2

  Babylon

  Owen flinched into wakefulness to the lonely, haunted, song of some creature he had never heard before. Darkness still shrouded the room, but the moon cast a single ray of silver light through the narrow window. Just enough light for him to hold his hands before his face and convince himself that the blood on them had been just another dream. A long exhalation shuddered out, and he tried to regain some composure.

  He rolled over, but instead of his wife taking up three-quarters of their bed, he came nose-to-stone with a rock wall. That wasn’t right. The only rockwork in his house was the cladding on the brick chimney that he had done himself.

  Owen sat up slowly in the bed, which he now realised was more Spartan than even he usually cared for. It was little more than a thin mattress on a cleverly crafted wicker bed frame, and the mild temperature meant there was no need for anything more than a light blanket overnight. As he looked around, he could see that the room in which he found himself was completely unfurnished besides the bed, apparently only meant for sleeping in.

  What on earth … where am I? Where’s Mandy? His gut clenched and twisted around a forgotten void. Was that real? Or did I get sent on an absolute trip? What is going on?!

  He was on his feet in the next moment, mind spinning with a dozen unfinished scenarios at once while simultaneously trying to make sense of his current surroundings. A single, firm, strike of his hand on the stone wall confirmed that it was extremely solid.

  That’s not just cladding … this cell is built from the ground up with stone.

  The door was his next stop, but it did not even rattle against its latch. It was very well fitted and looked dense beyond the ability of any man to kick down. Any other time he might have considered himself equal to the task of maybe kicking it hard enough to tear the hinges from their fastenings, but an idea of the levels of skill and engineering that had gone into this building was beginning to form. He doubted kicking the door would do anything but draw unwanted attention. There was no point bothering with the cast iron latch.

  And sure … maybe I’d get answers. Or maybe something less fun. Far out … that had to have been a dream, right? None of this makes any sense. Why take me but kill Mandy? She must be here somewhere. I have to find her.

  Sinking back down to sit on the edge of the bed, Owen gritted his teeth in frustrated helplessness. There was nothing to be done in that moment but wait, and he hated waiting.

  Nothing to be done? he thought doubtfully. Dad used to say there was always something to be done. Owen chuckled reluctantly into the darkness as the memory of his father lifted his spirit some. When in doubt, the very least you should be doing is praying. And not just then … but in the good times, too. He sighed out some more frustration. I really did get a bit comfortable for awhile there. I’ve barely even picked up my Bible this year, and now I don’t have one. God, forgive me. I have taken so much for granted. I don’t know what to do now. All I can do is ask for you to show me. And please … keep Mandy safe. Why did it take me being so isolated to understand how much I had?

  Something heavy was lifted from his spirit, and Owen eased back down onto his back on the bed. He still didn’t have much in the way of answers, but he knew where to find them now.

  A bell tolled and drew him back into the present. Its tremors penetrated to his soul and reminded him that he knew nothing about what lay outside that door. Besides that, he had not heard a bell so close in a very long time, and certainly not one so musical. With the tolling of the bell came the realisation that the silver light was gone and had been replaced with the pre-dawn grey. Owen moved across to the window and looked out. The vista spread out below him filled him with both awe and the internal cave-in of a fresh hopelessness.

  The window looked down onto a city that sprawled out and away from the building that housed the cell, which told Owen immediately that he must be at the summit of a substantial rise in the land. The city was predominantly built of the same sort of stone as his cell, and cobblestone roads stretched out like a massive spiderweb, with the major thoroughfares culminating in large gates set in the towering walls of the city. From his vantage point, Owen could see a single, wide, road lancing across the plains and occasionally meandering around the gentle hills.

  “It’s like a castle city,” Owen whispered to himself in disbelief. “Where the hell am I?”

  The road disappeared into the haze that blanketed the foothills of a distant mountain range that was made up of exaggerated crags and staggered across much of the horizon. Rock outcrops of the same sort as the city’s dominant building material were scattered throughout the gently rolling plains, and a river ran past the base of the hill and through heavily fortified channels under the walls at opposing ends of the city. The way the new, golden, light filtered over everything did not do much to convince Owen he was awake.

  This is crazy. What is this? Time travel? Those look almost like The Rockies, but nothing else does.

  The door opened behind him, and Owen turned slowly, hands up to show he had nothing in them. A young woman stood there, her picturesque face proud and confident. She wore a simple dress of pure white that fell about a young and athletic body in a way that made Owen feel very uncomfortable. Her hair was blacker than a night in the deep country, and trailed down to the middle of her back in two tails, while her almond-shaped eyes bored directly into his soul. His heart lurched painfully then, as he saw a more youthful version of the woman who had claimed responsibility for the violent murder of Mandy.

  No. She looks much younger … and I don’t really know if I’m missing differences that I just can’t see yet. Doesn’t matter … she’s the same kind. She would’ve done it if their positions had been changed. Is this for real then?

  “Come,” declared the girl, inclining her chin imperiously.

  Unlike the other woman, this girl did not speak a clean and precise English, but sounded very much like a tourist dabbling in the language of their holiday destination.

  Without a word – but certainly allowing himself a suspicious look – Owen stepped past her and out into the hallway. For a place lined with cells like his own – as near as he could tell – the place was remarkably dry, warm, and clean. Braziers were set in the walls at regular intervals and the floor was mostly covered in rough-spun rugs, and that seemed to pass as the bare-minimum comfort for this building.

  “Follow,” the girl commanded, before setting off ahead of him.

  Owen obeyed, looking about for any further hints as to where – or potentially when – he was. His eyes drifted back to his custodian’s narrow back more than he liked. She was small, and looked smaller because she was alone; her head would not have even touched his chin. Her structure was delicate, but carried in a proud and confident way that spoke volumes to Owen.

  I can’t try anything yet. I don’t know who is watching. And I have no idea what she is capable of. I don’t know if that other woman drugged me or had some other insane abilities. I am well and truly off the edge of the map here.

  “Your door … not locked,” the girl revealed in her uncomfortable accent. “When you hear bell after sun, you come Assembly. We go now. Remember path.”

  “Where am I?” asked Owen tersely.

  “Speak when we say,” the girl replied with great effort. “You told where you are and purpose at Assembly. Patience. Silence. Aoshinima will punish.” She looked as if speaking English both disgusted and frustrated her.

  Owen gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to quell the surge of indignation at the patronising words. He did not like the feeling of doing nothing, and while he would be the last to call himself especially intelligent, that did not mean he thought himself a fool. This girl could either protect herself, or this entire scene was being heavily monitored for any hint of rebellion on his part. And in such a foreign environment, Owen had no intention of making a move until he knew a little bit more about his surroundings.

  They walked past wall after wall of precision masonry. Owen had already assessed the craftsmanship as being worth a fortune where he was from. But that only raised the question yet again as to where he was now. The plains outside the city walls seemed to yield plentiful stone – likely even more before the construction of the city – so resources had likely been close to hand.

  What’s a good mason worth to these people? Or do they use slaves? Anything’s possible, I guess …

  “We arrive,” announced the girl, smoothly opening a perfectly balanced set of hardwood doors with little effort.

  Owen tensed as he looked through to the immense hall beyond. Monolithic pillars supported a ceiling made from great slabs of stone, and the floor was paved in what looked like dressed marble. There were guards here, and all wore finely fitted plate armour polished to a glittering finish and stood to attention with elegantly crafted spears. They stood about the perimeter of the hall, and Owen saw that there were other prisoners standing behind tables, likewise to attention. Some were still entering the room – like himself – but most seemed to have already taken their places. His off-the-cuff assessment was that there were some fifty or so prisoners watched by perhaps thirty guards and nine other white-robed women – ten, now that his own guide had joined them.

  “Take seat at table,’ the girl advised, her curious eyes studying him carefully.

  Owen erred on the side of courtesy – more from habit than any articulated choice in the moment – and dipped his head politely before doing as he had been instructed. The table nearest the door he was entering by had one or two vacant spots at it still, and he took his place next to a sturdy-looking young man who looked to be South American of some persuasion. A quick glance around the incense-hazed room revealed that there were no female prisoners. The only females present were those dressed in white. Owen’s gaze narrowed.

  They look like barbarian priestesses, he mused, minor humour sobered with unease. And that is one nasty—looking god they worship. The other prisoners seem either angry or a bit frightened, but no one seems to think we’re about to be sacrificed to that thing, so hopefully we’re clear on that front. Still …

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  The menacing, golden, figure was as beautiful as it was terrible. The idol had the form of a perfectly sculpted man, the body rippling with masculinity even as its face radiated an almost feminine level of perfection. The image stood as tall as the ceiling but did not sully its hands by aiding the pillars with their load. Proud, haughty, eyes stared down at equally proud subjects as magnificent pinions stretched to the far walls on either side of it. One foot was raised up to rest dominantly upon the wide and hungry altar that stood in the idol’s shadow. The heady aroma of juicy meat cooking wafted into Owen’s nostrils, and even at this early hour, it made him ravenous.

  “You have been called to serve!” cried out one of the priestesses, facing the prisoners with her back to the idol. This one looked very different from Owen’s guide. She was taller, with copper-coloured hair that fell loose to the small of her back in a perfect curtain. It was only bound by a circlet of gold that centred a crimson jewel upon her forehead. Her English was perfect, and her words clearly directed to the prisoners. “Your lives as you knew them are over! A long life of privileged service now lies ahead.”

  “She just thinks everyone here speaks English?” snorted the South American next to Owen to himself.

  Reality seemed to pulse, and Owen staggered in shock as the priestess appeared directly in front of the mutterer. Her eyes glittered with a joy that had nothing to do with anything wholesome.

  “We know how to herd and group our cattle,” she laughed like wind chimes. “We have been doing this since before your people were eating each other’s hearts in the jungle to bring the rains, child of The Garden.”

  Despite the conversational tone in which the priestess spoke, her words somehow echoed around the hall, and Owen had no doubt that they reached every pair of ears in the place. The priestess stared the upstart directly in his dark eyes.

  “And you will speak only when directed,” she said with a dangerous smile.

  “You don’t …,” the man began to posture indignantly.

  The priestess laughed gayly and swung her hand about in a wide loop above her head. A fiery whip materialised out of thin air and Owen felt his mind and soul quaking at the ramifications of such a show of power. The lash flicked out and caught the rebel across the side of his face, and the man screamed as if his nose had been torn off. Owen stared, unable to look away as a luminescent blue flame danced merrily upon the man’s cheek.

  “Get it off!” shrieked the man, beginning to bat at it with his hands.

  “You are useless to Raashim,” gloated the priestess, releasing her whip and letting it dissipate into an explosion of glittering flames that rained down about her. “Save as an example to your fellows! Go down to The Pit in agony and shame!”

  The man’s screams increased in volume before they subsided into a whimpering last exhalation and his entire head was engulfed in blue flame as he collapsed onto his back on the flagstones. Owen stepped back in horror at what had just been done to the man, but also at how. It defied reality.

  “You and you,” the priestess proclaimed, pointing at two guards in turn. “Remove this thing.”

  The soldiers could not do her bidding fast enough, and the smouldering remains were soon no more than a memory and the lingering smell of burning flesh. Owen continued to stare at the floor where the man had screamed his last.

  “How do you say it?” mused the priestess aloud with a coy smile. “Ah, yes. I want us all to be on the same page. I will repeat the two rules you are to burn into your skulls from this moment on. There will be more to add nuance to your time here, but these first two are the beginning of your journey. You will speak only when directed to. Even if it sounds like I have asked you a question, you will only answer if I explicitly say, “Speak.” And the second: you will obey the commands of the priestesses of Raashim without hesitation or explanation. Anything less than complete obedience to these rules will see the scourge visit your backs. Deliberate insubordination will see your face melted from your skull like your foolish friend. Do I make myself clear? Speak.”

  “Yes,” said the room of men tersely, but with feeling.

  “Wonderful,” she beamed. “Then … please take your places at the Table of Raashim. I know how bitter a meal servitude is, but you will find – if you give yourselves time – that the Undying reward service. You will want for nothing. You must only do as you are told.”

  Owen took his place slowly at the table nearest him. Several other men looked cautiously at the place where their comrade had died, but all obeyed. No one dared make any kind of sound after the callous execution they had just witnessed. Doing his best to control the roiling in his gut and soul at the unbelievability of his surroundings, Owen concentrated on the setting before him.

  The tables were set with ornate dishes and cutlery upon a lavish tablecloth that Owen was reluctant to even touch. Mandy would have known what it was made of, he was sure. To him, it simply reminded him of the paranoia that had always accompanied meals with the in-laws and their fancy furnishings that he was worried he would stain. It had always seemed silly to him that people would use white tablecloths for anything, but then, tablecloths were a flawed concept to begin with, he thought.

  “Give thanks to Raashim, whose table you dine at,” cried the priestess, her voice as exultant as it was commanding. “He has deemed you worthy to serve his servants! He has deemed you fit to eat of his fare. Give thanks! You eat today as no slave of your kind could ever dream to! Raashim is merciful to the pliant and rewards the obedient.” She turned then, copper hair blazing with the reflection of the altar’s flames. “God of Justice, Lord of Vengeance,” she chanted, voice low and dangerous. “Eye That Sees the Wrong in Darkness. Bridegroom of the Bleeding Heart, Arm That Throws the Fiery Dart. You throw down kings amidst their sins, while also snuffing out more common things. You are Justice, you are Vengeance. You crush both the greatest and the weakest. There is no sanctuary to withstand your gaze. We give you thanks ‘til end of days.”

  A tension had been creeping into Owen’s shoulders and jaw over the course of the priestess’ recital, and he could see the same uneasiness among a handful of the other prisoners. Most seemed more intent on not joining the dead man. The prayer, however, was kicking insistently at something in Owen’s memory.

  “Thank the god of this Realm, and so your god from this day forward,” commanded the priestess. “For this meal, we thank you, Lord Raashim! Speak!”

  Owen sat in his place in a dumbfounded silence as, all around him, his fellow prisoners parroted the words they had been given. He had not really been given the time to think about whether he would allow himself to play along or balk at showing gratitude to a foreign god. Already, he could tell that his silence had been noted by the girl who had brought him to the Assembly, and her eyes narrowed as she stared at him like a calculating rattlesnake.

  Bloody hell, already on their radar. That didn’t sit right, though. What do they do to people who won’t worship their god? Will I get the whip, too? She said direct insubordination, and that seems to qualify …

  Several of the younger priestesses were beginning to stack platters with meat freshly carved from the carcasses turning over the altar. The sight and smell made Owen’s mouth water, but just as quickly, he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t eat this. The choice cuts being ferried about the hall by young, beautiful, women had been explicitly sacrificed to whatever Raashim was, and now he must either go against his own conscience or risk further irritating his captors.

  I would ask what Mandy would do, but I already know, he thought with a fond smile. She’d tell them exactly where they could stick it. Not the most gracious person in the world, but I often wish I had even half of her fire.

  A platter was delivered to his table, and he was relieved to see that there were also fresh fruit and vegetables on offer. He wouldn’t go hungry, but that didn’t change the fact that if he didn’t eat any meat, it would be obvious. An explanation would almost definitely be required.

  “Take and eat your fill, newly made servants of Raashim,” commanded the high priestess. “There is enough for all to eat freely. Fill your stomachs and begin your first day in the Outpost Realm with anticipation, rather than trepidation.”

  Fat chance, thought Owen grimly. Already, he could tell that there were very different mindsets among the other captives. Some seemed almost excited by what was happening – and Owen supposed that if he had nothing to lose and no one of note at home, maybe that would be possible for him, too. Or, at least, maybe he could be less dour. But there were also those who looked as if they were barely holding their terror beneath the surface, and then others more like himself who looked cautiously reserved. As if they were just trying to stay out of trouble until an opportunity to escape revealed itself.

  But is that chance even realistic? wondered Owen. He helped himself to a heap of roasted vegetables and a selection of fresh and preserved fruits. He hoped that would keep him in the good books. For a long moment, he stared seriously down at his plate. Is there any way for us to get home? There’s no way an entire society – I mean I saw the city, for crying out loud – there’s no way that’s just going about its business somewhere on Earth, right? That woman pulled a flaming whip out of mid-air and killed someone right in front of all of us. This is … I don’t know what. It’s crazy. I don’t know if escape is even possible. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how this place works.

  He ate on autopilot, musing on his present and future, and trying not to think too hard about the recent past. Mandy was in his thoughts, and he wished he knew what was going on, but was also afraid that the memories of his last night at home would be confirmed to be real and not just a nightmare. Most of all, he was afraid that he already knew, and was avoiding the truth.

  “Is the meat not to your liking?” asked the high priestess, suddenly directly across the table from him. “Speak.”

  If Mandy is dead … I might be joining her soon, Owen thought, deflating.

  “It looks and smells amazing,” Owen said truthfully. “I can’t eat it. My … my God wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Ah, of course,” replied the high priestess, laughing gently as if to a foolish child. “Your god has released you from his service. Look around you. Where is your god? Your god is not here. Your god did nothing to prevent you from being taken. Raashim is the god of this Realm.”

  Owen opened his mouth to reply but caught himself. She had not said “speak”. The high priestess raised a perfect eyebrow.

  “You contradict yourself,” she noted. “You obey one command while declining the other. Why not speak if you will not eat?” She let the question rest for a long moment before at last saying, “Speak.”

  “I am a prisoner,” Owen said firmly. “And I’m not especially great at knowing my … sacred texts, I guess. But I know what I know. And I know slaves should respect and serve their masters with honour while still holding loyalty to God above all. I can obey your command to only speak when commanded while also declining to eat food sacrificed to another god.’

  “You serve the god of the slaves?” asked the high priestess, intrigued. A slow smile spread across her lips. “Such humility and honesty have their uses, if genuine. Much less so if your faith is no more than an excuse to resist.” She looked up and gave some signal that escaped Owen’s understanding. Before long, a junior priestess had arrived at the high priestess’ side, expectation shining in her eyes. The guide.

  “Rushinidair em jia,” she instructed the younger girl with a slow smile. There was a twinkle in her green eyes. “I must take his measure.”

  “Ii, Ki Aoshinama,” beamed the girl adoringly.

  Here we go, winced Owen. God give me strength. I think I’m still riding the adrenaline of whatever has happened to me … none of this seems real yet. I’m dreading coming down off it. I feel like my brain might break.

  “Up, servant of the slave god,” leered the high priestess. “Follow the Little Sister, and prove your sincerity. I will look upon you at a later time.”

  With a terse nod – Owen didn’t know what else to do without being allowed to speak – he rose to his feet and did as he was told. He could feel the eyes of both his fellow captives and the other priestesses on him as he walked from the hall with his minder. And that was fine, he decided. This was all fine, and as it should be. He could deal with uncertainty. If Mandy was really dead, then his captors had murdered their only hope of a threat that might tempt him to betray his faith. If she was alive … Owen pursed his lips, a new go to that helped him suppress any sort of exasperated noises. He doubted frustrated sighs or huffs would help his cause here.

  If she’s alive … His heart cracked a little more. But I don’t think she is. The crack in his heart revealed a hollow, Mandy-shaped void, and the sudden sensation of overpowering emptiness threatened to make him take his head in his hands. It was only by sheer willpower – his gut clenching and twisting as if he would vomit – that Owen managed to walk a straight line behind the guide.

  God help me, he prayed desperately, the reality of his isolation from anyone who knew or loved him finally crashing down all around him.

  Rushinidair translates to “trial” or “contending with difficulty”. Em is a location or place. Ji translates to “him”, and A indicates coming or bringing something or someone (whether someone or something else, or even yourself).

  Ii, Ki Aoshinama translates to “Yes, First Bride.” The term for bride (Aoshinama) literally translates to “she without blemish”.