Thread: Anti-Heroes - The Volumes

ANTI-HEROES
VOLUME ONE

Dramatis Persona

The Good

Richmond (The Snake)
Repus Oge (The Wandering Hero)
Keaton Leort (The Artist-Scientist)

The Neutral

Zerachiel (The False Protagonist)
Eloa (The Shadow)
Metatron (The Reluctant Antagonist)
Umbrion Jade (The Fated Man)
Castor Angelos (The Byronic Hero)

The Bad

Michael (The Arch-Hero)
Dantalion (The Arch-Villain)

The Other

The Anti-Hero (The End)

ANTI-HEROES
PRELUDE - FALSE BEGINNINGS


Zerachiel and Metatron, Canterbury

He smiled slightly as he finished writing, and laid the quill down.
The black ink looked bright to him, as he watched it dry. Bright little ink-black letters. Neat, ordered. He knew where the letters were going. He had known before he'd started writing.
He'd always known.
Zerachiel closed his eyes and leant back, rocking the wooden chair on its legs. He looked young, muscular and well-built. Perfectly sculpted features, without blemish of stubble or grime or pox. A sculptor would have torn out his eyes in frustration, a painter broken his brush in two. He was all too beautiful, all too perfect.
There were few of his kind left. He knew this, as he knew everything.

He didn't open his eyes when the oaken door cracked, splinters spraying the stone room as some invisible force tore into the ancient wood. He didn't even open his eyes when the door gave, and the broken remnants were cast aside by some unseen might.
The room was dark, as it always was, Zerachiel having no need for candles or sunlight. He knew where everything was anyway. Now light streamed in, bright, orange light, glowing and burning fiercely, a sudden spark of anger, rage.

Metatron stepped inside. One hand burned ablaze, the skin unharmed, a ball of flames erupting from his very flesh.
His other was not so obvious in its intensity, but Zerachiel knew that it was deadly too, in its own manner. Blue, white, the cold colours of ice glimmered on his other hand.
Zerachiel did not open his eyes.
Metatron stepped forward. He ducked slightly to pass the broken doorframe. Immaculate white wings, like those of some giant dove, adorned his back, wings sprouting from his shoulder bones, skin merging with feathers.
Zerachiel knew him, had always known about him.
He was the man that was going to kill him.

Now he rose. Did not turn. Did not open his eyes. He spoke, his voice husky, suddenly old, aged. Weary.
"Metatron has come. The Church seeks me dead."
Metatron nodded, bluntly. His tanned face was harsh, deadset. No room for emotion. Not here.
"I know." Zerachiel smiled. "I know and I forgive you."

He lifted his arms, spreading them in a bizarre mockery of submission, the smile still broad on his face. An old man humouring a rebellious youth. A teacher, patient and wise, counselling his wayward student.
"Do it."
Metatron jerked. His hand rose, blazing flames, and gushed out, the fierce orange fire engulfing the writer in an instant, without cry of mercy. Not without pain.
The other hand rose. Ice flowed as fluidly as water, crashing in silent waves over the burning body. Freezing it in a final grimace, a final expression of agony.

Metatron's hands dulled. The glow of power faded. The wings folded, not gone, never utterly gone.
He picked up the page lying on the desk. It was thick, expensive paper, and was miraculously untouched by the fire still licking the wooden desk, the furnishings of the room burning and smouldering all around Metatron. He didn't pay them any heed.
There were words on the page, large, neatly inscribed calligraphy. Copperplate handwriting. Three words.

The Anti-Hero

CHAPTER ONE - HEROES AND VILLAINS


Richmond, Leicester

"Deputy Richmond."
Richmond smiled, thinly. The 'deputy' had sounded far louder than the 'Richmond'. A bitter reminder of his failure.
He fixed the smile and broadened it as he took the podium.
In the rows of benches before him, he saw the contempt, no longer hidden. Men who before had kept up the charade of political sycophantry now smirked openly, enjoying his defeat.
His failing.
"Votes in favour of Deputy Richmond for Consul of the Glorious Republic?"
No hands were raised. Richmond kept his smile fixed, his eyes glazed over, as he waved and left the podium. It remained on his face as he stepped off the raised stage, and walked off into the wings. Out of the hallowed hall of the Glorious Republic.
A man waited on the steps beyond. An old man, clothed in the humble cloth of the Church. His neck adorned with the less humble iconography, naturally in golds and expensive jewels, that were also of the Church. The epitomy of the Church's hypocracy.
Richmond sat on the steps above the man. He sighed.
A moment's pause, and the man joined him.

"You still resist us, Richmond." he said it with a smile, the warm, open smile of a clergyman, the smile that a passerby could see and walk on by. The eyes betrayed the cold mind behind.
"Your puppet did well." Richmond observed, as cheers were heard from beyond the giant doors of the Republic's hall.
"Naturally." the clergyman smiled. "We supported him."
Richmond swore. He watched with studied indifference as a patrol walked by. They wore the deep crimson bands of the thought police. A telepath walked among them, blind, guided by an officer.
He carefully kept his thoughts neutral, safe, comfortable ideas. A practised procedure.
The clergyman waited until they had gone by, and then patted Richmond's head.
"Be patient, my child. Prove your fidelity. Then we will make you consul."

Richmond watched the old man waddle away.
Then he swore.


Eloa, York

There was distortion, and then the shadow solidified. Where there had been the fetid, grimy air of York's undertown, became the poised figure of an assassain.
Eloa brushed her sleek, raven hair distractedly as she made her way into the alleyway.
The merchant shivered. He shook the thought from his mind. Something in the corner of his eye...a rat, probably, some trickery of the hazy fog that lingered in the streets.
York sickened him. It was a dead-end wastrel of a city, polluted with the thick smog of smoke from the countless smithies and foundries that covered the city.
Men came to York to make money and leave. Quickly, if possible. Those who lived there were presumably too poor to leave.

The knife came up professionally, running along the throat and slitting it neatly, like gutting a fish. One swift movement and the merchant collapsed, hands clutching at the blood that sprayed from his neck.
Eloa drove it carefully home just behind his ear. He died instantly. Carefully she freed the blade once more and wiped it clean.
She dressed simply, tightly bound black tunic and leggings, and a wispy, flowing dark grey cloak. When she disappeared, her clothes remained, and so she took pains to ensure they seemed little more than dark shadow.
As the blood flow began to slow, she inspected the body, quickly and professionally. A well-rehearsed practise.
The merchant wasn't carrying anything.
Eloa frowned. Then she froze.

The crossbow twanged. Eloa sprang. Her skin rippled, disappearing into invisibility as she moved. Another crossbow bolt zipped by, catching her cheek as it did so. The spray of blood was visible, and the spattered droplets across her face marked her out, but by then it was too late, one hand already swinging her up, onto the low rooftops of the York undertown, unseen footfalls marking her progress across the rooftops.
She was gone. The trap had failed.

Eloa breathed, relieved, as she reappeared, leaning heavily on a chimney stack as she caught her breath.
She'd escaped. Puny watchmen. Bolts were no match for her ability.

Then the rooftop exploded, and Eloa rolled, a shower of clay tiles crashing down around her. One caught her head with a crack, and she groaned. A bruise was spreading over her temple.
The figure was on the rooftops with her. He was tall, and thickly-built, his muscles like armour across his chest. A human dreadnaught.
He was panting, heavily. The guardsmen had hired someone with a power? What was he?
He grunted and rose. Blood matted his body where he'd crashed through the roof. Unnaturally strong, he tore the remains of a chimney stack and hurled it at her.

Ah, she thought, moving. Exercise.


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

The man stood quietly, watching as the horse in front walked, balking under its heavy cargo.
Behind him a troop of ten waited, waiting for his orders.
Repus shifted in his armour. A mail shirt covered his chest, and a steel helmet enclosed his head.
A knight. A peculiar, knight, the bizarre metal of the spindle-blade strapped to his saddle glimmering in the sunlight.
The men behind him were dull in comparison, leathers and furs where Repus wore chain-mail. Woolen hoods where he wore a helm. But their swords and axes attested to their status as soldiers. The harsh scars and weathered faces were their badge of honour, and united them with Repus, whose face was obscured by the leather eyepatch that covered an old war wound.

They were soldiers of the Republic, Repus the knight of the Baron Dantalion of Eastern Prussia, sent to this bright, grassy knoll that overlooked the vast mountain range beyond.
Somewhere down in the mountains was Repus' quest. His mission.
The horse carried the pitch and tinder that would light their way.

"Garant." Repus nodded to his stocky sergeant.
The man edged his own horse beside Repus'.
"We enter the mountains by noon. Have the men ready to ride."
He watched as the soldiers grunted, remounting horses and finishing their last swigs from their waterskins.
It was time to work.

"Sir." Garant warned, but Repus had heard it too.
"Horsemen." he nodded.
"Raiders?" Garant guessed.
Repus didn't answer. He unslung the spindle-blade and ran a finger along one notched edge.
"Ready the men, now."


Castor Angelos, The Cornish Coast

The watchtower stood alone by the sea, watching out to the Gaelic lands to the west. Invasion would not come, the watchman knew, because the war there had been won centuries ago. The war everywhere had been won centuries ago.
The Republic had sprawled out across Europa, unchallenged by rival powers, centuries before, and now relics of days past like the watchtower were obslete, mere memories. Castor liked the tower. It was lonely, which was how he liked it. Cut off from the world, from the Church, from the Republic.
He listened to the waves outside.
It was peaceful, here.

He closed his eyes, and gently landed on the tower roof once more.


Umbrion Jade, York

Umbrion finished reading the letter, and sat back.
It was short, and it was written in neat, copperplate letters.
He considered, quietly.
He knew the house described in the letter. A day's ride, perhaps, if he hurried.
His hand blurred. He inspected it. A fly lay crushed in his palm. He wiped it on the desk.
His agility had not let him down. Nor would his strength.
Eventually he rose from his desk. Below his cold room was the tavern, to which he paid rent. He could find a horseman there, and had both money and force enough to ensure a negotiation could be reached.
Once more he considered to himself, and reread the letter.

Downstairs, a door crashed, the sound of splinters showering the room deafening the screams and shouts of the tavern's patrons.
Umbrion grabbed for his sword. Both hands held it aloft, as he moved to his own door.

The decision had been reached.


Keaton Leort, Canterbury

As the sound of the prayer bell died down, Keaton finished his writing.
Another tome had been completed. He was quite proud of this one. He carefully tidied his quill and inks away, and left the page to dry.
"Ah, Keaton. You have finished?"
"I have, Father Jacobus." Keaton nodded, rising.
"Very good. I bring word from the Abbot."
Keaton's eyebrow rose, studiedly.
"This is unexpected."
"Indeed." Father Jacobus smiled pleasantly and drew the envelope from his cloak. "It seems you have your first field assignment, Keaton."
Keaton took the letter reverantly, and bowed. Father Jacobus acknowledged the bow, and left.

Keaton sat again to read. Around him in the great cathedrale the scratching of hundreds of other scribes' quills echoed dimly. The gentle murmur of their thoughts echoed quietly in Keaton's head also, almost silently, vague whispers.
He had come to the Church as a child. Too sickly for menial tasks, he had proven adept at writing, and becoming a clerk in the Church had seemed perfectly suited to the quiet youth. It had other advantages. At birth, Keaton's head had been deafening by the roaring of others' thoughts, trivial concerns magnified by his uncontrolled powers of telepathy. He had screamed, unable to sleep, his own mind haunted by those of others around him.
In the quiet meditation of the Church he had found solitude. People's thoughts were solemn, and came quietly to his mind. He had found he could distinguish his own thoughts from those of others by the age of seven. By eight, he could silence their thoughts entirely.
He owed the Church that simple debt, in that it had taught him to control his power. Not that they would ever know. He had long since learned that the Church was not to be trusted with matters of powers or telepathy. Father Jacobus knew, and had warned him against revealing it any further.
Keaton knew what the Church did to those it found with powers. He had heard the cruel, twisted thoughts of Brother Iaman and Simil as they went down to the cathedrale's dark dungeons. Heard their satisfaction as they returned.

He put the letter into the pocket of his dull, cloth jacket.
He had no possessions as such, sleeping in a stone cell with the other hundred clerks and scribes of the Canterbury cathedrale, and lived and worked within the grounds. He knew of the outside city, and had been there, under Father Jacobus' supervision, but had been no further.
He left as the prayer bell began to toll once more.

CHAPTER TWO - Metatron's Nimbus


Castor Angelos, The Cornish Coast

Castor watched as the storm tore at the sea, thunder crashed about his head and jagged forks of lightning stabbed at the depths.
He was floating, buffetted by the winds that swirled and clawed at his body, held up by his own powers of levitation, freakish, unnatural.
Beautiful, too.
He watched the sea and the storm and the sky and he thought.
Thought about the day he had seen him.
The Metatron.
The day he'd fought the Metatron and lived.
He shivered, and his pale, lank hair shivered with him. He looked unearthly, suspended in the air above his lonely nest, his pale skin and pale hair and pale cloak blurring into one, gleaming white figure.
The storm seemed a mere backdrop to the tempest raging in his mind.

The Metatron was hunting. He had been sent by his Masters. Castor shivered because he knew his time was coming.
And he had to be ready.


Umbrion Jade, York

The man sat by the door looked up from his tankard. The puddle of beer forming on the table-top was beginning to shake. He squinted, perplexed, then raised his red-eyed gaze upwards.
"Madame Leach..."
The door burst open. Splinters showered the room, and the man sat by the door screamed, hands drunkenly swatting at the wooden nails embedded in his face, in his hands, through his neck. He rolled aside as the figure stepped in, through the dust.
The tavern was in uproar. Those who had been by the door when it erupted lay screaming, writhing like macabre pin-cushions. Those at a safer distance now panicked, most rushing to the low doorway at the rear, where the tradesmen came by, hammering at the walls and shouting, roaring, the animal cry of fear and confusion.
Few stood. A man, knife in hand, darted forward and was hurled aside, sent spinning through the air by some unseen force, crashing into the bar and splitting the oaken surface, glass bottles and metal tankards clattering and smashing, glass shards and twisted metal littering the wooden floor with the debris of a ruined tavern.
Another man ran. The last held on, the fervent determination of the damned, the fool's courage that makes a man stand his ground with only a small leather club in hand.

The Metatron tilted his head, almost appreciatively, at the gesture. Then his head turned and the glass shards that littered the floor, greens and blues and murky clear glasses, rose steadily from the ruined debris.
The man's head turned just in time to see them move. A jagged triangular edge rammed itself through his eye, pressing into the grey matter behind and twisting. Another tore by, cutting his cheek in a long, fluid line, another driving into his throat, another through his forehead. The rest smashed on the stone wall behind, and scattered as the body tumbled.
The Metatron inhaled. Great white wings unfolded to their full, spreading and fixing, making his tall, lithe, dark-skinned form seem a sharp contrast to the pure, groomed dove-feathers.
He exhaled and inhaled once more, and closed his eyes.

"I am Metatron. Servant of the Righteous, obedient to the True Church. I know you are here, Umbrion Jade. I have been sent for the letter you have concerning a...an old friend of the Church." the Metatron's voice, deep and rolling like ominous thunder, seemed to waver. "Zerachiel. Our...old friend."
He opened his eyes, and snapped his fingers. A wooden table cracked through the middle, and Umbrion winced from where he crouched, in the shadows of the staircase coming down from his room.
"Run or fight, Umbrion. I want the letter."

Umbrion risked a look back up the stairs. There was a window in his room. It opened onto the rooftop of a smaller house beneath, the sun-burnt orange tiles of the York cityscape. Could he run fast enough? Or to the tavern's door? Metatron stood in the centre of the tavern, if he went for either tavern door he would be seen.
Could he fight Metatron? Could strength and agility fight...whatever Metatron was?
Could he?

Umbrion had to think fast.


Keaton Leort, Canterbury

Keaton straightened his cloak, and waited.
The low wooden door was barely more than a few cheap planks hammered together, and failed to conceal the hovel that lay beyond. Keaton counted two candle-lights within, illuminating what was apparently the house's only room. Keaton concentrated, and gently probed his mind into the hovel's interior. He felt five minds, wispy, ellusive clouds of thoughts and emotions. Four, young, buzzing with thought of adventure and childhood games. Dreams and hopes and fears crowding together in a mad cauldron of potential. One, slower, older. Thoughts drifting sluggishly, like fish, Keaton thought, sick fish waiting to die, drifting with the ebb and flow of the tide.
There was a scuffling, and the door swung open. An elderly woman, her face heavy with festering pox sores and deep gouges where skin disease had taken its toll, held it cautiously, ready to force the door shut if need be. Keaton doubted she had the strength to keep him out, let alone a debt collector or...yes...he gently probed her thoughts...her husband. An unwelcome face.

She saw the letter offered, the scrawling signature of the Abbot, decrepit old man that we was, and opened the door to allow Keaton to duck into the fetid gloom. She couldn't read, naturally, but the flowery iconography that dotted all Church paperwork was suitably impressive. Besides, not one man, woman, child nor crone didn't know what would happen were you to cross the Church.
Keaton was lead into the cramped, squat room. He tripped over beds, over waif-like infants who drove scraps of bone and rough flint around in the rags, games that sent cascades of childish pleasure rocking through their minds, and which forced Keaton to look aside. Revulsion? Perhaps. Disgust? For them? The Republic's poor? The peasantry that held the Church so high?

He saw the four youths, the waif-like infants. But that wasn't what the woman was pointing to. He frowned. Deeper into the gloomy hovel, a cradle sat.
It was of cheap wood, and filled with filthy rags, as he'd expected. It wasn't the poverty that stunned Keaton, the foul home the baby would be brought up to, the wretched slums that would be its life.

It was the child.

He couldn't. He...couldn't.

The baby was dead. The unseen hands that probed the air for thoughts clutching at nothing. No thoughts, no emotions, no memories.
It was dead.

The baby, unaware of what was happening around it, smiled happily, and gurgled to itself.


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

"They're raiders." Gerant noted, and Repus nodded.
They lay, unseen by the horsemen riding down in the valley below. A trail of horsemen, stretching out into the hundreds, riding at the steady, measured pace of men who have marched since dawn.
"They are headed for Baron Dantalion's castle." Gerant pointed. Repus scanned the trail quickly, his eyes picking out the splashes of colour among the drab, leather-and-fur clad horde. Chieftans. Leaders. Bright flags and gory banners. The occasional chairot paraded by a full retinue of barbarian clansmen.
"They don't go to do siege." Repus observed, unable to see sign of machinery or disassembled carts. "They would never force the baron to take to the field."
"If they do not go to war then where do they go?" Gerant wondered, his eyes wide as the procession gradually began to thin.

"To the glory of the rebellion!"
Repus had turned before the voice had finished speaking, his spindle-blade twirling in one hand. Garant turned more slowly, his axe quickly hefted in one hand and readied, both soldiers ready to fight the stranger.
The man was short, and had mottled skin. A bone was driven through his nose, and crude metal rings ran along his face, following the curve of his jaw and cheek. Faded tattoos darkened his brow and eyes, making his gaze seem deep and fearsome.
He wore little else, but for the shapeless mass of what appeared to be bear-skin. A long, iron sword hung in one hand, unprepared.
He smiled, raising his hands in mock surrender at the two. From behind him the other soldiers of Repus' party joined them, surrounding him sheepishly, watching for Repus' order.
"Speak quickly." Gerant intoned, eyeing the sword carefully, his muscles tense, poised.
The man smiled again.

"Please, be at peace, friends. I mean you no harm. The Lord Dantalion has called upon our tribe to assemble our forces at his castle, to join there with all the assembled tribes of Eastern Prussia, and from there to march with him westwards, uniting barbarian horde after barbarian horde in our wake. We are your allies, surely, Repus Oge? Are you not, after all, a knight of the Lord Dantalion?"
The soldiers frowned, confused.
"Lord Dantalion?" Garant echoed. "Unite the barbarian hordes?"
"What is this rebellion, barbarian?" Repus warned, keeping his grip on the spindle-blade tight.
The barbarian spread his arms and laughed. "Why, the rebellion of freedom. Of the People. Already in the citadels of York, Coventry and Leicester and Canterbury itself, rebellion stirs. Lord Dantalion...or, Baron as the Republic once named him...has seen the corruption of the Church and he has come to realise that this is the only way. The way of fire. We must unite the barbarians, men like myself, and drive into England. Purge the land of the tainted Church and reform the Republic for the People. I have spent many years in the halls of the Lord Dantalion, and long has he spoken to me and debated such matters. Now is the time. He is certain."
Repus frowned. "I have heard nothing of this."
The barbarian laughed. "Repus Oge, you are part of this nonetheless. Why do you think you have been sent to the mountains? For some old sword from a dusty tomb under the rocks?"
He leant closer, and Repus tensed. He could smell the sweat on the barbarian's body, the stench of the bear pelt.
"The sword is old. Very old. It is to be Lord Dantalion's greatest weapon in the fight to reclaim the known world from the Church and its Republic. It is the sword that will defeat the Metatron."

The barbarian smiled, knowledgeably. Repus frowned, and Gerant swore.
"Rebellion...this wasn't what I signed up for."
Repus turned. Gerant shrugged.
"What he's talking about is serious, Repus. A war with the Republic itself...we'd be crushed. A handful of Prussian wildmen won't stop that. They'll have us hung up on the cathedrales."
One of the soldiers nodded, warily. His voice was garbled, mangled by an old wound that had left his tongue a viscious black colour, and which made it flail wildly as he spoke, as though fighting to escape.
"We should move on. Find a new baron to pay our wage. Let Dantalion go to Hell if he pleases."
Another shook his head. "This is it. The rebellion we have been promised. I say we get Dantalion his sword and go to war. To freedom."

Repus sighed. The barbarian smiled, politely, an obtuse expression for a barbarian.

Rebellion? Self-preservation? One little quest into the mountains suddenly seemed far more complex than Repus had first thought.


Eloa, York

Without thinking, Eloa dived for the broken mess that the dreadnaught had broken through. She rolled as she fell into the house below, the top floor, a small room. Dark, shadows that Eloa vanished into, the only sign of her the ripple of the black cloak as she darted for the window.
She tore at the wooden shutters.
Nothing. Without missing a beat, she drove her knife into the lock and forced it open, throwing it aside and again grabbing at the shutters.
There was a shudder and a cloud of dust. The dreadnaught had followed her down.
She coughed, just as the shutters came open. Iron bars. No escape.
She turned. The dreadnaught stared at her, breathing heavily, a body covered in far too much muscle slick with warm sweat. Nostrils flaring as it saw her.
She looked down. She was covered in dust. Pale, chalky dust that coated her like a second, very visible, skin. She looked up.
The hammer blow knocked her over, and sent her crashing into the stone wall. She rose, dazed, just as the next fist came in.
She ducked it. The knife flashed and drove into the club-like fist, the blade ramming home into flesh and jarring at the bone.
The dreadnaught roared, drawing back its hand and flailing, knocking her over. The knife seemed tiny, a toy stuck in his oversized thumb.
She ran, one foot flexing against the wall and then springing her off, catching up the dagger as she sprang over the muscled monstrosity.

She spun, poised, ready. Ducked low, a fighter's stance. Blood dried steadily on her forehead.
The man turned to face her. Paused.
Then toppled over.
Eloa hesitated, waiting to see if the dreadnaught would move. It exhaled slowly, sending chalky dust spiralling up.

There was a slow, echoeing clap. Eloa spun again.
"Very good, very good. My apologies for the inconvinience. You will understand the principle of testing your allies first?"
The man walked into the room confidently, stepping gently over the sleeping powerhouse. He smiled, warmly. A politician's smile.
"He can't keep going for long, poor thing. Incredible strength, weak endurance. Not one of nature's finest gifts."
He paused, an arm's length away.
"But you...invisibility? I just had to see the invisible assassain for myself. Had to know...I believe we can speak frankly? My name is Richmond. I am a deputy of the Republic. And I have an offer for you."

"The Republic's deputies meet once again to congratulate the new consul, our leader. The man who leads all the Republic, all the known world. He is little more than a puppet to the Church, as it has always been, as it always will be." Richmond's face darkened, the bitterness evident.
Then he smiled.
"I will attend the meeting. If you agree, you will also. You see, your...gift...gives me the perfect opportunity. You can get within the Republic's grand chamber in Leicester. I will be the one politician there with an edge - a weapon. You. With you as my edge, I will effectively control the chamber of the Republic's highest politicians. All the deputies under my grasp. The new consul, too."
Eloa smiled, slightly. "You would hold it a day, if not less. They wouldn't just sign over power to you because you had an assassain with you and then let you walk free."
"You're right." Richmond smiled, further. "But they would. An hour, that's all I need. Long enough to use authority to spread the word. To pass the proposal that will end this tyranny and begin a new era, one of peace and freedom and justice."
Eloa frowned.
"One proposal." Richmond nodded. "Passed and decreed before anyone can stop us. The proposal that to outlaw all those born with special powers, to name them traitors to nature and the Republic. The one proposal that would split the Republic so utterly...and allow myself to rebuild it. To remake it properly."

He smiled, slightly, and reached out a hand.

"So, Eloa...are you in?"


Keaton Leort, York

Keaton shook himself. Someone was shouting.
He didn't run out into the crowded street. He didn't need to. He stretched his mind's invisible fingertips and felt, felt into the mashed conscience of the mob outside.
"Who is that...he's got wings...he's headed this way...run, we have to run...his hand, it's, burning...have to run...have to get away...he's coming...he's coming for the child.
Keaton rocked with the force of the last thought. Coming down the street was a winged man, his hand on fire...pyro manipulation, Keaton recognised from the tomes and registers he kept for the Church's dusty records...a man who was coming for the child without thought.

Keaton looked at the baby, which laughed.

Things were going to get ugly.


Dierdro Dayo, York

Dierdro Dayo felt the rush of air on his face as the figure swooped overhead.
He watched as the figure swept onwards, great white wings beating steadily, sending giant waves of air down onto the faces on the scared townsfolk rushing about, panicking for panic's sake.
He looked to his kusara-karna. Then back to the figure.
Was someone in trouble?

He started to run.

CHAPTER THREE - Angicide


Keaton Leort and Dierdro Dayo and Michael, York

The winged figure landed silently, admist the screams and shouts of the crowd in the narrow street. He looked to the hovel before him, and spoke.
"I have come for the child."
Dierdro pushed his way to the front of the crowd that now circled the figure, drawn by their own sense of awed fear. He grimaced, blue sparks flickering over his fingertips.
A child was crying from inside the hovel. The crashing of someone tumbling over rags, tumbling as they scrabbled to protect their children. The figure tilted his head, contemplative. Flawless pale skin and brilliant blond hair almost glowed in the dreary smog that covered the street, his dove-white wings pure, beautiful. Terrifying. Deathly.
"I am Michael. I come now to claim the child born as the Anti-Hero. To claim it and destroy it."
As he spoke, he began to stride. The door's cheap wooden planks burst into flame, and he paused to kick down the burnt cinders in one fluid movement.

Then Dierdro threw the electricity, and all Hell let loose.


Eloa and Richmond, York

Eloa smiled, thinly. She wasn't thinking of revolution, of coups and civil war. Memories clung to her thoughts like pale ghosts, and faded as she grasped at them. She had a past to recover. Politics was no concern of an assassain.
She grasped his hand. He held her eye, firmly.
"A handshake is just a handshake. I would never trust a deputy blindly." she warned.
He laughed. "You would be right not to. Guards!"
Eloa released the hand and sprang, disappearing as she scrabbled out onto the rooftop. Richmond stood and smiled vaguely as the guards burst through the door. He calmly waved a crossbow aside.
He smiled again as he left. He had been slow. Not to worry, he doubted she would have reason to warn the Republic of his treachery. She knew the game. He laughed when he realised he didn't have the heart to track her down.
It wouldn't be sporting.

Eloa rolled on the rooftop, scattering broken tiles as she went. She skirted down the side of the house, reappearing as she did so. She landed in an alley, gently and silently, like a cat. Dusting herself down, she whistled slightly as she stepped out onto the narrow street, the bleak light of the midday smog welcoming her once more.
Another mark killed, another villain escaped. A good day's work.

Then the figure crashed into the wall beside her.


Keaton Leort and Michael, York

Keaton watched the baby, thoughtful. Outside, the figure landed to the screams and shouts of the crowd. He had to act fast.
Abomination.
He was vaguely aware of the old crone clutching at his arm.
"It must be cleansed in the name of the Church. Regardless of the sacrifice."
He stepped to the cradle. Didn't turn to know that there was an axe. Underneath the bundle of rags in the corner. The husband's. He reached for it.
"I have come for the child."
Keaton heard the voice but ignored it. He lifted the axe, felt the roughness, the imperfections in the handle. Saw the notches on the edge. The axe was imperfect. As was the child. It must be purged.
"This is necessary. I cannot let whatever is outside reach it. It must be cleansed."
Keaton spoke quietly, and the old woman cried, stumbling and falling as she tried to clutch his arm. One of the children began to wail.

Keaton looked at the baby in the cradle. It alone seemed unaware of the chaos surrounding it. Blissfully ignorant of the forces at work. The heresy that must be brought to justice.
He reached a hand into the cradle, and held it down. He raised the axe...and froze. Thoughts, countless, wordless, thoughts were flooding his mind. Images, emotions, vague memories. He was being crushed, trapped, enclosed...floating in a swimming sea of warmth and the unknown. He blinked. Looked down.
The baby was screaming. Keaton knew the pain it felt. Too many minds open, screaming out to him. Keaton's own mind amplifying the thoughts, the raw emotions the baby felt.
The child had become a telepath.
Impossible. Unnatural. Unusual. Had it...he thought. He could still feel the helpless fear of the crone. The puzzled anxiety of the children. The...raw power of the baby. The Child.

The child had mimicked his ability. Copied it at a simple touch. Now it lay screaming with the uncontrolled force of Keaton's telepathy. Unable to control what Keaton had taken years to refine.
He shook himself. The voice outside was a deafening roar and a whispered hush all at once.

"I am Michael. I come now to claim the child born as the Anti-Hero. To claim it and destroy it."

Cleanse the heresy.

He brought the axe down.


Dierdro Dayo and Eloa and Michael, York

Dierdro watched as the ball of electric sparks and flashes struck Michael.
The winged figure shuddered. Turned, arm lashing out, like a whip, great orange flames bursting from his fingertips.
Dierdro rolled. The fire struck a man behind, burning him instantly. His screams rang in Dierdro's ears as he darted forward. The kusara-karna flashed as he lunged, the chain twirling and then striking, like some possessed snake, cutting into Michael's shoulder with a flourish of brilliant red blood.
There was a silence. Dierdro hesitated, the kusara-karna's head embedded in the winged figure's shoulder, chaining the two together in a bond of blood and steel.
Michael moved first. Dierdro flew backwards, the kusara-karna ripping from the bone and spinning from his grip. He crashed into a wall, falling forwards into the street's dust.
He groaned. Eloa watched, wide-eyed.
The kusara-karna lay metres from his head.

Michael looked on. The child waited.

He burst through the doorway.


Keaton Leort and Michael, York

Keaton writhed. His body spasmed, wracking him with pain.
The baby was dead. Keaton Leort had killed the Anti-Hero.
He inhaled, sharply. His head was splitting. An axe biting into his cranium, carving open his skull in one swift, clean, brutal chop...no, that wasn't him. That was the child. The baby. He'd had the axe.
He shook. The door was on fire. Michael, the winged figure, stood, crimson blood staining his pure, white skin, his clothes, his wings, profusing from the deep gash in his shoulder.
One half of his body was blackened, scorched by the lightning charge of Dierdro Dayo.
His immaculate hair was spiked, thrown up in wild masses by the electrical force.
He looked angry.

"What have you done?"
Keaton smiled, weakly. Fought to control himself as he rose. He found himself again, and the smiled broadened. He was in control. He was Keaton.
He had done what the Church could not. And he planned to do more.
"I have cleansed."
Michael moved first. The hand erupted into flames, and he drew back, snarling. Keaton tripped as he dived for the rough, shuttered window that led to the back-alleyways.
Michael laughed, wildly. Then gurgled.

The kusara-karna stuck jaggedly from his spine, the chain wrapped around his chest.
Eloa and Dierdro Dayo watched as one as he crumpled, blood dribbling in sticky splashes from his mouth as he landed in the fetid rags that littered the hovel.
Michael was dead.
Dierdro grimaced, bruises covering his body, a dark bloody stain spreading across his tunic. A random iron nail, jutting from the brick wall, had driven into his side. He winced as he moved.
Eloa rubbed her eye, which had swollen, and was leaking blood out once more. She had had a rough day.
The crowd watched, silent.

And Keaton was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR - Back to Genesis


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

Repus patted the horse's flank, slowing it down to a halt. The great cavern underneath the rocky mountain loomed over them, ominous and menacing, and yet at the same time alluring, the promise of adventure and the new world Repus now fought for...a world of revolution.
The barbarian had 'loaned' them a cart of supplies. Wines and salted venison. Repus caught Garant's eyes. The sergeant spat.
Revolution. Some had complained. Others cheered. None had left.
Repus dismounted. There was no place for the horses beneath the mountains, in the rocky lair. They would have to carry their supplies from here.
"In and out in less than a day?" he guessed. Garant shrugged.
"I suppose so."
"Good." Repus brought out his knife. "We can let the horses go. Leaving them would only advertise our position."
They let the horses go. The soldiers grunted as they swung heavier packs on their backs.
They were ready to descend. To find the sword in the tomb.
For Lord Dantalion? For revolution? For Repus?

They descended, eyes forward, blades ready. Eleven men.

Down, into the darkness.


Umbrion Jade, York

He moved. Fast. Back up the stairs, and out of the window. His cloak billowed behind him as he landed on the clay tiles of the roof beyond.
He turned. The wall of the tavern exploded. The winged figure of Metatron burst out of it.
Impossible. He had moved silently, right down to the landing. Umbrion knew this. And yet here Metatron came.
One hand was ablaze. The other crackled with electricity. His face was blank, the cold detachment of a killer. An angel of Death.
Umbrion rose. Unnaturally strong muscles flexed. The one gene that set him apart was now going to save him, his greatest defense, that of his power. Superhuman strength. A blessing and a curse.
Metatron rose, too. Great dove wings beat, slowly, the waves of air hitting Umbrion like a gale-force wind. Yet he stood unmoving.
Metatron struck. Umbrion moved.

Keaton Leort, York

Keaton pulled himself up through the window shutters. They were unlocked, and it had been an easy climb up and into them. He was exhausted.
He collapsed onto the stone floor, and threw up. Felt the sting of bile in his throat. Retched until there was nothing left to retch.
He shivered, curled up on the floor, his hair matted in his own vomit. His skin felt like it was on fire, burning with a cold ferocity that made him want to throw up more.
He didn't. He lay there, twitching, and then subsided. Pushed himself weakly away from the mess. Weakly, like a newborn might. His mind screamed. Telepathy seemed heightened, all the thoughts of York echoing in the confines of his head, colliding with each other, none of them clear, all of them agony.
He couldn't hear his own thoughts. He was dying.

He screamed. Fought to control his mind, to drive out the maginified thoughts of others. Fought to drive them out, out of his mind, out out out.
He inhaled. Big gulps of air. He was winning. He was regaining his mind.
He shook himself. His head was quiet again, his own thoughts there, shaken, like the victim of a burglary. Like the other thoughts had broken into their home.
His telepathy was under control again. His skin had cooled to a normal, body temperature. He got up.
The room was simple. Bare. No candles. One wooden table, ragged beddings on the floor. His bile seemed to disturb the dull monochrome shades of darkness that hung around the room, as did the open shutters. He felt like he had invaded a tomb.
There was a body. It had fallen into the corner, arms spread wide, face soft, as though utterly at peace in death.
The body looked fresh. It was sodden with water, which Keaton realised had spread across the whole stone floor. His side was drenched in the stuff, and bits of vomit floated, carefree.
There were icy remains in the water, too. Keaton frowned.

There was a knock. Keaton spun. The door, which Keaton now saw had been torn in half, was pushed gently open. A man stepped in, the distaste on his face evident as his rough leather boots splashed in the watery scum.
He looked up at Keaton with a resigned look on his face. He looked as though he had been forced to come, and as though he was regretting it more and more as the seconds went by.

"Keaton Leort? Zerachiel sent me."


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

The dark surrounded them. Another flaming torch went out, and Garant swore.
It was relit.
The place was a tomb, Repus realised. They had trudged through the dark, rocky tunnel for what felt like days, and suddenly...this.
The orange torchlight highlighted the great statues that loomed over them, carved deep into the rocky sides of this new cavern.
It was massive. The darkness hid just how far up the cavern went, how far it went further under the mountains.
There was some uniformity in the ground now. It felt smooth, flat. Ahead, in what might have been the centre of the cavern, it turned into rough, narrow stairs.
Stairs that led up in all directions, a miniature mountain within a larger one. A man-made mound deep beneath the ground.
At the top there was a small dais, on which a stone altar stood. The gleam of a sword blade stuck deep into the altar twinkled in the darkness.

"What is this place?" Garant wondered, his grudge forgotten, his eyes wide.
"Who could make a place like this?" a soldier echoed, their voices intrusions on the sacred silence that hung over the cavern.
Repus frowned. That was the sword. The ancient artifact they had been sent to retrieve. By the shine of the blade it could hardly by a day old. It was impossible to imagine that it had been here hundreds, or even thousands of years.
It twinkled again, an invitation.

Repus grunted, and stepped forward.


Eloa and Dierdro Dayo and Umbrion Jade and Metatron, York

Metatron caught Umbrion around the waist. Umbrion had moved, his long-sword brought up, held steady and straight by unnaturally strong arms.
The sword went through Metatron's chest. Drove in and through the back. A bloody length of metal protruded from Metatron, and he twisted. The wings didn't stop. The two figures, bodies entwined in a gory embrace, soared off the rooftop. Stumbled in the air, rolling, wings bent and folded as the sword turned in his chest.
They crashed into a house, breaking the wall. Slid down, leaving a trail of brilliant scarlet lifeblood.
Crumpled on the cobbled street.

Dierdro Dayo's eyes widened. Eloa stared.
The Metatron rose, shakily. Umbrion swung, his fist connecting with the winged figure's jaw. Metatron's head crunched on the stone wall behind. Umbrion punched again, the broken wings framing him, enclosing him with the Metatron, holding them in a deathly embrace.
The punch didn't connect. Umbrion frowned, straining, his fist held frozen in the movement. Metatron rose. His wings snapped with bony cracks back into place. Umbrion fell back, his body rigid, frozen, unmoving.
Metatron looked down. The hilt of the long-sword poked through, lodged between two mangled ribs. He gripped it, and pulled. Pulled until the blade came through, and out. A long-sword slick with his lifeblood, held in his hand. A bloody sword.
He blinked.
The long-sword glowed, red-hot. Metal heated by the mere touch of his hand. Without a flicker, Metatron broke the sword. Threw the pieces aside.

Then he looked at Umbrion.

His eyes were sad. His expression cold.

He was the Metatron.


Keaton Leort, York

Keaton didn't move. He couldn't think properly. The weakness that killing the child had caused still slowed him, made his head muddled and fuzzy.
He could read the man's thoughts. He was scared, scared of the damp, bile-stained scribe that blinked before him, and scared of the dead, peaceful form of Zerachiel in the corner.
"Zerachiel left a message with my great, great, great grandparents. Instructions. He knew you would be here at this time, and that I had to be here to give you his message."
Keaton frowned. How old was Zerachiel? What did he know?
The man cleared his throat, uncertain. Keaton nodded.
"Go on."
"Zerachiel wanted me to tell you...to tell you about the Anti-Hero."
Keaton frowned again, but had regained his composure enough not to show it.

"He says that when the world was created..." the man hesitated. "...when the world was created, the Righteous made humanity. Gave them gifts of...of powers. The power to make fire, to make water...to take an arrow and live. To stop time. To...to fly. Made humanity strong. There were...a few...Seven...who rose. Had more power than the others. Were the best of humanity. They created a utopia, a paradise on earth, one to rival the home of the Righteous, Heaven. Led humanity into a new golden age."
He floundered. Keaton frowned. He bent his mind into the man's, dragging the memories to the surface. Forcing the confidence needed to tell the tale told to his ancestors all those centuries ago.
The man's eyelids twitched. His mind adjusted as Keaton pushed it. He spoke again, now without hesitation, without thought.
"The Seven were betrayed. Betrayed by humanity itself. Some rebelled against the utopia, fighting the perfect order they had helped create. The Righteous had feared this new utopia, and now it was gone. Broken. Humanity began to lose their gifts, to forget their powers. Only a few still carry the light of that golden age. The Seven sleep, or hide in dark places, fearful of the dark new world. Those who rebelled cower, unable to control what they began. Humanity turned on those who had once led it."
There was a crash, outside. Keaton didn't move.
"Go on."
The man frowned, wavered. Keaton's stare intensified. He pushed harder, bending the mind further, twisting the truth from it.

"The Righteous created the seeds of the Anti-Hero when the Seven ruled in their golden age. The Anti-Hero, a power stronger than all the Seven and all those who rebelled against them, a power that would ultimately end the world and all within. The Righteous could start again. Rebuild a world over which he could rule, without the gifted, without the rebellious. His power had weakened, you see, creating the Anti-Hero was his last struggle, his last throe of power. Once the world ended, he would regain his former power. Could reabsorb the power he had given to humanity, the powers which had turned on him."

Keaton blinked. He didn't ask aloud. Just pushed the mind for the answer.

"There will...always be an Anti-Hero. The child was just the first vassal to house its potential. Since you killed it...you have taken his place. You are the Anti-Hero. You will end this world."
Keaton frowned, again. Pushed. The man's speech slurred, his mind pushed to breaking point.
"The Anti-Hero has two powers. His first, and uncontrolled, is that to end the world. He will cause it, whether he chooses it or not. When and where I was not told. His second is the one which will protect him, to ensure that the Seven or humanity never found a way to stop him, or control him. The power to take on those of others."

Keaton released the man's mind. Took away the pressure he had bent onto it. The man gasped, falling to his knees.
He looked at Zerachiel's body, at rest, saintly in death, a slight smile curved onto his face. Why? He had known that the Anti-Hero...me, Keaton realised...would bring the end? If he had known all this why hadn't he stopped it? Tried to do something himself? Why had he done so much to let Keaton know?
He looked to the man. Yes, he realised, Zerachiel had planned this well. He probed the man's mind, delicately. There it was. Dormant, the man probably didn't even realise he had the power...the little spark of his gift, the power to create force fields, invisible walls and bubbles, something that might have saved him if he'd known.
Keaton reached out, without realising how he knew what to do. His hand gripped the man's hand, lightly. He closed his eyes.

Then he smiled. Looked to the stone floor. Concentrated.
Invisible strands flowed from his mind. They felt new, exciting. The man gasped, too weary, too drained to notice. The invisible strands wove together in a loose bubble, and Keaton lifted it, without moving. Lifted a bubble formed from force fields up until it bobbed by the ceiling, a little bubble that sloshed as the water and bile and blood all floated around inside it, held in the air, unnatural, beautiful.

Keaton smiled. Then laughed. He would do it. He could do it.

Cleanse the Church. Set it right.

The Anti-Hero laughed. It was time. His time.


Menos Diatos, Coventry

Menos Diatos paid for the bottle, and walked on down the cobbled street.
He was cold. But then, he was always cold. His hair ran over one eye, straight and dark, and he brushed it aside gently as he paused to read a notice nailed up.
The scars on his cheek burned and he grimaced, before walking on.
There was a whistle as he turned down into an alleyway. A club swung out, catching his head and opening the old scars. They bled down his face like bloody tears as another thug knocked him to the cobbled ground.
Four of them. A challenge? Mentos vaguely hoped so.

The notice had been brief, but dramatic. In roughly scrawled handwriting, it read:

Citizenes of Coventree! The Moste Majestirial ande Gloriouse Church of the Righteous hath Decreede thate All those Deemed Deviations to the Righteous' Nature, Heretics to thee Church, aree to bee Founde and Burned bye all goode Citizens.
Those whoe harbour suche Criminals are to bee Burned also.
Those withe information as too theire Whereabouts who doe Nott reporte them to thee Church wille Also be Burnede.
Those whoe give birth to suche heresies will Also be burned.

Thee Churche wille find theese Heretics and Destroy theme. Do your Duty.


Richmond had failed to count on one thing. That the Church might divide the Republic without his schemes.

The war was coming.

ONE YEAR LATER


CHAPTER FOURTEEN - New Beginnings, New Apotheosis


Alice, Anti-Hero Response Team Headquarters

Alice sat back for a moment and bit her lip. Carefully, with one finger, she traced out a letter on the desk. Then she tilted her head.
"It is precisely one year ago since the Battle of Canterbury. During the time from then to now, the Republic has dispersed, replaced by squabbling kingdoms and empires on the continent, and anarchy in England. England has failed to recover. This is because the country is ravaged by two..." she etched out another letter. "...individual threats of some significance."
She leant back and took the parchment offered. She continued to lean back as she read it.
"One, Solace. So far he has struck in over thirteen different locations, amassing around thirty-six victims. He works alone, and can regenerate. Motives seem to be religious, he seems to be hunting down those with powers for some higher cause, but doesn't stop at civilians in the way, either."
She flicked the parchment distractedly. The man behind her coughed.

"I saw him in action over in Yorkshire. He took an axe to the chest and kept going. But I don't see..."
"Two." Alice continued. "The Anti-Hero. For two months after the Battle of York, he did nothing. His activity started again in force when he began trailing the country, moving rapidly and without obvious direction. He left messages where he killed, which he did frequently. Barons, knights, soldiers, farmers, politicians, tax collectors...apparently at random. These messages - written in blood, theatrically - began what is now estimated to be a nationwide organisation numbering in the hundreds - the Cult of the Anti-Hero. People devoted to the man who claims to be the new god now that the Church is over."
The man shrugged. "People are tired and confused. They want order, a leader, and the Anti-Hero looks like the strongest contender."
"He doesn't kill his own." Alice observed, drily. "The people follow him for that. Right now the Cult of the Anti-Hero is the closest thing to government England has."

She sighed, and blew a length of black hair from her eyes. The man waited, hesitantly, and then coughed again.
"I still don't see how Solace is a problem. He looks like a reasonably minor serial killer - albeit one with a rather advantageous gift."
Alice closed her eyes. "Solace is a threat. Right now we need a secure country with a working military presence and the control of the people to deal with the Anti-Hero. We do not have that, and Solace makes it even harder to attain it. It doesn't look like Solace or the Anti-Hero have attempted to communicate. If they do, we could be in further trouble. Also...also I suspect Solace will be important in some way. Soon. Maybe."
She whistled, distractedly.

"Alice!"
Alice didn't turn her chair. "Try to keep to our agreed codenames, Seraphim."
The man that strode into the room swore. But softly. He stared into the back of the girl's head.
"Sorry, Zerachiel. I'll try to remember next time."
She smiled, and turned her chair. "Good."
She was short. The man she called Seraphim had thought it weird at first. This short and, if he had to admit it, cute youth of a girl couldn't be over twenty, and yet she sat coolly in her chair and ordered men twice her age around with a blink of her brilliant blue eyes.
She blinked at him.
"Seraphim? Your good eye is glazing."
He shook himself. Shaggy hair that should have been snaking over his face in straggled lines felt unnatural, tied back as it was. He lost focus.
"Mmm. I followed the Anti-Hero. Lost him in the catacombs."
"Why'd he go back?" the man wondered, and Alice shushed him.
"I'm thinking, Hadiel."
"To try and find the Cube? I heard it was lost somewhere in the catacombs." Seraphim guessed.

Alice shrugged her tiny shoulders. "Maybe. Did you see his face?"
Seraphim nodded. "Yeah. Same description as the one Zephyr described up in the Highlands. It's the same person."
Alice frowned. "That confirms it. The Anti-Hero can teleport."
Seraphim nodded. "He was throwing ice around when I saw him. Like, from his hands."
"He's learning more powers." Alice said, slowly. "That he has some way to absorb others' powers is confirmed, then."
Hadiel swore. Seraphim looked down, blankly.

"That makes him very dangerous indeed." Alice murmured. She turned back to her desk and stared contemplatively at the letters she'd traced. "This might be challenging, Seraphim."

S A


Alidod and Satanel and James Whittle, a Cavern

Alidod flexed, and groaned, slightly. Shabby brown hair covered shabby green eyes as he woke.
He stared down at the empty bottle smashed on the cavern floor. He reached around in the gloom for another as Satanel stepped into the candlelight.
A year later, a year leaner. Satanel had been working out. A scar ran across his face, from one cheek over the bridge of his nose to the other. He scowled, and leant against the solid oak table that stood in the heart of the cavern, surrounded by pin-pricks of orange light. A candlelight haven from the anarchy of England outside.
Alidod looked up. He spat, and put out a candle. Then he smiled. Satanel ignored it.

"Find anything?"
Satanel shrugged. "He can teleport. Following him was hard. Plus I didn't want to be caught."
Alidod stared down into the new bottle. Murky red sloshed inside. He put it down, slowly.
"What happened to you, Satanel? In Canterbury?"
Satanel flinched. "It doesn't matter. I know what I'm doing now."
"What's that?" Alidod wondered, almost to himself. He was thinking.
Satanel's eyes narrowed. "I want to find the Anti-Hero. I want to stop him."
Alidod smiled, vaguely. "Me too."

Satanel watched as Alidod began to drink again. He sneered and turned, heading for the cavern's low exit.
Deeper in the cavern, past a succession of twists and turns in the cavern's natural labyrinth, James Whittle worked. He was young, and with dark, brooding Italian features, and looked intent as he hammered at the glowing metal before him.
He finished his work, and began to assemble it. It took time, and patience, but he managed it.
Loops of copper wires ran rings around the rocky workshop. A steel cube, a small hand-lever protruding from one side, connected it all. He began to turn it. Slow, careful revolutions. The wires began to whine.

James began to grin. It was working. It was working!
He laughed, and turned. Alidod raised an eyebrow.
"Success?"
James nodded, cautiously. He watched the man with the eyes of paranoia, of a lifetime's fear and suspicion, of guarded genius.
Alidod smiled. He was drunk, James suspected. Drunk, but able to act sober, for the moment.

They both watched as the wires hummed. A trap. A great, copper wire trap.

"It's a cage." James said, carefully. "Anything inside..."
"...cannot use their powers." Alidod finished. James nodded.

A trap...a cage...there would be uses for such measures.


A Stranger, the Moors

Mists shrouded the landscape as the stranger staggered on. He was panting, heavily, and clutching his side. He turned back, eyes bulging, and staggered into a run again.
The throwing knife thudded into his flesh behind the left knee. Cold steel dislocating bone.
He fell, yelping. breath came in sudden, sharp bursts. He was hyperventilating. Sparks crackled from his fingertips and died, pitifully.
"Don't...just...don't, I'll...I'll leave town, I'll..."
The hand came out of the fog. It grabbed the stranger by the throat and threw him to the ground. Grass damp from morning dew soaked his back as he struggled.
An arm rose, a tall scythe glinting in the shrouded sun. It cut through the misty vapours of the moors and sliced cleanly into the stranger's stomach. It jerked, the blade running across the flesh and ripping it open as it went, running an bloody trail like an artist's quill strokes as it clove down and up the stranger.
He screamed. The scythe rose again, and then fell. Blade pierced into the thin, stretched veil of skin that protected the windpipe, the jugular, the throat. A splurge of crimson and the killer withdrew the bloody implement.

He was grinning. He knelt over the body. Another dead. How many more heretics to go?

He was manical. He was dangerous. He was Solace.

The shout echoed over the moors and made him turn. A shadow was growing in the mists. A man. Big, armoured. A lone knight?
Solace pulled his throwing knife free. He inspected the blade, happily, the bloody tears running across the polished metal.


Umbrion Jade, Canterbury

He was back. After all this time. The year had been eventful.
The Metatron stood, silent, facing him.
Canterbury was empty. Ruined. Hollow shells lay where buildings once stood.
Umbrion gritted his teeth. This wasn't going to be easy...
His longsword felt light in his hands. The last time this had happened he'd lost his longsword. That wasn't going to happen this time.
The Metatron looked almost bored. He stood, wingless, solitary.
Umbrion shouted. The Metatron looked up. Wings unfurled. Flames danced
from his one hand, ice from the other.

In Canterbury, after all this time. Interesting.


Alice, Anti-Hero Response Team Headquarters

"Where's Kemuel?"
Alice turned. Seraphim looked up.
Zephyr shook his head, exhausted. He sank to the floor, and sat, breathing heavily.
"Solace got to him. Almost...almost got me, too."
Hadiel gasped. Alice and Seraphin looked blank.
"He took a beating and fell in the moors. Couldn't...couldn't rescue him."
Alice nodded. "I believe you, Zephyr. This confirms that Solace is a threat. If he can fight two of our agents at once he evidently possess superior fighting techniques."
"Are we compromised? Will Kemuel give us away?" Seraphim asked, rising.
Alice shook her head. "Kemuel doesn't know where we are. He was always blindfolded when he came in or out, and Zephyr flew him so he couldn't retrace his steps. Kemuel wasn't trustworthy, but his work as an engineer was good. I engaged his services to help make the base secure, nothing more."

Zephyr and Alice shared a glance. They nodded, silently.
"Solace doesn't know about us, I'm fairly certain of that." Zephyr added. "He killed Kemuel because Kemuel tried to fight him with fire. Solace kills anyone with a gift."
Seraphim nodded. Alice turned back to her desk. They were returning to work.
Zephyr waited a beat and rose to talk to Alice. They conferred, quietly, for a moment, bturned and roseefore he , hovering silently.


The Cult of the Anti-Hero, Somewhere in England

The man gasped as the hood was pulled back. He was surrounded by robed figures.
"What...where am I? Who are you?"
There was silence. He tried turning his head. A rough hand grabbed his hair and held him still. A graveyard? The ruins of some old church, anyway. An open grave lay before him. He shook.
"The Anti-Hero will hear your confession."
The voice silenced everything. The man felt his thoughts blank. A song-thrush froze in mid call.
The figures parted. A youth stepped forward. The man's eyes widened.
He was young. Mid-length black hair fell to lithe, but muscular shoulders. Brilliant eyes looked back at the man, dazzling with the light of self-confidence, an assured superiority. He radiated power.
Barely twenty, yet a hulking robed shape crouched, prostrate at his feet.
The man swallowed.

"What are you guilty of?" the voice demanded. The man stuttered, words tumbling to escape.
He found the response. "Melting...I make things melt."
The Anti-Hero smiled. A hand raised, slowly. The man watched as a gravestone, solid limestone, began to shift, slowly bending in on itself, flopping over as though made of clay. It melted, slowly, and liquid rock ran over the man's hands as they pressed into the ground, forced down by robed followers.
The Anti-Hero's hand fell. The stone became solid again. The man screamed as his hands became trapped, trapped inside the rock that had flowed over his fingers like honey seconds before. The Anti-Hero allowed the crowd to laugh, while he stood, smiling, and then struck.
The man's body burst, spraying the assembled with his liquified remains.
There was a gasp, and a recoil. The Anti-Hero stood, composed and untouched, in the middle of it all.

He looked around, and then smiled again. The robed figures stood and watched, uncertain.
The Anti-Hero clicked his fingers. A figure burst into flames, and fell forward into the open grave, a charred corpse. He pointed.
"A traitor. He did not think the right thoughts."
There was silence, as people tried hard to think the right thoughts. The Anti-Hero glared for a moment, and then raised his arms.
The assembled fell, bowing, prostrate.
He vanished.

The Anti-Hero was at work, in England.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Confrontation


Solace and Iron Knight, the Moors

The knight was huge. He loomed from the mists like some avenging giant of steel and iron. Pistons whistled as he moved, his expression hidden by his helmet.
He stopped and stared down at Solace, at least a foot taller, and silent.
Clockwork whirred behind his visor.
Solace took this in for a moment and then gestured with his scythe.
"He's getting away! He...the man...it was..."
The Iron Knight stood impassively as Solace bit his lip, eyes wide. He pointed again.
"I saw it all. This man was being chased across the moors. I saw him, and tried to catch up...I wander these moors looking for herbs to cut and bring back for my master in the monastery some way away...and he just fell, like he'd been hit by something. Then a great figure swathed in black appeared, all wreathed in mist and anger, and cut him up with my very scythe, before knocking me down and dropping it."
Solace gaped, breathless, as the Iron Knight watched on, in his mechanical solemnity. Deceptive eyes, wide with false tears, met the cold glow within the helmet.
They stood, silent.
"He ran away, that way." Solace finished, weakly.

The Iron Knight didn't move.


Umbrion and the Metatron, Canterbury

"Round two, Metatron." Umbrion grimaced, and jumped.
The Metatron sailed underneath, wings outstretched. Umbrion twisted in the air and drove his sword down. It snared on the Metatron's spine as he was caught up in the rush of the Metatron's flight, sent spinning off as the Metatron crashed into the derelict stone walls behind.
They both rose, dazed. Umbrion started running.
The Metatron opened his wings again, and raised his hands. Fire and ice burned as Umbrion sprang, shouldering past him and turning, the longsword dragged from the creature's back with one unnaturally muscular motion.
The Metatron turned to face him. Eyes met, suddenly, sharply. Hatred burned in the Metatron's eyes. Umbrion ignored it.
The fist came. Umbrion caught it and pushed it back, the snap of the Metatron's arm resounding in the silence of the empty city.

Umbrion thrust, hard. The longsword met chest, and carried through. Blade plunged into flesh, into muscle, into bone, and out, out into air.
The Metatron stared down, silent.
Umbrion pulled, and twisted. He kicked. The Metatron fell back, his head bouncing off a jagged shred of debris.
Umbrion punched. He punched and broke bone as he did so, each punch raining down on the Metatron even as his body knit together again, even as it healed, the slow and unending process of rebirth.
Umbrion grabbed the head and pulled. The Metatron struggled, weakly, thrashing against Umbrion as he clutched him.
The fire and ice had gone. The Metatron looked human, now. All too weak, all too...human.

Umbrion heard the crack as he wrenched the head up. He let it go, limply. It lolled back on the body, broken, relieved.
Umbrion stepped back again, breathing hard. He looked down.
The Metatron's body flickered, and faded, slowly. It was vanishing.

He spat, a bloodied tooth bouncing to the ground, and collapsed.

Hard work.


Solace and Iron Knight and Alice, the Moors

Zephyr landed, neatly. He lowered Alice down carefully with one hand. With the other he placed Seraphim down. He hovered again, slowly, watching the scene as the actors took their places.
Solace looked from Alice to Seraphim. He stared up at the man floating gently behind them. The Iron Knight looked to no-one.
Seraphim blinked. One hand rested on the handle of the giant sword that rested on his back.
Alice tilted her head, and smiled, slightly. The fog played with her hair for a moment.

Solace stared at her.


Jonathan Harker and The Cult of the Anti-Hero, Somewhere in England

"What was the name?"
The man stood, looking vaguely flustered, as he dusted down his long coat.
"It's Harker. Jonathan Harker."
"You have come to pledge your allegiance to the Anti-Hero?" the man frowned.
Jonathan Harker smiled, hesitantly. "Yes. I want to worship him as you do."
The man at the door waited a moment, and then nodded him in. Jonathan Harker stepped in and froze.
The Anti-Hero was stood above him, shouting to his hooded followers from a balcony.
The hall was full of his followers.
The Anti-Hero was a telepath above all else.

Jonathan Harker was in trouble.

"You all know what happened to those who assumed authority to take his place at the Battle of Canterbury! You know what happened to the usurper Richmond, the traitor Dantalion! The Righteous smote them down! I am the authority! I have been appointed by the Righteous himself! All England fears and worships me! I am the Anti-Hero!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Blink


Alidod and Satanel and James Whittle, a Cavern

"How do we use it?" Satanel asked, leaning against the rocky wall of the workshop. James blinked, and then spun.
"The wires create a field of negativity - I based alot of my work on you, Alidod, attempting to replicate your ability to negate powers with a mechanism of some kind."
"Why can't we just use me?" Alidod frowned. Jame clicked his fingers impatiently.
"This will allow us to neutralise a far larger area. The wire simply needs to run in circuit. Any powers within the circuit are negated."
Alidod nodded, and eyed the bottle in his hand. Satanel narrowed his eyes as he watched the man lean back and drain it, in a way that had a neatly practised discipline to it.
James Whittle continued, his eyes wide as he gestured with his hands.
"With this device we cannot fail to capture the Anti-Hero! Don't you see?"

Somewhere, Keaton blinked.


Jonathan Harker and The Cult of the Anti-Hero, Somewhere in England

Jonathan Harker watched as the youth descended the stairs from the stage. He matched the descriptions from when the Anti-Hero was seen in the Battle of Canterbury, and in the street fight in York.
Almost tall, mid-length dark hair, of medium build...and with fervent eyes. Eyes that spoke volumes on ambition, passion, drive.
The youth walked into the crowd. Jonathan watched, carefully trying to hide his fear, as a group fell into step with the Anti-Hero.
The group...hooded in black, like the rest of the more extreme followers, but always the same group - Jonathan was sure of that. He'd watched the Anti-Hero leaving such a rally in the past, and always this same group had fallen in when he left the stage.
The same group...when did the Anti-Hero work with others, anyway?

Jonathan realised how close the Anti-Hero was. Time to move. He started to make his way forward, pushing into the crowd. With every shove he felt a fresh wave of horror at what he was about to do, but he kept going.
Suddenly, he was done pushing, and stumbled forwards.
The Anti-Hero flinched. The hooded group that was always there reacted. One moved, sleeves pulled back as flames licked his hands. Another twisted, a glass vase floating in the air above him, a raised weapon. Another vnished, suddenly, and reappeared by Jonathan's side, a knife pressed to his ear.

They were still. Jonathan cleared his throat, nervously.
"Anti-Hero...Lord...I humbly offer you my servitude."
He fell forward, to his knees. A risky move when he was being watched by the group that swarmed him, powers burning like strung bows. The crowd of less-devoted followers was straining to see the source of the commotion, anxious to see what the Anti-Hero would do. Hopeful of reward, fearful of punishment.
The Anti-Hero stood, silently, for a moment, his composition regained. He looked down at Jonathan in suprised bemusement.
"Good. Your fervour is to praised. When the time comes, those most devoted unto me will find their place. Those not so devoted..."
He left, his cloak billowing behind him, the threat left, evident. The group left, following their lord into the night and on, on to the next city or town ready for the rallying call of the Anti-Hero.

Jonathan stayed still, frozen. A smile began to play over his face. Then he laughed. A hooded man passed and nodded to him, moved by his devotion. The ecstasy of the divine.

Jonathan kept laughing. He knew.

Somewhere, Keaton blinked.


Solace and Iron Knight and Alice, the Moors

Solace jumped. Seraphim shrugged the massive sword from his back and raised it. Alice darted forward, suddenly. Zephyr drew the sword from his side and lunged from the air.
The Iron Knight moved. A steel fist caught Seraphim and knocked him to the ground. He rotated, sharply, and swung Zephyr aside. With two strides he caught up to Solace and punched.
Solace sprawled on the boggy grass, his nose bleeding as he slipped in the mud.
The Iron Knight turned again, to face Alice. Lifeless eyes bored into her own.
"The Human Is Not To Be Killed."
The voice grated, like iron and rust scraping together, and Alice felt the heat of the forge radiate from the steel golem's dark insides as he spoke, like little waves of steam.
They all listened.
"The Human Is To Be Imprisoned. It Is Only Just. He Will Be Given The Chance Of Redemption In Due Time. Death Is Not The Answer."

Alice gritted her teeth. This knight. Who is he? Who does he work for? Why?
Whatever the answer, he was doing more hinderance than good.
Solace rose, unsteadily, feeling his nose. It was broken.

"I Am The Iron Knight, Bringer Of Justice." the goliath rose up even further, looking up to the sky. A steel fist clanged against his chest. "I Will Judge Those Who Do Evil In This Desolate England. All Shall Learn To Honour My Law. I Am Justice! I Am Good! I Am The Iron Knight!"


Somewhere, Keaton blinked. He was watching. With interest.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - New World


Alidod and Satanel and James Whittle, a Cavern

"We can catch the Anti-Hero..." Alidod mused.
The musing echoed about the workshop. James Whittle nodded, grinning. Satanel stood silent, hidden by shadows as he thought, and then smiled.
"I can catch the Anti-Hero."
Alidod frowned. He turned, slowly. Satanel's eyes glinted in the flicker of the candle-light.
"What..." Alidod gurgled. He began to shiver. His face was darkening. "What are you..."
James Whittle watched, silent. Satanel twisted his hand. Alidod's spasmed.
"You blood is boiling. Can you feel it?" Satanel wondered.
Alidod contorted and screamed. There was an intake of air as his face darkened and hissed, steam rising, as though building up and then...exhale.

Satanel staggered back. James Whittle fell backwards. Alidod screamed, and clawed at his face. Skin blistered and burst in oozing bubbles.
Satanel snarled, suddenly, fiercely, and clicked his fingers. He stared as no flames came.
"I can negate powers, you idiot." Alidod snapped, a hand covering his face, the other scrabbling for the katanas on his back. His hand found one, and pulled. It slid from the sheath with a metallic scraping, slowly, with hissed curses as a blister on Alidod's burnt hand burst.

Satanel pulled a short sword from his belt. He stood, a slight sneer lingering as he watched the ruined body stagger before him, bright red, skin melted and burst, crisp and oozing.

James Whittle stared, wide eyed, cowered behind a crate.


Umbrion and Eloa, Paris

Umbrion watched the city from his window seat. Paris hadn't changed since he'd worked there. He'd even managed to rent the room he'd once lived in, overlooking the river.
Eloa paced the confines of the room behind him.
"What do we do now?" she asked, he wings scraping the stone walls.
Umbrion shrugged. "I don't know."
He was content. The memory of the Metatron was fading, gradually, of that fight in Canterbury. Of the fight in York. He felt like he was home.

Eloa sighed and paced the room again. She felt trapped. Not good.
"The Anti-Hero is still in England."
Umbrion closed his eyes. "He isn't coming to France, that's for sure. There's no trace of his cult here."
"France has certainly done well without the Republic." Eloa noted.
Umbrion murmured his agreement. Eloa frowned and kept pacing.


Solace and Iron Knight and Alice, the Moors

Alice turned. She looked up at Zephyr.
"Zephyr, get back to the Head-Quarters. Have Hadiel find something on the Iron Knight. Try and rejoin us if you find anything."
"Be careful, Zerachiel."
"You too, Zephyr."
Zephyr nodded, and disappeared into the clouds. Alice watched him go and then looked back to Solace. He stood, a half-smile barely visible on his face. He was mocking her.
"I Will Take The Human To Be Imprisoned Now." the Iron Knight grated, having witnessed Alice's exchange with uninterest.
Solace nodded, sincerity blazoned across his face. "Of course. If it will prove my innocence, I will go with you."
Alice tilted her head. "You must take him then, Iron Knight. We will not inter - Seraphim!"

The spindle-blade crashed into the Iron Knight's chest and shattered. The Iron Knight didn't move.
Seraphim was jumping as Alice shouted. Michael's sword lunged with him as he drove it for Solace. Alice watched as Solace's eyes narrowed, and he rolled, the giant blade driving into the soil as Seraphim landed.
Seraphim drew the blade and swung it. Solace ducked. They faced each other, breathless.


~


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
William Butler Yeats, Sailing to Byzantium


~


Alex Lincoln, New York

Alex pushed his hands further into the pockets of his jacket as he trudged through the last, dreary remains of snow, wincing inwardly as he grabbed the frozen metal door of the coffee house and swung it open.
Coffee on the way back from high school. The best part of his day.
He read the New York Times. He put it down, eventually, and pulled his book from his school satchel. No Country for Old Men. He was enjoying it, though distantly. Everything seemed distant nowadays.
There was a note, a scrap of lined paper folded where he'd last left off. He'd put it there yesterday.
Someone had scrawled something on it. He frowned. Had someone gotten it from his bag? Some joker in class, maybe? Braderman might have done something like this...no, he wouldn't have put it back if he had, and he certainly would have said something. Alex would have been fishing soggy paper from the toilet if it had been Braderman.
He unfolded it and read it. Thick black strokes over crisp, white paper.
The coffee cup stopped moving, inches from his lips.

Hello, Alex Lincoln. This is Chaиdeя.
I have a proposition. Suppose I have the ability to kill anyone, anywhere in this world. Anyone.
Suppose I were to then offer that ability to you. Write a name on the other side of this paper, and put it back in the book.
I will kill that person. Interested?
If you don't write anyone by this time tomorrow, I will choose that person. Watch out for the news, Alex. You'll know when you see it.

P.S. I hope you enjoy the book. It's one of my favourites.

Alex examined the note. He frowned, and then put it on the table. Someone had failed to make him laugh. Nothing more.

Chaиdeя was probably Braderman's brief stint of genius.
Nothing more.


Jeta Morgan, New York

Jeta finished his coffee, and left. It was cold out, and he wished he were wearing the suit folded neatly in his briefcase.
A man crashed into him in the street. He sprawled, swearing, as the man rose.
"Watch where you're going." Jeta managed, feeling his nose. It wasn't broken. He'd hit it quite hard on the sidewalk.
The man who'd come running around the corner wasn't looking at him. He was breathing, heavily. Jeta frowned.
"What's your problem?"
The man looked at him. Jeta almost bolted. He was a cop. Jeta could tell, nowadays. He'd fled enough of them.
The man was about Jeta's height. Stocky, broad shoulders. A rough face. A long leather coat swirled about him. A handgun protruded from under his armpit.
"Just watch it next time, okay?" Jeta snarled, and began to turn. The man who looked like a cop pointed, wordlessly.
Jeta looked up.

It landed in a flurry of blood, skin and wings.
Before he had a moment to go closer it rose. In front of him. Wings outstretched. A dark grin on it. This thing was no human. But it wasn't a demon...it was...something. It had large dark red wings, outstretched, and a large body, four legs and a long dark snout covered in horns.
It almost looked like a dog...
The man who looked like a cop knocked Jeta to the ground again. The creature flew over their heads, screeching. A car horn blared. People started screaming.
Jeta pushed the man off him and looked up in time to see the creature jump, the bounding lope of a hound, springing over a grimy yellow car and up into the air. It soared, screeching, swooping through the air between the great mirror skyscrapers that loomed to each side. Bystanders stared, pointing, jabbering as it went.

Jeta turned to the man who looked like a cop. He looked puzzled.
"I've just realised something." he said, finally.
"What? What could you have possibly realised? What...what was that thing?"
The man's face fixed, hard and without compassion. He looked at Jeta.
"I'm gonna need a bigger gun."

Dramatis Persona - Mid-Volume One Update

The Good

Richmond (The Snake)
Repus Oge (The Wandering Hero)
Keaton Leort (The Artist-Scientist, Second Anti-Hero)
Dierdro Dayo (The Unresolved Hero)
Issam al-Dulyab (The Apothetical Protagonist)
Balas Ecore Novas (The 英雄)

The Neutral

Zerachiel (The False Protagonist)
Eloa (The Shadow)
Metatron (The Reluctant Antagonist)
Umbrion Jade (The Fated Man)
Castor Angelos (The Byronic Hero)
Pollux Angelos (The Chronic Hero)
Isab (The Flawed Hero)
Menos Diatos (The Avenging Hero)

The Bad

Michael (The Arch-Hero)
Dantalion (The Arch-Villain)
Evo Scott Charles (The Vice)

The Other

The Anti-Hero (The End)

CHAPTER FIVE - Chronic Displacement


Pollux Angelos (aged 25), Nanjing

Pollux Angelos appeared with a quiet hum, like the creasing of a page or the twisting of a screw.
He blinked. Pale, blond hair clung to his head in wet, bedraggled strands, framing the bony structure of his face. His once white shirt, now torn and ragged, was a grim, grubby light khaki colour. He shivered.
With a squelch he wandered off down the street. People passed him by, some curious, others oblivious, all dressed in bright oranges and yellows, silks and pearls, colours he'd never seen before.
He looked lost. He felt lost.
"Excuse me..."
The man walked by, blind. Pollux frowned. He felt overwhelmed.
"But...but I've done it," he insisted. "I've done it!"
The crowd moved on. A great, ornate pagoda loped on by. A brilliant jade kite fluttered overhead.
"I knew I could." Pollux said, quietly. "I knew I could do it."

He sat down, in the alien street in the alien city. A foreigner. Lost. Alone.
His triumph seemed hollow here, in this strange city.

"I did it."


Issam al-Dulyab and Isab and Pollux Angelos (aged 29), Coventry

"Where are we?"
Issam looked around at the low, looming squalour of the houses around. The street stank of sweat and shit, and flea-ridden dogs chased monstrous rats underneath the feet of the pox-ridden citizens.
"England, I think."
Isab shrugged. He looked at the young man stood beside him.
Pollux hadn't changed much since Nanjing. The same smooth pale complexion, the same shine to his eyes, the same straight, wispy blond hair.
He smiled, dimly, and gestured to a notice nailed up to their right.
"This is about the time that the Church declares the heresy of our kind. Looks like Coventry to me. Maybe Cambridge. Place isn't crawling with thought police yet, and the darkness has yet to fall, so it must still be early days. I doubt any time at all has passed since we set off from Rome. Very good."
Isab felt for the dagger tucked neatly under his leather jerkin. It was a reassuring weight. If the Church were hammering down on those with powers, his gift might not be his best option if it came to an alley brawl.
Pollux smiled again.
"You need to act fast. Michael is already dead, and I fear Azazel has yet to recognise itself. Dantalion is on the way, though, if memory serves. You need to unite the gifted ones. Revolution is happening, in many different guises, and if there isn't a united force willing to do what is just then all may be lost."

Issam and Isab heard the faint hum, and the gentle wooshing of air as Pollux slipped out of existence behind them, and headed down the street.

"Up ahead." Issam nodded.
"Sounds like a fight." Isab agreed.

They began to run.


Balas Ecore Novas and Evo Scott Charles and Pollux Angelos (aged 43), Coventry

"Look at this."
Evo cast an eye over the notice. One of his eyebrows raised, slightly.
"Scared, then?"
He smiled, thinly. "No. My gift is hardly one that is easily detected. In fact, I'm practically suited to avoiding detection."
Balas turned his head, a lazy movement, and allowed his gaze to fall onto the katana sheathed safely on his back.
"Do we do anything?"
Evo shrugged. "I don't know. Should we?"
"I heard Richmond was making a public claim of support for those persecuted by the decree."
They were speaking in level voices, walking at a steady pace down the Coventry street. Avoiding unwelcome attention.
"He's a fool." Evo sighed. "The Church runs the Republic. They'll remove him from the chambers without much resistance. He'll never make consul."
"Perhaps..." Balas smiled, thoughtfully.

There was a shout. Sound of movement. Both the men's heads jerked.

"A fight."
"Some street brawl."

Then they noticed him. Pollux had aged well. Pale skin had tanned and taken on a rougher texture, while his already pale blond hair had simply thinned and faded. Well-toned muscles still kept him nimble, if slower than before, and his eyes still shone with the same quiet brilliance as before.
He sat awkwardly, perched on a rooftop, nestled between two sooty chimney stacks. He'd watched his younger self send the two off into the street, and then watched as he'd disappeared again, jumping off into time.
He looked up, and caught Balas' gaze. Caught Evo's glare.
He smiled, ruefully, and waved.

Then disappeared.


Castor Angelos and Pollux Angelos (aged 25 and 43), the Cornish Coast

Castor watched as his brother appeared, breathless. Pollux was lithe and sweating, clearly worn out, but with a wild smile stretching across his face.
"I did it! I shifted time!"
Castor frowned, silently. Pollux waved his arms, vaguely.
"I jumped back...maybe a few hours ago, but I did it! And I couldn't control where I emerged so I ended up in some city far east...there were dancing monks and great paper dragons, and..." he stumbled, lost for words.
Castor waited a moment, and then coughed.
"What are you talking about?"
Pollux cast about, madly, excitedly. "I was in some city! Nanching or something. Nanjing? Somewhere. And I wanted to get back, but it was too hard to get anything right, so I ended up jumping all over time and space just to get here!"
Castor coughed again. "When did you get time travelling powers? I thought you didn't have any."
Pollux frowned, his train of thought momentarily derailed. "Oh...right. Yeah. I think I realised it a few days from now. A week maybe? Yeah...a week sounds about right...it's hard to tell. I'm not so good at this time thing."
Castor looked at his bedraggled brother with a solemn expression. Then he laughed.
"Only my brother could get a power so utterly confusing and bewildering as that. You'll be lost by next month. Or last month?"
Pollux laughed, too. "Don't you see what we can do with this? We can right wrongs, travel all time and make the world right."
Castor's eyebrow raised. "Kill a murderer before he murders?"
"Yes!" Pollux agreed.
"No." Castor shook his head. "You'd be a god, Pollux. Judging who should live and who should die. What should happen and what shouldn't. Which bits of history to correct, which future we should follow. That isn't what we were put here for."
Pollux frowned. Then stamped his foot. He felt angry.
He opened his mouth, and then closed it. With a blink he disappeared.

Castor sat back, thoughtfully. Looked out over the sea.
There was a clatter from behind him. He didn't turn around.
"Has he gone?"
"Yes." Castor began to hover, just slightly, floating gently on the sea breeze. It was a nice day.
"Good. I was a bastard when I was young, right?"
"Right." Castor grinned. The older Pollux clambered out from behind the table. He looked old, but not out of shape. He had lost the wilder edge that his younger self suffered for. He looked strangely more like Castor in demeanor, now.
"He'll give up, soon." the older Pollux assured him. "I remember it. Full of dreams and hopes for a new world, ideas of a utopia."
He caught Castor's eye.
"There used to be a utopia, you know." he said, slyly. "I visited."
"And?"
"The grass is always greener." Pollux confirmed. Castor smiled.

They both looked out to the sea. Two brothers, two twins.
"He'll give up and realise things happen. Trying to change them is like trying to stem the tide. It can be done, yes, but time has a knack for deviating off course every so often. Too many events, too many lives. I couldn't do it all. Couldn't distinguish good from bad near the end. I realised that the best a time traveller can do is observe."
Castor smiled again, though more to himself now.
"I know the feeling."
Pollux shared the smile, understanding. He gripped his brother's hand.
"I'd best be off. My younger self will be in here any second, claiming to have realised that he can travel in time, and demanding that you witness a demonstration of his abilities."
Castor thought about this.
"Ah, so he disappears in a few minutes and then reappears..."
"You just saw him reappear." Pollux finished. He laughed. "Don't try and understand it. I don't worry about it so much, myself."

He walked away, slightly, then turned.

"Goodbye, Castor."
"Goodbye, Pollux."

And he disappeared.

CHAPTER SIX - Kyrie


Richmond, Leicester

"The Church is justified in outlawing these heretics."
The man smiled, a greasy smile, the smile of a politician. A puppet to the Church. Untouchable.
Consul of the whole Republic of Europa, too.
"There have already been numerous incidents reported within England herself involving these...deviants." the consul lifted his files. "Documents of invisible assassains. Of winged freaks tearing up York. Even as we speak a brawl is raging, countless innocents put at risk by these monstrosities. There is talk of that...heretic Dantalion raising an army of Prussians to oppose the Republic and the Church itself. Fellow politicians, your support now is of the utmost importance. Exterminating the deviant threat is of the highest priority."
He allowed himself a humble smile.
"The Righteous wills it, gentlemen."

There was silence. Deputies looked to their neighbours, stern faced and uneasy. It was no secret that the Church had made the consul who he was. Paid his dues for the lies he wove for them. They cast nervous glances at the guardsmen lining the chamber hall. Somber soldiers, pikes and swords unsheathed.
Barely a concealed threat. A reminder of the Church's authority.
Richmond smiled. Slowly, he began to clap.
The consul frowned. Heads turned.

"Very good, consul. Very good indeed." Richmond rose, standing in a sea of seated deputies, his voice calm, measured, and perfectly audible to every politician in the chamber.
"Your loyalty is noted, deputy." the consul nodded, off-balance. He cleared his throat, and leant into the podium.
"I wonder." Richmond interrupted. "I wonder whether we might consider a different approach, however."
There was a murmur. Men edged their seats away from Richmond as he stood, a pious smile on his face. The consul shifted, eyeing the guardsmen.
"You speak of extermination." Richmond laughed. "How very crass, don't you think? You speak of heresy. I call it perfection."
The consul froze. Richmond smiled wider, and twisted the knife.
"These deviants are the future, gentlemen. The rest of humanity needs them as it claims to need the Righteous."
"Blasphemy!" the consul shouted, shaking. A pointed finger.
"The winged figure you speak of is a well known servent to the Church, consul! We all know of Metatron's deal here."

The consul stepped back. Richmond began to stride. Deputies flung themselves aside to make way.
"Too long has the Republic been a slave to the Church. To the Righteous. A decadant force that was spent long ago. Too long have we politicians feared reprisal for our policies, for suggestions of reform or justice in the system. Too long, consul."
Richmond had reached the stage. The guardsmen moved, silently, to the frantic waving of the consul, creating a wall of steel and muscle.
Richmond reached the line and stopped. An arm's length away from a lowered pike.
One lunge, and that would be that.
He smiled.

"Kill them."


Umbrion Jade and Dierdro Dayo and Eloa and Metatron, York

Umbrion stared, frozen, as the Metatron stepped forward. He was untouched. Utterly unharmed. Perfection.
He stammered through locked teeth.
"What...do you...want?"
Metatron's eyes narrowed. He raised his hand. Orange flames burst from his fingertips, and encapsulated his hand, a fiery halo.
Eloa started running. Skin rippled as it faded into nothingness, hands throwing back the cloak and tunic, discarding them onto the cobbled street. Invisible.
Metatatron moved. Umbrion gritted his teeth, and pushed. He rolled as the flames hit the floor. An unseen body piled into him and carried him into the shadows.
He'd escaped. The Metatron turned to follow. Great dove wings rose and came crashing down, lifting his lithe, muscular body.
Then the kusara-kama struck, the chain lashing like a scythe, the blade striking Metatron in the ribs. He jerked, as a ball of electricity exploded into his hand, sending sparks of fire in bright showers, burning and vanishing on the stone house behind.

Dierdro Dayo yanked the kusara-kama, bringing it back to his side, still twirling in little loops, flecks of fresh blood colouring the street.
He spat, and leant into a fighting pose.

"Hey Metatron."

He grinned.

"Fuck you."


Keaton Leort, Canterbury

"Keaton!"
Father Jacobus smiled, surprised, as Keaton closed the cathedrale doors behind him.
"Our son returns!"
He grasped Keaton's hand and shook it, the warmth and sincerity of the welcome evident on his face, and deeper, and more truthfully, in his mind.
"I have a report to write, father." Keaton bowed, signing the Righteous on his chest as he did so.
Father Jacobus did likewise, and nodded.
"Of course. Where will you write? The other scribes are working in the hall."
"I thought I'd work in the library, actually." Keaton admitted. "I feel I might have need of the archives there."
Father Jacobus nodded, and waved him off down the cathedrale corridor.
Keaton hoped the shape of the axe under his cloak wasn't too obvious.

Keaton dusted the book with his sleeve, reverantly, and then opened it. He studied the first few pages, intently, and then lifted it aside.
He found another. And another. And another.
Occasionally his finds would be book-marked by scraps of parchment, or with scribbled memos, and from time to time Keaton would sit back and blink, his mind puzzling over a new twist or revelation.
The day wore on. Keaton bit his lip, thoughtfully, and finished the last curve of ink with his quill. He put the quill down, gently, and read what he'd written.

There was nothing about the Anti-Hero in the catherdrale's archives. Nothing about the seven, or a past utopia, or a revolution.
He'd found a woodcut-printing of the Metatron, in one dusty history, a winged figure in the centre of a giant...shape.
Metatron's Cube. The page described a deal made between Metatron and the Church, and the fixing of Metatron's soul within a cube. The page ended in a singed blur. As though the pages from there on in had been burnt out.

Keaton sat back. A tool for the Righteous? A mere pawn in a greater god's game with humanity? A weapon, a bomb, a final end to a world the Righteous couldn't manage?
Keaton repressed swearing. Mutely bit his lip. He put his head down, into his hands. Then looked up.
A book had fallen open before him. It was open on a woodcut-printing and a block of scrawling, curving inked text.
Eygpt. Something had happened there, centuries ago. Keaton read on, interested.
He finished reading, and smiled.

Then he looked up.

Father Jacobus was looking into his eyes, wide and afraid. Keaton had read his mind before he could speak.

"Thought police!"


Richmond, Leicester

The sound wave knocked the guardsmen to the floor, metal helmets ringing.
A deputy jumped up, smiling, and changed, suddenly, now a squat man dressed in black, a sabre in one hand, a hatchet in the other.
Richmond smiled up at the consul as he stepped over the bodies towards him.
The chamber was in uproar. Deputies scattered as Richmond's followers appeared among their ranks: a shape-shifter, a teleporting swordsman, a grinning knife-wielder that appeared out of nowhere.
There was a grunt, and the muscled dreadnaught that had stunned Eloa blocked the doorway.
Richmond smiled again, as the consul gaped, all control lost, all political savvy gone.

Richmond drove the knife into his neck, and twisted.
Behind him a guard, deafened and bewildered, gurgled as a hatchet broke his skull open. A scream as a pike was thrown aside, a sword jabbing into an exposed stomach.
Slaughter. The deputies watched, unharmed, horrified.

Richmond cleared his throat, and took to the podium. He stood, almost aloof, as though apart from the bloody murder before him, straightening his white cloak.
Then he smiled.


Umbrion and Eloa and Pollux Angelos (aged 33), York

"Ah, Eloa?"
Umbrion was dropped, suddenly. The dark gloom of the house had made it seem empty and safe at first, but now it seemed a death-trap.
"Eloa, are you there? I take this to be...Umbrion? Umbrion Jade?"
Eloa tensed, reappearing, crouched behind a table. Unable to keep up the invisibilty act. Naked, vulnerable.
Umbrion groaned, but rose, crouching, ready to fight.
The speaker stepped forward. Eloa was surprised she hadn't seen him. He was almost entirely white, from his faint blond hair to his grubby white tunic.
He tried to look nonchalent, and failed.

"Look, I know you're there. Zerachiel sent me to tell you something. He mentioned having clothes prepared for you, so look for a pile on the floor somewhere. And I'd advise against killing me."

He paused, and swallowed, excruciatingly loudly in the silent gloom.

"Killing me could very well destroy the entire fabric of time and space, and thus end the world for us all, possibly in a fiery blast of excruciating pain and torment. So, um, don't do it. Please."


Dierdro Dayo and Metatron, York

Dierdro lunged. Electricity flowed through his hand.
Metatron side-stepped. Dierdro flew past, lifted by invisible, telekinetic forces, and thrown against a house.
He crunched on the stone wall, and bounced back, bouyed by Metatron's unseen hold. He hung there, dazed, for a moment, and then slammed back into the wall.
There was a bony crunch and Dierdro fell back, crashing into the cobbled road, a bloody mess left splattered over the wall.
He got up, oozing blood and brain from the back of his head. Sharp fragments of bleached white skull contrasted sharply with the scarlet mess bursting out around them, before fading as the stain of blood washed over them.
Dierdro staggered, and lifted the kusara-kama.

Metatron raised a hand. Dierdro froze.
Flesh began to come together, skin fusing and smoothing over the torn wounds down Metatron's side. He grimaced, slightly, as the healing stopped. He was unharmed. Whole again.
Dierdro was not.
The hand closed. Dierdro screamed. White, blinding pain blinded him as the unseen forces closed on his head, pounding even as the grey matter of his brain slid from the back of his head.
Agony, blinding, deafening, pain.

Dierdro's head imploded. Metatron ruffled his wings, and took off again.

The Church was calling.

CHAPTER SEVEN - Sword in the Stone


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

The sword was old. Centuries old. Had to be.
Repus gripped the hilt. The leather grip had rotted into nothing years ago, but the metal left was as bright and as keen as it had been when it was first forged. He drew in from the stone, slowly, and it came as easily as it would have from its sheath.
The sword was huge. Impossibly so. It stood as tall as Repus himself, and yet he could swing it with one hand. Too light, as though it were merely an extension of his own hand. A blade so bright, so untarnished by age it was almost white in the ethereal glow of the cavern.
Repus shook himself. Looked down to where Garant and the others waited for him, at the foot of the stone steps.

"Let's go."

The sword had been sleeping for some time now.

Now it was awake. Now it was hungry.


Eloa and Umbrion Jade and Pollux Angelos (aged 33 and 29), York

"My name is Pollux Angelos. I am a...uh...time traveller. From the future, I suppose. I should be around twenty-three about now...maybe twenty-four...though my age is thirty-three."
Pollux hesitated, and then waved his hands.
"Forget that. Don't let it bother you, too much. I don't. Anyway, I'm here because Zerachiel told me to be here."
Eloa pulled the brown tunic over her head. Pollux had picked it up before arriving, and the sack cloth it was made from wouldn't be sewn together for another two years. Not that that mattered.
"Zerachiel's the one that told me to have clothes ready for you, Eloa, as well as..." he paused as the hiss of water boiling sounded from somewhere among the shadows of the room. "...to have hot water ready for that gash in your forehead."
He picked the pottery bowl up and laid it out on the floor for Eloa. He fished around in a small knapsack on the table, and pulled out a fluffy white towel.
He threw it to her.
"The towel's clean, by the way. I picked it up from Tokyo...maybe three centuries from now? Not sure. Either way, it's clean."

Umbrion frowned as Pollux sat, cross-legged, on the table. Pollux noticed the look.
"Ah, right. To business. Tea, Umbrion?"
Umbrion ignored the cup. Pollux hesitated, and then shrugged.
"Of course, we don't know each other yet, do we? I do apologise. We've met before...or rather, I've met you before...some time from now. I'm sorry, it does get confusing sometimes."
Eloa reached a hand to her side. No knife. No grappling hook. She'd abandoned everything in becoming completely invisible. She felt more naked for not having a blade than when she had simply not had clothes on.
Pollux leant back, slightly.
"Right. What I am about to tell you I tell you because Zerachiel asked me to. You must understand that it isn't usual of me to interfere with the timeline - though I'll admit I once saw it a different way - as it isn't normal for Zerachiel to interfere, though he does, for whatever reason. What is about to happen will be big, the reactions, cataysts and changes that occurr will shake this world to the core. Major powers are going to come into play, powers you can't even imagine. A battle of the Righteous and his creation. Zerachiel believes...or believed, I suppose...that you two should at least be given the means to try and fight in this coming war."

Pollux gestured to the door of the house.
"The being known as Metatron. If you hadn't realised it yet, he's under the control of the Church. What his actual will or motives are I don't know. Some time ago - even I'm not sure when - Metatron contained his soul within a Cube. I don't know how or why, either. Somehow the Church came into possession of that Cube, and with it they are controlling the Metatron's actions. Using him to hunt down the heretics deemed most dangerous to the Church. To that end he has hunted Zerachiel, and killed him, not long ago, because Zerachiel is...was...seen as a threat to the Church, his power of omniscience meant that - had he chosen - he could have toppled the Church and ruled over the world with his power. I know that he did not want that, and I suspect Metatron knew that too. The Church, in its ignorance, saw him only as a threat to be removed. Similarly they have sent Metatron after me, on occasion, a chase we all know to be impossible."
Pollux smiled, broadly. The smile faded as a memory floated to the surface, a cry from the past...or the future...
"They sent Metatron after me. It almost killed my brother."

He shook his head, and the smile came back, though more subdued, now.
"I cannot help you in what you intend to do next. Or rather, I do not want to help you. As I said, I don't interfere. Much. Anyway, your actions now are your own. You can heed what I said and take the fight into your own hands. Find the Cube, Metatron's Cube, and use him to your own ends. Where the Cube might be I don't know myself, though I expect Canterbury would be a place to start a search. You could, of course, choose to run, and hide as the powers collide - which they will - though then I dare say you'd become mere civilians in the crossfire. The choice is yours."
Pollux rose. He stood, and arched his back. It cracked, slightly, and he groaned.
"If you'll excuse me, I've got places to be. Times to see. You know. Or rather, you don't. We'll see each other again, if it helps. I rather suspect we become quite close friends, really. I'll be younger, the next time. Then older, I think."

He stepped into the shadows once more.
"Be good, Umbrion. Don't lose your way, the coming battle will have need of your strength, and I'm not just talking about your gift. Eloa..." he grinned. "...you'll see soon enough. Try to look surprised."
He grinned once more, and then disappeared.

Umbrion looked to Eloa, who had frozen in the act of wiping away the pus from her forehead. It had swollen, since she last checked. The hot water did it good.
He shrugged.

There was a sound, and Pollux reappeared. He looked younger, somehow.
"Sorry, I just bumped into myself. I told me to give you these."
He handed Umbrion a longsword. Umbrion inspected it, gingerly. It was good. Very good. The blade was still hot.
Eloa caught the knife Pollux threw. It was curved, slightly. One of the edges was saw-toothed. She liked it instantly.
"I'll see you again soon." Pollux grinned, and vanished.

Umbrion got up. He looked at Eloa.

The battle of the powers was coming.

They had to be ready.


Repus Oge, Eastern Prussia

Dantalion smiled, slightly, as he poured the wine into the glass.
It was from Bavaria. A good year, too. A thick, rich red. He let it spin, lazily, around in the glass for a moment, as he contemplated his words.
He was tall. He stood a head above everyone else in the room, all the more imposing for the immaculate black coat that flowed down from his shoulders.
Perfectly straight black hair fell over his shoulders, framing a beautifully white face. His eyes were like coals, jet black and yet fiery, as though they were two twin rocks, burning into your very soul.
He was terrifying. And yet people found it hard to dislike him, somehow. He spoke fluently, without accent or slur, and with an unshakeable certainty that was impossible to oppose. He spoke highly of the sciences, and the cosy room he now lounged in was filled with the remnants of past experiments and interests; globes, atlases, gyroscopes, telescopes, giant tanks of exotic fish, copper wire that hummed gently, a small iron engine that spluttered steam as though it were coughing. Books covered the walls, and Dantalion was known to quote each, word for word, with his cold, quiet certainty.
He smiled again as Repus entered, nodded in by an aged butler.

"Ah, Repus. I'm glad you could join us."
Repus bowed, hesitantly, his eyes scanning the assembled crowd. Dantalion's usual followers were all present: the local knights, all resplendant in their gleaming suits of armour; a number of the courtly ladies that seemed to dog Dantalion's footsteps wherever he went; the academics and librarians of the castle, the learned few that Dantalion kept by him.
There were others, too, new faces, the men of the revolution that Dantalion promised. Barbarians, mostly, and Repus recognised the grinning face he had met before, not so long ago, chieftans and soothsayers of the local tribes. They looked dignified, here in Dantalion's study, their fur cloaks and wild tattoos almost at home among the books of science.
They stared as Repus held the sword aloft. Dantalion's smile widened.
"You brought the sword! I should have expected that of you, Repus. You did well."

Repus nodded, and sheathed it on his back again. He had had a special scabberd made for the sword, one of leather and steel, that angled the sword so as it could hang on his shoulders without tripping him up. It barely weighed a thing.
Dantalion hesitated. The room seemed to feel colder, suddenly, and all eyes shifted from Repus to Dantalion, apprehensive, tense.
They stood like this, two forces met, testing the other.
Dantalion smiled again.
"Of course, you must keep the sword, Repus. It would only be right."
The assembled company breathed out, collectively, though their gazes didn't move from the two.
"The sword belonged to Michael, once, you know. From a better time." he smiled, almost ruefully. "It will be our greatest weapon in the battle to come. It is the only blade known to harm Metatron."
There was silence. Repus stood, uncertain, but firm.

"The revolution is coming, my friends. Logic must prevail over a decadant Church. We represent science, and progress. Revolution will change what once was, make it stronger, better. We will remove all memory of that which was known as the Righteous. Replace it with knowledge, real power. You have all heard of Richmond's coup. Even now he sets up a new command centre for his Republic, in Edinburgh. He goes unopposed by the people because he represents an order that they realise they lacked. He represents the first stand against a Church that nobody wants."
Dantalion laughed, quietly.
"He will last a month, perhaps. He lacks what we have. A weapon against Metatron. While the Church control the Metatron, Richmond cannot succeed. We will land on the beaches of Dover by next month, with an army assembled from all Prussia, from the lands of the Republic herself, and march on to Canterbury. Repus will defeat Metatron, he has Michael's sword. We will dismantle the Church and move on to Edinburgh, and Richmond's castle. There we will dismantle the Republic. And so a new empire will begin, one of the future, of progress and science and logic and knowledge. An empire that will bring everything that the Republic has not. An empire, friends, of us. Of the people."

There was silence. Then a slow, shocked clap. It grew, passing from neighbour to neighbour, until the wooden study was echoing with the applause.
Two men did not clap.
One was Dantalion, who stood, smiling slightly, confident, assured, collected.
The other was Repus.

Their eyes met.

Dantalion smiled.

The Revolution had begun.


Keaton Leort, Canterbury

Keaton rose from his desk as the first sounds of footsteps echoed from the stone corridors outside.
Father Jacobus lingered in the doorway. Keaton met his eyes.
He nodded, and ran out into the corridor. Shouting.
Keaton moved quickly, grabbing the ancient tomes and pushing them into his satchel. He turned and ran for the window.
There was a twanging sound, and Father Jacobus collapsed. A feathered bolt ran through his heart. His eyes rolled back, in time to see Keaton jump out of the open window, out into the grassy courtyard beyond, and down into the city itself. He was escaping.
He sighed, contentedly, as the thought police ran into the library. Guards in the blood red of the thought police, the Church's most dangerous force after the Metatron himself.
The telepath was held by chains in the midst of them. A snarling, feral thing. Scarcely human any more. Naked, grubby, beaten. An animal.
The sergeant nodded to the keeper. He knocked the telepath over with the back of his hand, and grunted.
There was a silence. And then a scream. Father Jacobus was writhing, his mind aflame as the telepath broke it open, tearing the grey mush of his brain as he sought the thoughts his masters commanded him to find.
The telepath knew only pain. Its power reflected this.

The telepath grunted, and pointed. The window. The thought police jumped it and were gone.

Father Jacobus grimaced, his skull open, bleeding and oozing with gore, as he died on the stone floor of the library.

He had served the Anti-Hero. Served Keaton.

Keaton walked out into the city. Cool, calm, collected. He stopped a passerby, politely.

"Excuse me...would you know where I might find the docks?"

The Anti-Hero was going to Eygpt.

CHAPTER EIGHT - Strange Bed-Fellows


Satanel and Beelzebub, Canterbury

"You understand what we have to do?"
Satanel sighed, and snapped the lock from the door.
"Yes. You've told me several times, Beelzebub. We get the Cube and get out."
"Right."
Satanel shifted his focus back to the door. It opened easily, and quietly. He slipped into the shadows of the stone corridor beyond.
Canterbury cathedrale. The nerve-centre of the entire Church. Also where Beelzebub promised they would find the Cube.
He sidled up against the wall, edging further into the cathedrale. Beelzebub followed, his broad wings scraping the edges of the corridor.
It didn't matter. No-one else could see him.

Satanel was a thief. He had always been a thief. He had also always had Beelzebub.
Beelzebub...he was tall. Huge. A head above Satanel, and with shoulders twice as broad. He looked all the more intimidating for the great gossamar wings that erupted from his back. Three pairs, six wings. Those, combined with his mottled skin and heavy black cloak, made him look like a great bottle fly, shuffling about in loping strides.
Satanel wasn't sure why no-one else could see Beelzebub. He had assumed long ago that invisibility was Beelzebub's power, and that he had become so skilled in it that he could be selective in who saw him. Or perhaps he was a perception manipulator who had managed to decieve everyone but Satanel.
Why he followed Satanel, Satanel wasn't sure about either. The loping creature just went after him, flying if he tried to escape, always dogging his footsteps.

He was helpful, in some ways. He would give Satanel hints or clues. But most of the time he just followed.

Satanel edged on, into the cathedrale. A sunlight courtyard lay up ahead. Shadows faded as the light shone in. Satanel swore.
There was no-one about. He could dash across, and continue searching the cathedrale. It wouldn't be difficult.
He stepped forward...
"Thought police!"
A figure crashed through an open window that looked out over the courtyard. Satanel froze as the figure darted over the grass and past him, out of the door he had just broken in through.
"He didn't see you." Beelzebub assured him. Satanel crouched as crashing noises sounded from the window the figure had just sprung through.
There was a clatter, and three figures jumped out, running in pursuit.
They went by without seeing Satanel.

"Thanks, Beelzebub." Satanel managed, rising. He sprinted the courtyard and was back in the cathedrale corridors.
"Now to find that Cube."


Richmond, Edinburgh

"Where better to lead our new Republic than from this castle?" Richmond smiled. "I always thought that quaint Leicester chamber was a little too...diminutive. Here is far better, don't you agree?"
The shadowy figures nodded. It was dark in the castle's lofty tower. Richmond sat back, a wooden throne at the head of a small, ornate table.
"I have done away with all the deputies and so forth. From now on the Republic will be ruled from here, by myself, Consul Richmond. You have been chosen worthy of being my advisors."
There was a murmur of assent. Richmond smiled.
"To business. We have succeeded in our coup so far because the people are tired. They have little knowledge of the affairs of state and do not want to become involved. None of them will stand for the Church, if it comes to it. The Church itself has failed to oppose us because we control the majority of the Republic's army, thanks to you, general."
One of the shadowed figures nodded, with a grunt.
"Dantalion will be on our shores within the month. He is dangerous. His revolution has come too late, and must be crushed by our forces before they reach us here. We will allow Dantalion to destroy the Church, or else ruin them enough that they no longer threaten us, and then we will strike at him. Your forces, general, I take them to be enough?"

The general sighed, his face still obscured by shadow.
"Not enough, consul. Dantalion has a good number of Prussian tribesmen with him, while my soldiers are largely still involved with putting down any commanders in England still loyal to the Church. If it came to a pitched battle, we'd lose."
Richmond nodded, thoughtfully.
"Then...perhaps...gentleman, I take it you have all heard of this 'Anti-Hero'?"
There was another assenting murmur.
"Reports show he appeared in York, not long ago. It seems that is where he attained the power of the Anti-Hero...stealing other's powers." a shadowy figure reported, in cold, calculated terms. "We know this from our informant in the Church, it seems the individual is one Keaton Leort. We suspect Zerachiel is behind the Church learning this."
Richmond swore, softly. "I often wonder what Zerachiel planned when he sent all those letters...when he...yes...I suppose he has little intention but to interfere with mankind. To stir us, to test us. His omniscience could have made him a god, but instead he just sits, and pushes us...it makes you wonder whether the truth, the ultimate truth...is that in the end it doesn't matter. Nothing does."

He sat, quietly, for a moment more, and then laced his fingers together. Bridged them under his nose, as he thought.
"General, you have a telepath on your force, do you not?"
The general seemed surprised. "Well...yes. Sort of."
"The gifted are not shunned as they once were, general. This is my new Republic. Those once named heretics are to be welcomed with open arms."
The general nodded.
"Then yes, we have such a man. His telepathy is...unusual. He cannot read minds, as such, and would be taken for blind, or deaf, or dumb, on first impressions. But his range is extrodinary, he can project messages to anyone, no matter what the distance. All he needs is their name."
Richmond smiled, thinly.
"Good. I suspected as much. Have your telepath contact this...Keaton Leort...this...Anti-Hero."

There was a ripple of surprise around the table. Richmond's smile broadened.

"Tell him...tell him I want to make a deal."


Satanel and Beelzebub, Canterbury

Satanel reached the end of the corridor. There was a doorway beyond.
Through it he could make out the shapes of men, about ten...thought police...
They all carried swords.
"Is there no other way into this crypt?" he hissed, and Beelzebub shook his head.
"The only way down is through the door in that room. I wonder why they're guarding it?"
Satanel wondered that, too. Did the Church suspect someone was coming to steal the Cube?
And could he fight his way through ten thought police?

He looked down at his hand. It glowed a faint orange in the shadows.

Maybe...

ANTI-HEROES
VOLUME TWO


Dramatis Persona

The Good

Repus Oge (The Wandering Hero)
Keaton Leort (The Artist-Scientist, Second Anti-Hero)
Iron Knight (The Unbreakable)
Nathan Aki (The Opportunist)
Michiko (The Albine Prodigy)

The Neutral

Eloa (The Reborn Azazel)
Metatron (The Reluctant Antagonist)
Umbrion Jade (The Fated Man)
Castor Angelos (The Byronic Hero)
Pollux Angelos (The Chronic Hero)
Alice (The Antithesis)
Solace (The Purge)
Jeta Morgan (The Thief)
Jonathan Harker (The Atoned)

The Bad

Satanel (The Trickster)
Beelzebub (The Shadow)
Alidod (The Counter)
James Whittle (The Inventor)
CHAИDEЯ (The Puppeteer)