Book One: Prologue

22 Ashmuta, 4765

His heart thudding louder with every foot step, Akasha tore down the long corridor, crashing into the wall at every corner as he struggled to keep himself going. His breath ripped from his throat in short, agonising gasps, a vice of pain around his chest tightening with every step. The stench of smoke was filtering through from the bonfires outside even into the depths of the Holy Complex, stinging the sensitive hairs of Akasha’s nostrils. Voices echoing through the long gallery followed him, but he dared not look back. Sweat poured into his eyes, turning the world into a chaotic, swimming blur, but he knew these corridors so well; there was no need to see where he was going.

The guards were behind him, their shouts and bellows mingling with the desperate cries of the Complex staff pleading for mercy. Words flitted through Akasha’s mind, but he made no sense of them, focused only on one thing: the Watchtower. He had one chance, one opportunity. Perhaps if he could reach the Tower, he could get a message out of the city to Nas Trinitar, to Nas Isca; perhaps somebody would come and stop this nightmare.

Rounding another corner, Akasha’s feet slithered on the smooth marble floor through dark fluid spreading outwards and shining in the flickering light from above. Crashing full-force into the curving wall, his legs gave way and for a second everything turned black as he stumbled to the floor. Shaking himself, the screech of voices coming closer brought him back and he looked down to see the liquid into which he had fallen was blood. The massive globe light far above him flickered again; the shadows trembled and crawled forward. On the other side of the corridor a blank, dead face looked out of the darkness at him, eyes blank and cold. Swallowing back bile, Akasha pulled himself back onto his shaking legs, leaning forward as his chest seemed to implode from the force of the pain inside.

Keep going. The spreading reek of smoke choked his lungs and Akasha stumbled forward again, reaching out with both hands to pull himself along the wall. His sweat-soaked fingers clung to every crevice of the carved walls. From above and all around, the empty faces of ancient statuary stared down impassively, an audience for the horrors unfolding throughout the city. Taking a single, desperate gulp of air, Akasha wrenched himself upright and began to run again, spurred on by the voices behind him.

“By the order of the Cabinet and official government of the Lord Tiom we declare the City of Amin Duum to be a free and separate state!” came the cry that had first roused Akasha out of bed as the midnight bell struck. “All staff and officials of the Amnari Empire are hereby declared enemies of the people! You are expelled from the city of Duum…”

The ringing cry was getting louder. Footsteps – a whole host of them – were coming down the corridor behind him and he had no time. He paused and looked back at the body lying prone on the floor. It was the First High Watcher of the City lying there in his own blood. How could they do this? Akasha thought somewhere in the depths of his terror. How can this be happening?

Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he suddenly saw movement ahead of him. Familiar uniforms, faces he knew well contorted with fear and confusion fused together in a liquid blur before him. The voices of the senior staff mingled with the calls of the Cabinet’s guards behind him, as they shouted instructions.

“They have declared the city independent of the Empire!” That was the First High Warrior, Zoriel. “Make your way to the landing fields now. There are dragonlords waiting on the landing fields to take you to Nas Isca. Please do not try to confront the guards.”

Taking a second to compose himself, Akasha tugged on the hem of his jacket and made his way over to the group, now hurrying up one of the many narrow flights of stairs to the landing fields far above their heads. Zoriel turned as Akasha approached, his eyes flashing in the flickering light from above.

“Akasha!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I suppose you’ve heard—”

“What are you doing? We can’t leave the city!” Akasha protested, shaking his head. “What will they do without us?”

“I don’t know, Akasha,” Zoriel replied, his voice tense but firm. “We’ll have to wait for Arandes to tell us what we do next. But whatever we do, we can’t stay here. They’re killing any of us who don’t keep ahead of them or protest. We don’t have a choice.”

Akasha stared at him. “What about our oaths?” he asked breathlessly. His throat burned from the effort of breathing after running so far, and he had to concentrate to keep himself from falling again.

Zoriel shook his head sadly. “There’s nothing we can do here, nothing,” he said, almost apologetically. “Now get up to the Plains. They’re sending dragonlords down from Nas Isca to help us get out. Any of us left will be killed, I can guarantee it. Don’t be stupid, Akasha.” The First High Warrior took the Senior Flight Telepath by both shoulders and looked into his eyes gravely, helping him lean against the wall. “I’ll go and find a watcher to help you,” he said. “You look like you’ve run all the way from the South City.”

Akasha tried to protest but his voice had given up on him and he could only allow Zoriel to rest him against the wall. Sagging in a deep crouch, he stared down at the floor. The lights flickered again, spitting and hissing violently. The echoing calls of the oncoming guards were growing gradually louder as they approached. Akasha pressed his hands into fists, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. Shutting his eyes, he took two short, deep breaths, then forced all the energy he could into his legs and pushed himself up the wall. Zoriel had left him and had returned to the task of herding the other staff up through the escape flights to the Plains above them. Akasha took his chance and slithered along the wall, his hands keeping him upright as he went.

In an explosive flash, the light above him suddenly blew, showering the corridor and remaining staff with shards of glass, the glowing gasses within spilling out and dissipating into the hot, smoky air. A scream went up from one of the staff; the first of the guards had appeared at the far end of the corridor and they pressed forward, swords glinting in the poor remaining light.

Using the deeper shadows as protection, Akasha turned and ran on. Careering through the massive, ancient galleries of the Holy Complex, he shut his ears to the screams and the shouting behind him. They were only here to help, and now they were demonised by the very people they had supported all their lives, with every ounce of strength and skill they could muster. Akasha’s head throbbed as he finally found himself standing at the place he had been searching for and knew so well. He glanced back over his shoulder. Had Zoriel survived the guards? Should he go back and check?

He closed his eyes and a vision flashed before him. In the midst of the noise and the chaos, the yelling faded into the background, and he could hear the faint sound of singing. In a sudden flash of memory, he realised it was his daughter’s birthday today. He hadn’t seen her in so long, but she would be eight now. He’d made sure she left the city, even though he desperately missed her. It was too dangerous – but he’d never realised until now just how far his old home had fallen into ruin.

Staggering forward on trembling legs, he fell into the darkness of the lift shaft, and felt the ancient, rickety box begin its slow assent into the black rock of the city. He curled into the foetal position, shaking fingers interlinked around his knees. Tears spilled from his eyes as he realised he would probably never see her again. Perhaps—perhaps if he was quick, he might be able to make it to the landing fields in time, but he had to get a message out. If just one of the other cities listened they might come and do something. Something. Anything at all to stop this madness.

The lift juddered and shrieked. The energy that powered it and the lights was failing, the city was finally falling apart. Akasha slowly unwound himself as the lift climbed through the dark, pulling himself up onto his hands and knees and then, leaning heavily on the rough wooden wall of the box, he dragged himself back up into a standing position, a final burst of adrenalin launching him out of the lift the moment it came to a halt at the very base of the Watchtower.

Here, everything was in chaos. The guards had come here first, leaving nothing but broken bodies and the smoke was so thick that it burned Akasha’s lungs as he inhaled. The door had been smashed in and through the open gap the Flight Telepath could make out the distant figures of the city’s last dragonlords preparing to take off as the staff of the Holy Complex were loaded on board. The cries and shouts could be heard carrying on the wind back to him as he reached out for the banister and pulled himself up the winding stairs to the top floor. He had worked here all his life, dedicated to his city, his home. In the burning darkness, everything seemed suddenly unfamiliar and alien, as though he had suddenly arrived in the blackest possible dream.

As he climbed, a group of Ta Dasi staff ran past the tower, their panic-stricken voices carrying up to Akasha’s ears through his exhaustion. He paused, listening in confusion and pain.

“The Guardian Defender is dead!” they were shouting. “They killed Arist! The Guardian Defender is dead!”

“Arandes was injured in the fighting!” somebody else screamed and Akasha’s heard leapt. Arandes? Injured? That was like the moon suddenly falling from the sky. He fell forward, hardly able to take in the words as he reached out for the next step up to the top of the tower.

On all fours, he reached the top floor, his lungs screaming for clear air and his chest seemingly about to explode. The lights were all smashed here; there was no light beyond a constant, flickering orange glow. His palms pressed into broken glass, tiny shards glinting in the eerie light. Akasha let out a pained cry as he crawled across the floor to the single desk that ran around the wall of the circular room. Here the Flight Telepaths had managed the dragonlords arriving in the city for thousands of years. Now the skies were in chaos. His mind opening, Akasha could hear the confused and troubled voices of the Dragonmasters calling out to each other, trying not to fly into each other in the night sky as they led the escape from the city.

Forcing himself with the last of his strength, Akasha leaned on the desk and pulled his aching body upright until he stood, hands resting on the wood as he looked out of the massive window and down on the huge canyon below. It opened like a great wound in the Plain, its white walls reflected in the light of the moon. Now they were scarred and dirty. Columns of black smoke poured forth as though from a huge mouth. A sickly, hideous smell rose out of the city on the poisonous air.

Akasha swallowed his bile and hauled himself along the desk, dimly able to make out the hulking shapes of the last of the dragonlords in the darkness as they launched themselves into the air. Grabbing ear plugs from his customary seat at the desk, Akasha took a deep breath, and unable to control himself, spilled his message out into the air.

“This is Senior Flight Telepath Akasha of the City of Amin Duum calling out to the Empire of Amnar… Please help us… The city is burning, we’ve been evacuated from the Holy Complex… They’re killing the children… They’re killing the orphans…”

Words tumbled forth without order or meaning, all sense of due decorum lost as his legs gave way under him. “Please come back to Duum! Please free the city! This can’t go on!”

He felt the searing colour of the telepathic field all around him, a painful empty silence all around him. Standing once again, he turned and found himself staring straight into the face of a guard. The man was huge, his face covered in scars. Some strange, black fluid poured down his chin as his thin lips unfolded in a vicious, soulless grin.

“Please tell my daughter I love her,” Akasha thought, his eyes watching the sword as it rose at the side of his head. He heard the whistle, the crack, and knew nothing more.

“This is Senior Flight Telepath Souri of the West Tower of Nas Trinitar calling out to Senior Flight Telepath Akasha of the City of Amin Duum… Message received loud and clear. Message transferred to Counsel: advising full evacuation and hold back. No action to be taken. City of Amin Duum now considered to be severed from the Empire. Repeat: No action to be taken. Will advise further status changes.

“Senior Flight Telepath Akasha… Please advise… What is your daughter’s name?”

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updated Oct 14 '08 by IsabelJoelyBlack