Age of Darkness

Author: Kirk Straughen

Synopsis: Myles Colt, volunteer in a suspended animation experiment, awakes to find two thousand years have passed, and with it everything he was familiar with, for the world into which he emerges is one of savagery, not science. Armed with not much more than his wits and fists he must confront the terrors of the Age of Darkness and win a place for himself among the savages of a barbarious society. Join him in his adventures if you dare!

Edit history: Minor changes were made to this story on 15/07/2021.

Chapter 1: The Awakening

Deathly quiet pervaded the dark and dusty chamber, the walls of which were ranged about with silent enigmatic mechanisms as cold and inanimate as the naked body that reposed in its coffin-like container. This casing rested on a weird catafalque of strange machinery located in the centre of the room, and was connected to the others about the walls by an orderly array of cables and pipe work depending from the high ceiling.

Through the transparent casing, layered with the grime of ages, the body of a man could be dimly seen as it floated in the icy preservation fluid – as still and as lifeless as any corpse could be. The only sign of movement in the entire room was the steady counting of the timer mounted upon the weird casket – the soft glow of its red numbers as they ticked down the seconds of passing centuries. But now their counting was swiftly coming to an end as the numerals dropped towards finality upon the LCD display – 5...4...3...2...1...0.

There was a brief pause, and then a soft hum broke two millennia of silence as the mechanisms in the room came to life. Lights glowed and the needles of gauges quivered as atomic batteries fed power to complex machinery. The chilly greenish fluid in which the body floated drained away and heating elements began to slowly thaw flesh from its frozen state.

Time passed. The body grew warm, soft. An automated hypodermic filled with revitalizing drugs inched towards the man’s arm, then stopped as a mechanism failed. Without the drugs the body would remain a corpse. The passing of centuries had wrought their destruction – no work of Man could escape the rust of ages, but Man, unlike dumb brutes, is gifted with foresight: the scientists had foreseen with a surer vision than any seer. A failsafe kicked in. The needle inched forward once more and injected its life giving drugs, thwarting death.

Other mechanisms took up the battle. Electric shocks jolted the heart into motion. Oxygen was pumped into the lungs via a mask. More drugs were injected. The man gasped. His muscles twitched, jerked and Myles Colt re-entered the world of the living.

For a long time he lay, his body slowly recovering from two thousand years of frozen quiescence, but at last his eyelids flickered open as consciousness emerged from the blackness of millennia. Gradually, his thoughts ordered themselves. His mind broke free of the fog of ages and he began to wonder.

Dust lay heavily upon the glass casing, whereas it had been spotlessly clean when he had first lain within it – mere minutes ago as it seemed to him. His brow creased in puzzlement. The suspended animation experiment – part of the Space Exploration Research Program - was supposed to have lasted a year. It was inconceivable that so much grime could have accumulated within a period of just twelve months, or that Dr Roberts, a man of fastidious habits, would have permitted such tardiness in his laboratory.

The first glimmerings that something was terribly amiss came upon him. His alarm grew rapidly as he turned his head and looked about the room. The grimy chamber was empty. Where were the technicians pouring over the readouts, where were Dr Roberts and his team of physicians who should have been checking his vital signs? The utter silence and emptiness shouted at him like the deranged cry of a madman.

Myles Colt tore the mask from his face and violently thrust open the lid of the casing. He looked wildly about and shouted incoherently, but the only answer he received was the mocking echoes of his panicky cry. His heart hammered in his chest as he tore the monitoring electrodes from his body, climbed clumsily from the casing and stood clutching its side, his muscles weak from long disuse as well as fear.

With an effort he managed to calm his bolting terror. Although something was obviously wrong he was still alive and well – the experiment had been an unqualified success. The question was what had happened to the others?

Colt looked about for an answer, and as his gaze swept around the dusty chamber his eyes alighted upon a message carved crudely in the concrete of a wall. Shakily, he approached the inscription to better see it for the light was dim, and as he read the lines he grew sick with the horror they disclosed and sank trembling to the floor.

For several minutes he knelt in the dust, mind numb with shock before again raising his horror filled and disbelieving gaze to the fateful letters, and read them once more in the forlorn hope that he had misunderstood their dark import.

Dear Myles began the script. The world you knew, myself included, have been dead for two millennia. Please forgive my bluntness and brevity. My time is short for my medication has run out and I feel the end fast approaching.

The first hints of the cataclysm that befell the Earth were detected by astronomers about two months after you entered suspended animation: a vast nebula – a cosmic cloud of dust and gas was hurtling towards our world. The dark nebula was singular in form – not irregular, but a sphere held in shape by a balance of unknown forces, possibly electrostatic, or so some physicists speculated.

Our world would pass through the fringes of the cloud in twenty seven days, but no great alarm was raised for nebula are tenuous things like the clouds we are familiar with, and spectroscopic analysis showed that its composition was innocuous - mostly hydrogen and cosmic dust. Oh, how little did we know!

It was the 27^th of May when Earth entered the cloud. The hour local time was 10 PM. My team had all gone home. I was alone in the laboratory, working late. The first inkling of the disaster was a sudden power failure. The atomic batteries cut in, taking over from the mains supply. At first I was surprised, but alarm swiftly came with the tremendous rumbling of what sounded like titanic thunderclaps.

The noise, even in this underground laboratory, was deafening and everything trembled as if a minor earthquake was occurring. Fortunately, the equipment continued to operate normally, and feeling there was no immediate danger to you I climbed the quivering ramp to investigate.

I emerged into the end of the world. The sky was alive with lightening – not the puny bolts of an Earthly storm, no. These were blazing shafts at least half a mile wide that flashed to earth from the roiling heavens that were a blood red glow of sinister light. It was a scene of wild elemental fury the likes of which our world has never witnessed. Everywhere – from horizon to horizon – the titanic lightening slammed to earth, and everywhere it struck vast mushroom clouds erupted as incalculable power vaporized all it crashed against.

I stood for about a minute in absolute horror at what I was witnessing, then the shockwave from a tremendous blast several miles away threw me to the ground and brought me to my senses. Realising the danger to myself I retreated to the laboratory and waited out the storm which lasted thirteen and a half hours – the length of time it took our world to pass through the fringes of that dreadful nebula, which discharged its tremendous electrical forces upon the planet.

That was two months ago. The entire world is in ruins. Civilization has ended. The sky is still black with dust and smoke from the innumerable atomic-like explosions. Bereft of sunlight freezing cold has descended in an icy curtain upon the Earth. The few starving survivors that are left skulk among the ruins. I have seen horrors too numerous to mention, signs of cannibalism among them. What is left of humanity is fast descending into primitive savagery.

Rightly or wrongly I have decided to leave you in a state of suspended animation and have reset the chronometer for two thousand years – the time I estimate it will take the world to recover from this global catastrophe. In an adjoining room you will find books on history, science and philosophy I have salvaged from the ruins of a library, all shrink-wrapped with durafilm to seal them against the ravages of time, and also clothes and survival gear similarly preserved.

The world has entered an age of darkness, Myles. Thousands of years of achievement and learning have been obliterated. The lives of the few survivors of this cataclysm will be a constant battle for survival. There will be few opportunities for the preservation and transmission of what little knowledge remains. By the time you awaken only you will be able to understand the contents of the pitifully few books I have been able to rescue. They are my gifts to whatever culture emerges from the ashes of our ruined world. The mission I have set you is to pass on this knowledge if you can.

I’m dying, Myles. My supply of insulin has been exhausted. I go now to seal the entrance to the facility. I wish you well, and hope that whatever world you find you’ll try and make a better place as I have always tried to do.

And thus the message ended with the scrawled signature of Dr John Roberts as its dusty epitaph.

Colt stood slowly. By now his initial shock had abated to a point where he could think more clearly, but even so the full import of what had happened would take some time to completely assimilate. For the moment he knew he had to concentrate on survival. The air in the underground facility – an atomic bomb shelter of the Cold War era that had been converted to research laboratories – was noticeably stale. It wouldn’t be healthy for him to stay here much longer.

He walked to the adjoining room where he found the supplies, and with considerable struggle tore them free of their durafilm wrapping, then donned the denim hiking clothes and shouldered the backpack heavy with camping gear. Everything seemed so surreal. His clothes were fresh and clean as were the contents of the backpack. It was as if they had been purchased from a store only yesterday; and yet two millennia had passed and the world they represented – its culture and achievements - were no more.

Colt shivered with the uncanny feel of it all as he took a deep calming breath and turned his steps towards the ramp, leaving the dozens of sealed books where they were. If some kind of civilization had emerged from the ruins he would return for them and do his best to pass on the knowledge they contained.

Soon, he came upon the mighty blast door of the facility. Colt doffed his backpack and set his muscles to the task of turning the huge wheel that would manually open the valve, for the atomic batteries were of insufficient strength to power its hydraulic mechanisms. He strained mightily, his muscles swelling with effort and his face reddening with strain, but the wheel refused to budge.

Colt slumped against the mechanism and wiped the sweat from his brow. He began to worry. If he couldn’t open the door the facility would become his tomb. The thought of being buried alive amplified his fear. He’d never considered himself as being claustrophobic, but sudden terror made the walls close in on him until it seemed he was being smothered by tonnes of concrete.

The discipline of his air force pilot’s training kicked in, and with an effort he regained his composure. Again, Colt set his muscles to the wheel and channelled his fear to desperate strength, hurling every fibre of his rugged frame against the stubborn mechanism. The wheel turned a little. Gasping, cursing, he exerted himself to the utmost until it felt as if he’d burst a blood vessel.

The wheel gave suddenly, sending Colt sprawling. A counterweight was engaged. Bolts slid free and with a metallic screech the door was jerked open by the falling weight. The soil that had built up in front of it over two millennia toppled in – a landslide of dirt that struck Colt as he scrambled to his feet. It hit his shins. He fell with a cry, was tumbled down the ramp, choking on dust and soil as it rolled over him in a terrifying earthy cascade.

The rush of soil gradually abated. A few laggard pebbles rattled down and then there was silence. A ray of light slanted through the entrance to illuminate the scene. Dust and stillness hung in the air, beneath which was a blanket of smothering dirt. Of the man there was no sign at all.

Chapter 2: A Perilous Trail

Colt lay trapped beneath the soil. It pressed in on him – a heavy constricting blanket of earth, dark and impenetrable. His head was between his knees in a foetal position, trapping a small pocket of air – air that was fast running out. He fought down his wild panic. He had to think, to act rationally rather than thrash madly about like an ensnared animal.

He knew he had only moments to dig his way out, but which direction was up and which was down? He spat some soil from his mouth. The dirt didn’t land back on his face. He was facing down. He thrust up with his arms. The soil on his back seemed to weigh a ton. Terror came upon him despite his resolve not to panic. Again, he thrust mightily, desperately, the air growing fouler with his frenetic exertions.

His breathing became rapid. His heart hammered wildly in his heaving chest. Blackness smothered him. His strength was fast giving out. Again, he thrust against his loamy tomb in a final desperate bid, limbs trembling from the strain. A mound of soil bulged. Colt broke through in a spray of dirt and collapsed upon the ground, coughing and gasping. He lay in a quivering heap, exhausted from his horrific ordeal, well aware that if he’d been buried a foot deeper this installation would have been his final resting place.

It took some time before he recovered from the nightmare experience and when his strength returned he stood and looked about. Soil was piled up at the foot of the ramp, blocking the entrance to the laboratory and beneath it, somewhere, his backpack containing all his survival gear, bar the hunting knife sheathed at his belt, lay buried. Colt muttered an oath. Digging it out by hand would be an ordeal in itself.

He felt tired, hungry and depressed. He hadn’t even left the building and disaster had already struck. Turning his face from the discouraging scene he ascended the talus of the landslide, intent on finding food and water that would restore his flagging strength.

Colt emerged into the early morning sunshine of a summer’s day. All about him was a forest of tall trees. Here and there tilted slabs of concrete, shrouded in moss and vines, protruded from the soil like the tumbled gravestones of long forgotten people. A gap in the trees gave him a view across the valley. The forest was all encompassing. The transient works of Man had been obliterated by two millennia. No obvious sign of civilisation remained, not even the broken stub of a skyscraper persisted to mark the place where a mighty city once stood.

He slumped to a time worn piece of masonry and stared, wondering if he was the last man on Earth. Before, in the laboratory, he had been surrounded by the familiar and had grasped in only an abstract manner the extent of the devastation that had been wrought upon the world, but now the true degree of the disaster was thrust upon him. It left him reeling - as if he’d been struck with all the violence of a boxer’s blow.

He thought of family and friends, long dead. How had they met their end? Cowering in dread? Screaming in agony? He buried his face in his hands and wept bitter tears of utter anguish.

Immersed in his emotional turmoil he almost didn’t hear the snapping of a twig. Colt turned and gasped. The frightening sight was like a slap across the face. Behind him were three lean and hungry forms of wolfish mien. They were the descendents of domestic dogs transformed from man’s best friend to fearsome predators by two millennia of the brutal struggle for survival.

In size and appearance they resembled German Shepherds, but their coats were tawny and striped in the manner of a tiger. Their ears were flattened and their black gums were drawn back in ferocious snarls to expose gleaming canines of frightful length. For an instant the savage tableaux held; then the howling brutes were leaping for his throat.

Colt jerked the hunting knife from its sheath and swung the blade in a vicious arc. Sharp steel caught one brute across the throat. It yelped, went down, blood gushing from the fatal wound as the remaining beasts leapt savagely upon him. He slammed his fist against the second’s nose with all his strength. It howled in agony and bounded off; tail between its legs, but the third sank its fangs in his arm and jerked him to the ground.

Pain made him drop the knife. The feral dog lunged at his throat. Colt caught it by the neck, but only just, and with a desperate effort fended of the snapping jaws. They rolled, the wild animal clawing him savagely. He managed to get on its back. Hands still about its throat he drove his knee into its spine. The brute howled. Colt dropped his weight fully on the beast, jerked its body back by the neck. There was a sharp snap as its back broke. The dog whimpered, and then lay still.

Trembling, Colt climbed off the whining hound, retrieved his knife and in an act of mercy cut its throat. He stood panting, weak with the aftermath of battle. Death made him again think of his family. They would have wanted him to go on. An idea came to mind. It was distasteful to him, but he was hungry and here was meat. It was a matter of survival.

**********

Several days had passed since the attack. Colt had been lucky. He had found a nearby stream in which to cleanse his clothes and wounds, which were not as bad as they could have been thanks to the thickness of his garb. He’d looked for the backpack, but the amount of earth he’d have had to shift by hand to find it was voluminous, and in the end he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Fortunately, he had the knife, and his survival training which he’d learnt in the air force was standing him in good stead.

It was now about noon and Colt had stopped to rest, concealing himself from the sight of any lurking predators by hiding in a dense growth of Sweet Viburnum – the descendent of some long lost park or garden as was most of the flora of the forest. There were wild dogs about. He’d seen a pack earlier in the morning, but fortunately they’d been running down a deer and were too busy thus occupied to bother him.

He had just finished gnawing on a strip of jerked dog meat when he heard what sounded like the cracking of a whip. Curious but cautious, Colt carefully spread some branches and peered through the narrow gap. He was on a hillside, and as he looked down towards the foot of the acclivity he discerned a line of human figures marching around the contours of the rise. People! Joy came upon him. Humans had survived the catastrophe. He was not alone.

But Colt’s happiness was ended as the group drew near. He muttered an oath and his smile became a grimace of anger, for the noise he’d heard was indeed the crack of whips and the line a coffle of dusty, naked slaves driven like cattle before the stockman’s lash. There were ten captives in the line, heads bowed in dejection, hands bound behind their backs, each one collared to the other by a rope about the neck.

It was a depressing sight to Colt. If this barbaric scene represented the highest state of culture then he doubted if the mission Dr Roberts had set him was at all achievable, for Mankind had fallen very far indeed if the barbarity of slavery had re-emerged.

Colt shifted his gaze to the chattels’ captors, twenty in all. They were rugged looking men, brutality clearly stamped upon their bearded visages. Each warrior was clad in a coat-like armour of bone scales. Broad brimmed conical helmets of thick boiled leather protected their heads. Upon the left arm they carried oval shaped wicker shields covered in boiled leather; a short stabbing spear was slung over the right shoulder in the manner of a rifle and hanging on their right sides were heavy hardwood maces with lobed heads. In addition every warrior carried a large backpack filled with additional military impedimenta.

From concealment Colt warily watched the captors and their captives march around the hill, and within fifteen minutes the group disappeared from sight. He sat for a while debating the course of action open to him – to continue on his way, or follow and investigate the culture that had emerged from the cataclysm. Both had their risks – the wild dogs of the wilderness, or the savages of a barbarous society.

It wasn’t much of a choice, but in the end he decided to follow the slavers hoping, perhaps over optimistically, that things weren’t as bad as they appeared, remembering as he did that although the ancient Romans had slavery, they also had aqueducts, public bathes and other advanced amenities.

**********

Night had fallen and under the cover of darkness Colt had crept as close as he dared to the camp of the slavers, which had been set up in a forest glade. Both warriors and slaves were sleeping, surrounded by a ring of campfires. A single bored guard was on duty. Clearly, the relaxed attitude of the men indicated they were now within their own territory with little danger of attack by hostile foes.

Colt scrutinised the party carefully, hoping to learn something of the people of this age. He was no anthropologist, but his observations from a safe distance throughout the day and now at closer range led him to believe that both captors and captives were a new race that had arisen from the intermarriage of diverse ethnic groups.

Their skins were light brown, their glossy hair was black and wavy, and their eyes somewhat almond shaped in appearance. The men, both warriors and captives, were tall and powerfully built. The women prisoners were a little shorter with slender athletic physiques. He imagined they spoke a version of English, but correctly guessed that it would be as different from what he was familiar with as Chaucer’s English, as exemplified by his Canterbury Tales, was different from his own.

His gaze shifted to the restless pacing of the guard whose ugly, brutish visage was made more so by the flickering light of the ring of half a dozen campfires. The man suddenly stopped his pacing and looked furtively about. All was quiet – his fellow warriors and the prisoners were fast asleep.

Colt tensed as the brute crept cautiously towards the huddled group of bound prisoners. He paused above one sleeping chattel and an evil grin split his ugly visage for a moment. Then he swiftly straddled the recumbent form and clamped his callused hand with savage strength upon the hapless captive’s mouth. There was a brief and silent struggle. Some of the slaves stirred, but none awakened as the thug gagged the slave with a length of rope, and then carried his writhing victim towards the undergrowth some yards from where the watching man lay hidden.

Colt felt sick. There was enough light to see that the struggling prisoner was a girl no older than sixteen. Suppressing a violent oath he swiftly stalked the would-be rapist and in but moments came upon an ugly scene that aroused his hot outrage even further – the fiend had thrown his captive to the loam and was trying to force her thighs apart with brutal eagerness.

Swiftly, Colt lunged, the pommel of his knife sweeping down in an avenging arc to knock the foe unconscious. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise at Colt’s unexpected arrival, his outlandish appearance, and thereby unintentionally alerted her assailant. The warrior spun around and was on his feet with cat-like swiftness and fluidity. He flung up an arm, deflecting the swooping blow and with equal swiftness lashed out with his sandalled foot.

The kick slammed into Colt’s shin. He fell with an oath, crashed against his opponent, the knife flying from his hand. Both men tumbled, rolled, locked together. Colt’s foe fought in silence, He had abandoned his post. He dare not call for help. In desperation the brute tried to gouge Colt’s eyes, to finish him quickly. Colt sank his teeth into the man’s thumb, bit deeply. His adversary grunted, head-butted him and broke free of his weakened grip.

Staggering to his feet the warrior pawed for the mace hanging by his side. Colt, fighting through pain sprang at him as he grasped the weapon. His fist streaked towards the fellow’s bearded jaw and smashed against it. The warrior staggered back. Colt advanced furiously, but his opponent fended off another punch and swung his mace in a wild blow of utter savagery.

Knowing it was a kill or be killed situation Colt leapt in close and with both hands caught his enemy’s swinging arm by the wrist. He twisted savagely; jerked the limb into an arm-lock, spun his opponent face down into the dirt and stamped with brutal force upon on the fellow’s neck. There was a sudden snap, a brief spasm and then the warrior lay lifeless at his feet.

Colt looked at the corpse, now sickened as the heat of battle began to cool. It wasn’t that he hadn’t killed before – as a fighter pilot he’d seen action in the Middle Eastern conflicts that raged during the first half of the 21^st century, but it was one thing to drop bombs on the enemy from a great height and quite another to kill a man up close and personal.

It was a brief distraction, but one that almost proved fatal for, absorbed as he was he nearly didn’t turn at the girl’s muffled cry of warning. Spinning around he saw three warriors before him – light sleepers awakened by the slight sounds of the conflict and alerted by the absence of the guard. The men hesitated; shocked into immobility by Colt’s appearance – his pale skin, his blond hair and the outlandish clothes he wore.

Colt took swift advantage of their uncertainty – his fallen knife glittered in the moonlight. He pounced upon it, snatched it up and faced his foes with fearsome resolution. The warrior’s eyes went wide at the sight of the shimmering blade. They were fascinated by it to the point where they ignored their slain companion who hadn’t seen the nature of the weapon clearly.

The men spoke among themselves in awed tones, but without taking their weary eyes off Colt. Emboldened, Colt stepped forward, flourishing the blade menacingly, meaning to intimidate his opponents with a show of bravado he hoped would further his advantage. But the warriors, though daunted by the sight of legendary metal and the magic they considered it imbued with, were nonetheless professional fighting men. Quickly, they fanned out, shields raised and maces firmly gripped in readiness to meet attack as they advanced upon him with wild battle cries.

Chapter 3: Captive of the Cascasa

Colt silently cursed. He’d overplayed his hand. He feinted at one; then swiftly lunged at another. But the warrior’s shield gave him the advantage – the thick boiled leather was deeply slashed as the strike was blocked, but that was all the damage that was done. Colt leapt back and deftly avoided a swinging mace, but another enemy got behind him and before he could turn to confront this foe the warrior swiftly struck him on the head.

The blow was light, designed to stun not kill, for a slave was more useful alive. Colt saw stars. He staggered, the knife dropping from his hand. Through a lurching haze he saw the warriors closing in. Desperately, he lashed out with a wild punch, struck an overconfident foe; but another rammed him with a shield. Colt went down and his enemies piled on him. They pinned him to the ground, pummelled him mercilessly. His feeble struggles ceased as more men burst from the undergrowth like a swarm of angry wasps, the entire camp now roused by the wild battle cries of their comrades.

Colt found himself the centre of attention as his wrists were swiftly bound behind his back, and a babble of confounding voices washed over him as he was roughly hauled to his feet. One warrior held aloft his hunting knife, handling it gingery, reverently. An amazed hush fell over the men. The warrior pointed at Colt and spoke further in an unknown tongue.

A tall and thoughtful man stepped forward and carefully took possession of the blade. Ragar, the leader of the party, examined the glittering steel with feigned nonchalance, for it would never do to show he was as shaken by the sight as were his men. Only the Ancients possessed the magic of making metal. The object he now held was smooth and shining, not at all like the lumps of corroded and crumbling stuff that were sometimes dug up when planting out the fields.

Was this stranger a mighty sorcerer of the past, when men had magic that enabled them to soar like eagles, to stride across the ground more swiftly than a running deer, and swim like a fish to the bottom of the deepest sea? His gaze flicked to his men and he sensed that similar thoughts were now going through their minds as with the passing of the fight the full import of events came upon them. Ragar grimaced. The fact that they’d captured the stranger indicated he lacked supernatural powers. No doubt the fellow had discovered the knife in a hidden cache of surviving artefacts, but he doubted his obtuse companions would have the brains to realise this.

Ragar looked at Colt with narrowed eyes. The stranger might come to hold his men in awe and thereby undermine his authority. He stepped to Colt belligerently and fired aggressive questions at him to show his men and his prisoner that he, Ragar, was uncontested master of the situation.

Colt, who was still woozy from the beating of the foe, could only mumble and incoherent reply that not even an English speaker would have understood.

Ragar swore disgustedly and in a fit of sudden anger struck Colt a mighty blow that sent him crashing unconscious to the ground. Then, turning to his men he upbraided them with sneering, contemptuous words.

“I know what you’re thinking, you bunch of fools. But this prisoner is no sorcerer. Use what little brains you have - if he was we’d never have defeated him. He didn’t make this metal knife, idiots, he simply found it. Tie him into the coffle with the other captives. Do not harm him for the Namani – our sorcerer-king - will want to question him about the origin of the blade.”

**********

A week had passed since Colt’s capture and he now had a better understanding of some aspects of the culture into which he’d been so violently precipitated. He’d been bound behind Jesa, the girl whom he’d saved from the brute who’d tried to rape her, and from her he’d learnt the language of the region. His progress had been rapid, for her tongue and that of their captors, who called themselves the Cascasa, was a derivative of English.

Of course the language was grammatically different to the English of his own time, and the pronunciation of the vowels and phonemes had altered as had the meaning of some words, giving the tongue a distinctly foreign flavour. However, by listening carefully to the girl’s deliberately slow speech he soon found he could discern the meaning of what she said.

It was now evening. Their captors had set up camp, the prisoners had been fed their gruel and things were settling down for the night. Jesa lay beside Colt, staring up at the stars. She seemed more relaxed now, having gotten to know him over the past week, and her wary suspicion of him, of his strangeness, had faded. Their conversation so far had been impersonal, confined to learning Yaquana – the local’s dialect. But now he felt he could broach subjects of a more personal nature.

The girl opened up to his tentative questions. Jesa, was as he had guessed, just sixteen. The girl was intelligent and perceptive, but there was a degree of toughness about her that he found disturbing in one so young. This was a harsh world. People grew up fast in its primitive conditions. The concept of the teenager was unknown, and as soon as a girl reached puberty she was considered an adult and was expected to act like one.

At the age of thirteen Jesa had undergone her initiation ceremony into womanhood, which involved being isolated in a specially constructed hut for a period of seven days during which she had been instructed in the arts of love by the older women of the tribe. After seven days she had then undergone a ritual bath and had been dressed in new clothes to symbolise her transition to adulthood. Then, upon completion of the rite, the girl had been married off to the loutish son of her tribe’s brutish chief and, at the age of fourteen, had lovelessly born him a son.

But tragedy was soon to strike under these primitive conditions where vaccination and antibiotics were unknown - the toddler had died several months ago from a childhood illness. This calamity was compounded by superstition, for Jesa’s tribe believed all deaths were due to sorcery - her husband, Arjun, had severely beaten her, accusing her of cursing their son in revenge for her forced marriage to him. She explained what had happened next, and how it had resulted in her present situation:

“I fled from him,” she said quietly, “but he caught me in the fields, knocked me to the earth and, with a branch, beat me further like a man threshes grain. No one would aid me. My desperation was great for I was sure he meant to kill me. My hand closed upon a rock. I tore it from the soil and hurled it at him. It struck his head. He fell and I ran away. But Rin, our chief sent his men upon my trail, and I was captured. Rin and his warriors tortured me with thorns as punishment. They would have killed me, too, for the blow I struck Arjun had proved fatal, but it was that time when the Cascasa warriors come to collect tribute in slaves from the tribes they have conquered.

“Those who are given to them are usually selected by lot, but the people said: ‘why should we give our sons or daughters to the Cascasa? No, give them this wretch instead, for she has the blood of one of us on her hands.’ And so it was done, and here I am,” she concluded bitterly.

Silence fell between them for a time. Colt was shocked to the point of speechlessness both by the brutality of her account and by the matter-of-fact way she told it, as if such cruelty and injustice was the norm. He had no doubt she spoke the truth for her body still bore the marks of her ordeal. He turned towards her, wondering what he could say, but held his tongue for he saw she was asleep.

Colt lay awake for a long time before slumber came, but when it did it was a fitful thing disturbed by unpleasant dreams.

**********

Another day had passed. The nature of the countryside had changed with the forest giving way to grassland cut by a broad meandering river. Herds of wild cattle and horses roamed the plains, these beasts being preyed upon by packs of feral dogs that were much larger than their forest cousins, almost reaching leonine proportions in body size.

They were now in sight of the Cascasa settlement and were passing through the surrounding watchtower dotted fields of its territory, and from what Colt could see the main crops were oats, corn and potatoes, all protected from the savannah’s herbivores by extremely thorny hedgerows. Men and women clad in deerskin kilts worked the land, the principal tool of agriculture being the foot plough – a spade-like instrument used for tilling.

Some paused briefly to stare at the coffle as it passed by, then went back to tending the crops and irrigation channels that crisscrossed the land, water being raised to them from the river by shadoofs – long poles with a leather bucket at one end and a stone counterpoise at the other, the whole being mounted on a frame.

Some aspects of Cascasa technology roughly approximated that of the Neolithic, while others were more advanced. The only domesticated animals appeared to be chickens. The houses of the villagers were circular, single room structures. The roofs were of thatch, the walls wattle and daub construction, and the clay floors covered with reed mats. A central hole in the conical roof served as a chimney.

Colt, at a rough guess, estimated that the population was between two and three thousand people, far larger than Jesa’s village of one hundred and fifty tribesmen. The Cascasa settlement, though, wasn’t a city by 21^st century terms. Rather, Colt suspected it was a ceremonial centre that controlled the surrounding villages through the authority of organised religion. He put the question to the girl.

“I don’t know,” replied Jesa, worriedly. “Those taken as slaves never return. We have little to do with the Cascasa, for they are our conquerors to whom we must submit. But it may be that you are right.”

The girl fell into a depressed silence. Their journey was coming to an end and she feared being separated from Colt for she had grown to know and like him. The other captives were from different tribes with whom her own people, the Azami, were enemies and she knew that she could expect only hostility from them, even though they were in the power of a mutual foe.

Colt felt similarly. He was very worried about the girl being alone and surrounded by enemies. No further abuse had been inflicted on them, but that could easily change, for on more than one occasion he had caught the friends of Gath – the rapist he had killed – staring at him like vicious and vengeful hounds straining at the leash. But even so his concern was more for Jesa than himself, and it was with considerable effort that he curbed his temper at the cruel injustice of her situation and his helplessness in the face of it.

Soon, the dirt path they were traversing gave way to one paved with river stones, and shortly a low hill, located in the heart of the settlement, stood before them – a hill upon whose slope had been built crescent rows of tiered stone seating that gave the audience an excellent view of the large cobbled stage at its foot, a stage that was dominated by a hideous idol at least fifteen feet in height. Behind this arena rose a semi-circle of twelve huge rectangular monoliths, each at least thirty feet in height, all connected by stone lintels.

To the right of the structure, which Colt could identify as a kind of amphitheater, were several other thatch roofed stone buildings, and it was towards these that the coffle was being led by way of a diverging path.

Within about twenty minutes they had arrived at the entrance of a tall rectangular building with a heavy narrow door and slit-like unglazed windows running beneath its eves of overhanging thatch. Ragar, the leader of the slavers barked commands and Colt was cut free of the coffle and manhandled by two warriors to one side. This was the moment he and Jesa had feared, for from the overheard conversations of their captors it appeared that Colt was destined for a different but unclear fate.

“Where are you taking him,” cried Jesa fearfully.

“Quiet,” slave,” barked Ragar, and then struck her across the face to emphasise his order.

For Colt this was the last straw. Over a week of pent up rage exploded as Jesa stumbled from the brutality of the blow. Colt’s hands were still bound behind his back but his legs were free, and as Ragnar turned from the weeping girl he kicked the man in the groin with all the force he could bring to bear.

Ragar’s eyes bulged. He gasped in utter agony, and as he fell Colt swung back his leg and slammed his boot heel against the other foeman holding him. This man, too, was taken by surprise. He howled, stumbled back and crashed upon the ground. But the other guard on his left was quicker to react and threw an arm about Colt’s throat in a crushing stranglehold.

Colt tensed the muscles of his neck and stomped upon the toes of his assailant. The warrior screamed as bones were broken. He toppled sideways as other guards rushed at Colt with murderous intent, but the slaves had seen an opportunity and bolted. Jesa was dragged along with the frightened mass, still bound together by ropes about their necks.

The chattels got in each other’s way. They got in the way of the rushing guards. Pandemonium erupted. Bodies became entangled. People screamed, fell in the dust. Warriors cursed. Several dashed around the heaving human mass. Colt had his back to the wall, literally. He dodged a savage mace blow and kicked his attacker in the knee.

The man went down howling but another flew at him. Colt ducked, shoulder charged his opponent and slammed his body against the fellow’s shield, bowling him over. Through the dust stirred up by the wild melee he saw other warriors coming at him in overwhelming numbers. Several hurled their heavy maces. He dodged one but another grazed his head.

Colt saw stars, staggered. Another hurled club struck him in the solar plexus. The breath was knocked from his lungs. He wheezed, collapsed in the dirt, agony piercing him through. In an instant he was surrounded and lay helpless before his foes, staring up into a circle of vicious men – the friends of Gath - whose maces were raised like sledgehammers in preparation to avenge their slain comrade.

Chapter 4: The Sorcerer-King of Jaa

A voice rang out as the warriors were about to strike. The soldiers hesitated. Ragar limped towards his men and locked hard eyes with them. They withered under his commanding gaze, dropped their eyes and stood down as he flourished Colt’s hunting knife with menace. Then he turned his savage gaze upon the former owner of the weapon, wild fury etched in vicious lines upon his bristling face.

“If it weren’t for this,” he said, referring to the steel blade, “I’d have you roasted slowly in the fire. But the Namani – our sorcerer-king – will want to question you about it.” Then an ugly smile gashed his harsh features. “You care for the girl, eh; you want to know her fate? She, along with the other females, will be sacrificed to our supreme god Kyst the Sun. On the appointed day – the Time of Darkness - our Nemani will slice her open and rip her womb from her body as a bloody offering.”

Ragar laughed as Colt tried to lunge at him, a cry more bestial than human bursting from his throat. It took four strong warriors to subdue the madly struggling man, but at last they had him lying panting in the dirt, his feet now bound like his hands. The other captives had also been subdued, and as Colt was hoisted to the shoulder of his brawniest foe he caught a glimpse of Jesa. Their glances touched for a moment – her frightened and haunted eyes and his weary with defeat and crushing helplessness; then a warrior’s brutal shove sent her stumbling through the prison’s narrow portal. The door was slammed and barred – an end to hope, or so it seemed.

Colt hung limply across the shoulder of his guard as they marched away towards another building. Despair lay upon him like a millstone – Jesa was to be brutally killed and he was helpless to prevent it. As he thought about things his sense of desolation slowly gave way to burning anger. This couldn’t be allowed to happen; he wouldn’t allow this to happen! A deadly and determined calmness came upon him. He would find a way to save the girl and the other captives as well if he could, and as they drew near the second building Colt gave his complete attention to his surroundings, for he knew his full alertness was required for the successful formulation of a daring rescue plan.

By craning his neck Colt managed to get a view of the massive structure they were now approaching, and from the extent of its elaborate architecture it was obvious this was the Namani’s residence. The building was based upon a trefoil plan six thousand square yards in size - vastly larger than the peasant’s homes and in keeping with the status of its exalted occupant. In addition, the exterior walls had been ornamented with figurative bas reliefs painted in shades of white and blue.

The stonework was amazingly precise. Not even a knife blade could be slipped between the huge blocks, despite the absence of a metal based technology, and it was only later that Colt discovered they had been shaped by granite hammers, their forms being pounded out by trial and error until a snug fit was achieved. The fine carvings, though, were accomplished by abrasion techniques rather than the cruder method of hammering.

They entered the huge residence after passing the challenge of four guards by its large doorway ornamented with vicious and monstrous beasts, and Colt found himself in an expansive courtyard around which were deep porticoes formed by building’s huge lobes.

At the far end of the square was a tall tower – the observatory of the Namani’s astrologers. Beneath a leather awning overhanging the observatory’s entrance were three sages discussing the impending solar eclipse, and in another area of the square was a group of warriors practising at arms. Colt’s captors marched towards the tower and entered an adjacent shadowed colonnade that gave ingress to a large room, also guarded, whose dominant feature was a curtained podium, the drapes being of deerskin brightly embroidered with what appeared to be totemic figures.

Colt was dumped painfully upon the hard stone floor as Ragar announced their purpose to a boy functionary, and after a brief conversation the youth ran up the podium’s short flight of steps and disappeared behind the curtain. After about ten minutes Colt’s silent speculations as to what was going to happen next were ended by the opening of the leather drapes, and he gasped in amazement at what he saw upon the stage.

A robed greybeard floated cross-legged four feet in the air, one hand resting lightly on the horizontal bar of a thin L-shaped cane whose tip was set upon the stage. The Namani’s face was austere and seamed with age. His lips were thin and tainted with the cruelty of absolute power. His eyes were cold and dark, like those of a serpent, and Ragar and his men bowed low, flinching under the severity of his heavy, penetrating gaze.

“Hail Zadan Namani, sorcerer-king of Jaa, our land, whom he rules with wisdom and the strength of his incomparable magic,” intoned Ragar with unfeigned awe.

“Arise Ragar,” responded the Namani in a voice whose depth of timbre belied the thinness of his ascetic frame. “You bring news of having found untarnished metal,” he continued. “Bring forth the object and present it to my page.”

Ragar drew forth the hunting knife and handed it to the boy, who in turn presented it to the levitating Namani. Zadan examined the blade and Colt’s keen eyes detected a faint tremble of excitement in the man’s hand as he turned it over in his palm. The Namani’s face, however, did not betray his inner feelings as he turned his serpentine gaze upon the bound captive.

“I will speak with the prisoner in private,” he announced as he carefully slid the hunting knife into his belt. Then, with a dramatic flourish of his hand Zadan produced, seemingly from thin air, a necklace of turquoise beads which he tossed to the amazed Ragar. “A reward for your services,” the Namani explained, “and a possible promotion, but on this I must think further. Now, go.”

Ragar bowed and as he and his men departed the curtain closed. The page reappeared and conveyed the Namani’s orders to the guards, two of whom picked up Colt and carried him through another guarded door adjacent to the podium. There was no sign of Zadan and Colt smiled ruefully as they traversed a corridor. It appeared he was being taken to the Namani’s private apartments for his personal audience with the sorcerer-king – a questionable privilege at best, considering the man’s unpleasant demeanour.

Shortly, they entered a small room panelled with elaborately carved timber. The floor was of stone. Reed mats, coloured by vegetable dyes, were strewn here and there, but apart from these the only item of furniture was a heavy elaborate stool upon which the Namani sat, dominating the scene and his two companions with the brooding silence of his haughty presence.

On Zadan’s left was a man of perhaps thirty – harsh of visage and with an aura of cold cruelty about him: Menur, the Namani’s only surviving son and heir apparent – every inch a younger version of his brutal sire. On the right sat Telu - chief astrologer and adviser to the sorcerer-king – a man kindly of visage and with bright intelligent eyes, eyes that grew wide with shock when they gazed upon the helpless captive.

Colt was dumped at Zadan’s feet, and the Namani dismissed his warriors with a casual waive of his hand. Silence filled the room. Captor and captive stared at one another in quiet appraisal. Colt was wary, but unimpressed. By now he had deduced the Namani’s levitation was mere trickery.

The illusion was probably accomplished by a light but extremely strong supporting framework concealed beneath Zadan’s robe – a type of seat connected to his L-shaped cane by other components hidden in the flowing sleeve of his apparel, with the cane being deeply inserted into a hole in the floor. It was all a stage illusion as had been the materialisation of the necklace – but nonetheless an impressive sight to those steeped in the base credulity of primitive superstition.

Zadan sensed something of Colt’s attitude and nodded his head in respectful approval, for the Namani had nothing but sneering contempt for the ignorant peasants over whom he lorded, and for him it was a refreshing novelty to encounter a man who he could almost consider his intellectual equal.

Eschewing subtlety, Zadan came directly to the point: “Who are you? Where did you come from? Where did you find this?” he asked, holding up the hunting knife.

Anticipating such questions Colt, by now, had given some thought to what he’d say. He had learnt something of these people’s mythology from Jesa, and deduced that if he revealed he was an Ancient Zadan would surely consider him a rival sorcerer with real power, and might have him killed out of the fear of usurpation. But even if this wasn’t so the Namani would, at the very least expect him to perform supernatural feats as proof, and when he couldn’t probably have him executed as a punishment for lying.

Colt gave his name then equivocated: “My people are very far away,” he said, omitting the fact he meant in time, not space. “I desired to seek other lands, to know what they were like,” he continued – an oblique reference to his desire to be an astronaut. “I have travelled for many years, and along the way found the knife in a cave with other ancient things.”

The Namani leaned forward eagerly, unable to contain his excitement. “The cave, where is it? Can you find it again?”

“It is about seven day’s journey, near where I was captured by your warriors. Yes, I can find it.”

Zadan grinned broadly. His eyes grew distant and a look of unbridled triumph came upon his face as he considered the vast power that could be his – all the magic of the Ancients at his very fingertips: real magic, not the mere trickery he used to bolster his political authority.

The possibilities were endless – he could stride across the land, subdue all peoples, all nations, and hold the world in the palm of his hand like a child’s toy to do with as he pleased... If the prisoner had spoken truth, that is.

The Namani sobered and turned to Telu, his advisor. “What is your opinion? Does he speak the truth or lie?”

Telu, who had been thinking rapidly since laying eyes on Colt, replied unhesitatingly. “Namani, I am certain that he speaks the truth.”

But what Telu didn’t say was that he was also sure that the prisoner was an Ancient, for being an astrologer he was privy to esoteric knowledge – antique, crumbling documents from the distant past whose faded pictures showed men of similar dress and colouration. Perhaps a remnant of the Ancients – a small enclave - survived in some remote corner of the world.

The possibility excited Telu tremendously. He hungered for knowledge for its own sake and like Colt, realised that if he made his suspicions known the Namani would see the captive as a threat and more than likely have him killed when the cache of artefacts was in his hands. The chief astrologer was determined not to let this happen, but how could he secure Colt’s life and learn from him the wondrous secrets of the past? His churning thoughts were interrupted as the sorcerer-king spoke again.

“If your words are true,” he said harshly as he gazed at Colt through cold and narrowed eyes, “then your reward will be great, but if you have spoken falsely your suffering will be greater, this I swear.”

“It is the truth,” replied Colt, who saw he had considerable bargaining power. Emboldened, he made his claim directly: “You spoke of reward. There is a girl prisoner – a fellow captive. Her name is Jesa. All I ask for is her freedom and a decent place for us in your society.”

Naturally, Colt had wanted to ask for the liberation of all the captives, but given the Namani’s character felt he would, at this point in time, be going too far by making this appeal. However, when Jesa was safe and he could breathe a little easier then perhaps he could do something for the others. But the sudden tick of annoyance on the hardened faces of Zadan and his son proclaimed that despite his caution he had overstepped the mark.

“Such effrontery,” cried Menur, rising angrily from his mat. “This filthy worm goes too far. A good beating will put him in his place.”

Zadan silenced his son’s outburst with a raised hand and bid him sit. The Namani’s respect for Colt plunged considerably. The man, despite his seeming intelligence was obviously a barbarian from a distant land completely ignorant of the True Religion.

“The Time of Darkness will soon be upon the world,” explained the Namani severely, “when Kyst the Sun will be set upon by his evil brother Saytan the Moon, ruler of the night. In the distant past the twins warred. Saytan devoured Kyst with his blackness. Evil darkness came upon the earth. Lightening fell from heaven and destroyed the Ancient’s world.

“No, I cannot release a single female captive. At any other time I could grant your boon, but Kyst’s resurrection can only be accomplished by the spilling of the blood of women in holy sacrifice as was ordained by the Poep of Rom – the wisest shaman among the Ancients who saved a remnant of humanity by this puissant sacrament. Only by this means will the sacred light of the Sun be reborn to shine upon the earth and drive away the evil of Saytan. Thus has it been since those ancient days. Now, speak no more of this.”

Zandan angrily clapped his hands to summon the guards at whom he barked sharp orders when they arrived. Then, turning to Colt he spoke further as two warriors roughly hauled him to his feet.

“You will depart at once under escort to the place where you claim more ancient relics can be found. If you have spoken the truth you may choose a woman from among my personal slaves as your reward. But if you’ve lied then a cruel death shall be your only recompense. Now, go!”

**********

Colt impatiently watched as the team of warriors, digging by the light of flaming torches; worked at clearing away the last of the soil blocking the entrance to the underground laboratory. They had been labouring since dawn – shifting the debris with wooden spades and leather buckets. Progress had been slow but steady, but not rapid enough for the fretting man. With each passing day the time of sacrifice – the moment of the solar eclipse drew closer and closer. Colt was tired mentally and physically – a long march at rapid pace and little rest, for his sleep was disturbed by bleak nightmares – awful visions of the horrid fate awaiting Jesa should his carefully thought out plan come to ruin.

He’d been spurring the six warriors as much as his limited authority permitted with the result that they were now truculent and surly to the point of open rebellion, for they were proud men and didn’t take kindly to a foreigner ordering them about.

Ragar’s approach brought additional furrows to Colt’s brow. The man had been promoted to the equivalent of a lieutenant in the Namani’s army, which had only served to increase his overbearing narcissism. There had been tense moments when Colt had had difficulty finding the underground laboratory. His earlier fray with Ragar had been neither forgotten nor forgiven, and it was obvious the brute was looking for any excuse for revenge.

“Who gave orders for the torches to be lit?” snapped Ragar.

“I did,” replied Colt with forced calmness. “In a few moments we’ll be able to enter the place of the Ancients. The Namani is eager for ...”

“You consult me before giving any orders,” replied Ragar, brusquely cutting him off. “You’re driving my men, usurping my authority. I don’t like it and I don’t like you.” Then, calling to his warriors he barked commands: “Down tools. Night is falling. It’s time to rest.”

With considerable effort Colt clamped down on his anger and frustration. He was outnumbered and unarmed, and decided not to push his luck by arguing. But gnawing fear for Jesa made his mask slip a little, and something of his hatred for Ragar showed upon his face.

To Ragar Colt’s anger was like a challenge. His visage darkened with fury. For seven days he’d been forced to endure Colt’s distasteful presence, under orders of the Namani not to harm the man. The journey had been long and hot and irritating, and now his self control had reached its breaking point.

“You have a problem with my orders?” he snarled as he grabbed Colt by the hair and gave his head a vicious jerk, pulling him off balance and hurling him painfully to the dirt.

Colt snapped under severe provocation. He, too, had had enough. His facade of forced and strained civility crumbled in an instant. He lashed out with an oath and a brutal kick. Ragar howled as his shin was struck with bruising force. The man fell and Colt sprang upon him like a raging lion, both hands locking around his throat in primal savagery, oblivious to all but the immediate murder of his hated foe.

Ragar’s face purpled. He tried to break Colt’s stranglehold with one hand, to gouge his eyes with the other. Colt jerked his head aside, sank his teeth into Ragar’s thrusting fingers, drawing blood. Colt grinned triumphantly as Ragar’s eyes rolled and his mouth opened in a choked scream.

But his seeming victory was quickly shattered. Men fell upon him from behind. Fists struck him. Hands grabbed him and hauled him off Ragar. Colt fought savagely, striking wildly with fists and feet. But brawny bodies crashed upon him, pinning him to the earth and a rain of heavy blows upon his head quickly left him dazed and utterly helpless.

Ragar struggled to his feet, angrily knocking aside the helping hands of his warriors. He gingerly massaged his bruised neck as he glared down at Colt, who was now bound hand and foot. So great was his fury that for long minutes Ragar could only stand silent, chest heaving with wild emotion, but at last he calmed sufficiently to order his men to carry Colt to the surface.

“Your usefulness is over,” he snarled as they exited the facility. Then, to his men: “Throw him on the stony ground over there. A sleepless night on rough earth will be a fitting prelude to his coming agony, for by morning I’ll have devised a death so horrifying that even Saytan shall tremble at its gruesomeness.”

Colt was cast upon the rocky soil. A stake was driven deep into the earth and the prisoner’s legs were bound to it for good measure. Then a sentry was left as watch and the camp began settling down for the night. Rough stones dug into Colt’s flesh, but the pain was nothing compared to his mental anguish: agony brought about by the grim knowledge that his failure – his lack of self control - would result in Jesa’s horrific death in the barbaric ritual of a savage god.

Chapter 5: Hour of the Eclipse

Colt tried to roll off the tormenting rocks but his feet, bound to the stake as they were, made it impossible, and the only thing he accomplished was an increase in his agony as he twisted onto a sharper stone. He cursed as the rock stabbed his arm like a blade. The watching sentry laughed at his torment, then turned away and commenced his rounds of the camp, leaving Colt in a rage of impotent fury.

As the warrior departed Colt’s anger diminished slightly, allowing him to think. The rock he’d rolled onto was sharp - almost as sharp as a knife. It gave him an idea. He manoeuvred painfully, bringing his bound wrists into contact with its edge. Casting a wary look about him he glimpsed the sentry silhouetted by the camp fire – a dim shape against the dark background of the night. Furtively, Colt began to saw his bonds.

His labour was slow and painful, and the risk of discovery a real danger, for as the guard patrolled the camp his march brought him quite close to Colt who feigned slumber on these perilous occasions. But at last, after more than an hour, the frayed rope that bound his wrists parted.

Exhaling a long sigh of relief, Colt relaxed. But the abatement of his anxiety was painfully short lived – the warrior approached and again he pretended to be asleep. But this time the sentry didn’t pass on. How was it that the prisoner slept so peacefully when he lay upon the rocky earth? Colt sweated as he heard the curious man approach. The crunch of sandals on stone came closer, nearer. Discovery was imminent. Colt, as tense as a wound spring, opened his eyes to slits. A shadowy figure loomed over him, dark and sinister in the moonlight. His heart hammered in his chest. The figure bent, hands reaching to turn him over, to examine his bonds.

Colt exploded into action. His hands flew up and clamped about the sentry’s throat, cutting off his cry of alarm. He jerked his foe down and viciously head butted him. The warrior tumbled, crashed upon Colt, driving his back against the rugged stones. Agony stabbed him. He lost his grip on his opponent’s throat. Though dazed the sentry managed to roll free. The guard staggered clear as he fumbled for his mace, mouth opening to shout for help.

Utterly desperate Colt ripped a rock from the soil and hurled it with all his strength. The stony missile struck the fellow squarely on the chin. He collapsed face down in the dirt, jaw broken, and unconscious from the blow. There was no rest for Colt though. With numb fingers he tore madly and ineffectually at his remaining bonds as he looked anxiously about. All was quiet. The slight noise of the fight hadn’t disturbed the camp. He relaxed a little and began to work more methodically at the knots as circulation returned to his tingling hands. In a short while he was free.

Climbing painfully to his feet he approached the still unconscious guard and purloined his mace. For a moment he considered finishing the man, but then rejected the idea. Even in warfare there are rules – ethics he felt he must live by even if his brutish opponents did not. Colt bound and gagged the sentry as best he could with the remnants of his bonds. Then, his task complete, he quickly made his way to the entrance of the underground installation and descended its ramp.

Darkness closed about Colt, forcing him to grope forward. He bit back a curse as he stumbled over a shovel and nearly fell. No moonlight penetrated to the foot of the ramp and the blackness was absolute. He groped about and shortly his fumbling hands closed upon a resin soaked torch and flint. Soon, flame blossomed in the darkness. It was a great risk making a light, but without it working in the smothering gloom would be impossible. He began to dig frantically. It was imperative he entered the laboratory well ahead of his foes.

About ten minutes had elapsed when a cry pierced the night. Colt swore. The sentry had broken free of his restraints and had raised the alarm. In his mind’s eye he saw the warriors racing to the entrance. In but moments the brutal foe would be upon him. He redoubled his efforts, spurred by unmitigated fear.

Colt’s shovel broke through as a savage yell bellowed out and an arrow pierced soil at his feet. He grabbed the torch, extinguished it and plunged through the narrow hole as more whistling shafts struck all about. Sensors activated the lights as Colt rolled to his feet. He sped down a zigzagging passageway and then along another corridor that led towards the chemical laboratory he sought, the sounds of hot pursuit close behind him.

He gained the door of the lab and frantically tugged at its handle. Colt cursed. The lock was jammed with the dust of ages. He threw an anxious glance behind him and swore as Ragar rounded the corner. A wild look was in his foeman’s eye and behind him were all his men, all bristling like savage curs. Ragar raised his bow, let fly its shaft.

Colt ducked. The flint arrow sparked on the metal door. Ragar cursed, leapt forward, his screaming men following like wolves to the kill. Stepping back Colt hurled his shoulder against the panel with savage strength. The lock broke. He stumbled through, slammed the door and looked wildly about, his charging foes now mere yards away. Colt’s frantic gaze fell upon two tall and heavy filing cabinets. With strength borne of utter desperation he toppled both in such a way that they fell across the threshold of the door.

Sweat streaked, panting and dirty, Colt stumbled back and leaned heavily against a work bench as the door trembled under the slamming hands of his enraged enemies. He had bought some time, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before his determined foes burst through the hasty barricade. He must set to work at once.

Quickly he sought from among the shelves of chemicals those reagents that he needed, and soon discovered the sealed bottles of nitric and sulphuric acid, and the necessary glassware. Colt mixed the acids in a large beaker, removed a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and using a pair of tongs immersed it in the dangerous solution.

He threw a glance at the door as he impatiently awaited the reaction. The hammering had been incessant and Colt saw the portal had opened several inches under the battering of his wild enemies. Fear gripped him. He fought it off and stuck to his carefully thought out plan, now brought forward in haste by the dramatic turn of events. Removing the handkerchief with the tongs he took it and an empty flask to the hand dryer by the room’s sink. The blower whined to life and he began to dry the cotton.

Again he threw a worried glance at the door. It was now open by a foot. In mere moments his wild foes would burst within the room. But that wasn’t the only danger: The cotton handkerchief had been converted to nitrocellulose – a high explosive that was unstable because there wasn’t time to wash away the excess acid, and as it dried it could very well flash spontaneously.

Colt’s eyes went wide in horror. His fear was quickly manifest. The cotton had begun to smoke. Then to add to his desperate plight the door squealed fully open and Ragar and his men rushed within the room. They came at him, wildly, savagely as he stuffed the smoking cotton within the empty flask and hurled it at his racing foes.

A flung mace whizzed by Colt’s head as he dropped to the floor. An explosion shook the room as he hit the tiles. Men screamed in pain and fear, but Colt couldn’t relax for a second – the blast, not strong enough to kill his foes, had merely wounded them. In an instant he was on his feet and among his shaken and disorganised enemies, mace swinging wildly.

One foe went down, skull shattered; then another and another until only Ragar remained. Both men stood for a moment panting and glaring at each other. Ragar’s face was bloody from flying glass. His eyes were feral with hate bordering on madness. Spittle flecked the corners of his twitching lips. Then, like the bursting of a dam he hurled himself at Colt with a savage scream that was a wild manifestation of all his brutal feelings towards the man.

They crashed together like rabid beasts, maces swinging in a whirl of utter violence. A stool was overturned and equipment shattered as Colt was driven back against a bench by the fury of his savage foe’s attack. He nimbly slipped aside as Ragar’s mace crashed down and splinted more glassware. Then Colt swiftly slammed his weapon’s butt against the ribs of his fearsome assailant.

Ragar howled as bones cracked. He stumbled. Colt stepped forward swinging with all his brawn as he yelled with dark triumph. The savage blow connected with a sickening crack and Ragar dropped upon the floor, his skull shattered to gory ruin by the raw power of the brutal stroke.

Standing above his slain foe, chest heaving and muscles trembling from the wild melee, Colt looked upon the terrible sight of the bloody corpse, and as the battle fury left him he sickeningly knew this horrid vileness was far from over.

**********

Colt was hiding among a grove of Acacia trees upon the rise that overlooked the Cascasa’s place of sacrifice, having arrived there late last night. His march had been long and hard and the fear that he would arrive too late was an ever present torment, for from the overheard conversations of his now dead captors it was evident that the time of sacrifice was very near.

Delays had added to his worry – the additional time it had taken to manufacture more nitrocellulose from his cotton clothes, and the percussion detonators for the four pipe bombs he’d fabricated from the suspended animation’s cooling system. Then there were the hazards of his journey that added to his fears. Along the way he’d been stalked by a pack of wild dogs. The baying beasts had charged him in a savage rush as he tossed a bomb among the curs. The crude device exploded like a clap of thunder, sending mangled bodies skyward and the survivors fleeing with their tails between their legs.

But even when he reached the Cascasa settlement in the darkness of midnight there had been other threats he’d had to deal with – watch towers had been constructed here and there among the fields, and in them alert sentries scanned the moonlit landscape with wakeful vigilance.

Like a serpent he had slithered upon his belly through the night. The task had been long and slow and painful, and there were many occasions when he’d seen a sentry, illuminated by moonlight, staring in his direction, forcing him to lie breathlessly immobile in a lather of high anxiety until the watchful guard had finally turned away.

But at last, just before sunrise, he had arrived at his current hiding place and had fallen almost immediately asleep. Now, a hundred yards away, in the mid-morning light, a murmuring crowd was seated on the hill’s crescent rows of seats – an expectant throng that had been gathering for the past hour, their coming having awakened Colt who saw they now gazed down upon the amphitheater's stage where some form of activity was occurring.

Grim faced, soiled and weary from his long march, Colt raised the binoculars from his rediscovered backpack and looked intently upon the scene. His gaze travelled over the hideous idol. The statue had been hewn from a single block of granite fifteen feet in height. Its form was man-like. The head was conical, the eyes large and staring. The nose was hooked like a falcon’s rostrum and the mouth a teeth-lined gash.

The idol stood rigidly, arms at its sides, fists clenched and feet together. A huge erect phallus, pressed against its belly without any intervening space, rose vertically from its loins to its chest. For a moment Colt’s lips twitched in mild amusement at the sight of the outlandish organ, but his smile quickly became a dour line as his gaze travelled down to the foot of the idol and fell upon the line of bound female sacrificial victims, and the naked girl at its head who struggled wildly in the brutal grip of her heartless captors.

“Jesa!” Her name exploded from his throat in a gasp of anguish. Fear ran him through like a jolting current as he quickly lowered the binoculars and squinted at the sun. As yet there was no sign of the eclipse, but its absence gave him little comfort. He wanted to run wildly to rescue the girl, but knew such premature rashness would end in disaster.

Colt reigned in his impetuousness. He must adhere to his plan – a mix of bravery, cunning and science masquerading as magic. He knew he had to wait until all eyes were focused on the high point of the ceremony. It was the only way he stood a chance of getting close with minimum risk of being seen, but on the other hand if he left his move too late... With an oath he pushed aside the frightening thought and again raised the binoculars to his worried eyes.

Under magnification he saw Jesa being manhandled up the steps at the base of the statue and watched in growing apprehension as she was bound, hands above her head, to a stone ring on the idol’s phallus. Colt Threw a glance at the heavens and wild fear came fully upon him – the first sliver of the moon’s shadow was creeping across the face of the sun.

Colt knew the sacrifices would commence at totality – the moment when the moon’s shadow covered the entire face of the fiery orb - an event that would take about an hour to complete. In the meantime he must bide his time in a welter of mental agony.

The sudden throb of drums came to Colt. Looking through the binoculars he saw the savage painted dancers commence their wild capering about the brutish statue of their hideous god. Time passed. The moon’s shadow relentlessly advanced and an eerie twilight began to fall upon the world as half the sun was slowly blotted out. Flaming torches were now lit about the idol. The tempo of the drums increased as did the mad gyrations of the entranced dancers.

Again, Colt peered through his binoculars. Through the deepening gloom he saw that the Namani now stood before the wildly struggling girl. Zadan squinted in anticipation at the sky. His face, thrown into demonic relief by the flickering light of torches, was a dark study in fanaticism and bloodlust. Cold steel glittered in his hand – Colt’s knife. The Namani commenced a wailing chant as he raised the blade above his head – totality was rapidly approaching.

The throng took up the eerie ululation as they stood, arms upraised in trembling application to the heavens. A wave of wild terror swept over Colt. He bolted from the cover of the grove and sprinted madly to the rescue of the girl. But had he left his desperate move too late?

Chapter 6: Dual of Sorcery

Colt crossed the intervening hundred yards in a wild dash. A shroud of blackness had descended upon the world and the light of the flaming torches was his only guide. In the circle of wavering illumination about the idol he saw the dancers fall upon their knees and throw their arms to the heavens. Zadan’s arm quivered with tension. Jesa screamed as he swung the knife. Colt, now on the margin of the light hurled his mace.

The whirling weapon struck the Namani’s plunging arm. Zadan howled. The knife flew from his hand, spun away into the darkness.

“Myles,” cried the girl in vast relief.

But Colt had no time to reply. He burst through the ring of startled dancers, raced up the steps. Zadan turned. His eyes went wide with shock. Colt whipped the flint blade from his belt, lunged at the confused Namani. But his wily foe recovered his wits in time and leapt from the stairs. Zadan landed upon his feet. He screamed wild commands.

“Kill him,” he madly screeched to Menur, his son. “The sacrifice must proceed. Kill him in the name of Kyst, or the world shall perish!”

The throng was in a frightened uproar. Guards, there for crowd control and under Menur’s command, rushed from the surrounding darkness, their eyes wide, driven by the lash of Zadan’s terrifying prediction and the fear for their families it engendered.

Grim faced Colt dropped the knife at his feet and drew two pipe bombs, hurled one among the charging warriors. Thunder and flames erupted in the darkness. Men screamed in fear and agony. The lucky ones were killed instantly – Menur was among them. Others died horribly, writhing in their disembowelled entrails. The ring of dancers broke up, fled. The bound sacrifices cowered in utter terror.

Colt raised his voice above the mad tumult, the acoustics of the amphitheatre further magnifying his stentorian cry: “My magic is mightier than Zadan’s. Thunder and lightning are in my hands. Keep back. You cannot defeat me. The Namani’s words are false. The world shall not end.”

Zadan was as shaken as the others by the bombs. Could it be that Colt had real magic? The Namani shoved aside the thought. In this time of peril he clung to his religion. No man was mightier than Kyst. The god would ensure the triumph of his true believers.

“Lies; blasphemy,” he screamed, almost frothing at the mouth with feral rage at his son’s gory death and this vile sacrilege. “Kill the heretic and Kyst will reward you. Kill the enemy of God before the end falls upon all of us.”

Again, a wild mass of warriors surged forward. More flames erupted in the darkness as a second bomb exploded and scattered men like mangled leaves before the wind. Colt felt sick to the core. He’d been counting on the first bomb to dissuade his attackers, to terrify them with what appeared to be the supernatural. He cursed the Namani, cursed religious superstition that made brave men throw their lives away as he saw more guards leaping at him from the darkness.

It seemed the end. He was running out of bombs whereas Zadan had at least a thousand warriors to call upon. Colt threw a glance heavenward as his raging foes rapidly closed in upon him. He grinned, threw out his challenge passionately.

“Zadan,” he yelled, “you claim to be a mighty sorcerer. Call off your men and let us face each other in a dual of magic. Look, I command Saytan to uncover the face of Kyst and he does my bidding without the need for any sacrifice.”

All looked up. The charging warriors stumbled to a halt and a hush fell upon the wailing throng. The first sliver of light was showing at the bottom of the solar orb as the moon’s shadow began its slow retreat. Zadan’s jaw dropped in disbelief. His entire world had suddenly been upended. He looked at Colt in the growing light and knew with sudden and terrifying insight that all he held most dear - his reign as Namani was finished.

But even so Zadan wasn’t one to go without a fight. His eyes fell upon the steel blade now disclosed by the increased illumination, and red revenge possessed him to the depths – a towering rage that left no room for the slightest twinge of fear or hesitation. He snatched up the knife and with a bloodcurdling yell of wild retribution leapt up the steps, murder writ in brutal lines upon his bleak visage.

Colt cursed as the Namani came at him in a savage rush. To use a bomb at such close range would kill him and the girl. He snatched up the flint knife at his feet and met his wily foe head on. Zadan swung his blade. Colt caught his descending arm, stabbed. The Nemani twisted aside, grabbed his wrist. They wrestled fiercely. The warriors watched, uncertain as to which side to take.

Though Colt strove mightily Zadan possessed a wiry strength that belied his age. He head butted Colt, broke free as his opponent staggered back. Jesa screamed as The Nemani lunged. Colt knocked aside the leaping blade, which cut his arm badly, causing him to drop his knife.

Zadan laughed tauntingly. “Where’s your vaunted magic now?” he sneered as he struck again.

“Here,” cried Colt as he dodged the vicious stroke, snatched a sealed test tube from his pocket and swiftly hurled it in his foeman’s face.

Glass shattered; liquid chemicals splattered Zadan, ignited upon contact with the air. The Nemani screamed, inhaled flames. The crowd gasped in awe and terror as he staggered for a second in utter agony, wreathed in fire; then toppled from the stairs. There was a sharp crack as his neck was broken by the fall.

**********

Colt sat quietly, reflecting on past events, as he gazed out a window in the former Namani’s private rooms that gave a sweeping view of the Cascasa settlement of which he was now uncontested ruler. He found the possession of such power sobering, even terrifying, but the thoughtful man was determined with Telu’s help to use it wisely for the betterment of the people.

The first few hours after the eclipse had been fraught with danger and chaos. Colt had moved quickly, acting while the population were still in awe of him and unbalanced by the rapidity of events. He had summoned Telu, the chief astrologer and advisor to the dead Namani, sensing in him a possible ally.

Colt had assured Telu his position and that of the other astrologers was secure, and after this guarantee the chief astrologer and his subordinates had thrown their weight and authority behind Colt in exchange for the knowledge of the past he possessed, for Colt had frankly admitted to being an Ancient when pressed by Telu. The mission Dr John Roberts had set him – that the wisdom of his age would be passed on – would be fulfilled.

Messengers had been sent among the people announcing that the dramatic events were the will of Kyst, and that a new order would be established, one not involving human sacrifice. Colt had been worried about a smooth transition to a fresh dynasty, wondering if the supporters of Zadan would cause continuous trouble. Fortunately, his concerns proved unwarranted. There was no concept of nationalism and no real loyalty to the ruling elite. This was a peasant society. Rulers came and went, but the Earth endured and with this the common people were content.

The only thing that troubled him was Jesa and his growing feelings for her. At first he had put his emotions down to concern – the need to rescue her from a horrible death, which was the honourable thing to do. But now he had time to reflect upon the matter he realised his feelings were more than noble altruism – he desired the girl and this disturbed him deeply.

Was he perverse? Jesa was just sixteen and he was twenty six. By Colt’s own standards – the standards of the mid 21^st century – it was wrong. But this was a different age, a different world. What was right, what was wrong? Was morality absolute or a consensus of society that changed as society changed? When in Rome should one do as the Roman’s do?

Jesa was no blushing virgin. By her own standards she was a woman despite her youth. Colt placed his head in his hands and groaned in consternation. He felt out of place in this new world – a stranger in a strange land where nothing is as it should be. It was a very lonely feeling of soul destroying isolation, cut off forever from all that was familiar to him and tormented by unresolved issues of morality.

A gentle hand upon his shoulder broke the bleak train of his despairing thoughts.

He looked up. Jesa stood beside him. “You are troubled,” she sympathetically observed.

Colt nodded and in a rush of words, having a desperate need to talk, he unburdened himself to her with utter forthrightness.

“Your people have strange worries,” Jesa said after he had finished. Then she fell silent for a time, thinking. Colt was very different from the other men she’d known. She had no fear of him. He was strong but not brutal, respectful and considerate of her feelings. She liked him, and coming from a culture where the idea of romantic love was unknown, and where marriage was viewed in pragmatic terms – as an impersonal arrangement that united two families for social purposes - she saw he would make an ideal husband.

Jesa smiled as an idea came to mind. “Next summer I will be one year older. How will you feel then about taking me for your wife?”

“Better,” he admitted as she sat on the bench beside him.

“And the year after that?”

“Better still,” he grinned.

“Then let us wait,” wisely counselled the girl.

Colt, suffused by joy, could only nod his assent. Companionable silence settled upon the couple as they gazed through the window upon a world bright with summer sunshine, and with the promise also of the flowering of ennobling desire.

THE END