Gate, Remo Shanks, with his bald head gleaming with perspiration. His yell of frustration punctuating the request.

  ‘Sir, there are still women and children out there,’ the soldier protested. Remo paused and looked at the soldier. Remo’s fierce gaze softened for a brief moment, empathising with the younger soldier’s concern.

  ‘I know, I know, but we have little choice, we must protect the Chancellor.’ The soldier straightened his back and nodded. Remo himself was only twenty eight years old but he had fought in the ten-year skirmishes in the Eastern Quadrant that had led to the current uprising.

  ‘Close the gates,’ the young soldier ordered his platoon. The large blue gates with the elaborate Blackstone Clan arms closed slowly. The guards and civilians outside made one last effort to enter the grounds. Many were trapped outside the Palace as the gates slammed shut and the security grid switched on over the massive doors. The whole Palace acreage was now protected from air or land: until the zinithium that generated the grid was depleted. The survivors streamed into the hangar to await their turn to flee to the remaining quadrant.

  The warrior held the baby close to him as he looked past the gates at the battle. He saw a sight that chilled him. The surviving two defensive gun-ships were blown apart and the remaining Blackstone Royal Guard, numbering six score, calmly stepped in front of the civilians near the gate and formed a skirmishing line between them and the insurgents. He saw Anton Blackstone, the Chancellor’s young nephew, step forward and hold his clan seckle high, his hand shaking; the vicious blade either side of the grip glistening in the moonlight.

  ‘In honour we fight.’ He called out the Blackstone Clan warrior cry.

  The soldiers with him cheered and stepped, to a man and woman, forward with him. The enemy guns stopped and a black and red clad figure stepped forward. His enormous height made him tower over the other soldiers; his blue eyes cold and his lower face covered by a black scarf. He reached up and pulled down the scarf. His face, now clear in the moonlight, was handsome but cold and impassive. His cheeks were sunken, giving his face a garish look. The defenders recognised him immediately. It was Zylar.

  ‘Lay down your arms and join me.’ Zylar’s voice cajoled the young man in front of him, but his eyes remained like ice.

  ‘Never! I will not join you,’ said the young Blackstone prince, who stood tall and imposing over the soldiers supporting him.

  ‘See reason, you brave fool,’ Zylar replied. ‘Look at my army – you have no chance and it will not take long to destroy the Palace defences,’ he said scornfully, waving his hand at his troops, who were steadily massing behind him, and then to the security grid protecting the Palace grounds.

  The young warrior pulled himself to his full height, only a few inches shorter than the man in front of him. His blue eyes flashed with defiance.

  ‘I call upon you to honour the Clan Final Call,’ he demanded. ‘Let the civilians go and we will do battle.’

  The ex-Vice Chancellor studied him. The Clan Final Call dated back centuries. He had not heard the challenge being voiced for many years and certainly not in their relatively brief stay above this planet called Earth. The challenge was for hand to hand combat either individually or as a regiment.

  ‘You are brave and we could have been formidable together.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘However, I cannot kill my own son. I will let the civilians go and you will have your moment.’ With a cursory nod of his head a channel opened between the massed ranks of his elite troopers, the Ilsid and the remaining civilians fleeing the fighting. The Ilsid were swathed in their trademark light armour; impenetrable to standard photon shots, their only weakness was at the neck and waist joints. They were led by the frightening figure of the renegade General Chad, his hands leisurely holding his wicked double edged swords. The Blackstone Clan arms were seared into the left side of his face and an ugly scar on the right. The civilians who had not made it to the gate as yet hesitated, fearing a trick.

  ‘Go. You will come to no further harm during the Final Call,’ the imposing figure promised the civilians coldly.

  The civilians walked hesitantly through the motionless ranks of the Ilsid, wh
ich a few moments ago had been intent on exterminating them from existence. They then made their way past the young prince joining the crowd at the gate. Remo Shanks seized the opportunity to open a side door of the gates and switched off the grid for that small area. The insurgents made a move to the unprotected door before General Chad motioned them to stay where they were. The Palace could wait. Zylar had some family discipline to oversee. The civilians streamed through the gate leaving the young prince standing alone with his comrades in arms.

  Zylar took one remaining look at his son and turned away, followed by General Chad.

  ‘Seckles only,’ his dispassionate voice ordered his men as he walked away. His elite troops stepped forward and together as one they all reached within a compartment of their armour and pulled out their individual seckles. The young prince raised his arm and shouted.

  ‘In honour we fight, for Lord Blackstone,’ he roared. With that cry he ran directly at the troops aligned against him, his blue force-field shimmering around his body. His soldiers ran beside him. There was an almighty crash as the two opposing forces clashed. The young Blackstone ducked under a vicious haymaker from one of the soldiers and with a flick of his wrist he sliced open the soldier’s throat. Before the soldier had hit the ground Blackstone pirouetted and sliced open the waist of another soldier.

  ‘I taught him well,’ said Malkin sadly.

  The young prince was under siege by many enemy soldiers, the body count mounting up before him. His comrades, less skilful then he was and not protected by a personal force-field, were not faring as well and the ranks were thinning as the Royal Guard fell against the relentless press of the enemy. The young prince rallied his troops, which were now down to less than a score. A voice rang out and the insurgents pulled out of the fray, leaving the survivors bloodied and gasping for air.

  ‘Join me, son. I do not want to see you fall.’

  ‘No!’ the young prince replied defiantly.

  ‘Your choice,’ the dead voice drifted back quietly with a hint of regret.