False Gods

  The Prophet

  Book One

  False Gods

  Copyright 2019 Don Newton

  This book follows this:

  The Prophet: Prelude - The Trial of Sa’riya

  Chapter One

  Ten years ago…

  Jace chased the dog up, then down three different sand dunes, each one taller than the last. The effort was taking its toll. Huffing and puffing, his shirt soaked with sweat, he scrambled through the desert sands. Passing over the top of the fourth dune, Jace drew a sharp breath. A polished gleam of metal captured his eye. There was the dog, sure enough, a fat rabbit between his jaws.

  Three yards past where the dog lay enjoying his prize, the sand fell away from the side of the next dune, revealing the hard metal of something underneath. The metal caught the sun’s rays and drove daggers of light into Jace’s eyes. It was glistening silver; it looked like a hatch. There were hinges on the right—the left side was covered with sand.

  Jace knelt beside the covered half of the metal hatch and swept the sand away with both hands. He discovered something, a depression in the metal, and he concentrated his efforts there. A handle emerged. He turned it to the right, but when he pulled on it, nothing happened. Too much sand remained upon the door.

  The dog (having tired of the rabbit and being a master digger) joined in the fun. With the dog working on the lower half of the plate and Jace on the upper, they cleared the sand away in no time.

  “That’s enough, Bandit; quit it!” Jace shooed the dog away. The dog smiled and laid down on the sand, sniffing the rabbit, panting from the exertion of the chase and the digging. He eyed the boy, keen to see what would happen next.

  Jace planted his feet in the liquid sand beside the hatch, wrapping both hands around the handle. With a mighty groan and a grimace of effort the dog enjoyed, he yanked on it. To his surprise (and the dog’s), it flew wide open. He landed several feet away. Sand and dust erupted from the impact, depositing a fine layer of debris upon him. Coughing and spitting, he stood up and brushed away the dirt—all the sweaty parts turned to mud. Bandit watched in fascination, a wry grin on his face.

  The gaping black hole in the dune was dark and foreboding, and it smelled like old dirty laundry. Lack of light inside the hole made it hard to see past where the sun shone in. When he yelled “HELLO!” into the opening, it yelled back at least three times, so he knew it was huge.

  Jace looked at the dog. Bandit cocked his head—his eyes said, “not me”.

  “Well, I guess we need to go get father…”

  The dog agreed.

  ***

  Hot floodlights cast a surreal blaze, the dunes amplified the harsh glare, making everything appear ochre-yellow. The sky was starless, moonless, overcast gray—it did nothing to brighten the mood.

  Silence captured all three men who stood on the ridge...

  Corian Dinatos let out a long slow sigh, turning to the others, searching their faces, trying to judge their mood.

  “You know what this means; they’re lying to us, this is proof.” Corian motioned toward the open hatch below, observing the men scurrying about. Four rows of tables stood outside the entrance to the buried ship. Hazard-suited workers brought items from the interior, placing them in empty spots on the tables. As they laid the new things out, scientists in laboratory coats examined, cataloged, and crated each piece, and motioned for a team of soldiers. The men carried the crates to a transport vessel waiting on a flat stretch of sand next to the dig site.

  Thaddeus Thalos shot a quick glance in Corian’s direction, nodded agreement, and said what they were all thinking. “We’ve suspected this for many years. Having proof seems almost wrong somehow, but the truth is unavoidable. The question is, what to do about it?” He turned away and hung his head. “Every time I see the news of some temple being bombed, or a riot over denominational rights, it makes me cringe.”

  Eustas Callas reached into the right breast pocket of his tunic and retrieved his smoke and pipe. He drew a plasma lighter from his right pants pocket and fired the bowl. Embers flew into the night wind as the leaf caught fire. Thin tendrils of smoke rose into the air, curled around his head, then drifted off on the breeze.

  “Corian, you are the Tribal Governor, so this decision is yours,” Eustas said, focusing on the gray of the cloudy darkness overhead—it matched the color of his thoughts. “We’ll take this issue before the High Council, but if you want my advice, I’ll give it to you.”

  “You are my military advisor,” Corian said, “and this is a military decision. After being lied to for generations, I don’t care what the Council thinks.”

  Eustas considered the response for a moment, took another pull on his pipe, and wished he was a hundred miles away. “Good. Then my suggestion is this. These False Gods are powerful. To fight power of that kind, you need that kind of power.” “I know only one person that powerful, but I hesitate to suggest her, for my own reasons...”

  Eustas nodded, spun around, and walked away down the face of the dune toward the transport ship, leaving them standing on the hill.

  Corian stood there, dumbfounded; his mouth agape. He watched as Eustas walked away. “I don’t understand!” he yelled, turning to Thaddeus, “Who is this person?”

  Thaddeus motioned for him to be quiet, placing his left palm in the center of Corian’s chest to stop him. “It’s his step-daughter…”

  Chapter Two

  —From the Journal of General Eustas Callus —

  Day 121, 1219, Cycle 3:

  The discovery of this ship buried in the desert has me at odds. I’ve known for some time, we all have, the Gods are lying about our origins. Only common folk still believe the lie because they don’t know what the High Council does.

  They claim they created us, gave us life, but their overt jealousy of each other, and their inability to control things like natural disasters: floods and storms killing hundreds or even thousands at a time, gives the lie to their tale. When questioned about their inability, they claim a hidden agenda mere mortals couldn’t understand. Rubbish. Is a true God not all-powerful? It’s not as if we were asking them to resurrect the dead.

  Now, this ship. The official story is, the vessel is of alien origin, which is true—as it did not originate from this planet. Discoveries we’ve made upon examination of the technology it contained are astounding. The ship is not wrecked; we can find no damage upon the vessel, leading the scientists to believe whoever landed it did so in a very controlled manner, which begs the question—where did they go?

  Our senior researcher, Carolus, believes the ship has been buried there for over two thousand years—some aging test he performed upon the material they found in the seating. This timeframe predates our oldest known records by twelve-hundred years, but then, during the ‘Dark Years’, there’s an absolute dearth of history because of records being destroyed and the nomadic nature of people.

  It’s complicated, I imagine, to keep detailed records while fighting for your life. Erador is filled with many wild and terrible beasts, and a single Draggon attack might wipe out an entire village. I suppose I can forgive our ancestors for not putting pen to paper more often.

  So, I ponder this situation, and I wonder, did our ancestors come to Erador from another place, long ago? Was it on that ship? Is it conceivable we lost the memory of this in only eighty generations? If this is true, then how did these False-Gods come to be here? It boggles the mind.

  And now, the crux of the matter. These Gods are not Gods at all; they’re pretenders—fraudulent purveyors of false hope—they need to be stopped. Alisha is the most powerful Adept I’ve ever known, but she’s young and not fully trained. The High Council agrees, we’ve waited for millennia already—a few more years can’t hurt. I hope they d
on’t press the issue.

  ***

  Present-day Erador Prime...

  Little noise escaped the door's hinges as he eased through the gap. In the distance, over the sound of running water, the lilting tones of a song floated toward him. The assassin’s training had honed his senses and tightened his control. He could be silent when he needed to.

  He moved toward the sound of her voice.

  He recognized the song now; his mother used to sing it to him. In his mind, he saw her sitting beside the stream flowing past their home, the blossoms from the Redfruit trees dancing in the breeze, blanketing the ground with a carpet of white and pink petals.

  The cool wind on his face... his mother’s smile…

  He found his target in the arboretum. He watched her for several moments, tending to the greenery growing around the edge of the pool. She was a beautiful woman. Flowing black hair cascaded around her shoulders, like the water falling on the stones behind. Dark silkiness, surrounding soft beauty.

  By inches, he snuck up on her as she trimmed the plants—every muscle taut. The song she sang returned to the chorus and her voice lifted his spirits as he glided toward her.

  This will be sweet...

  Behind her now, lightning-fast, he reached out and encircled her with both arms, pulling her to his chest, holding her fast so she couldn't move.

  “I’ve known you were there since you came in, Garrian.” Alisha Callus laughed, grasping his wrists where they crossed her chest. The plant shears falling to the stone floor made a clattering metallic sound, echoing from the walls.

  “Impossible!” Garrian Callus shot back, faking indignance. “I’m a trained soldier, woman!”

  “And if I hadn’t enchanted the doors to warn me, you might’ve been successful.” She spun in his arms and kissed him. Her infectious grin made him smile.

  “Ahh… undone by your magic, Sorceress,” Garrian said, as he released her and took a step back, bowing at the waist and making a grand flourish with both hands. He gave her his most ravishing smile and a flirtatious wink. “When will I ever learn?”

  “Never, I would wager.” She exaggerated a long sigh. “You are too hard-headed.”

  “Which do you love more, my boyish good looks, or my exceptional charm?”

  “I will ignore the question,” she said. “I can’t possibly choose between the two.”

  She followed Garrian into the kitchen. The hem of her robe caressed the stones as she moved, making a soft noise like leaves brushing the ground. Garrian watched her walk. She had a gentle grace about her—it reminded him of a bird floating on the wind.

  He opened the cooler door, rummaging around for a snack. He grabbed the milk. Alisha watched him drink from the bottle with a disapproving look.

  “I know we’re low on food, but the grocer’s boy comes this morning to refill our regular order.” She frowned. “Can’t you use a cup?”

  “Good.” He ignored the disparaging cup question. “I’m starving…”

  “That’s probably him now...” Alisha grinned.

  The knock at the side door interrupted their playful banter. Garrian moved toward the hallway to answer. He swung the door wide, expecting the grocer’s boy. He was surprised to find the imposing figure of Eustas Callus standing on the steps, dressed in full battle gear, crossed sabers on his back, and plasma pistol at his side.

  The Zyrsteel reinforcements on his leather armor shone brightly in the early morning sun. Eustas was tall, six feet or more—and solid, like the trunk of an old tree. His face told the story of fifty-six years of a hard life. His expression was grim, and Garrian sensed the solemn manner of the man.

  “Father, what brings you by so early on a fine morning such as this?” Garrian asked.

  “I need to speak to the two of you,” Eustas said.

  Garrian’s grin faded. Rather than question the man (which he knew would be pointless), he stepped back, motioning him inside.

  Eustas sidestepped his son and stalked past him down the long corridor, headed for the center of the villa, looking for Alisha.

  Garrian shut the door behind them and made his way back to the kitchen. He found his father and Alisha in a warm embrace. They rarely saw him. His wife had a fondness for Eustas, which astonished him because he didn’t share it.

  Garrian’s memories of early childhood revolved around his mother because his father had always been away. When he was home, he was still away—emotionally. Eustas treated Alisha like his favorite child, from the first day he’d met her. His natural icy exterior seemed to melt when he was around her. Garrian never complained; she’d become a natural buffer between them. They never fought when she was present.

  “Eustas Callus!” Alisha scolded him. “How dare you stay away from us; don’t you know Garrian misses you when you’re off solving the problems of the Tribe?” The corner of her mouth turned up. She was no fool. She knew about the tension between them, and making light of it was how she made them laugh—and laughter diluted the animosity.

  Eustas chuckled, a deep rumbling sound from somewhere below the surface of his hardened exterior, his whole body shook with the effort. Garrian watched the two, amazed at how they interacted.

  “I’m sure he does…” Eustace glanced at his son from the corner of his eye. Garrian thought he glimpsed a hint of sadness there—knowing better; he discounted it.

  Alisha picked up on the mood and changed the subject, moving toward the dining table as she spoke, leaving them no choice but to follow. Garrian had watched her do this before. She could mold and shape situations without seeming to do so. He didn’t know if it was magic or her natural ability—but he’d never seen it fail. He recognized when she was doing it, but he was susceptible like everyone else, unable to resist her charm.

  “How is Jolie?” Alisha asked, gesturing for them to take seats.

  Eustas removed the sabers from his back, laying them across the far end of the long table. Garrian sat at the head of the table, watching Alisha pour kaffa from the kettle into three large cups. The steam from the liquid curled into the air between them, carrying the rich aroma to their senses. The shaded light from the overhead fixture cast a warm glow around them.

  “My lovely wife is doing fine, dear,” Eustas adjusted his large frame to the chair as he spoke, “and she’s as feisty as ever. How’s my grandson?”

  “Garrian got back this morning from dropping Minus off at the Lancer Academy on Minos. He decided he wanted to skip his last year of schooling and get started on his Martial training early.” Alisha sipped the kaffa, glaring at Garrian over the rim of her cup. Eustas saw the look and grinned.

  “I take it, you disapprove?” He asked.

  “He’s only eleven-years-old…” Alisha sat her cup down and leaned back in her chair, eyes still locked on Garrian. “My husband and I discussed it—I guess I lost.”

  Garrian blew out a breath and looked down, studying the grain of wood on the table. He traced the pattern with his fingertips. Alisha wanted their son to attend the Cirrian School of Orphic Mysteries—she’d seen great promise in Minus from an early age. The Orphic energy ran deep within him, but Minus had no use for it: he wanted to be like his father: a soldier, and what father could deny a son’s wish?

  “Well,” Eustas said after a moment, “I know the boy wasn’t happy with his studies, so I must agree with Garrian on this one. The Lancers will better serve Minus’ education.”

  Alisha’s gaze shifted from her husband to her father-in-law, but the intensity remained the same.

  Garrian stared at Eustas, his mouth open in shock. He hadn’t expected agreement from him, figuring he would choose Alisha’s side, as he’d done many times before.

  “Either way, I’ve accepted it.” Her voice was a chilly monotone. “I heard Garrian ask you at the door, Eustas, what brings you by this morning?”

  Eustas’ brown eyes met her blue ones but couldn’t hold them. He sipped his kaffa and watched the dark surface of the liquid in his cup. After se
veral sips and prolonged silence, he set the cup down and drew a long deep breath.

  “You both remember... when we found the ship buried outside Thalos Plains?” he asked.

  Garrian glanced at Alisha. She nodded, her eyes still fixed on his father, not with malice, but with curiosity. He turned his attention toward Eustas.

  “What about it?” Garrian asked. “That was years ago. It was all over the holo-vids. A crashed military ship: they said it went down in a dust storm in the Caral desert. No injuries.”

  Eustas shifted in his seat, out of character. Although it was cool inside the house, Garrian saw beads of sweat forming on his father’s brow. Something wasn’t right; this wasn’t the man he’d known his entire life—he seemed nervous.

  “We lied to the news services…” Eustas said. “I need to tell you the truth.”

  ***

  Jarod ran down the narrow lane connecting the main bazaar to the side roads of Jos Hollow. Behind him, he heard vendors hawking their wares—the bustle of the city streets—and the pursuers who were chasing him. His breath came in ragged gasps. He’d been running for several minutes, and he was exhausted. Rivers of sweat ran down his face, soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in agony from the exertion, but he dared not stop.

  “Hold up, you coward!” The taller one was closer, the shorter one falling behind. Feet slapping pavement, breathing hard—closer now. He could feel the violence reaching for him like a heavy hand. He was terrified.

  At a fork in the road, Jarod chose left, hoping he could lose them by cutting through the park, mingling with the crowd surrounding the fountain. Arms and legs pumping, chest heaving, the last hundred yards seemed a thousand or more.

  Jumping and dodging, weaving and ducking, he made it to the fountain as the other men caught him. The taller one grabbed him, taking him down, they rolled for several yards, dust and gravel flying. The shorter man caught up and straddled his chest, raining blows on his face and shoulders with clenched fists, screaming obscenities.