Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5) Read online

  The Woodsman met the Agent’s ferocious stare without flinching.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what most of those terms mean,” he admitted. “DNA. Fingerprints. These things are meaningless to me. I’m just a humble woodsman.”

  Evans watched him closely for a few more seconds, then rose, chuckling.

  “A humble woodsman? I like that.” Without warning, he slapped his prisoner hard across the face with the back of his hand, the sound loud and sharp within the confines of the small room. Those that watched flinched, even as the Woodsman turned back to look at his interrogator, a thin trickle of red blood running down from his split lip. Agent Evans seemed to regain his composure, straightening his tie. “Pray, don’t try my patience, Alann. I’ve lost men today. Good men.”

  “I will answer what questions I can with honesty,” Alann told him. “But only if I understand what you mean.”

  Evans chuckled again, the crowd bracing themselves for another outburst, but none was forthcoming.

  “You’re saying that you have teleporters – teleporters – and yet the concept of fingerprinting eludes you?”

  The Woodsman’s brow furrowed as he thought.

  “By teleporters, do you mean translocation?”

  The agent’s eyes widened.

  “Yes! Translocation. The moving of place to place by no visible means. How do you do that? Such technology is science-fiction. Beyond the realms of anything thought possible with current science.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” Alann told him. “I know no more than you. I only know that it works. More than that and you would have to ask my lord.”

  “Your lord? What do you mean? Your god? Is your outfit some kind of religious organisation?”

  Alann laughed quietly.

  “Hardly. From what I’ve seen, religion brings only discord and mistrust. We’re here for the opposite reasons. Troubled times are coming and mankind will need to be united in its purpose if it is to survive."

  Once more, Evans leaned in close.

  “It may have escaped your attention, woodsman, but times are already troubled. Now I’m going to need some straight answers from you. Let’s start with your axe.” He clicked his fingers and one of the men in white coats drew near, holding Alann’s weapon. “Now what can you tell me about this? I saw you use this thing to open a car like a banana. Bullets bounced from it, bullets I fired with my own gun. Yet my boys in the lab tell me that it’s just an axe. There’s no unobtanium alloys, no forcefield generators. Just steel and wood. What do you have to say about that?”

  Alann glanced at the weapon, then back at the waiting agent.

  “Your men are right; tis but an axe. Nothing more.”

  Evans stood up straight and let out a long sigh.

  “So, let me get this straight. You admit to using teleportation technology – sorry, translocation – but won’t tell me how it works. You admit to carving open a car and swatting bullets like flies, yet insist that you’re just a mere woodsman with a simple axe.”

  “I can only tell you what I myself understand. And of that, only what I’m allowed. What I will tell you is that it wasn’t my men that attacked you. And it wasn’t my men that stole the prisoner away. On that, you have my word.”

  One of the other suits came forward, offering a syringe of clear liquid to their leader. He shook his head, a grim smile on his face as he removed his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves.

  “I’m afraid your word doesn’t mean much to me, my friend.”

  Alann stared him in the face, chin held high, no anger in his eyes, even as the Agents cracked his knuckles and loosened his shoulders.

  “I’m afraid it’s all I have to offer.”

  Chapter Eight:

  Doubt. It was an uneasy feeling, doubt. Unsure of whether one was doing the right thing. Unsure of whether ones judgement was sound.

  Stone didn’t enjoy doubt.

  A wise man once said that with great power comes great responsibility. Hang on, came a voice in Stone’s head, even as the thought occurred to him; that was Spiderman’s Uncle Ben. Regardless of the source, the sentiment was right. Stone was immensely powerful. And right now he felt the weight of responsibility resting very heavily on his shoulders.

  A disconcerting feeling, what, with his feet dangling in empty space, hovering thousands of feet above the ground.

  It was dusk now. Far below, past the wisps of purple cloud that reflected the dying sunset, the city of London was winding down; the workers of the day shift going home to their families, letting their nocturnal counterparts take over for the night. Ambulance drivers, fast-food workers, call-girls, nurses. A city of this size never truly slept.

  On the banks of the Thames, several miles below, Stone could see Westminster; the great Abbey, then across the road, the Houses of Parliament. Not far from those historic buildings, across the river, the London Eye, slowly turning, its lights twinkling as it hoisted visitors from around the world high into the air to witness but a tiny fraction of the view that Stone now enjoyed.

  Not far from that great, turning wheel, he knew the Woodsman was being held. He could feel the man’s soul, burning bright, potent and steady. He could probably see the man with his own eyes if he tried hard enough; few enough materials posed any obstacle to his vision these days; yet another of the gifts bestowed upon him by the elemental power that forever thundered through his veins. He could find him in an instant. Be there in another. Free the man.

  But no. That wasn’t his job. The loyal men and women aboard Draconis would see to that.

  He resisted the temptation. And therein lay the source of his doubt.

  The source of his discomfort.

  For he itched, nay, yearned, to be doing something. In his mind’s eye, a great vision of what he wanted mankind to achieve; a near-perfect utopia of man and nature in symbiotic harmony. Humanity reaching its potential, spread out across the stars, a realm of peace, prosperity and advancement.

  How he wanted to be striding forwards to that future rather than simply walking. How he wanted to take the leaders of this world, forever at each other’s throats, each country eager to gain some advantage over its neighbours, financially, strategically, politically, religiously; how he wanted to simply seize them all by the shoulders, bash their heads together and say ‘look – can you not see past your petty differences? Your pathetic squabbles over land and trade? There is war coming. And you must be ready. We must all be ready, for if they catch us unprepared, then all is for nought.’

  He had the power. If he chose to, he could drop into Downing Street right now, this very instant. Who could stop him? Could the Police, with their MP5 sub-machineguns, do anything but quail as their bullets bounced from his iron-tough skin? Could the Prime Minister himself do anything but cry out as Stone’s mighty hand reached out to grasp him? Likewise the President of the USA. The heads of state across Europe, across the world, even; if he wished, he could have them convened around a table within the hour. And no-one, no military might on this planet, could stop him.

  All that kept that chain of events from happening was his own willpower. All that stopped this world and the long-held beliefs of everyone on it from changing overnight, was one man’s self-control.

  For to Stone, his vision of the future was akin to a soap bubble; dazzling in its beauty, but delicate, liable to burst and leave nothing but memories should one reach out to grasp it too hard. Too much power, too soon, and he would do nothing but throw the world into chaos. Too large a stride into the future and mankind would simply tear itself apart as everything they knew changed overnight. No, it would be baby-steps. And those steps must be taken by mortal man, not elemental demi-god.

  There would be a time for him to unleash his power. There would be a time when the Earth would have need of his abilities. But right now it needed people; real people, that those on Earth could relate to. It needed the Foresters, the Shamans and the Tulador Guard.

  All th
ose months ago, when they had stood upon the rooftop below after the dragon had rescued them from being scattered throughout time, Stone had addressed his army.

  This future of which I dream is to be forged by you, he had told them. Not I. I will be here, to be a guiding hand, to be a force to step in should the worst come to the worst and my powers be needed. But the future of man is to be shaped by man.

  And I am no longer a man.

  Even now, Stone puzzled over what he had meant by those words. He was still a man in some ways, he knew. Leastways, he still felt like a man most of the time. He had no need for sleep, yet still he allowed his mind to wander, to dream. He may have lived for centuries, but still he could love and mourn; his heart hadn’t grown cold. He had seen wonders untold on his travels through space and time, yet he was still curious. He glanced up into the sky, green eyes piercing what high up clouds there were to observe the heavens. Yes, there were still wonders out there. There was life; strange life, unknown life. Potential allies. There would be dangers too.

  Yes, Stone was powerful. Perhaps, in this universe, this reality, his power was unlimited, who knew? At least it was when he held his Glaives, their indestructibility allowing him to channel his full power without fear of wrecking the world about him. He could feel the connection to them, even now, as they slumbered ten miles away within his sanctum in the belly of Draconis. Yet despite all of his power – or maybe even because of it, he still could fear.

  It brought him back to his first thought; that of responsibility.

  How fast was Stone? Could he race the moonbeams that even now caressed his tanned skin? How strong? Could he lift, one-handed, the tankers that called their plaintive dirge from the Thames below? What excuse then, if he failed? What reason could he give, should mankind fall? If he failed in his plan, if all the world were ravaged by the demon hordes to come and only Stone was left to wander, alone, for millennia, till at last even his nigh-immortal body collapsed into the dust. And if, then, there were some primordial creator before which Stone was dragged at the end of days, what would be his excuse?

  Did you have the power in your hands to do what was right, the hypothetical power might ask? Yes, I did. Then mankind died because you didn’t care enough. Weren’t wise enough. Didn’t take matters into your own hands. Or worse, did.

  He was confused and worried.

  Often, at times like this, he had found himself talking over his problems with Draconis itself, for what else but something ancient could understand the thoughts of another ancient? But the dragon made for cryptic and strange conversation; often it would speak in riddles, as if its meanderings through time had caused it to lose track of the now, its thoughts sometimes wandering far into the past, or equally far into the future. Other times the creature would fall ominously silent for days at a time as it dwelt upon the terrible vengeance it longed to wreak upon its former captors.

  How Stone was grateful that the beast was on their side. How grateful and humbled, that the beast would reshape its own body to make for them a home; for Stone’s followers were orphans without a world of their own. Their families lost. The Retreat, Pen-Tulador, Pen-Merethia, long since destroyed.

  Or so he suspected. One day he resolved to find out for sure.

  The Dragonship Draconis was a mighty ally and a repository of knowledge beyond comprehension, for had it not witnessed the rise and fall of civilisations? The births of stars and the heat death of the universe?

  But in terms of its mind and its thoughts, it was as far removed from Stone as he was himself from mortal man. No. He needed to speak to someone wise, but still human. Someone, the echo of whom he could still feel from time to time, still hear the voice of; phrases, words, ageless wisdom as it poured from youthful lips.

  Gwenna carried within her some portion of their former master, a parting gift from him as he had lain dying upon the Beacon Tower that fateful day. But it wasn’t the same as the real thing.

  Stone smiled. It had been too long since he had called upon that place.

  His mind cast out, further, further still, seeking the hidden entryways between worlds, where the fabric of reality grew thin. There, clear as day, in the North Sea, several hundred miles to the north-east; a spiritual gateway, hidden away at the bottom of the cold and briny deep. He closed his eyes and, with but a thought, Stone felt gravity bend to his will, the pressure of immense forces at work gathering all about him. He opened his eyes.

  And was catapulted through the air like a bullet from a gun.

  Faster than fast he flew, the tortured air shrieking as it parted before him, London disappearing beneath him in a grey blur, to be replaced by a carpet of green countryside. Towns, villages, whole lives being lived rushing beneath him, unaware of the demi-god that flew overhead. Perhaps they might hear the distant crack of a sonic-boom, miles overhead, mistaking it for a freak rumble of far-off thunder.

  An RAF base flashed underneath. Could the radar tower have seen him, the operator spying a fast-moving blip on his screen that vanished as quickly as it appeared? Unlikely; to Stone’s green eyes the radar waves that pulsed from the tower were as clear as ripples upon the surface of a lake. To avoid them was child’s play.

  Besides, no fighter jet could match the speed of his passage.

  Moments after leaving London, he was there, hovering above the North Sea. He gazed down into the depths, a flicker of a grin upon his lips as he saw what he was looking for.

  Then, in a rush of wind, he dropped.

  ***

  Hmm. Perhaps he’d have been better off not being rescued, Michael thought, as he took a spoonful of the salty ham porridge and watched it drip back into the bowl.

  At least while imprisoned the food had been good.

  The Brotherhood recruited its members from all around the world, regardless of creed or nationality. The cook was Chinese, standing at the far end of the room, labouring over a great, steaming pot, sampling his own wares from time to time. This porridge he’d made for breakfast was pronounced Jook, or something like that. Supposedly a traditional Chinese breakfast. It was vile; give him a Gregg’s bacon roll any day of the week.

  Michael dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a gelatinous squelch and looked about the ornate dining hall, gazing out of the open windows to the Red Sea beyond. It still didn’t cease to amaze him. One moment he’d been on the cold docks by the side of the Thames; the very next, here, in the baking heat of the Middle East, at the very heart of the Brotherhood; a place he’d not set foot since he had completed his training ten years before and been released to build a life in London, to mingle with the masses till his services were finally called upon.

  A place he never thought he’d see again, fully expecting to be martyred in his cause of bringing down the West.

  But here he was, having appeared in a cloud of black, foul smoke, the stench of which even now clung to him, despite having showered and changed. Of his rescuer, that lethal-looking man with the white hair and grey eyes, there’d been no sign. But, as if he’d been expected, eunuchs, sworn to the service of the Brotherhood had come to meet him. They’d taken him to a room, resplendent in its luxury, given him new clothes and time to shower.

  When he’d emerged from his hot shower, wrapped only in a towel about his waist, a woman had been lying upon the bed; dark, sinuous and full of middle-eastern mystery. Once he’d had his fill of her, she’d left and he’d slept. This morning, he’d come to breakfast full of curiosity.

  Life seemed interesting at the moment. What would this new day bring?

  Almost as if on cue, a servant of the Brotherhood’s highest masters arrived; a hulking beast of a man with a tightly bound turban, long moustache and goatee, the whole effect of which put Michael in mind of a genie. On his belt, a vast and unwieldy-looking scimitar. Unwieldy, perhaps – but from the looks of this chap’s arms, it would bisect any intruder with a single sweep.

  The beast stopped at Michael’s table and, somewhat to the Englishman’s surprise, g
ave a curt bow.

  “The masters command your presence,” he spat out in heavily accented English.

  “Well, then,” Jenkins replied, carefully dabbing any remnants of Jook from his lips with a napkin. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  ***

  The Hall of the Masters was long, wide, with a pool running down the middle, elaborate fountains splashing as far-eastern carp swam to and fro. The air was thick with incense. Along the edges of the room, between the great stone columns bedecked with coloured silk sashes, more of the turbaned warriors.

  The elite bodyguards of the Masters of the Brotherhood of the Veil.

  Michael allowed himself to be led through the room. Here and there on the marble floor, large cushions, upon which lazed women of varying races, giggling, chatting, all at least partly undressed and all obviously intoxicated or else high on opiates. He admired the view as he passed, the women matching his stare before turning away and giggling to each other once more. Finally, he arrived at the far end of the room, the marble floor rising up in steps to form a dais.

  High up on that platform, several ornate thrones, upon which sat figures he had seen only once before in his life, upon the day of his final ascension to being a fully-fledged servant of the Brotherhood.

  The Masters.

  To the far left, a swollen and heavily obese black man, an African of such considerable girth that Jenkins feared for the stone throne beneath him. His face, between folds of fat, wore a permanent grin and pig-like eyes that forever twinkled with amusement. Kaspar, Jenkins recalled his name.

  Next to this man, a woman, a wizened and ancient crone of European stock. She was thin, frail seeming, with eyes milky white from blindness and white hair tied up in a bun. Margritte, was her name. A seeress, he remembered being told, however ironic the term might be.

  To the far right, a tall, lean, whippet-like man with dark and furrowed eyebrows, a hooked nose and a mouth forever set in a look of contempt, as though he held within his mouth the permanent bitterness of a lemon. This man was Qadir, the torturer. A man whose cruelty had been legend, even back in the days when Jenkins had been a lowly neophyte.