Zein: The Prophecy Page 21

  ‘Sir, fighting has broken out in the Lower Town. Our patrols are being attacked,’ Cronje said breathlessly. He stood up to continue his briefing.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Cronje seemed to be puzzled, ‘It’s the men with the sickness and the soldiers we locked away. Someone has released their locks.’

  Lord Malacca said to Cronje, ‘Take one hundred men and marshal the troops we have in the Lower Town. Kill anyone who stands in your way.’ Cronje saluted with a fist across his chest and hurried away. Lord Malacca turned to his son.

  ‘Pull together our remaining troops and defend the steps and the Palace doors if need be,’ he said.

  ‘Shall we let Zylar know what is happening?’ As the last word left his lips, his father had him by the throat.

  ‘Under no circumstances should he know. This is Malacca business and no one else needs to know,’ he said through gritted teeth, his eyes emitting a loathsome red glow of anger His son, usually a confident and strong person, felt fear. He saw the madness in his father’s eyes and knew that he would not think twice about killing his own son. Manek retreated and meekly left the hall to plan the defence of the Palace.

  He left his father frustrated by the chain of events. He vowed there and then that he would kill them all, every man, woman and child before relinquishing the Core.

  Chapter 24

  Battle for the Core

  No one disturbed Tyson.

  He had sat down cross-legged in a corner and seemed to be in a trance. In the locked room in the dungeon with him were the ten Fathom Elders of the Inner Council, Lord Fathom who had been given some medical treatment and looked remarkably better, Bailey and Amelia.

  Tyson had tried to break his manacles without success. The manacles obviously had some kind of deeper magic which prevented the use of his strength. He did find that his telepathy and ability to reach out mentally were not diminished. He had quickly decided that he had to connect with the men suffering the sickness in the Lower Town and see if he could communicate with them.

  It had been a couple of hours of intense trial and error. Slowly he connected with the men, reaching out, sending images calming them, soothing their fears, and he felt one by one they calmed down and lay motionless in their bunks waiting for next orders.

  Amelia sat next to him. She wanted the comfort of his presence, worried about Evelyn. The man who took her made her feel sick with apprehension. She peered up at Tyson’s open eyes shining that brilliant blue; she missed his soft brown eyes.

  ‘Hi Amelia, you coping with all of this?’ It was Bailey. His carefree attitude had irretrievably changed. His actions were more studied and Amelia could see the frustration welling up inside him. They had both come a long way from their previous happy go lucky ways. They had seen death and taken life. All was different now.

  ‘Yes, just a little stunned with what has happened,’ said Amelia, her gaze still firmly fixed on Tyson.

  ‘I know, it’s hard to take in,’ Bailey mused and then with nothing else to add he lapsed into a morose silence. Amelia tore her eyes away from the statute like Tyson and put her arm around Bailey in comfort. He rested his head against her shoulder as the weariness of the last few hours began to take hold.

  Suddenly there were grunts and muffled groans outside the door. A key was inserted and turned slowly. Bailey raised his head from Amelia’s shoulder, his senses instantly alert as if he had brushed off the weariness that had only a minute ago washed over him. He tensed his legs ready to rush the door. Tyson stayed perfectly still in his trance. The door was flung open and there stood Hechkle and Bronstorm. Hechkle still held a struggling Easterner.

  ‘Everyone here?’ he asked, and then apparently realising he was holding someone he casually broke the soldier’s neck and dropped the body to the floor. Amelia yelled with delight and ran to the door and gave him a big hug.

  ‘Hey, I helped as well…just because he has the muscles…,’ said a disgruntled Bronstorm.

  ‘Of course, my hero,’ and kissed his cheek. Bronstorm’s face went as bright red as his hair.

  Hechkle removed the manacles from Lord Fathom and Tyson with keys taken from the guards. The Elders and Lord Fathom grouped around them asking what had happened. Hechkle told them that when they came up in the haulage lift they quickly realised something was wrong as there were no guards on the main lift door. They had scouted around the Palace and seen the bulk of the Palace Guard taken to the dungeons and the constant stream of the Eastern Quadrant army soldiers arriving in the transportation portal. They had overheard that Lord Fathom was also locked in the dungeon and decided to do something about it.

  Lord Fathom was just beginning to issue orders when there was a noise from the corner. Tyson had stood up.

  Amelia looked at him closely - this was not the Tyson she knew. His face was impassive but there was an undercurrent of energy building, like a tornado as it gathered momentum. He seemed to grow and his stature dwarfed the others.

  ‘Lord Fathom, can you please direct one of the Elders to release all the locks in the Lower Town, I am aware you have a master release key.’ The request did not provide any room for disagreement. Lord Fathom paused and looked at Tyson; it was his city and people. What he saw through his own magics was a growing, raw power, the likes of which had not been seen for a long time. He turned to Elder Elme Polter, one of his most trusted men, and gave him instructions. Polter disappeared to complete the task.

  Tyson turned to the other Elders. ‘Can you release the Royal Palace Guard, and have them re-arm themselves from the private weapons you have stored in the floor below us.’ The Elders waited for Lord Fathom directions, slightly unnerved that this young human knew their secrets. Lord Fathom waved them away to complete their set tasks, his eyes never leaving Tyson.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Hechkle, eager for a fight and picking up the silent swirl of violent energy emitting from the dominating human.

  ‘We are going to find Evelyn and then kill Manek and any of his soldiers who decide to support him.’ The words were said simply but there was a coldness to them which made them all shiver.

  Bailey looked at his best friend, with concern. So much change over such a short period. It was hard to believe just a few days ago he was playing sport with his friend. During all the years Bailey had known Tyson he had never seen him lose his temper or threaten anybody. Now, like the others in the room he picked up the swirling undercurrents of barely concealed violence that resided below the surface of the apparently calm Tyson.

  Tyson turned to Hechkle. ‘I need you and Bronstorm to go to the Lower Town and organise the imprisoned men down there. Protect the civilians from the Malacca troops first and then bring them against the five stages as soon as you can.’

  ‘We don’t have enough men. There are at least two thousand men down there. How do we get there without triggering the alarm?’ Bronstorm said, concerned that no one was challenging Tyson. This was not his settlement.

  ‘There are men you can call on. The sickness was the first stage of the training of the Ilsid. I have connected with them and they are ready to fight. Try and arm as many of them as possible,’ said Tyson, his eyes returning to their light blue. ‘Lord Fathom, I understand that you had built a secret corridor from the Palace down to the Lower Town, in the event of such an occasion?’

  ‘How did you know…?’ said Lord Fathom, surprised and realising there was no point in denying it. ‘There is.’ He turned to Hechkle and Bronstorm giving them directions and a key from around his neck.

  Bronstorm’s disquiet evaporated with direct orders from his Lord.

  Once the two soldiers had left, Lord Fathom looked up at Tyson, appraising him, not intimidated at all. ‘You remind me of your father. He was a good man, decisive like you. He paused and then requested, ‘Please rescue my daughter but leave Lord Malacca to me.’ Tyson, focused, agreed.

  Lord Fathom walked to the door and without a backward glance strode off to the Throne Room.
Tyson set off to Manek’s quarters with Bailey and Amelia trailing him.

  Tyson walked fast down the cylindrical corridors. He had never been to Manek’s quarters but he could feel and hear Evelyn’s pain and that drove him. The others could see that talking was not required.

  They turned a corner and Tyson knew this was Manek’s quarters. There were two guards in front of his door. Tyson threw the seckle so expertly it slashed the throats of both guards before returning to his hand. Tyson quickly entered the room, followed by his companions.

  It was a large, opulent room, expensively furnished like their quarters. The lounge area was substantial with a room to the left. The sobs came from that direction. Tyson followed the noise and walked into the bedroom. In front of him was a mound of covers. The covers had blood on them and the sobs they had heard emitted from underneath the covers. Tyson sat on the bed and gently pulled back the top cover. Amelia and Bailey walked into the room behind him and stood silently, waiting.

  As the covers were pulled back there was a shock of red hair. Evelyn. Her face was buried in her hands. She was naked, her back bloody with welts from a whip.

  ‘Evelyn,’ Tyson whispered softly, stroking the back of her head.

  ‘Go away. I don’t want you to see me like this,’ said Evelyn through her sobs. Tyson whispered her name again and then tenderly lifted her upper body to place his arms protectively around her. He held her to his chest. She slipped one of her hands around his neck. They remained like that for a few minutes and then Tyson pulled back and taking his index finger lifted her chin. What he saw rocked him to the core. Her face was a mass of bruises and welts.

  ‘You’re safe now, Evelyn,’ he said softly, brushing her hair away from her damaged face. ‘No one is going to hurt you again.’ When he said it he meant it. He brushed his lips gently against the top of her head and held her closely. He was careful not to touch the wounds on her back. He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered to her, ‘I have to go and support your father and throw this scum out of the Core. I will be back as soon as I can,’ he spoke so quietly that Amelia could hardly hear.

  Evelyn tightened her grip around his neck. He let her hold him close and then it was Evelyn who pushed him away and turned her battered face to look at Tyson.

  ‘Now go, kill Manek, make sure he suffers,’ she said. Amelia saw the look on Tyson’s face. Manek had no chance.

  ‘Amelia, would you help Evelyn with her…injuries,’ he said, struggling to put a word to the abuse Evelyn had been through. Amelia walked up to the bed and took Evelyn’s hand.

  ‘We will be fine, go,’ she said. Tyson kissed Evelyn on the forehead and with one last look walked purposely out of the room. Bailey had retreated to the lounge and was waiting patiently. He had seen Evelyn’s injuries and he was struggling to control his anger; he had grown close to the young fierce girl.

  ‘Bailey, I need you to stay here and protect the girls,’ said Tyson. Bailey started to protest, he wanted to go with his friend. ‘My friend, I know you want to stand beside me, I just need someone I can trust to look after the girls,’ said Tyson soothingly, putting out his hand. Bailey knew this was important to Tyson and firmly grabbed the offered hand. No words were exchanged, there was no need. Tyson smiled grimly in acknowledgement of their friendship. He then walked from the room.

  Tyson made his way down the corridor, his mind calm, even cold. His anger was like a maelstrom ready to be released. He turned a corner and two Eastern soldiers barred his way. His seckle flashed and they were dead within seconds. The corridors were relatively empty as Manek had taken the bulk of the soldiers to the front of the Palace to guard the final stage of the path from the Lower Town.

  He passed the Throne Room. The magnificent doors were open. He glanced in and saw a battle raging between Lord Malacca and Lord Fathom. The taller Lord Malacca was bathed in a red force-field and his seckle was clashing with Lord Fathom’s seckle with his green force-field bursting against the other energy source. Around Lord Malacca were his personal Ilsid guard, who lay dead.

  Lord Fathom was a transformed man, no longer the overweight rich Lord but a warrior avenging his daughter and clan. His fury was a sight to behold. His seckle came down onto Lord Malacca’s shield time and time again with grunts of effort. Lord Malacca resisted at first; the pressure, however, was gradually beginning to tell. He was driven back until he was just below the golden throne. He fell to one knee. Tyson heard the exchange between them.

  ‘You piece of dirt, I am going to kill you and send your stinking army to the bottom of the sea!’ said Lord Fathom as he drove another succession of blows against his foe’s force-field, which was beginning to suffer from the relentless attack.

  Lord Malacca was not going to back down easily, ‘You overweight buffoon, I am going to enjoy seeing your guts spill across your own Throne Room.’ His breathing was ragged as he tried to drive the berserk Lord Fathom to make a mistake and give him an opening he could exploit.

  ‘I believe your daughter enjoyed the attention of my son……and I understand she screamed with pleasure as my guards used her,’ he gloated. The goading had the opposite impact that he was looking for.

  Lord Fathom seemed to explode into an even greater frenzy of action. His blows from his seckle quickened and Lord Malacca went onto both knees, trying to fend off the attacks. His shield, formed from his internal magics, wavered. Lord Fathom changed his angle of attack sharply and came in at the side of Lord Malacca’s head. His seckle drove through the weakening barrier and embedded in his opponent’s head. The protective aura disappeared as Lord Malacca groaned and his body fell sideways. Lord Fathom remained still, panting hard. He glanced up and saw Tyson. His eyes held a crazed look.

  ‘We have Evelyn and my friends are looking after her,’ said Tyson. Lord Fathom snapped out of his battle state and wiped his seckle on the late Lord Malacca’s tunic.

  ‘Thank you. Where are you going now?’ he asked Tyson.

  ‘To finish it,’ Tyson answered coldly.

  Lord Fathom’s glance told Tyson he was fully behind him. Not that it mattered. Tyson, with a curt nod of his head, walked on towards the front of the Palace. Around him the released Fathom soldiers from the dungeons were battling the Eastern Quadrant army guards who were stationed inside the Palace.

  In the Lower Town, Hechkle and Bronstorm were leading the Fathom Clan, including the ferocious, previously sick men. Elder Polter had made it unopposed to the master locking controls and had released all the doors in the Lower Town. The imprisoned Fathom Guard had tumbled out of their barracks first and attacked their jailors, killing them and removing their weapons.

  They were met by Hechkle and Bronstorm, who had weaved through the secret corridor to the Lower Town. The battles with the many patrols were turning into a free-for-all with no designated plan. Gradually the two elite soldiers pulled together the ranks of the soldiers and formed them into a more efficient fighting unit.

  Then the men with the sickness marched out of their barracks. Tyson, whilst in Manek’s lounge, connected with each and every mind. He gave them instructions to find weapons and form units of fifty strong and attack the Palace. He made sure that the image of the Easterners was clearly seen as the enemy. Bronstorm saw them first. They marched in perfect synchronisation in phalanxes of fifty. Any Easterners caught in their way tried to resist shooting the first few before they were swallowed up by the relentless press of the ranks of men. Each time an enemy soldier was killed he was stripped of his weapons and the front of a phalanx became instantly more dangerous as they were now armed. They marched in the style of the old Roman legions.

  Efficient. Intimidating. Silently deadly.

  Bronstorm grabbed Hechkle, who was fighting with a man nearly as strong as him. Hechkle threw the man over his shoulder with a wrestling grip and then brought his knife down onto his exposed chest. Hechkle followed his companion’s gesture. He understood immediately. They had to join the phalanxes and attack the Palace.

/>   Hechkle glanced around him and found a senior corporal of the Fathom Guard. He was already organising the men around him to attack the numerous patrols. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked as they both exchanged fire with another patrol.

  ‘Corporal Anders Riley, Sir,’ the man said.

  ‘Organise the men into squads and from here,’ he pointed to the cross section they were currently on, ‘work backwards to the Perimeter Wall and either kill or capture the Eastern patrols. We,’ he indicated Bronstorm and himself and the phalanxes, ‘will push on to the Palace.’ Anders Riley acknowledged the sense of the plan and immediately began to pull the men into squads of twenty, making sure that each squad had a number of armed men. The enemy patrols had been taken by surprise by the attack but they still outnumbered the Fathom Guards two to one.

  ‘We may be outnumbered but these men know every street, nook and cranny,’ he said proudly. Anders wished the duo good luck and his squads began to move into the heart of the city.

  Bronstorm and Hechkle made their way to the front ranks of the newly formed Fathom Legions and joined the relentless push to the Palace. The Malacca patrols in front of them tried to group together to form more resistance, without much success. They were poorly organised and in disarray at the turn of events. Only a few hours ago they had impunity to rape and pillage without any interference. Now they faced a dangerous adversary that they could not stop. They managed to kill some of the men in the front ranks, only to see the next rank pick up the guns of those that had fallen and continue the relentless march forward. Soon the patrols in the direction of the Palace were brushed away. The phalanxes numbering nearly one thousand men had reached the first stage of their ascendance to the Palace.

  Manek watched in shock at what was unfolding in the Lower Town. There were nearly two thousand men down there, where was Cronje?