Beyond the Heavens
An Empyrean Story
By Lisa Zaza
Prologue
From Eirys' Journal:
It has been recorded in the ancient tome, the Telling, a portion of the lore within reputed to be bequeathed unto my ancient ancestors by the Mystics, that we are not alone. The realm of Morlais, that has been our world for over eight millennia, is only but a small piece of the Infinite. There are those Beings, such as the Mystics, which can traverse between realms, and there are those planet-bound Beings, such as myself, which cannot. It is expressly forbidden in their laws.
Or so it is written.
I am Eirys, a Sorceress of the once powerful Angylion Court, ruled by King Byrne, and on his deathbed, Princes Glynn and Llewelyn. Perhaps my elders were right when they told me that I lacked the caution and respect for the Mystics that a favoured one, such as myself, should exercise. That to dare to question their authority was a brazen declaration of both my insolence and disrespect, but to dare to question their very existence was blasphemy. Ever since I was a child, I had a tendency to ask too many questions that were seemingly without answers, at least answers that I deemed acceptable to my pragmatic sensibilities, an unusual quality, as you can imagine, in a Sorceress-apprentice. Often I was met with a strained silence or avoidance by my elders, which merely piqued my interest even more. I dared to delve into those legends within the Telling and other ancient scriptures that others avoided due to fear, lack of understanding, or even limited access to their content. Indeed, it was my search for the Doublewalkers that led my people to their ruin.
Doublewalkers were recounted to exist in another dimension, their lives running concurrent to ours. When an Angylion was born in Morlais, a kindred spirit—their Doublewalker—began life anew in another world. Our lifelines were described as being irrevocably entwined with a world far beyond our tangible reach, or our waking understanding, if I translated the nebulous and often cryptic words of the Telling correctly. And the restorative powers of a Doublewalker's lifeblood, so said these ancient words, could save an Angylion, although the script was unclear on how much was required.
When King Byrne was stricken ill, the most sagacious of the Healers could not cure our mighty sovereign. Delving into the writings of the Telling, desperate for a cure, I took it upon myself to penetrate the Holy Sanctum, the chamber wherein resides the altar of Mt. Cadoc, a sacred site where kings had been crowned, and buried, for generations. High on a mighty cairn, covering the burial site of our first Sovereign, King Cadoc, and watching over the ceremonial rites of the Angylions for eight thousand years, was the Oculus. Forbidden to be handled by all but the most senior of Court sorcerers, I had never actually laid eyes on this ancient globe, but my sacred text declared it was a beautiful and unique treasure, made of gilded wrought iron, with the shape of an eye cast into its centre.
The Oculus held the key.
The Telling proclaimed that by casting the proper spell, and by holding the Oculus and harnessing its powers, that the passageway between our world and that of the Doublewalkers could be opened. In secret, I retrieved the ancient treasure, which, though surprisingly heavy, fit into the palm of one hand. Standing upon the sanctified ground of Mt. Cadoc, I cast a spell uttering the ancient dialect of my ancestors while I gazed into the centred eye of the orb. Caught up in its magic, I found myself drawn in, gasping in wonderment as I looked into an endless starscape, a sky so vastly different from our own. The truth within was revealed to me, as I saw not only King Byrne's Doublewalker, but also those of his sons, Princes Glynn and Llewelyn. But as I began to reach out, and beckon them to me, a detestable laugh filled my senses, and an ancient Mystic appeared before me, demanding that I return the Oculus to him, and take him to my King.
Well, a Sorceress apprentice doesn't get as far along in her studies as I, without learning a few useful parlour tricks. I evaded the Mystic, managing to retain the Oculus, and fled to my Master, admitting all I had done. But by the time we reached the castle, the Mystic had already arrived, and was commanding that we cede to his ultimate dominion, as was our destiny. He claimed that as a people, we had lost our faith and our respect for the Mystics, and would be punished severely, if we did not bow down now and declare our devotion before this Being that called himself Iblis, as well as return the Oculus. He claimed it had left a hole between dimensions, leading into the Nonentity. Just the mere mention of this vacuous abyss, struck terror into the hearts of all present.
It had been so long in our history since a Mystic had appeared, that I was not the only one who looked upon them largely as folklore. Bards had recited verses, lore had been written, songs had been sung, but the seeds of doubt had also been planted. King Byrne refused to cede dominion to any Being, Glynn and Llewelyn at his side.
It could not have come at a worse time, but King Byrne's fierce light burnt out, as he spat his final words at the Mystic. In the wake of his death, his sons stood fast, ordering the Mystic, Iblis, to leave. In return, the Being raised his hand, striking them both dead, and demanding once again that the Oculus be returned to him. If it were not, such a scourge would be cast upon our people that the Angylions would plummet into an age of darkness from which they would never return.
He declared it was written so in the Tellings.
The Elders convened, and it was discovered that the prophecy of which Iblis spoke was not quite accurate. While a period of darkness was inevitable, that "when the uncrowned Kings rise again, the souls of Morlais will be freed".
We didn't know the significance of that until much later.
Furthermore, once the princes were examined it was discovered that within the rapidly cooling bodies of Glynn and Llewelyn, a life force still existed. Iblis might have "killed" them in a crude sense, but they were not "dead" in the metaphysical sense of the word. Apparently, he didn't have that power. Somewhere within the learned teachings of the Tellings, and with the power of the Oculus, we would find a way to raise our young kings, and save Morlais.
Once again, the Mystic was sent away, and this time the entire kingdom felt his anger as the heavens boomed their incense, and lightening fired across a sky that until then had been fair.
As the sun set that night, obscured by choking clouds and shrieking winds, a horrible scream from the Heavens and a rumbling from Mt. Cadoc proclaimed the beginning of the end. An endless legion of lifeless Beings, each with a single undulating red eye, marched from the Nonentity, bent on the destruction of our civilization. Beneath the flag of our kings, our legions met them in combat, sword against sword, and availed themselves well, soon discovering through determination and prowess that even lifeless Beings could be killed. Truthfully, the Angylions as a race were powerful, strong, and proud, and there were no better warriors in the universe.
Then Iblis struck again.
Abruptly, the spiritless Beings began shooting deadly rays of light. Our legions began to drop en masse. With malignant mutterings and the careless wave of a hand, Iblis then transformed an entire race of glorious Angylions, into troll-like Odreds. We were quickly subdued, and our entire Race enslaved to serve these Beings from the Nonentity called Cylons. The Oculus was hidden away, deep with the endless labyrinths beneath the castle, its location known only by myself, for I was charged with its care, as its Keeper. I would die before I betrayed its secrets, or let its limitless powers fall into the wrong hands. Iblis disappeared soon after, apparently bored by our defiance, leaving the Cylons in place.
And so ten years have passed, our princes lying in waiting, entombed on Mt. Cadoc, sleeping their death-like sleep. As Odreds we toil in the ever expanding open pit mines that have erased any sign that this was once a green and fertile valley, while the Cylons rape our world for its resources, while repairing a massive vessel that somehow brought them here from the Nonentity. We have seen nothing of its ilk, for it has no prow, nor oars, nor sails. It is like some vision from the Underworld, and indeed, most Angylions never imagined a day where we would travel beyond our own blue skies, yet, say the Cylons, it can do just that. Every day we get closer to the vessel's completion, yet I know in my heart, that their departure will not mean our freedom, but instead the gradual enslavement of any other sentient Beings that coexist on our planet, and indeed, beyond it.
Ten years of enslavement. Ten years of pouring over the Tellings and other ancient scriptures I have unearthed in the archives, and discovering more about our history and just how much has been covered up by the generations that came before mine. Ten years of sneaking away to experiment with the Oculus. It is time to raise the kings, restore the Angylions, and to destroy the Cylons, and their horrid, fearsome vessel, for all time. The survival of our planet, and possibly others beyond it, depend on it.
I will stop at nothing.
Eirys, Angylion Sorceress and Keeper of the Oculus
Meanwhile, somewhere in the Infinite . . .
Forged metal struck metal, causing sparks to fly as the clang of battling swords echoed through the Endeavour's Fitness Centre. This part of the ship—once used to "store" hundreds of centurions between deployments, either to ground assault missions or as relief pilots—had been cleared, and then partitioned off into several smaller compartments. The male enlisted barracks, second galley, back-up air filtration units, female enlisted barracks, and the OC took up the rest of it. Mark Dayton grinned maniacally, as he and Starbuck came together, their weapons locked in a clash of wills, grey eyes boring into blue.
"I'm stronger, old man!" grunted Starbuck, grip tight on his blade.
"Smell isn't everything, Bilge Breath!" Dayton shot back. Starbuck hissed, and pressed forward. Then with a shout of aggression and a mighty push, Dayton half-turned his upper body, and shoved Starbuck's blade up. Using his knee to ram him in the gut, the Earthman pushed him violently away, launching the younger man back a metron. Starbuck nearly lost his balance, his feet skidding on the deck, and his lips curled back over his teeth in something resembling a snarl, as he mentally and physically regrouped, reassessing his opponent in a heartbeat, before he lunged forward again.
Oh, to be that young again.
"You ever try this?" Apollo asked Ryan, standing a few discreet metrons to one side.
"Do I look like an idiot?" replied Ryan.
Apollo looked him up and down pointedly, taking in the loud floral shirt, the cut-off shorts, and the sandals.
"On second thought, don't answer that," Ryan quipped with a grin. "Hell no, I never tried this. My heroes as a kid were Bob and Doug McKenzie, not Conan The Barbarian. Besides, it's too bloody early in the day for this kind of strenuous exercise. Half the ship's still asleep."
"Then why did you come?" Apollo asked.
"I'm among the other half that aren't," Ryan shrugged. "And the mess isn't open yet."
Dayton moved forward, bringing his own blade, similar in style to the Roman spatha, but with a longer hilt, up to chest level and swinging it horizontally, blocking Starbuck's attack, holding his ground as he measured the kid's form. It had started as a form of physical therapy, Dayton persistently cajoling Starbuck that he needed to do something to get his right shoulder strong again. Not only that, but Dayton needed an outlet to let off some steam now and then, before the rigours of command made him blow his top, and he ended up squashing Malus into something resembling an Electrolux vacuum cleaner. And of course, four of those antique swords that Sire Dracus had once owned had miraculously ended up in Dayton's possession, courtesy of a certain conman, that would remain unnamed. Dayton didn't have the heart to just hang them on the wall, when such fine workmanship cried out to be used.
"Come on, Whipped Froth, is that all you've got?" Dayton needled his opponent, as the sweat tricked down his forehead. Starbuck's hair was likewise plastered to his head with moisture. "My mother could take you . . . while hanging out the laundry at the same time."
"Strangely enough, I don't want to be taken by your mother, Dayton," Starbuck returned breathlessly. "And keep her fetishes to yourself, old man. I'd really rather not know."
"Hey, Mother Dayton did inspiring things with clothes pegs, or so I heard," called out Ryan with a laugh.
"I'll peg you, if you don't stop badmouthing my mother!" retorted Dayton.
"Hey, are we here to talk or fight?" Apollo inserted, awaiting his own turn. Like Dayton and Starbuck, he was "dressed" in protective gear made of rubber and cloth padding, overlaid with armour stripped from some of the wrecked centurions. Gloves, helmets, and shoes from the Triad Court completed the array.
"Does it have to be one or the other?" Starbuck returned.
It hadn't taken much in the earlier encounters with the longsword to get a rise out of Starbuck, making him lose his concentration and form the instant the Earthman was under his skin. It was a tactical necessity, and Dayton was a master at insulting and distracting his opponent, giving the Earthman the advantage time and time again, despite his greater age. Those skirmishes inevitably ended with Starbuck, who had lacked both skill and self-control, figuratively "dying". But to give him credit, the young warrior was getting amazingly adept at controlling his emotions during battle, refuting a certain med tech's claim that he would never grow up.
Starbuck pressed forward, the sweat running from his brow, and a scowl etched on his features, his teeth clenched. The kid always had a surge of energy just before his shoulder started aching just that little bit beyond tolerance. It was as though he was hoping to finish the fight, before he knew it would finish him. Dayton easily blocked the blows, letting Starbuck drive him backwards, knowing that the attack was tiring the other man to the point where he would make a mistake. His endurance had improved impressively, no question, but Dayton knew damn well that Starbuck would be feeling the effects tonight. While his upper body strength had improved significantly from the exercise, the prolonged side affects of a Cylon pulse laser cutting the Colonial Warrior down on Planet 'P' had left Starbuck with residual damage that didn't seem to be getting any better.
"You're getting sloppy, Steamed Milk." Dayton taunted him, as he felt each successive blow decrease in intensity, and instinctively knew that the kid was just about out of gas. He slapped the last thrust aside scornfully, using the chain mail gauntlet he'd had fashioned. "You done, kid?" he asked, considering his young study.
"Are you conceding, Dayton?" Starbuck puffed unexpectedly, the fingers of his right hand flexing slightly around the hilt of his weapon—an Excalibur-type blade that was just under three feet long—which generally indicated he'd lost all sensation in that region.
"Me?" Dayton laughed. "You're all done in, Vanilla Latte."
" . . . Because if you're not conceding, then you'd . . . you'd better put up your dukes," Starbuck continued heatedly in English, his Colonial accent sounding mysteriously European, as he lunged forward sloppily once again.
"Go, Starbuck!" Ryan laughed aloud.
Dayton chuckled, easily blocking each blow, more by rote than with any real effort. When Starbuck attacked again, he blocked the other's blade, then spun to the side, letting the Viper pilot's blade slide off of his, then shoving mightily. Starbuck skidded away once more. With a snarl of self-disgust, the younger man shook his head, and wobbled slightly, as if he might topple onto his face at any moment.
"Is Ryan trying to teach you English again, Barista Brain? Or whatever barbarian dialect they speak up there in Loon Land. Because putting up your dukes is . . . "
"Ah!"shouted Starbuck, suddenly renewing his attack with lightening fast speed. The tip of his weapon struck Dayton directly in the middle of his right forearm, and sang downwards, to catch the hilt of Dayton's spatha. It flew from his grasp, to half-spin off the point of Starbuck's own sword.
Dayton's sword clattered to the deck, and he stood there for a moment with his mouth agape and his hand conspicuously empty.
"Holy shi . . ."
Starbuck grinned that thousand mega-watt smile that could heat a small country, as he stepped forward and jauntily patted Dayton on the cheek. He looked so goddamned pleased with himself that at any minute he would start crowing . . .
"A fistfight. Yeah, I know," Starbuck admitted, not quite chuckling, but almost. Near enough.
"You . . . you snookered me!" Dayton roared indignantly, but inside he was swelling with pride that his young apprentice had actually disarmed him, by first making him believe he was tiring, and then distracting him with his novice and incorrect English. He laughed aloud, slapping Starbuck on the shoulder. "Nice, kid. You must have had a hell of a teacher."
"The teacher from Hell, actually," Starbuck returned fondly, glancing at Apollo with a satisfied smirk. "The standard is set, buddy. Your turn." He moved to hand his sword over to the other, but Apollo shook his head, hefting a Cylon centurion sword instead.
Apollo nodded, grim determination on his features as he strode forward to meet Dayton. "Just a short match, though. I need to go see Boxey before we ship out."
"Knock 'em dead!" grinned Ryan.
"Hey! At least let me catch my breath, I'm not getting any younger, you know!" Dayton protested.
"Take all the time you need, Commander," Apollo grinned. "Earth isn't exactly around the corner."
"Yeah, but we are planning a shakedown cruise today, and the last I heard, you three are the ones supposed to be making the final preparations," Ryan pointed out in a rare moment of responsibility.
"Party pooper," Dayton sniffed, lifting his sword once again. "C'mon Apollo, let's see what you've got."
On the Malocchio Freighter . . .
An evanescence seemed to surround the Empyrean Necromancer's crystalline ball, making the very air tingle about her fingers, as she held her hands lightly above the orb. With eyes closed, she looked within the swirling mass of energy that revealed all, but in messages so cryptic, it could drive a woman a little barmy. Slowly, Ama stood back, opening the span of her hands and watching the aura of energy expand until it was the size of a man . . . or a door.
Slowly from within the aura, a shape began to slowly become visible. Becoming gradually more solid and real, the form of a woman began to materialize, then solidify, her glowing white robes swirling around her, and long, flaxen hair flowing down her shoulders, well past her waist. Her features were delicate, and her eyes appeared to glow from within, with a spectrum of colours that could only be supernatural. Overall, she was simply breathtaking. A beauty so radiant and startling, it could only mean one thing . . . She raised her hand slowly, reaching out towards the necromancer, summoning her forward.
"Triquetra . . ." Ama murmured. She drew a deep breath, harnessing all her strength and energy, and letting her own life's force filter into the other's. Probing. Two swirling masses of energy connected, intermingling, testing, searching, vying for position. Like firestorm, ephemeral images shot through her, revealing glimpses of images long past from another world, interspersed with peeks of a realm devoid of joy and hope, and cloaked in despair. Evil reigned supreme. Ama jolted back in horror, raising her hands threateningly. The crystal orb was knocked from its stand, rolling onto the floor, and Ama let out a choking gasp. She locked eyes with the apparition before her, and roared protectively, "Be gone with you, Hag! Be gone!"