T Southwell - Prophecy

The lurid light of the temple's sputtering torches illuminated the high priest's grim face. A sleek white animal writhed on the gem-encrusted altar, its slender legs thrashing as its life drained out in a scarlet stream. Its grey eyes closed, and its head drooped.

The priest glanced at his audience of Draycon nobility before he slit the animal's belly with a deft motion. Red and blue entrails spilt out, and he thrust his hands into the bloody mass and spread it on the sacrificial slab, bending closer to study the offal. Several minutes passed before he straightened, his eyes bright with triumph.

"She has come. She has been born on Enthos." He raised his hands, the wide sleeves of his crimson and gold robe sliding back to reveal withered arms, and shouted, "She must die! Her destiny cannot be fulfilled! She must not stop the great one who will vanquish Atlan. He is our saviour! He comes soon, to aid us in our fight against those who would oppress us!"

Empress Drevina Ranshan stepped forward as he lowered his arms, her eyes as hard as chips of green ice. "What does she look like?"

The priest shrugged. "She is the Golden Child, Empress. Something about her must be gold. Her hair, eyes, or skin."

"So you don't know. How will we find one miserable girl on this Enthos? We don't even know where the planet is!" The Empress' voice rose.

The priest met her gaze. "I know not. I have done my duty and given warning of the coming danger. Follow the Atlanteans. They will go there to find her, or wait until they have her, then take her from them."

"Take her from them? They are the most powerful people in the galaxy. How easy do you think it will be to take her from them?"

The priest nodded, his haggard features impassive. "You'll find a way, Empress. That's why you were born as our ruler at this time of danger. You've been chosen to stop her, and you will."

The Empress of Drayconar snorted, then smiled, revealing sharp pink teeth. "Yes, I'll find her, and she'll die. Your ranting cannot stop the wheels of destiny, but I can. All you can do is fondle the guts of dead animals and prophesy, but I'll ensure Drayconar rules the galaxy."

She thrust her angular face closer to the priest's. "You had better be right. If she's not on that stupid planet, it will be your blood on this altar next. So you must be quite sure before you send me off on a fool's errand. Do you understand?"

The high priest licked his lips. "I am certain, Empress."

Drevina turned away, casting her gaze over the bevy of loyal subjects gathered within the temple's blood-red walls adorned with gold inlaid carvings of grotesque gods and demigods. The torches' green-shot flames fluttered and dipped, sending monstrous shadows across strained faces. Thick, oily smoke gathered in the temple roof's grimy carvings, the noxious fumes adding to the planet's already foul ammonia-sulphur atmosphere.

With a cold smile, she announced, "Then we will find this Enthos, and kill the Golden Child."

Rayne woke with a start, as one who sleeps lightly does. Sitting up, she rubbed her face and glanced around, then yawned, squinting at the bloated, angry-looking sun on the horizon. Thick, sooty clouds almost obscured it, dimming its glory to a weak gleam beyond the polluted atmosphere. The distant muttering and shuffling of thousands of human beings and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies and excrement wafted to her on the chill morning breeze.

Throwing off her ragged blanket, she stood up and stretched, ridding herself of the kinks acquired from sleeping curled up. She studied the countryside, on the lookout for roving police patrols or the furtive movement of a fellow raider. Ruined buildings huddled in groups, surrounded by the remains of roads and walls the tanks that had rumbled through here in the days of the rebellion had reduced to rubble. Only the hardiest weeds struggled to grow in the rubble, their yellow leaves blotched with brown. Rusted or burnt-out cars lay in ditches and on kerbs. Most of the trees that remained were dead, but a few bore sickly, withered leaves.

Her gaze drifted to the feeding station housed in an ugly building at the bottom of the valley. Thousands of thin, filthy people stood around it in a never ending fight for survival. Their only ambition was to reach the food dispenser and push their battered tin plate under it to receive a meagre helping of sludge-like food. Then the crowd pushed them to the back, sometimes stealing their share along the way. More often they gulped it down, growling at would-be thieves. They would then find a warm hollow or deserted building to sleep in, curled up in the ragged blankets they carried with them. Those who failed to reach the front often enough grew too weak to ever make it, and died where they stood.

There were only a few women in the, so it was an old feeding station where the weaklings had already succumbed. Once a day, a meat wagon came to collect the dead and deliver the next food supply. The police, using shock sticks and batons, cleared a path and dragged out the dead and dying, loaded them onto refrigerated trucks and left. Some bodies remained to add to the stench, however.

Rayne and her brother scorned the sludge-eaters and their stink. They were raiders, and they took whatever they could from whoever was vulnerable. The people at the feeding stations ate the ones who died. There was nothing else they could eat. All the animals, wild and domestic, had long since been slaughtered to feed the starving billions. Other species had succumbed to pollution or deforestation, the rest had been judged expendable and wiped out. The autocrats, remnants of the political and social elite, had retained their power and prosperity by taking control of the massive food stores that the government and army had hoarded over the decades.

Raiders were too proud to work for the autocrats. Those who did were virtually slaves, paid only in food and shelter. They served as police and store guards, but for more unpleasant jobs the autocrats had real slaves. Rayne and her brother, Rawn, preferred to live by the gun and die by it, if necessary. Many years ago, Rawn had taken a. 44 automatic from a dead man, and it had given them the means to become raiders. Without it, their destiny might have been quite different.

Rawn had taken care of her since their parents had been killed in a riot when he was twelve years old and Rayne eight. She was twenty-two now, and the last fourteen years had been tough.

A fallen tree's roots formed the dry hollow in which they had slept. Rawn had dug it deeper and filled it with bracken and leaves. The canopy of roots had protected them from most of the stinging, acidic dew that fell each morning.

Rayne glanced around at the sound of footsteps, relaxing when she recognised her brother’s familiar figure approaching. Evidently he had answered a call of nature.

Rayne stood up and brushed leaves from her fawn shirt and brown leather jacket. Like her ragged suede mini skirt and stretch pants, they had been scavenged from abandoned shops. Leather afforded protection from injury and rain, making it the material of choice, although difficult to find. Rawn's black leather trousers bore the scars of many violent encounters, as did the suede jacket he wore over a grey shirt. Their pseudo plastic boots would last for years, unless the pollution ate through them.

At six foot four, Rawn was unusual in a world where most were stunted and malnourished. Exercise and hunger had honed his lean, muscular physique, but his size and strength allowed him to stave off malnutrition. His strong jaw, straight nose, piercing tawny eyes and dark gold hair streaked with silver made him handsome, she thought.