The Revered (The Earth Epsilon Wars, Book 3) Read online

  Now it all made sense. Cromwell had traveled back in time and somehow enslaved these monks to be his servants - entire generations of loyal serfs, existing with the sole purpose of helping Cromwell carry out his ultimate plan. But the plan was not ready yet. They were close but had not yet executed it. That also meant there was a good chance Rossiter was still alive, hidden away somewhere within these walls. Matt had to find a way to escape this room and locate him. “Any chance I could eat something?” he asked, now trying to sound gracious and humbled.

  Iosef studied him coolly before bowing his head again. “Of course. Someone will be by shortly. In the meantime, you must rest. You’ll need your strength.”

  “For what?”

  A beat of silence as Iosef looked at him, his eyes betraying the tiniest flicker of annoyance at Matt’s inquiry - the facade of friendly devoutness cracking just enough to see behind it. “Why, your salvation. What else?”

  Matt caught the lacing of veiled menace in his comment but nodded appreciatively as if nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “I look forward to it, brother.”

  Iosef mirrored the polite gesture. “As do I.” When he turned for the door and reached for the wrought-iron handle, he was suddenly jerked back by his neck and flung across the room, slamming into the wall. Winded and shocked, he was not given any time to recover as Matt cracked him hard across the jaw with his fist, knocking him out cold.

  Matt stood over Iosef’s lifeless body for a few moments, calming his breathing while he listened for any sign of alarm. As far as he could tell, no one outside had been alerted to the ruckus. Iosef was right, he thought. There was still much work to do.

  Matt tore off his jumpsuit and began dressing himself.

  Twenty-Two

  The forest here was dense enough to squeeze out the sun as Ally marched like a grim ghost along the banks of the river, her arms tightly crossed over her chest – an attempt to deflect the bracing gale that cut through the trees unmercifully. Having reached the edge of her own perseverance, she was battle-scarred and beyond exhausted, with each new step being more difficult than the last one.

  But she had to keep going. She had no choice.

  Up ahead, she could see the river starting to widen into a vaster expanse of thicker ice, with sharp crystalline turrets jutting up through the surface at clashing angles. Beyond that, maybe a mile or so downriver, the fractured sheets of migrating ice ceded into a huge, craggy mountain, its lower slopes carpeted with thick pine.

  She pressed towards it, another hour of hard trekking along the edge of the riverbank, her water-logged boots caked in snowy sludge, her breathing labored as she crawled under a massive fallen trunk and heaved herself up onto a small ridge. From there she pushed uphill another two-hundred yards, crunching through the underbrush to reach a small clearing. She looked out at the landscape before her, mentally assessing the treacherous path forward.

  And then she saw it.

  In the distance, through a torn sliver of cloud was the Zograf Monastery.

  It looked like the ruins of some ancient fortress, perched unnaturally atop a jagged spire of mountainous rock, its limestone foundations, and richly decorated chancels dominating the frozen vista.

  Ally trudged over to a nearby stump and took a breather, rummaging through her jacket to pull out a damson plum that had somehow survived the last seventeen hours. One side was completely flattened, its juices having long-since evaporated inside her pocket. She glanced down at the shriveled nub of fruit, brushed some river sediment off it, then gnawed into it. The plum’s sweetness had been replaced with muddy bitterness. She may as well have been eating decomposing plant matter. Nevertheless, she chowed it down, knowing it would most likely make her sick. She did not care. She needed something inside her stomach, apart from the mouthfuls of river water she had taken in earlier.

  Ally paused mid-chew when there was a distant crack of wood.

  She stood and drew her blaster, its fluted barrel probing the shaggy treeline until she whipped her weapon around to follow the riverbank behind her. With her heart hammering in her throat, she listened intently to the current flowing downstream, her dulled senses now renewed by a fresh surge of adrenaline.

  Something was approaching.

  Bushes snapped as familiar shapes materialized through the pale gloom, swiftly vanishing like phantoms. Dark and mangy, they moved low to the ground - a phalanx of primal hunger and bloodlust.

  Eyes agog, Ally watched them a moment longer, calculating their rate of advance and her odds of surviving another attack. It was obvious this pack was not done with her yet.

  She turned and sprinted back towards the riverbank, the excited yips behind her sounding like flanking commands. She knew they were maneuvering to surround her, so she had to reach the river before they did.

  Too late.

  As she reached the lip of the small ridge, three wolves zipped by underneath her, hitting full stride as they raced along the riverbank to move into position.

  She shifted direction and kept low, her blaster sweeping tightly, her numb index finger wrapped snuggly around its trigger. She had enough rounds to cause some serious damage to each wolf individually, but if the entire pack chose to attack at once, she would not stand a chance in hell. She slowed her pace momentarily as something ahead began to take form.

  Just visible through the heavy shroud of trees, there was a rudimentary square hole at the base of a steep mound. It was the dilapidated entrance to an old mine.

  She broke position and tore towards it at full sprint, the bestial growls right behind her now, almost snapping at her heels. Upon reaching it, she charged through a thin mottle of foliage that had naturally formed over the entrance.

  Once inside the tunnel, she twirled around to see ribbons of dark shadow blur past the entrance, their snarls growing increasingly agitated. Remarkably, none of the wolves had followed her inside. She had to assume this abandoned mine was something neither her nor the wolves had accounted for. Perhaps they were wary of pursuing her in unfamiliar territory.

  Breathing a well-earned sigh of relief, Ally turned and kept moving, the darkness swallowing her as the pack’s agitated snarls faded into the ether. The deeper she pushed, the more the tunnel stunk of damp earth and rust. The steel tracks underneath her boots were buckled and bent, making her steps clumsy. When her boots splashed into a deep puddle of boggy water, the cold shot up her leg like a million needles. She fumbled through her jacket in the rancid darkness, pulling out the lighter she had stolen earlier, praying it had not been damaged. Her thumb struck the flint wheel repeatedly, tiny sparks of light teasing her before a flame ignited.

  She held the quivering flame up as high as she could and peered through the darkness, only to see an impenetrable wall of black stone a few feet ahead. She swung back around, the flame now warping macabre shadows across the tunnel walls. Her eyes landed on something in the direction she had just come from.

  It was another smaller tunnel she had passed by.

  Suppressing the wave of claustrophobic panic that kept threatening to overtake her, she started wading towards it, duck-walking as she entered through the low clearance. The water was now waist-high, but the faint kiss of a chilly breeze on her cheek caused her to brim with a small inkling of hope. There had to be an exit somewhere close. That was followed by a brief, speculative thought: what if these mine tunnels led directly to the monastery?

  Either way, she could not turn back. She pressed on, taking momentary breaks every hundred meters or so to preserve her lighter’s butane fluid. Without a source of light, she would never be able to get back out. She stood there in full darkness, her teeth chattering, clothes drenched from the waist down, nothing but the echo of her breathing, counting to sixty before flicking the lighter back on.

  The deeper she got, the colder the water got. The air also became thicker and mustier. The breeze that kissed her cheek earlier was long gone. Her feeling of hope faded with each new step as the air began to feel
more stale and dead. Fortunately, the putrid water had so far remained the same depth. It swirled around her waist like a black oil slick, having not been disturbed for a long time. As she waded through it, she could feel the old rail tracks underneath her, occasionally bumping a wooden sleeper with the tip of her boot.

  She eventually made it to the end of the tunnel and was met with a broad shelf of rock. It was elevated and slightly domed-shaped, and there was a half-flooded haulage cart jutting out of the water, sitting lopsided against it.

  She hurriedly sloshed towards the cart and flicked the lighter off, feeling her way through the darkness by memory, careful not to cut herself on a rusty edge as she slowly climbed onto it.

  The shelf allowed just enough room for her to shimmy into the next tunnel, which she did in total darkness, slithering on her tummy, feeling her way along the uneven rock before dropping down the other side. A dangerous maneuver to perform in pitch-black darkness, but again, she needed to preserve her flame.

  The second she hit the ground in the adjacent tunnel, the ground shuddered with a heavy creak. She flicked the lighter back on to reveal she was now standing on several rickety wooden planks that had been nailed together. They did not feel entirely stable. Turned out, the shelf she climbed over had not led to another tunnel, but to a disused mine shaft that had been boarded up. She was now standing directly over the mouth of it.

  At that moment, a black fury exploded from above, instantly engulfing her in darkness again. Hundreds of bats spun and fluttered around her like a churning tornado, squealing rabidly. She swatted and flailed her arms, batting them away while trying to keep her face covered. The sudden jolt of movement, and the shift in her weight, caused the rotted boards to give way.

  She plummeted thirty feet down into the throat of the shaft like a falling missile, her scream bouncing off the walls until she hit the rubble-strewn bottom.

  Dazed from the impact of the fall, Ally was not sure how long she’d be out for when she stirred back to life, groaning as she opened her eyes to full blackness. Despite her nose being filled with the pungent stench of damp dirt, the thought crossed her mind that perhaps she was dead. Perhaps this was the afterlife. Nothing but an eternity of darkness to look forward to.

  She tried moving her left leg and it hurt. Panic lanced through her at the very thought of a broken limb. If she wasn’t dead already, she soon would be. She fought against the pain and realized she could bend it. That gave her the confidence to sit up and check herself over. Nothing appeared to be broken, but her left shoulder and elbow felt deeply bruised. There was also a nasty abrasion across her forehead where she had clipped the rocky shaft on the way down.

  She took off one of her combat gloves and rolled onto her knees, feeling around for the felled lighter, her fingers delicately traversing uneven ground until she struck something metallic. “Got you,” she uttered victoriously. She snatched it up and thumbed the flint wheel.

  A tiny slash of flame ignited, revealing a narrow tunnel connected to the base of the shaft she was in. Beyond the flame’s reach, the tunnel seemed to level off into a shallow downward slope. Each side was also filled with old wooden crates. There were at least two dozen.

  After dusting herself off, she stood and approached the nearest one. The wood was partially rotted from moisture, but the faded ‘dynamite’ symbol was still visible. Careful not to put the flame too close, she gingerly lifted the decomposing cover to see around twenty sticks of dynamite wrapped inside. Ally figured these crates must have been a century old. Possibly older.

  She cautiously backed away, but before venturing off deeper into the tunnel, a plan began to form in her mind. These crates were brought here – which meant this tunnel had to lead somewhere. Assuming any tunnel openings had not collapsed, she would eventually be led to the outside world or the monastery itself. That was the only logical conclusion she could draw upon.

  Despite being lost in an underground maze with nothing but a lighter, there was now a sense of calm about her. Holding the flame safely above her head, she carefully picked up a stick of dynamite to examine it. The dry wick caused her to smile.

  Twenty-Three

  Dressed in a black robe, Matt kept his head low as he made his way along a winding, torch-lit passageway, taking momentary refuge in the alcoves that provided enough shadow. He eventually reached a long, perpendicular walkway that led directly into a small chapel.

  Bathed in shadow, he skimmed past the chapel, careful not to appear too hurried. He spied the congregation of monks standing inside. They were all reciting some type of prayer in unison, gently rocking back and forth. Matt thought the prayer sounded more like a low chant. The language was unknown, and he was unable to get a good look at what they were standing before. Most likely an altar or religious monument of some kind. Either way, he was not prepared to slow down to find out. He needed to find Rossiter and Cromwell. The order in which he found them was moot. One way or another, this was all going to end tonight.

  As he swished by the entrance to the chapel, one of the praying monks paused and slowly turned around to watch him pass.

  It was Iosef.

  Once Matt reached the end of the corridor, he went to grab a flaming torch from its wall-mounted bracket but caught sight of two monks headed right towards him. Thinking what to do next, he kept walking, head bowed solemnly, hands tucked deep into the front fold of his robe to mimic the approaching monks. As they passed him, one muttered something. A greeting perhaps? An inquiry? Matt did not reply and kept moving. To his relief, neither monk called out after him.

  He clipped off the next flaming torch he found, examining its construction. It was comprised of a heavy stick, with a thick bundle of rags bound to the top of it. The rags had been wrapped around some dried bark then soaked in some type of accelerant. Most likely oil or animal fat. Matt was amazed at how these monks had managed to survive for so long, completely isolated from civilization, living in such austere conditions.

  Matt wandered down another passageway and reached a shallow ravine made of stone that tapered into a narrow stairwell that descended to the monastery’s lower levels. He thought about how much he hated stairwells. It seemed whenever he found one, there was always something horrible waiting for him at the bottom. Gritting his jaw, he began his descent, glancing over his shoulder to check no one was following him. “Here I go again,” he whispered, steeling himself to push on.

  At the bottom of the stairwell was a series of man-made catacombs. They appeared to have been bored out of rock. The air down here was cool and damp, and his torch was the only source of light. He paused when he thought he heard the distant thrum of machinery. Shrugging it off, he began moving again, entering a small storage room that was filled with barrels of olive oil and pig fat. As his torch probed the room, he caught sight of something on the adjacent wall.

  It was a faded mural.

  His torch flame danced over a medieval depiction of holy knights in battle against an army of creatures. The creatures held a striking resemblance to the Afflicted - and in the center of this sprawling battle, was a shining figure. Godlike. Heavenly. Elevated above the fray. As Matt leaned in closer to study the details, it became apparent he was looking at a depiction of Cromwell, descending from the sky like an angel from heaven. The Zograf’s savior.

  He had to cover his mouth to stifle a cynical laugh. Cromwell’s inflated ego was almost beyond parody. He truly believed he was a god. These poor monks knew nothing else to be true. As far as they were concerned, he was the second coming. This ancient artwork confirmed that.

  Matt spun upon hearing another faint noise somewhere behind him.

  Echoed. Metallic.

  He listened for another beat, waiting for it, his eyes raking the darkness, nothing in his ears but his beating heart and the soft crackle of his torch.

  There it was again.

  A hard clang of iron. followed by a high-pitched hiss.

  He exited the room, making his way along a stone
corridor, the mechanical thrum pulsing louder with each step.

  The corridor gradually opened into a vast underground chamber that was bathed in pillars of artificial light. As the mouth of the chamber yawned before him, he got a stunning perspective of the entire facility, recognizing the frightening and unmistakable iconography of the Wraith. It was a subterranean world of black metal and wires. An eerie, industrial maze of alien technology.

  Matt looked around, his suspicions and nightmares equally confirmed. A strange familiarity bubbled through him as he took in the brutalist reliefs viscously etched into the contours of the wall next to him.

  He knew this was a creche. A place where Infiltrators were made.

  He had heard about them many times but had never actually seen one. Most people had not - even those that knew about them, including the Wraith. On Epsilon, these facilities were underground black sites that very few Wraith commanders were ever exposed to.

  Matt made his way down into it, following an intestinal webwork of strange cabling that fed into a bullet-shaped structure. A pod-like cocoon of some sort. Its shiny surface looked to be constructed from the shell of a giant beetle. As Matt drew closer, its shell dissolved into a translucent window, allowing the viewer to see the contents inside.

  A male body floated in a pinkish solution. Fully formed, but with a featureless face. Suspended in graceful repose, it was a blank canvas. An incept waiting to be born into the service of mimicry. Matt wondered what form this one would take. Another monk? A town official? A politician? A general citizen? Who knew how far Cromwell’s tentacles reached into this region? Behind the cocoon, strands of unintelligible data dissolved holographically like columns of digital ash.

  Matt moved through entire aisles of cocoons, each shell dissolving as he passed them. Fleeting human shapes of both genders drifted by his peripheral, gently undulating in a pink fluid. Matt was determined not to peer into any of the cocoons for fear he might glimpse another perfect replication of Karen.