Zein: The Prophecy Read online

  Manek had tried to draw back as many men as he could from the Lower Town when he saw the fighting break out. He had been able to add three hundred men to the thousand he had to control the five stages. He had committed five hundred men to the first stage as he wanted to stop the attack in its tracks. The only issue was that he had no heavy armour or photon machine guns. He was relying on the advantage of higher ground against a rabble of unarmed soldiers. He had formed his men into two ranks, one kneeling and the second standing behind them. Classic defensive plan, he thought.

  When he saw the ranks of armed soldiers in front of him, for the first time he felt fear. He had trained alongside Zylar’s Ilsid for many years. He still held the mental scars from knowing what they were capable of. They were like machines and no one in the Eastern Quadrant army would go near them unless they were side by side in a battle.

  Who was controlling them?

  His father said that it took deep magics to control the Ilsid. He could see the nervousness sweep through the ranks of his men. He had positioned five hundred men at the third stage and the remainder either in or at the entrance of the Palace. His plan was that if they needed to fall back they could orderly retreat to the second stage with those on the third stage providing cover. If the third stage fell the same could be done to the fifth and final stage. If all was lost they could then defend the Palace.

  ‘Steady men, hold your line,’ he shouted as the ranks of the red haired army marched directly at them. The front ranks advancing were holding a mixture of blasters and photon shotguns taken from the lifeless bodies of Malacca Clan soldiers, he realised bitterly. In their other hands they held various forms of shields taken from the fallen Eastern men or simply stripped makeshift weapons from the streets.

  ‘Fire,’ he shouted, and his men fired. A number of the front rank fell to the barrage. The phalanxes didn’t falter. They reached the steps to the first stage and began to climb. Manek saw a huge man in front of the leading phalanx hold his hand up and issue his own command of fire. The volley fire hit his men. He saw gaping holes open up in his defensive lines. He ordered those in the second line to plug the gaps and his men shuffled together to close the gaps.

  ‘Fire,’ Manek commanded. The second barrage tore into the Fathom clan and more fell. Manek shouted in triumph and his men cheered. His joy turned to despair as replacements simply picked up the fallen weapons and stepped into the gaps. They continued their remorseless climb; panic began to ripple through his soldiers.

  ‘Hold the line.’ One of his men turned to run. Manek shot him dead. ‘Anyone runs I will shoot them,’ he shouted. There was no time for another round of fire as the first ranks had reached the first stage plateau. Fierce hand to hand combat began. Manek cut down a man who had fought through the soldier’s defences before him. His defensive line wavered and then broke under the weight of the organised attackers.

  ‘Fall back to the third stage,’ he shouted and with that he ran up to the second stage, once there he looked back to witness the ragged retreat of his men. The men on the third stage were attempting to give covering fire but cover was light as they didn’t want to hit their own men.

  Manek watched the huge man scythe down many of his soldiers but his eyes were drawn to a much smaller man who was a whirlwind of action. He was fighting with Cronje, who had somehow extracted himself from the Lower Town. He was the most experienced fighter in the army. Manek should know; Cronje was the man who had trained him.

  Their battle was intense, neither giving any ground. Cronje was struggling to contain the multiple attacks of the slight warrior. It was just a matter of time until one of those attacks breached the older and slower man’s defences. The younger fighter dropped his left shoulder and Cronje, seeing his chance, launched a lethal blow at the young fighter. The seckle didn’t find its target. Immediately as Cronje made his move, the attacker had altered his stance, brought up his left shoulder and dropped his right, sending his seckle deep into the shoulder of Cronje. Cronje watched in disbelief and then fell to his knees holding his shoulder. Manek let out a howl of frustration and turned away.

  Below, Bronstorm made to land the killer blow and then he stopped. Through the lust for battle he recognised the resignation and an overwhelming sadness in the older soldier’s eyes. Cronje, who had prepared his body for the final blow, looked up at the young warrior in surprise when he brought his seckle in front of his face in a salute from one warrior to another. Cronje saluted back before collapsing onto the floor with the loss of blood from his wound. Bronstorm hesitated; there was fighting all around him, he should forget this man. He quickly dismissed this thought and picked up the fallen soldier and moved him until he was resting against one of the trees.

  He pulled a Medicare pressure pad from inside his tunic. ‘Here, hold this against your wound,’ he said as he inserted it into the tunic and moved it over the wound. Cronje moved his hand up and pressed the pad onto the wound as tightly as he could. Bronstorm then started ascending the steps to the next stage. He saw that the Malacca troops were ragged and it was only a matter of time before victory would be theirs.

  Tyson walked towards the large curved Palace gates. Before the gates a battle was underway as the Fathom Clan soldiers attempted to take the heavily guarded gates. Tyson ignored the individual battles around him, protected by his full force-field shimmering around his body. Any shots fired at him simple ricocheted off him. A particularly large Eastern guard with a short cropped beard lunged at him with his seckle. Without breaking stride Tyson anticipated the attack and killed him. The Fathom soldiers began to form a wall around him, attracted by the power emitting from him. The thrust of this group broke the line of the guards before the gates. Tyson, with the help of the soldiers around him, removed the large beam across the opening. He then walked calmly onto the fifth stage plateau.

  Inside, Tyson was a self-contained fury. Seeing Evelyn abused and injured had snapped something inside him. His human emotions had triggered something in the magics that transposed what he had experienced before. No doubts. He wanted Manek.

  The rows of the remainder of the Eastern Quadrant army were facing towards the lower stages, monitoring the threatening attack build-up from below. When they heard the large gates creaking open they partially turned round, expecting the minor insurrection in the Palace to have been annihilated by their better armed guards. What they saw was an illuminated Tyson. Tyson glanced down the ranks facing him. Before they could bring their weapons around, he leapt forward and landed just before them. As he landed his hands were extended and ten of the nearest soldiers were blown off their feet when a pulse of blue light streaked from his hands. They went tumbling down the stairs leading to the fifth stage. Behind him there was a great roar and the Fathom soldiers ran forward, buoyed by Tyson’s direct attack. Tyson’s seckle was moving from man to man striking them down as they stood. He cut through one photon shotgun cleanly with his seckle following up the blow by one to the waist, nearly cutting the man in half. The clash of the two opposing forces was fierce, neither giving way.

  Tyson slashed and cut in front of him until he was at the top step leading down to the fourth stage. What he saw was a stunning sight. The Lower Town streets towards the Outer Perimeter Wall in the distance were a clash of steel and individual fights; the battle on the second and third stages was more an execution of formidable formation tactics with the phalanxes of the Fathom Clan cutting deep into the struggling men of the Eastern Quadrant army.

  Manek was starting to make his way up the steps to the Palace when there was a huge explosion followed by screams from the final stage and he saw men blown off the top plateau, which led to the Palace.

  What was happening?

  Tyson saw Manek running up the third stage steps towards the fourth stage leaving his men covering the retreat. His head was down to make sure he didn’t stumble. It wasn’t until he reached the fourth stage plateau that he looked up to the fifth stage. When they saw each other the fury which ha
d been building up in Tyson was unleashed. With another great leap he jumped the thirty steps leading to the fifth stage and landed surely on the plateau of the fourth stage. He was crouching when he landed and he straightened and turned to face Manek.

  ‘Look, we can discuss surrender terms,’ said Manek, shakily. He continued to hold his seckle firmly in his hand as his red shield protection fluctuated around his body. Tyson didn’t answer; he simply walked forward, covering the distance between the two men quickly.

  Manek decided attack was the best form of defence and rushed the advancing Tyson. He brought his seckle in a lethal arc towards Tyson. Tyson simply altered his body shape and the seckle whistled by him. He brought his seckle down onto Manek’s shield, which thrust the attack back. They began to circle each other ignoring the fighting around them on the other levels. Tyson tossed his seckle from one hand to another. Manek watched it carefully. Manek levitated slightly providing him greater flexibility to outflank Tyson. Then he made his move, bringing his weapon upwards aiming for Tyson’s groin. Tyson blocked and spun round bringing his seckle down against the back of Manek. The protective shield did its task by protecting Manek but the force threw Manek forward.

  ‘Human, you have little chance of beating me,’ Manek taunted, his eyes never leaving Tyson’s dazzling blue eyes as he awaited the tell-tale sign of a potential move. Tyson tried to suppress the anger he felt as he felt the impact of the pace of his recent exertions. He realised that the leaps had taken a little too much out of him and he felt weaker than was ideal. Manek seemed to taste the weakness. He licked his lips and then smiled.

  ‘Ahh…you are a little weaker, my friend,’ he said, moving to his right. ‘Don’t you know that the Malacca Clan is able to gauge the strength of other people’s magic? I sense you are weakening.’ With that he launched a rapid number of attacks with his seckle.

  Left, right, left, right. Alternately probing for those weaknesses he tasted on the air. For the first time Tyson fell back. His head began to become foggy. His force-field was becoming sporadic, flickering and fading. On each attack he was able to block by using his seckle not trusting the strength of his shield. He knew he was struggling and had to do something.

  Manek pulled back saying, ‘Human, you do not know what you are playing with. It takes years to control the magics and you have had, what, three or four days? You expect to beat me…a true son of a Lord,’ he ended scornfully. He launched another brutal attack and it was Tyson who was being pushed back and just deflecting the blows rained down by Manek, by sheer guts and determination.

  He saw out of the corner of his eye the figures of Hechkle and Bronstorm, both breathing heavily, advancing to help him. He shook his head. He needed to finish this, no one else. Both Manek and Tyson glanced around them. The fighting had stopped. The Eastern Quadrant army had laid down their arms and they were under the control of the victorious Fathoms. Manek’s face registered his disbelief and then he narrowed his focus back onto Tyson.

  ‘Looks like your army is finished, Malacca,’ Tyson teased him as he closed his body as a target to his adversary. He still had the protection but it was not strong and Tyson knew that in another sustained attack by Manek he would not be able to defend himself. His only hope was to mentally weaken Manek’s resolve sufficiently for one of Tyson’s blows to reach its target.

  ‘I will build another one,’ Manek boasted, still defiant.

  Are you sure? Tyson telepathically taunted him. Manek’s eyes widened with surprise.

  You didn’t know about my other talent of reading minds? I also feel what other people feel when emotions are high. I know what you bastard put Evelyn through. For that you will pay, Tyson threatened.

  ‘You don’t frighten me, human.’ Manek recovered as they circled each other waiting for an opening.

  ‘Your thoughts give you away, Malacca.’

  Is he the One?

  Yes, was the hushed reply.

  Manek stopped circling. The answer had confused him. As he stopped his defence slipped slightly and his force-field, which up to that point had been a strong red, faded slightly. Tyson saw his opportunity. He concentrated all his power into his right hand, leaving him open to attack on the left. Manek fell for it and his seckle was already moving when Tyson’s seckle cut him deeply in the stomach. Manek never completed his blow. He gasped and looked down at the blood pouring from his wound. Tyson’s seckle hit him again, this time in the chest. Tyson dragged him close to him as the life ebbed out of Manek.

  ‘That’s for Evelyn,’ whispered Tyson into Manek’s ear.

  Tyson then pushed the body of Manek away from him and over the edge. Manek’s body fell down the steps until it came to rest on the lower stage.

  The cheers of those around Tyson filled the air. When he took in what had happened around him he saw Hechkle and Bronstorm sporting large smiles. There were many dead on the battlefield. The phalanxes of the men he controlled remained silent but kept their shape and stood to attention.

  He started to walk back up the fourth stage steps but he was grabbed by some of the Fathom soldiers and hoisted onto their shoulders. It was in this way he was brought back to the Palace gates. Lord Fathom stood with Evelyn, who was in full battle dress, her chin thrust forward in challenge. Tyson swept her off her feet and hugged her. She winced a little and went a bright red. Tyson, realising he was hurting her, released his hug and raised his hand to her cheek to brush it gently.

  Lord Fathom stood alongside Bailey and a surprisingly downcast Amelia. He didn’t have a chance to see what the issue was with Amelia as Lord Fathom stepped forward and took hold of his hand and turned to face his troops.

  ‘Men, you have fought bravely today. You have freed us from a fate worse than death.’ He waited, his politician skills hooking the crowd. ‘They wanted us to be slaves to the Malacca Clan.’ The crowd murmured. ‘However, we have shown today that the Fathom Clan will never surrender and this is thanks to a new champion, a human with our blood. I give you Tyson Blackstone,’ he finished, reeling in the crowd.

  The soldiers cheered and waved their helmets in the air, the sound reverberated against the Palace walls amplifying the raucous sound. Tyson stood next to Lord Fathom and although bewildered with this latest turn of events, had the good sense to see it through.

  Evelyn moved next to Amelia. Amelia looked at Evelyn’s bruised face. ‘I won’t stand in your way, if you two want some time together,’ she promised. Evelyn started laughing, holding her hand against her stomach, feeling her injuries. Amelia was happy to see the pain disappear from her face but confused as to why she was laughing. Evelyn saw her puzzled look.

  ‘Don’t you realise, he doesn’t want me – he loves you! Have you seen how he looks at you?’ Evelyn said, her laugh developing into a more thoughtful look especially as the laughing hurt her sore ribs. ‘He just needs to piece it together, give him time.’ She rested an arm on Amelia’s and gave her a supportive squeeze. Amelia looked across at Tyson just as he glanced at her. Her heart gave a leap as his eyes twinkled when he saw her. That one look gave her hope.

  Chapter 25

  Clear and Present Danger

  In the Ural Mountains, the sentry was warming his hands around a fierce blaze emitting from a steel brazier. Yuri stamped his feet to keep the cold from his limbs and waited for his relief. He looked up at the bulky and intimidating mobile launcher. He would be glad when the generals had decided to get off their fat behinds and make a decision of where this Topol-M (SS-27) ICBMs missile launcher was going to be based. He could then go home and see his wife and children. Little Gizla must be now nearly two months old. He wanted to hold her again.

  His yearning to hold his new born baby was interrupted by a whirling sound from the launcher. The mechanism that held the missile containing the RDS-9, 40 kiloton warhead started to crank up. Yuri’s eyes grew wide as the previously silent and cumbersome weapon of mass destruction became operational. He did what he could only do, he ran to the wood cabin were
the rest of the regiment slept. He needn’t have worried. The cabin door burst open and the rest of his regiment stumbled out, some half-dressed, into the cold night air. They stared in disbelief as the missile moved into its launch position.

  Captain Andropov was aghast. He yelled at his weapons technician to deactivate the weapon. The soldier held his remote console and punched in the necessary codes.

  Nothing.

  The soldier threw away his console and ran to the manual override on the launcher. He unlocked the lid to the weapons control and punched in the details again.

  Nothing.

  He looked back at his colleagues. Yuri’s stomach churned. Captain Andropov, with a grim look across his face, picked up the mobile radio and rang his superiors at Central Command. What he was not aware of was this was not the first call Central Command had received today.

  On the USS Louisiana (SSBN-743), Captain Chuck Grenoble was resting. The submarine was in its third month at sea and currently patrolling below the Arctic. It had been a relatively quiet tour of duty and soon the crew would be enjoying the delights of Hawaii. There was an urgent knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he commanded. Lieutenant Chris Grayling rushed in. He had been running and was now trying to catch his breath.

  ‘Take a deep breath, Lieutenant, then talk,’ Captain Grenoble said, concerned as Chris was usually an affable and efficient officer.

  ‘Sir, the missiles are arming,’ Lieutenant Grayling gasped.

  ‘What do you mean, arming?’ he answered as he picked up his cap and brushed past Lieutenant Grayling, heading for the bridge, all the while talking. ‘How can they arm, there must be a malfunction.’ He quickly made his way to the bridge, through the now blaring alarm. What he found was mayhem. The engineers and officers were panicking.

  ‘Captain on the bridge,’ shouted Lieutenant Grayling, which helped reduce some of the emotion in the room.