Prologue

"Death is just the beginning"

Island of Kos, September 1646

In the blackened cavern, Erasmus cast aside the broken remains of the cheap shovel, standing upright for the first time in hours. The handle had snapped off four hours — and three feet of dirt — before, but it had been worth it.

Reaching down, he grasped the exposed link firmly, dragging the chain out into the light of the flickering torches, marvelling at how it responded to the dancing flames, ignorant of the irony.

"Fetch the Master, immediately." He told the hunched guide, firmly, and the man bowed and left. Erasmus was still entranced with the gleaming chain when the Master returned, and had him pull the whole fragment free.

"How much, Erasmus?"

"A fathom, Master, no more."

"Fathom? Still the sailor at heart, Erasmus? Do you still yearn for the sea air?"

"Master, my place is where you bid me be." The outstretched hand was response enough, taking the chain from him and running the silent links over heavy leather gloves.

"The Promethean Chain... it is the last link." Were it anyone else, Erasmus might have considered the pun deliberate, but the Master was not a man given to humour.

"If I may, Master... what is it?"

"Prometheus, Erasmus, have you no comprehension of the classics?"

"No, Master. Sailors have little need of the lore of Ancient Rome."

"The Hellenic Republic, not Rome, fool boy." The Master growled, and Erasmus cringed, but did not evade the slow blow delivered with the heavy leather. "Prometheus was a Titan who stole fire from the Gods and gave it to man. For this, Zeus punished him by chaining him to a rock in the harbour. Every morning an eagle would alight and eat his liver, and every night it would grow back."

"Foolish superstition, surely, Master." Erasmus quickly made the sign of the cross, as he'd been taught.

"Of course, Erasmus, superstition." Nevertheless, he grinned as he pulled the sturdy links through his fingers, letting them play in the glow of the torchlight. He appreciated the irony of the fire's light.

"Then... what is the chain for?" he wondered, aloud.

"Even superstitions have power. That power must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands, imagine what the French could achieve if they convinced their idiot peasantry of the wonder of this simple piece of metal. Or the Prussians..."

"Indeed, Master."

"Has anyone else touched it?"

"N-No, Master." He shook his head, earnestly. "You bade me keep everyone else at bay."

"Good." The end of the chain rose and fell, the solid metal eliciting a single pained cry that ended with the second stroke. Ten good, solid strokes later, and the Master appraised the metal links once more. Despite the staining on the sand, and the fragments of bone and stone chipped about the hole, the metal gleamed unstained and unblemished.

The Master turned away from the corpse, satisfied the chain was now in the right hands.

His hands.

Munich, Bavaria, 1712

The seven men stood around the rough stone block, one with a knife in one hand, their arms outstretched over the paraphernalia gathered there.

"You have a subject?" One asked, a deep, barrel-chested tone at odds with the thin, emaciated hand that protruded from the robe.

"Of course."

"Is she willing?" Another, slighter voice.

"Does it matter?"

"Perhaps."

"She is... passive."

"She?"

"Does that matter?"

"Again, perhaps. Too much of this is left to chance. We are groping in the dark places of the soul already..."

"We have not time to be sure. DuPres has already begun gathering his counterstrike in Britain. We must forge onward. She will suffice."

"And you are sure you can control her?"

"The chain has been cut. One half will bind her, the other half will be kept to control her. Whomever holds the chain, controls her."

"Excellent... proceed." The thinnest hand wavered a little as the voice, thick with exhaustion, muttered the words. The knife held steady, though, as the Artificer turned to the door, opening it briefly to admit a single, slight figure wrapped in coarse sacking.

"Do you stand in the Light of God?" she was asked, and she nodded, once. "Speak, child." The voice wasn't badgering, but wasn't welcoming either.

"She has no tongue, Librarian." The Artificer explained, quietly.

"She has no need of one." The Master of Ceremonies intoned, quietly.

"Do you swear to obey this council?" another voice demanded, and she nodded again.

"Then stand forth, girl, and become our agent in this world." She slipped the thick material from her shoulders without hesitancy, many nude days in the musty holdout showing her that flesh held no appeal for these men. She climbed the three short steps on the back of the stone, as she'd been told, and waited.

Each of the seven men cut into their palms with the knives they held, dripping blood from old scars onto the stone, filling delicate carved channels in the surface. Warmth spread quickly through the marble, as the seven began muttering slowly in a rhythmic, disturbing cadence. The heat built, sweat bursting forth from every pore as she waited until, suddenly, manacles were snapped about her forearms, the chains on them tightened to lift her into the air above the stone.

She struggled in pain, unable to free herself, shoulders protesting briefly until she felt the burning pain in her chest and stared down in disbelief at the knife jutting between her breasts.

Why? she wanted to ask, but they would not have answered, and they had no time anyway. The warmth burst forth from the stone in pillar of fire, searing away her flesh, leaving her screaming her agony to the skies for a brief moment until the light died, and darkness returned to her.

"It is done, Master." Someone muttered in the darkness, and she looked up to see seven faces filled with a mixture of horror and wonder.

"Kneel." The Master of Ceremonies called, loudly, and she felt her knees buckle beneath her instantly, unable to resist. She looked down, wondering why there were no tears, to see the legs she pressed to the floor were nothing more than bone. Her arms were thrust forward, suddenly, before her eyes, ravaged, bleached sticks of yellowed bone as well, and she let loose a wail of loss that turned one of the seven away as he retched.

"She will suffice." The Master of Ceremonies told the Artificer, quietly, reaching out to the wall, and drawing forth a long handled scythe. "Take it." He told her, and she watched the five emaciated fingers that had once been her hand latch about the handle.

The Master of Ceremonies walked around behind her, wrapping the short length of chain about his arm until he was stood behind her.

"Now, my dear... Kill them all."

London, 1717

"You have it?" George Baker whispered into the quiet darkness, barely aware of the shadowy figure opposite him in the narrow lane.

"For what it's worth." The thief spat back, snarling at him.

"You were told it would be dangerous, that the item was important and would be protected."

Chapter 1 »