Authors: E. E. Giorgi
Athel
Cover art © Elena E. Giorgi, all rights
reserved.
ATHEL (Mayake Chronicles, Book 2)
Copyright © 2015 by E.E. Giorgi
All rights reserved.
No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by
any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying),
recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the
author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the
characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either the
product of the author’s imagination or they have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, living
or dead, is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Electronic edition ISBN: 978-0-9960451-6-2
Print edition ISBN: 978-0-9960451-7-9
Also from E.E. Giorgi
The
Mayake Chronicle
series:
AKAELA
(Book 1)
ATHEL (Book 2)
ASTRACA (Book 3,
pub. 2016)
THE GAIJIN GIRL
(A Mayake Chronicles short story)
Detective Thrillers
:
CHIMERAS
(A Track Presius mystery)
MOSAICS
(A Track Presius mystery)
GENE CARDS
(A Skyler Donohue mystery)
Set in the
Apocalypse Weird
world:
Get a FREE story when you
sign up for the author’s
newsletter:
Map of the Five Doors of
Astraca
Illustration by Heather R. Holden,
www.edgyauthor.com
Background image by Ayelie-Stock,
ayelie-stock.deviantart.com
Table of Contents
Part I
Aghad’s hurried steps crunch over
a bed of dead leaves. Blades of light twinkle through the canopy of trees and
tease his eyes. The trail is steep, the terrain uneven. He stops, leans against
a tree, and catches his breath. Covered in long beards of silvery moss, old
boughs bend and creak above him. Gnawed roots claw at the ground like witches’
fingers.
Astraca.
Only the
foundations of the city remain, buried deep underneath the forest. In places,
cracked walls jut out of the earth, and blackened pillars mingle with spruces,
birches and oaks. An ornate arch still stands between the trees, surreal door
to a past that no longer exists.
Aghad dips
a hand under his vest, retrieves a little metal flask, and takes a long swig.
Wrinkled and knotted, his are the hands of a man who’s spent most of his life
bent over a rice field. All around him, the forest breathes and hoots and
creaks with a life of its own. He clicks his tongue and stares at the trail,
searching for a glimpse of recognition. This part of the woods looks new to
him, and yet he remembers, his memories as ancient as the ruins buried under
his feet.
Must be farther down the trail
.
Has to be
.
He puts
away the flask and sets off again, his tired lungs trying to catch up with the
steady rhythm of his mechanical heart. The gargle of a creek emerges over the
whisper of leaves. He finds the water and then follows it across a small ravine
studded by pinnacles. A pointy boulder bulges from the tight embrace of sequoia
roots, its left side draped in lichen.
That’s it. That’s the boulder
.
He knows.
He
remembers
, even though he’s never
been here before.
Aghad
drops to his hands and knees and pushes away the fleshy leaves of a fern. The
dampness of the forest fills his nostrils. The soil is rich and dark and feels
velvety on his calloused fingers. It stains his nails and infiltrates the
cracks of his skin.
Has to be here
!
He pulls
weeds and dead roots, digging with his bare hands until they bleed. When his
fingers are so numb he can’t feel them anymore, he rolls onto his back and
wheezes. Leaves quiver above him and shadows dance on his face.
I know it’s here. I’ve seen it
.
A spotted
dove lands on top of the boulder and coos. Aghad turns.
“Shoo!” he
yells out of frustration.
The bird
takes off and flies to the low branch of an old sycamore. A pen of light pushes
through the high boughs and brushes the old, knotted trunk.
That tree
…
I’ve seen that tree!
He’s been
looking for that exact tree for months now.
It takes some
effort, but he manages to get back to his feet and shuffle over to the
sycamore. The spotted dove screeches one more time and then flaps away, leaving
a small feather twirling behind. Aghad rests a hand on the rugged trunk and
squints at the grooves etched deep into the bark. Three black lines, pointing
downward from east to west, have been carved in the wood, underneath one of the
largest branches. The carvings are old, with traces of rust fading at the
edges.
Aghad
brushes a finger along the lines and follows the direction they’re pointing to,
down the knotted roots and into the ground. He starts digging again,
frantically spooning out dirt until his hands hit something hard. A slab of
rock shapes under his touch and slowly comes to light. He stops, catches his
breath, and tries to remember.
Memories
never lived can be as ephemeral as dreams, the details blurring into myriad
possibilities.
One thing
he’ll never forget, though.
The relief
.
He wipes
the dirt away and stares at the embossed relief. Five triangles join their
vertices into a pentagon, a different key carved inside each one.
Five doors, five locks, five keys.
The five powers of Astraca
.
Aghad
licks his parched lips and smiles. The city of Astraca may be dead and buried,
but his memories are not. He pushes his fingers under the dirt and wraps them
around the edge of the stone. It doesn’t budge, buried deep in the ground.
It’ll take some more digging
.
A noise
makes him startle, then voices, distant, fast approaching. He flattens the heap
of dirt back over the stone and covers it with leaves. The rush makes his
mechanical heart beat faster.
Aghad
looks over his shoulder and steps away from the sycamore, careful not to leave
traces behind. His hands are dirty, his fingernails black and chipped. He dips
them into his pockets and whistles, lilting along the trail.
Something
darts past him and blisters a tree inches away, chipping off splinters of burnt
bark. Aghad winces. His right ear stings. He touches it and the tip of his
finger comes away red.
Blood
.
What the
—
“Don’t
move.”
He turns,
slowly. A kid stands before him, his right fist raised. Four holes gape above
his knuckles. The kid’s jawline glints eerily in the sunlight. Behind him, a
man jogs out of the shadow, his slim silhouette framed by the backlight, and
drapes a hand over the kid’s shoulder. A long gray braid swings around his
muscular neck.
“Careful,
son,” the man says. “You could ‘ve injured our friend.” His lips stretch into a
curt smile. If he’s concerned, he forgets to show it.
Aghad bows
his head. “Hello, Hennessy. What a surprise to find you in this remote part of
the forest.”
Hennessy
cocks his head and sends a proud glance to his son. “We’re practicing our aim,”
he replies, patting the kid on the back. “Right, Yuri?”
Yuri lowers
his arm and scowls. The ducts above his knuckles retract as he opens his palm
and stretches his fingers. “He stepped into my shooting path.”
Hennessy
squeezes his son’s shoulder, his smile unfazed. “Now, now.” He comes forward,
his steps fluid on sleek, robotic legs equipped with pneumatic joints.
Aghad
looks away, embarrassed by the stilted movements of his old prosthetic knees.
It doesn’t happen every day that a common rice farmer is addressed by one of
the Kiva Members.
“It’s all
good,” Hennessy says, towering over Aghad’s short and bulky figure. “I assume
we’re both here for the same reason, aren’t we?”
“I’m just
taking a fresh breath of air,” he mumbles, scratching his rusty beard. “My old
lungs—”
“Of
course!” Hennessy leans forward and plants his hands on Aghad’s shoulders.
“Rumors of an imminent attack are spreading. Would I blame a man who seeks
refuge in the forest? Never, my friend. Never! That’s why my son Yuri and I are
here, to make sure we’re prepared for this war.” He turns to his son and
smiles. The kid doesn’t reciprocate, his awkward half-flesh, half-metal face
still frozen in a scowl.
Aghad nods
and wriggles away from Hennessy’s grasp. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He pats his
vest and brushes away the dirt on his pants.
Hennessy lowers
his voice. “We’re brothers, Aghad. All Mayakes are. And brothers don’t have
secrets.”
Aghad
stares into Hennessy’s icy eyes and freezes.
Does he share the same memories
? he
wonders.
What if
…
A sudden
gust of wind swirls through the forest. The boughs creek, the leaves rustle.
Hennessy wraps a hand around Aghad’s short arm and starts down the trail. His
son clicks his metal jaw and follows at a distance, as Hennessy chants of a
glorious past and victorious wars, his long strides unmatched by Aghad’s stilted
pace.