Under a Veil of Gods by R. Anthony Giamusso

Under a Veil of Gods

Copyright Š 2018 R. Anthony Giamusso

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Indigo an imprint of BHC Press Library of Congress Control Number: 2017961406 ISBN: 978-1-947727-15-1 Visit the author at: www.bhcpress.com

Part One:

A Call for Help 01: CONSULTING AN EXILE | pg 9 02: A CALL FOR HELp | pg 20 03: WATER’S RISE | pg 31 04: DESTINY DIVIDES | pg 40 05: BLUE BLOOD | pg 54 06: LIFTING THE VEIL | pg 68 07: THE GHOST WITHIN THE SCIENTIST | pg 76 08: MIRACLES | pg 84 09: A DARK INTERVENTION | pg 94

Part Two:

A Change of Seasons 10: ORIGINS OF THE CRAFT | pg 109 11: AN ANGEL AMONG US | pg 122 12: BURNING HAND | pg 135 13: THE COUNCIL | pg 149 14: FISHERMAN’S KNOT | pg 158 15: AN EMPTY THRONE | pg 165

Part Three:

A Silent Storm 16: RECTIFY | pg 171 17: SHADOW OF A KING | pg 178 18: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS | pg 186 19: EVIL URGES | pg 195 20: PILLARS OF HOPE | pg 202 21: THE INFAMOUS BURTON LANG | pg 207 22: OF METAL AND MAGIC | pg 212 23: INVASION | pg 219 24: LABRYNTH OF GRALE | pg 229 25: GLASSINGER THE MERN | pg 238 26: A LIGHT OF DARKNESS | pg 252 27: EGGWARD AND GRIMM | pg 256 28: RETURN TO ILLYRIUM | pg 263 29: THE CHANNELING | pg 269 30: BY WATER’S NIGHT | pg 280 31: OF MONSTERS AND MEN | pg 284 32: BEYOND | pg 302

01

CONSULTING AN EXILE

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t a farmhouse between merging rivers, Montague La-Rose knotted the last rope that held together the bags he’d stacked on his wagon. The farmer twisted and pulled the jute twine tight in the morning sun as its waxing light peaked in the sky. He was five miles from the capital, already late to deliver the herbs and spices he’d promised the King of Illyrium.

It was odd enough to sleep past sunrise when he always woke at first light, especially on one of two most important days of the year.

But the fact that he felt nauseous worried him. Many people throughout Illyrium had become sick and bedridden, and the cause was unknown. As winds changed to winter, Montague’s medicine became highly sought. This single shipment could save hundreds of lives. His crops included some of the rarest plants in the world of Naan, and his arrival at the capital was most anticipated.

The bags on top were double wrapped in oilcloth, reminding him just how important it was that he made it to the rendezvous. They were for the princess. He’d received word from the castle that the 9

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king’s daughter, Olivia Volpi, began to hallucinate. It was a symptom of the recent foodborne illness. She was one of the first infected. But since the royal family did not want it known that a member of their bloodline was sick her condition was kept from the public.

As the high noon bell tolled, he climbed to the seat of his wagon.

“Let’s go, Earl,” he said to his donkey. Montague wiggled the bolt that held the splinter bar to make sure it was secure. “We’re finally on our way, three kingdoms to visit. I know you like that Graleon hay.”

Twice a year Montague delivered a share’s worth of goods to the high, rich castles of the United Kingdoms of Naan: Grale, Mern, and Illyrium, the first city and capital of Men. He also made sure to share with the dirt-bottom street dwellers throughout each kingdom until he was left with a small supply he kept for himself. Because of the situation with the princess, the king had arranged an early delivery with Montague, nearly a month before schedule. He’d bunker down at the stables for a week or two before leaving for Grale. In total, his trip would take four weeks. He felt proud about making his contribution to the rest of society, but it was also payday for Montague. The profit had to last for eight months until the next harvest.

For the past six weeks Montague had been secretly providing the castle with various herbal concoctions that helped ease Olivia’s discomfort. He was trusted by the king so much that the royal family had fired their own private healer and left the medical decisions for Olivia’s case up to Montague.

Most, if not all herbs Montague grew, were known to have healing properties. Peasants who couldn’t afford medicinal attention praised him. Since his family’s land was the only successful place nutwood and pigroot would grow, both known to produce oils that fight the deadliest infections, it was his responsibility to provide a healthy supply of those in particular to the healers across three islands. Although he wasn’t considered a healer himself, he still played an important role in public healthcare.

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A recurring dizziness came upon him. But the urge to heave was gone.

The journey to Illyrium would take an hour if he traveled north along the coast of the Noahl River. But if the shore was blocked by fallen rock from the Gory Hills he would be forced to cross at the shallows to the other side, adding at least a half hour to his arrival time. Earl refused to walk through water that came above his hooves without snacks to tempt him. If Montague could only afford a horse, things would be much easier. Luckily, the path lit by a golden, midday sun was smooth at the onset of the voyage. There were no rocks and the fallen trees had been cleared by the woodsmen as they did before every first frost. He was more grateful than ever for the men’s hard work. But unfortunately there was nothing the woodsmen could do about the scattered puddles of fly-infested mud that were leaking into low-lying areas of the path. The odor was pungent. And since Earl’s feet got wet, the donkey was slow to maneuver.

Suddenly, Montague heard a wheel snap as the wagon slammed down on one side. The displacement caused the stack of bags to shift, tearing the bonnet covering the herbs and hurling the burlap across the malodorous terrain. When the wagon toppled over, the farmer rolled out from the crash.

Earl stood there entangled in his reins. But the donkey didn’t fall.

What a disaster, Montague thought. Six months of arduous work were on the verge of being lost. Out of a total of twenty-five, there were only ten dry bags left resting on top of fifteen others which were soaked. If the herbs and spices weren’t already contaminated by bacteria, the moisture would surely promote mold before they could be properly dried.

He held his hands to his broken heart. Montague was devastated, but he needed to keep moving. There was only one bag left of the precious nutwood and pigroot. Reflexively, he stuffed it under his arm so he could hold it tight. The princess, he thought. With 11

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each dry bag weighing thirty pounds, the middle-aged farmer could only carry one other dry bag on his own. He loaded as many as five on Earl’s back before the ass’s legs began to shake. So Montague took one off to ease his trouble. The rest would have to be left behind.

Maybe, Montague thought if animals didn’t scoff it all up before his trip home he could salvage more. He covered the stack of herbs with the bonnet of the wagon.

Montague pulled the donkey through a mile of soft, cold dirt before they came to the edge of the dense forests leading to Illyrium.

Only minutes into the vine-choked path, Earl paused and his ears stood high. The sound of scattering in the long grass warned Montague that a pack of heavy-footed animals had surrounded them and were closing in fast. When a gibbering pig grunted, Earl trembled.

Three pudgy faces with opaque eyes peeked through the long grass, their mouths drooling thick yellow mucus. The donkey brayed then rose up on his back legs, dropping the four bags he carried, and ran off into the woods, leaving Montague on his own.

But Montague had met feral broom pigs before. They became vicious over black radish, one of the twenty plants he had packed.

This time he carried pounds of it. The pigs must have caught the scent, he thought. They could charge, kill him, and eat everything.

Fall deliveries were the most difficult. The weather and animals were unpredictable.

Although Montague was a mere farmer, he was quite capable of defending himself with a sword. But his hands were full, carrying two bags of herbs. If he should need his sword, he would have to sacrifice one to grip it.

The sounder ran straight for the bags that Earl had left behind.

Driven by the raging hunger of a broom swine, they didn’t even acknowledge Montague. In their ignorance, he stepped back into the brush far enough that he was able to reach another path, one parallel to where the pigs had ambushed him and his donkey. He went un12

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noticed by the gang of pigs now ravaging the majority of his supply.

But Montague knew he wasn’t out of trouble yet. He heard heavy, congested breathing behind him. A fourth pig stood in the outskirts of the feast, right where Montague was trying to escape. The boar’s hair puffed. It sniffed in the rich scent of a light breeze through its sopping nostrils, then charged.

Montague had to make a decision; either drop the bags on the high grass to handle his sword and defend himself and the last two bags of medicine, or try to outrun the beast while carrying sixty extra pounds of weight. There was a choice that was plausible. He placed one bag on top of the thick, stalky grass for a cushion, keeping the herbs marginally elevated from the ground’s moisture. The farmer couldn’t part with the bag that contained the princess’s medicine. It was too valuable. So Montague held onto it.

Unsheathing his blade with his right hand, he gripped the handle tight and close to the cross-guard. In the broken columns of waning light shining down between the trees, the pig appeared massive. Montague knew that if it charged he had only one chance to stop it before it trampled him. He took a step back, then another. As he distanced himself from the herbs the pig moved closer. But it stopped about ten feet away, took its eyes from Montague and snapped at the bag. The swine gobbled the herbs, snorting between bites.

With the beast occupied, Montague trudged onward to his destination. Now in the valley’s eastern shadow where giant sequoia trees lead to the land of Illyrium, he knew he was only minutes away. It was a good thing he held onto the more important of the two bags, he thought. The farmer was tired and his muscles were sore.

The last bag of rare herbs and spices was worth only enough coin to buy a new wagon and pay the blacksmith for new rakes and to sharpen worn sickles. Montague didn’t have enough to spare for the street folk at the markets. Nor would he keep any for himself. There were others that needed it more. He just didn’t know how he would 13

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pay for goods and taxes for the next seven months. Perhaps the king would cut him a break, he thought. Just before Montague’s father died, more than ten years ago, he had been to the castle with his parents for dinner. The royal Volpis liked his family very much and wanted to publicly thank them and other farmhouse names for providing the kingdom with the necessities of life. During the king’s words before the meal that night, he looked at Montague’s father and said, “You can always tell the quality of a family by the soil beneath a man’s home.”

The La-Roses were blessed with fertile land.

The trails leading to the capital were usually patrolled by officers of the king. But today, Montague saw none. And when he finally arrived at the northern gates, he didn’t see Sully, the man who had always accepted the La-Rose deliveries since his father’s time. Nor did Montague recognize the three armored men guarding the gates. He only knew the gate tender, an orphaned boy named Sam. “Good noon. I’ve had some trouble this morning. I deeply apologize for my tardiness,” Montague said, catching his breath. The officers, strangers to him, remained silent and stared blankly. “Sully, has he gone home?”

The king had specifically instructed Montague to give the herbs to Sully and only Sully during unscheduled deliveries. He peered through the lines of light between the wooden trunks of the gate, hoping to glimpse another shadow. But there was no one else walking the grounds.

“He got reassigned,” replied a guard who Montague heard the others call Gums. His brown teeth and thick gum line were permanently exposed.

Montague was cautious. The guard didn’t look like an officer of Illyrium; none of them did. And Sam, who would exchange a joke with Montague whenever he’d see him, wouldn’t even make eye-contact. “My wagon broke and I lost my donkey along with most of my supply. I need—” 14

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The men giggled and pouted, mocking him as if Montague were a whining child. Their breaths reeked of ale. The king would feel disrespected if he knew that his officers were drunk during duty, Montague thought.

“Please, I need to speak to the king.”

“And who are you? What’s your business in Illyrium?” the guard was stern in his questioning.

“I am Montague La-Rose. I have herbs and spices for the kingdom—medicines. But, I’ve had a terrible time along the way. All but one bag of my supply was spoiled.”

“You think a king would take time out of his busy schedule just to hear about a farmer’s bad day?” Gums pursed his lips. “And that’s it? One dirty bag is all you have for an entire kingdom?”

The farmer glanced at what little he had to offer. At that, he became even more disappointed in himself. “The wheel on my wagon broke along the river bed, dumping my supply. This is all I was able to salvage.” With such little product to sell, he wouldn’t even bother making the trips to Grale or Mern. Illyrium would be the only kingdom to reap the benefits of Montague’s rare herbs.

Gums scanned him from forehead to foot. “Is that why you look like a dog covered in shit?”

The guards laughed.

Montague regarded his attire and realized how sweaty and dirty he was from his unfortunate morning. Noticing the pommel of his sword tilting out of his robe, he pulled the wool across his chest, making sure the handle and scabbard were concealed. These men had already proved to be hostile and they obviously thought Montague was a fool. If they noticed that he was armed, they might feel threatened.

The farmer wanted to avoid conflict at all cost.

“Ben Paddett delivered a wagon full of herbs along with another two wagons of salted cattle carcasses. Like you said yourself—too late.

Now piss off,” said Gums.

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The guards turned. They must have assumed that Montague would just walk away after they’d ordered him off, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not without getting his herbs to the sick princess. If they only knew that Montague had been treating her with these plants, they would reconsider, he thought. But he chose not to speak of her health. He was sworn to secrecy.

“Didn’t you hear me farmer?” Gums asked, the veins in his forehead now bulging.

“Please,” Montague cried, holding out the burlap bags, “I have nutwood and pigroot. They are extremely rare and valuable. And I am the only one who can provide them. You need to get these to the castle. The king dubs them high priority items.”

“Ordering me, are you?” Gums frowned. “I’ll decide what needs to be done. And paying you for a dirty sack of herbs doesn’t seem like a likely option. I don’t care how rare they are. How much do you think a bag is actually worth?”

“My family has been providing the three kingdoms with these herbs for decades. The king requests them. If I can only discuss it with him at the castle—” “You’ll discuss it with me!”

In all forty-four years of his life, Montague had been inside the castle three times. He admired the architecture and enjoyed the fragrant smells of burnt-brown sugar and carrot butter. The last two visits he’d made to Illyrium were not traditional deliveries; they were for medical examinations and treatment plans for the princess. He thought that maybe he could persuade the king to pay him at a healer’s wage, which was much more than a farmer’s income and would last him well beyond the next harvest.

“My lords,” Montague said. They were no lords, but he hoped that flattering them with high titles would alleviate the tension. He kneeled and offered the bag. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect. I shall leave it as a gift for the king.”

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“You’re awful insistent, a little suspicious if I were to say. No one gives away anything for free,” said Gums. “Didn’t you say that they were valuable?”

“It’s more important for our lords and ladies to have it than me. I can always grow more. I promise you I have no ill intent towards the royal family.”

For a moment Gums studied Montague, squinted, then relaxed his interrogating eyes and said, “No, I don’t think you do. But I still don’t trust you.” He turned to the other guards, “Let’s see if there is anything hidden inside.”

Gums grabbed the sack. He poked at it over and over again, spewing the fresh greens onto wet ground, laughing.

Montague watched the last fruits of his labor go to waste. Finally, he turned away, disgusted.

“Hey!” Gums bellowed. “Let me at least get you a cup of wine to warm your bones before the journey home, huh.” The guards snickered. “See? We are decent fellows.” Gums looked to the gate tender, Sam, and said, “Bring him some wine.”

The boy ran out with a pitcher and a mug. Without acknowledging their friendship, Sam handed Montague the mug and poured a dark red wine into it; still no eye-contact. Under the mug, Montague felt a small piece of paper. By the anxious look on Sam’s face, it was obvious that he didn’t want the guards to know about the transaction.

Was Sam trying to tell him that the wine was drugged or poisoned?

Montague wondered. But the report of a dead farmer at the gates of the capital of Men would stir more trouble for the simple-minded guards than they would want.

His thirst overrode his caution. Furtively, Montague lifted the note with his fingers, up his sleeve into the fold of his homemade wool coat and chugged the sweet plum liquor. As hope faded, the farmer chose to let fate determine his future.

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After a few sips, Sam pulled the mug from Montague’s mouth as he was drinking and ran back inside the gate.

“Now off with ya. Better luck with the spring harvest, farmer,” Gums said.

On the way home Montague stopped at the broken wagon to see if Earl was still wandering around somewhere close, but there was no sign of him. He’s better off free than living with me now.

There were no immediate effects from the wine: hallucinations, sudden blackouts, or any illnesses whatsoever. If anything, it helped numb the pain. Fortunately, it wasn’t poisoned. Or maybe, he thought, he was a dead man already. He’d woken up late, crashed his wagon, been ambushed by wild pigs, and failed to deliver his precious herbs.

Not even a trace of them were left, the swine had eaten every leaf, stem, root, and seed. The possibility of losing everything now became a probability; his land, his home, his animals. Without speaking to the king for a pardon, he couldn’t pay his taxes and The Temple would seize his land.

The Temple, Montague thought. He cringed at the sound of the word. In the summer months when priests amass for the annual pilgrimage across the mainland and pass by his farm on their way south, he felt paranoid. Although Montague had never been accused of any crime against the kingdoms of Naan, he had a secret—a secret that would cause the rest of the world, including the king of Men, to turn on him and cast him out of civilization forever if it was exposed. And The Temple had eyes and ears everywhere.

Montague was anxious to read the letter that Sam, the gate tender, had placed in his palm. It was still in the fold of his sleeve. When he opened the parchment it read: We need to speak.

Everything suddenly made sense. There was no name attached to the writing, but Montague knew that the letter was from his mentor, Burton Lang, and he knew exactly where to meet him. Burton had been banished from the three kingdoms of Men almost forty years ago 18

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for speaking against the word of The Temple. Illyrium must know his secret, Montague thought. That was why the guards acted so harshly to him and why Sam couldn’t look at him. The farmer believed that The Temple knew he was consulting an exile.

19

02

A CALL FOR HELP

M

ontague La-Rose stepped into the darkness. A cold wind screamed from the belly of the mountain, carrying black sediment that thickened the air. Rain from the surface dripped down through the cavern’s stone ceilings. With the dwindling light of his torch, he listened to the black space around him and followed the running water, knowing that with each step he was descending closer to the core of Planet Naan, where an underground network of tunnels reached across the lands. This network was connected to the heart of the planet where a message station, created long ago by entities of the higher dimensions, enabled communication with the heavens and the other four known worlds. Each planet had been equipped with these intricate machines, as delicate and powerful as the human mind.

Just beyond the cave’s entrance were a series of possible tunnels.

Fire-light twinkled from the one. Montague followed it and found his teacher, Burton Lang, kneeling in front of a wall covered with ancient paintings. The fall air was much too cold for the skinny old man, bundled in layers. He had short, curly, snow-white hair with white and 20

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gray scruff. But he was no mere man. Montague’s teacher had come from the sky. Burton was an incarnated angel, a wizard.

At first, Montague didn’t speak. He listened and watched his mentor ramble on about arbitrary what-ifs and what-nots while tracing his fingers across the pictures. Recently the old man had been telling him the same old stories over and over again. Montague was getting worried about him, especially since he’d summoned him far west to the Kejin Mountains, a rocky range of steep cliffs and deep caverns.

They hadn’t met here for decades. But he had to tell Burton about what happened at the capital gates today.

Without any physical indication that Burton was aware of Montague’s presence, he spoke. “It feels like yesterday I sat just here explaining the great deception of Man to those who were willing to accept the truth, yet it was centuries ago,” Burton said. He stopped his finger on a small circle that represented Naan’s second moon.

Montague was well aware of what it represented. It was a rogue sphere unnatural to their sky.

A dotted web was drawn out from the foreign moon and across the circular world map, encapsulating the whole picture. Burton had called it the mouth of the beast; a symbol for the artificial quarantine placed around the planet by an invasive alien species called the Nekrums. The second moon was the home of the Nekrums, a craft capable of supporting millions of beings. And the quarantine was meant to keep any divine being from intruding on the Nekrums’ arcane affairs. With this veil of darkness in place, spiritual beings of light, or angels as they were called, could not penetrate the barrier and descend into the physical realm. But because Burton had descended to the planet before the Nekrums had arrived, they couldn’t attempt an all-out invasion while an awakened angel was there guarding it.

The farmer approached the painting, feeling the history rush through him. The rich yellows, deep blues, and bright-green inks mapped the historical timeline of Man—events that Burton had been 21

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exposing to him since he was a boy; events that were different than the official stories documented in the sacred scriptures of mankind.

Burton continued, “Some of my first students, founders of the Resistance, passed this information on to their children. Others were afraid, retreating to life on the waters far from the mainland, or digging down deep into the underground to escape the eye of the Nekrums. But no one is truly beyond their reach. The Nekrums have invaded other worlds before.”

“The emigrants,” Montague said, still staring at the painting.

“That’s how the islands of Grale and Mern were colonized.”

“Exactly,” Burton said.

Montague knew all of this. Burton had told him many times before. But it was obvious that Burton, not having many friends nowadays, felt better talking about it. Montague’s mentor had known that the murderous Nekrums would find this planet one day. And that day had come sooner than he’d anticipated. The aliens had been lurking in the sky within an incandescent biosphere, posing as a second moon for over four hundred years, waiting for the perfect time to strike— when the angel was caught off guard.

As Montague stood, still waiting to tell his teacher about what happened at the kingdom, he felt a trembling fear. Perhaps the terrifying ‘future events’ that Burton had told him would come to pass were finally happening. Montague dreaded the day. Suddenly, his problems with the kingdom seemed small. He tried to keep himself as balanced as his mentor had taught him, but he sensed that Burton was picking up on his discomfort.

“The king cut me off,” Montague said loudly. His voice echoed within the dark, wet cavern.

Burton turned to him, lifting one brow.

“There were men at the gates I’ve never seen before. The boy, Sam, wouldn’t even look at me. They turned me away. They know, Sensei… they know that you’ve been teaching me. They’ll—” 22

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Burton interjected, “Do you not remember what happened to me?”

“Of course I remember,” said Montague.

When the Nekrums infiltrated The Temple five hundred years ago, they set fire to the institution’s library, destroying every copy of the sacred document known as Gabriel’s Diary. It contained the true histories and origin stories of mankind before its arrival on Planet Naan.

Although Burton secured the original, he had faced a problem that was harder to solve than he had ever expected or prepared for.

The newer generations of the world were accepting a changing belief system about their race’s origins that eventually became not only false, but misleading, promoting a narrow-minded way of thinking.

The Nekrums were successful in deceiving the human masses into believing a false story of creation. That false story was promoted by The Temple from a new sacred document titled, The Book of Volpi. Over time, many verses were written and re-written by corrupt priests who were manipulated by the Nekrums. As many copies had come to pass throughout the ages, truth was deleted and lies were inserted. The Temple declared The Book of Volpi as the official history of Naan. It was assumed to be written by a god named Gabriel Volpi, explaining the story of Man’s creation. Descendants of that creator became the royal family destined to rule over mankind.

But Burton told a different story. He claimed that Gabriel was no god, but a human being who came from another planet.

Some of the very people who Burton taught long ago had joined the exiles and used his knowledge to form a cult against the three kingdoms. The technology he was trying to share had been turned into deadly weapons. Some exiles were known to use illusions to manipulate people and powders to kill or control people. They were called ‘mages’. Dangerous to anyone who wasn’t a part of their cult, they even participated in human and animal sacrifices to appease their gods, the Nekrums, to gain, what the mages called, spiritual power.

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The event that made The Temple present their case against Burton happened on a cold, snowy night at Illyrium’s four hundred and fiftieth anniversary festival. It was tradition to collapse and burn the remains of an old, dilapidated structure to make way for the new; usually a house or stable that had been built during the first rising of civilization. When Burton had lit the bonfire, it exploded into a fireball that shot straight into the sky, scorching it. There had been three days of darkness to follow, creating an end-of-the-world trepidation among many. Because of the incident, the Illyrium council blamed the phenomenon on Burton and ruled that such mystical acts or anything unknown to scientists would from that moment on be considered ‘witchcraft’. If the accused was convicted, he or she would be banished from the land. The people of the world had turned on Burton, who’d once led the construction of civilization. But Montague’s sensei had sworn to him that he was set up.

He claimed that the wood had been soaked in rosstic acid, an explosive compound derived from a desert rose. Burton tasted it on the charred residue after the event that night.

Aside from his lasting contribution to the three kingdoms of Naan, Burton had been cast out and dubbed an evil sorcerer among men who perverted the ways of the civilized world. Although he still had friends inside the Kingdom of Illyrium, his visits were now short, and secret.

“With the best spies coins can buy The Temple is the first to know everything and if they knew that you were affiliated with me, you wouldn’t have been allowed to leave. They would have arrested you and locked you away to await a trial that would guarantee banishment, or death. I don’t know who those men were, but the king most certainly did not cut you off. The kingdom is compromised. In fear for your life, I tried to stop you from going to the castle. The enemy is making a move.”

“What do you mean, you tried to stop me?” Montague was confused. He hadn’t seen Burton in over a month.

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“I did what was necessary to try and prevent you from reaching Illyrium.”

Montague pressed. “You did what, exactly?” He didn’t like Burton’s vague explanations, considering the trouble he’d been through.

“First I relaxed you to make sure you would sleep in, past the rendezvous.”

“Relaxed me? You mean drugged me? When? Last night?” Montague asked. He almost wasn’t surprised.

“In your tea, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Then I cracked the wheel on your wagon so that it would break. I’m sorry, but I was only trying to protect you.”

“But the princess,” Montague said. “She needs medicine. And I have none left.”

“I already gave Gretchen some pigroot and ginger algae. Olivia will be fine for now.”

Gretchen was Princess Olivia’s handmaid, also guilty of consorting with Burton, an exile.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me not to go?” Montague wondered.

“At the time, I wasn’t confident enough of what was happening to alert you, so I simply set up obstacles, hoping that you would have just delayed your travels for the day until I returned from visiting some of the farms.”

“Another test?”

“Every choice we face in life is a test, Montague. And we make countless decisions every day.”

Perturbed by his teacher’s confession, Montague had to ask. “And the pigs, did you round them up as well?”

“Pigs?” Burton laughed. “No. I’m not that mean. But with all of the obstacles I put in place, you still reached Illyrium, didn’t you?

When you arrived, I sensed it. You have a hard head. A ‘testa dura’ you are. I should have known that even I couldn’t stop you.”

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“Then if no one suspects me then why did we have to meet here for you to tell me this?”

“Because I need you to help me send an important message,” Burton said.

“Since when do we travel almost a hundred miles to send a message when you can contact anyone or anything with your mind?”

Montague had once witnessed Burton summoning a family of foxes from miles away to deliver messages to different people in different towns. One of many miracles he had seen his teacher perform.

Burton took his eyes from the cave drawings and looked Montague in the eyes. “I’m growing old, Montague. My mind has become withered, making it hard for me to function in this body.”

Montague had suspected that Burton’s ability to tap into infinite knowledge was diminishing. In recent years he’d become forgetful.

The old man would have to physically search for answers now, and he was not fond of constant travel.

A gust of wind followed Burton’s hand as he waved it across the small pyre. It went out. He led Montague further into the depths to another cave system.

Here, there were more paintings. Burton pointed to the ceiling above them. Drawings of dead bodies, stacked, with corn husks coming out from the tops of the pile, represented the first portent of the Fall of Mankind. “The Nekrum invasion will begin with a great sickness.”

“I’ll wager you can guess who, or should I say, what, drew this,” Burton said.

“The one that the Nekrums control, the host,” Montague replied. “This shows the plague from the prophecies, written in The Book of Volpi.”

When the Nekrums would take control of a human body, that host was manipulated by a technology based on microorganic intelligence that could operate the human body. The aliens were much more advanced than the primitive humans of Naan.

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“Yes. The Nekrums ordered their host to insert prophecies into all the copies of The Book of Volpi being reproduced, drawing out the Nekrums’ plan for invasion, knowing that there was nothing the people could do about it. The Nekrums find it entertaining to see people in fear of what is yet to pass. But the Nekrums left out certain details to mislead me. These scenarios are only possible futures. If the majority of mankind believes in those possibilities, those beliefs could generate enough mental energy to feed the destructive force of the events prophesized.

The Nekrums are trying to get mankind to help create its own demise by believing these prophecies. The human collective consciousness is more powerful than an incarnated angel. That’s the Nekrums’ greatest weapon. When people are afraid, or sick, it makes them easier to control. And recently, our people have been feeling ill after every meal.

The last produce and spice shipment was tainted by a substance created by something other than nature.” Burton gave Montague a hard stare.

“If one of the farmers is compromised, then our enemies have already made their move.”

Because of his teacher, Montague knew what the Nekrums were going to do, but Burton didn’t know when they would do it. Following the laws of chaos to keep their enemies guessing, the Nekrums remained completely random in their time of attack. They believed that an enemy who based his war strategy on ceremonial dates was weak.

Burton coughed, holding his chest.

“You told me that the Nekrums wouldn’t invade while you were here. I was born into my life with you in it, and I’ve studied beside you since I could read. And I never saw you ill. What are you not telling me?”

Burton looked to his feet. He seemed hesitant about what he was going to say. But then his mentor spoke the words that Montague never thought he would hear.

“I’m dying,” said Burton. “Just days ago, for the first time, I bled from a wound that I couldn’t heal.”

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Montague took a deep breath. “But you can’t die. If you are right about the Nekrums…we’ll need you.”

“I can’t live much longer. Don’t you see? That is why the Nekrums are starting the invasion now. They know that after half a millennium I can’t stabilize this body for much longer. I might linger on for a few more years as a withering old man, but with my power being anything less than at full potential, I am useless. In this condition I cannot protect the Volpi bloodline. If I’m gone before we stop the Nekrums’ puppet, you must carry out the plan, Montague. Since no one will believe me about what is happening, we need to call for help,” Burton said.

“Help? From Grale and Mern? What will three iron-age armies do against an enemy who has the potential to annihilate an entire species overnight and can travel the skies?” Montague asked.

“We have something they need to acquire first—Volpi blood.

But this will only delay their plans. If we had three kingdoms united together to fight for the same belief, the mind can transcend any kind of magic in all the worlds of Men. Awareness is a powerful tool, more than any human realizes. However, I’m not talking about help from anyone on this planet. Only an ascended master can help defend a misguided civilization, and since the Nekrums’ quarantine acts to prevent my kind from traveling in or out of the planet, we need help from a being powerful enough to break through. I was lucky to incarnate before the quarantine was placed.”

Montague had heard this many times before. Burton wanted to conjure a spiritual being, one who had experienced both the depths of darkness and the ascensions of love, into the world. He had told Montague that neutral beings were considered to be the most powerful in the higher dimensions. They were also known as the calmest, most patient, and largely, peaceful beings in the universe. Burton was once part of a spiritual collective with the entity he was trying to contact. Together they’d freed enslaved races from predatory attacks before. And on this day and at this hour, the Kejin Moun28

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tain was perfectly aligned with the star cluster in which the message needed to be sent.

“We have one chance. We must do this right. There are both angels and demons eager to enter the physical world. If we succeed, it is up to you to enlighten the angel to truth. If we fail, you must face the demon in my absence.”

Montague started pacing around, rubbing his head. “Now you are talking about dangerous magic. Well, for me. Burton, you are asking me to face a demon, alone. I have never done anything like this before. What if I fail?” he choked up.

“Of all the humans I have met in all the lives I have lived, I have never met anyone as strong as you,” Burton said. “Not physically, but mentally and emotionally.”

“Sensei, don’t be silly. You’ve taught me everything I know.”

“But I haven’t taught you everything that I know. I have kept certain things from you, only to protect you. I am sorry, Montague. I realize now that I was wrong for not trusting you completely. Because I do trust you—I always trusted you.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Never mind now. I’ll tell you everything at another time. There are few of us left who know and believe the truth. But you are the only one to handle this, Montague. If I could, I would protect this world for all eternity. But I’m afraid the laws of the third dimension will not allow that.”

In the middle of the hollow space there was a large bowl-shaped stone filled to the brim with water. Burton held his hand over the undulating surface and stretched out his fingers. “Do you have Gabriel’s Dairy with you?”

“No. It’s at home in the same place I put it the day you gave it to me. I never take it with me on long journeys—just in case.” Montague remembered that day like it was yesterday. The documentation of Man’s history, preceding Planet Naan, felt ten times heavi29

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er when Burton had placed it in his hands. From that moment, he knew that he accepted the responsibility of keeping it hidden from an advanced species that would kill anything that prevented them of finding it. The feeling of becoming the diary’s caretaker had been overwhelming at the least.

“Good. I figured so,” said Burton.

“Why?” “It can act as a conduit in sending messages far and wide. So now I need you to concentrate, Montague. Hold your hand out over the stone.” Burton closed his eyes and spoke softly under his breath.

“Help me imagine what is happening here and everything that I have showed you about the Nekrums.”

The water inside the stone started to glow and bubble violently.

The turbulence caused the water to spill out and splash all over their boots, leaving behind an empty concave stone. A radiant light blasted straight up from the empty bowl, passing through their hands and out from the tip of the mountain, up to the sky and beyond the stars, into the heavens. It carried both Burton and Montague’s thought forms of the situation on their planet, Naan, along with one simple request: HELP. After a few minutes the light abruptly went out. Darkness returned and the wind in the cave subsided.

“Go home,” Burton said. “Secure the diary. I need to check more crop and cattle fields. I’ll fill you in along the way. Keep your mind open. I’ll come find you.”

Without question, Montague picked up his bag and torch with its struggling flame. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but given your condition, are you able to get out of here without a light?”

Burton laughed. “I wouldn’t be much of a light being if I couldn’t.”

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about the author R. ANTHONY GIAMUSSO is an author and musician from Northeastern Pennsylvania, where he wrote and recorded five studio albums of original music. His passion for the creative arts began as a child, drawing his own comic book series based on the fantastical world that entertained his imagination. In recent years, he returned to storytelling and went on to earn his MA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. Today, Anthony lives with his fiancĂŠ and two dogs. He enjoys trips to aquariums and museums with friends and loves spending time with his family.