Afterworld Page 11

  ‘There it is!’ Deora said grandly, a sense of pride in her voice.

  They had walked over a small hill and in front of them was the most amazing piece of architecture he had ever seen. He wanted to stop and admire it, but Deora and Eduardo had each taken an arm and were pushing him forward through the ever-thickening crowd.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the amphitheatre. It was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. The building was entirely created by a ring of six enormous trees. Their trunks were huge, much larger than anything he had seen on Earth, and their branches wove together to form the curved outside walls. As they walked down the hill and approached the Arena he could fully appreciate its magnificence. The trees were alive, their tops curving over the stadium to form a shady roof and the upper branches, those not woven into the fabric of the building, waved a little, as the building filled with people. It was so beautiful he couldn’t turn away. The tree trunks were a rich red-brown colour and the bark was polished with such a patina that it reflected the crowds milling around. As they got close enough, he saw there were also incredible frescoes, intricate carvings of the events played out inside, people fighting, running, jumping. It did look like some sort of Olympics. The winners were holding up their hourglasses, which were clearly full; the prizes were time, hundreds and thousands of minutes.

  People were passing through huge gates, holding their hourglasses up towards a wooden panel above them where their minutes slid silently upwards, floated for a moment in the air and then vanished into a vault above. A man ahead of Dom did not have enough minutes to pay for his entry and a soft, low whistle came from the roof. Within seconds two very tall, pale men appeared and carried him quietly through the crowd. The man didn’t struggle, he seemed tired and terrified, but his eyes were wild. The same sort of look David had when he talked about the Glass. Dom wondered if the Trials had the same addictive quality. The tall men, who didn’t seem large enough to be Nephilim, but stood taller than most, carried him away and out of sight.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ Eduardo smiled grimly at him.

  Dom had a sudden fear that he might not be able to pay himself, but before he could mention it Deora ushered him towards a smaller gate to the side of the large one. She walked calmly through it, leading him and his Guardian. They did not pay and nobody tried to stop them.

  ‘What—’ Dominic started to question her, and he noticed Eduardo’s face take on a seriousness that worried him.

  ‘We are special guests.’ Deora smiled beautifully. ‘We do not need to wait.’ She didn’t elaborate further and led him down an empty, intricately tiled path that was separated from the masses of people by a thick branch that grew parallel to the ground at waist height. They walked into the stadium through a dark tunnel and finally the light broke through and he could see into the main Arena.

  It was exquisite. There were tiers of seating in an oval shape, and the branches of the trees wove around each other seamlessly, the wood polished and smooth as people filed into the vast benches that surrounded the centre field. The middle of the arena was deeper than he had imagined, set about three metres lower than the first row of seats, and the field was simple and covered in soft dirt. He realised they had entered at the narrow end of the oval-shaped Arena and to his left and right were the longer sides. Midway up on his left side was a vast platform with another branch-woven roof. The lush and vividly coloured cloth seats on the platform drew his attention for a moment until Deora ushered him forward.

  They were walking along the lowest level, which was lined on one side with some sort of gallery. People were stopping to examine the exhibits in tall rectangular boxes. Each had a carved marble nameplate at the bottom. It was difficult to get close as now they were mixed in with the rest of the crowd.

  Deora whispered in his ear, ‘I thought you might wish to see the collection.’ She smiled and gestured to the exhibits. Eduardo’s grip tightened on his arm and he heard a low growl in his other ear. ‘Walk past. Just walk past.’

  He tried to do as his Guardian said. He had a feeling of dread about the exhibits. There was a sense of evil about them. But he turned his head to the left and read the stone at the bottom. It said: ‘Jereamoth’. He squinted at the exhibit and saw only murky liquid. It took a moment more to realise it was a glass tank filled with water. He still couldn’t see anything in the murky water. Maybe it was some sort of aquarium and the Nephilim had found a way to bring some sort of sea creatures to Necropolis.

  He walked on to the next, his eyes down, reading the nameplate. It said: ‘Nimrod’. He peered into the murk and again saw nothing. He was about to move on when there was a sudden flash of movement in the tank and a hand slapped up against the glass. Dom leapt back, his skin crawling. Deora laughed and Eduardo tightened his grip on Dom’s arm, holding him upright when his legs threatened to give out.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Dom whispered in horror.

  ‘Yes,’ Deora said calmly, ‘a very famous man. He was a mighty king and hunter in his time.’

  A face appeared at the glass, its eyes milky, and long hair waving wildly around it. The hand slid down the glass. The man, whose skin was white and soft from the water, had such a look of defeat and despair on his face. Dom coughed to keep himself from throwing up and again leaned on Eduardo’s arm to stay upright.

  ‘Are they all – people?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Deora said casually. ‘This is a collection of some of the most famous people who have ever been in the Necropolis. Those who were defeated in the Trials, anyway. That is the risk, you see. Very few are invited to participate in the Trials. Those who do can win the ten thousand minutes they need to leave, but they also risk becoming part of the collection.’

  ‘They are all people who took part in the Trials?’ He looked along the row.

  ‘Yes. And some are very special people.’ She watched Eduardo as she said it, her mouth tight. Dom wondered what she meant by special.

  ‘Does anyone ever win?’

  She laughed silkily. ‘Of course. The Winner’s Memoir is over there.’ She gestured to a section of the Arena below the plush platform area. It was carved with many names, but it didn’t seem to be even close to an equitable spread. There were hundreds of bodies in glass cases around the entire circumference of the Arena.

  They continued walking and he kept his eyes averted as much as he could, though the occasional movement in a tank drew his attention to a figure inside, wrapped in long hair like seaweed, skin white and eyes glazed. Some had their mouths open in terror, others leaned resignedly against the glass. Dom felt sick. He wanted to leave, and more than anything he wanted to be back in the real world in his real life, alive and away from all of the strange and disgusting things around him. Occasionally he would read and recognise a name, ‘Aleksandre,’ ‘Mao’, ‘Akhenaton’, and he felt an even greater sadness that the great people of history were floating in tanks to be watched in their torment. They couldn’t breathe, but they couldn’t drown either. They were there forever. He understood what his Guide and Guardian had meant when they had said there were some things that were worse than death. He read the name ‘Cleopatra’ and gazed on the haggard face of the woman he had heard was the most beautiful in history. Long black hair fell around a withered and pruned face and the lower lids of her eyes dragged down to reveal the pale red. She looked as though she might be crying, and Dom shut his eyes and shuddered. When they finally pushed through the crowd to reach the centre of the left side of the stadium, Deora pointed up the stairs. ‘This way – we have special seats. You are a guest.’

  He cringed. He wanted to sit somewhere quiet and watch the Trials unnoticed. Three tanks in the very centre of the stadium were larger than the others. He glanced briefly at the first and his heart almost stopped as he read the title: ‘Ronaldo. Sixteen’. He knew what it meant. This was the youngest person to have ever entered the Necropolis – before him. Ronaldo’s face was a mask of terror; his skin had not yet gone the m
ilky white of the others but he pounded on the glass as if trying to solicit help. The large tank on the highest pedestal housed a very tall man with a beard that wrapped around his long, linen-clothed body. His face was old and had the sharpened shape that many of the very ancient people here had. Dom knew without reading the sign that this man had died a very long time ago. He looked at the plaque. It read: ‘Noyach’. The name meant nothing to him, but he was drawn to the man’s face; his eyes were closed and his hands hung limply by his sides. Eduardo ushered him on from behind and he followed Deora up the stairs.

  The stadium was filling rapidly and there was a violent energy in the air. There was an urgency and sense of anger he had never before sensed at a sports event. He felt a stab of fear. This crowd was bloodthirsty. These people came here to watch other people being eternally tortured. They came to watch people lose the Trials. This was where they vented the frustration of living in this purgatory of a city. He wanted to leave, but knew it was too late for that. Deora pulled him firmly by the hand and he sensed in her a strength he couldn’t match. She led him up the stairs and he followed reluctantly.

  There, on the platform overlooking the Trials, on the plush scarlet seats and carved marble benches, were the Nephilim. Taller than most men by at least a foot and fine-featured, they conveyed an air of aristocracy. They all turned and watched him enter behind Deora. In the centre of the group, Satarial sat alone on a huge chair that resembled a throne. Not all of the group were pale-skinned. Some of the Nephilim were black-skinned, the darkest black he had ever seen, their eyes a piercing green. He was strangely surprised; despite his heritage, he hadn’t imagined that Angels could be black. A few days ago he hadn’t even believed Angels existed, so he didn’t know why he had a preconceived notion they were white. He almost laughed at himself. The Nephilim stared at him with deep interest and he imagined himself as they saw him – a teenager, a potential Trials-competitor destined to end up in one of those tanks, perpetually choking, staring out at the leering crowds and wishing that death didn’t mean living forever.

  Satarial ushered them over with a flick of two long fingers.

  ‘Dominic Mathers.’ He spoke smoothly and with the same deeply resonant voice Dom remembered. ‘So good to see you again.’ He smiled and raised an eyebrow as he said it and Dom was immediately sure it had been him in Kaide’s bedroom.

  Dom stepped forward, more intent on finding out about his sister than worried about his fate. ‘What happened to my . . .’

  A thin woman, the only other woman on the platform, interrupted him on cue and called him to sit beside the throne. ‘Come sit here. We’ve saved you the place of honour. The Trials are about to begin and we would like to offer you the chance to open them.’

  ‘But, I—’

  ‘It’s a very great privilege. Humans are rarely invited to do it. You are a special child.’

  Child? Dom bristled at being called a child. He focused on the firm grip of Eduardo on his upper shoulder, and ignored the smile tilting Satarial’s mouth.

  Every one of the Nephilim was watching him carefully. One of them lifted his hand, reaching out to touch him, then quickly withdrawing the gesture. Dom shivered involuntarily.

  He took a deep breath and composed himself. He didn’t want to let them think he was terrified, so he drew himself up to his full height, almost six foot tall, and pulled his shoulders back. His hair, which was growing at a supernatural pace, was almost shoulder length now, even tied back in its high pony tail. He wished he was wearing something other than his T-shirt and jeans as the Nephilim were all garbed in white outfits that reminded him of the gi he wore for his childhood karate lessons. They looked imposing and ethereal, almost like gods.

  Eduardo too had straightened; he’d thrown back his hood and was standing behind Dom’s right shoulder. Dom looked to him for reassurance and did a brief double-take. His Guardian seemed taller; tall enough to rival even the Nephilim. Dom took strength from his protective stance.

  Ignoring the outstretched hand Satarial offered him as he approached, Dom walked forward and took the chair he was directed towards. He was not prepared to give up his mind so easily again. Deora stood to the side of the group, smiling tightly at him. He understood now. She was not a ranking member of this group at all, more of a servant. They had employed her for her beauty and she had been sent to snare him. He was embarrassed that he had been so easily captured.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ He held Satarial’s gaze as determinedly as he could.

  ‘Start the Trials for us, Dominic,’ he purred. ‘The Trials have an ancient and magnificent tradition. The first Nephilim here in the City, Semjaza planted the great trees almost six thousand years ago and cultivated them into the Arena in which those who sought to conquer the Maze could train. When I took over, I transformed a simple training exercise into a competitive sport that is thrilling and terrifying, even for those who have already faced death. Are you a student of history, Dominic?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’ Dom didn’t want to explain that he had mainly studied American history. He imagined that was not what Satarial meant.

  ‘There have been great competitions since the beginning of time. From the first simple running races and fighting with staves, to the tournaments we fought with the Great Ones. In your time there were the Circus Maximus and the Gauntlets run by those who would be knights, and more recently the innocuous Olympic Games. There have always been traditions of competition.’

  Dom was bemused that Satarial considered the ancient Romans to have been ‘his time’; his was more the Superbowl kind of era.

  ‘We have designed these Trials carefully. They are everything humanity has imagined. We had to do without the Great Ones of course and the wild animals, but we have improvised. I understand your time was very different from mine.’

  ‘No dragons.’ Dom smiled warily. ‘No dinosaurs either. Some people don’t even believe dragons existed.’

  ‘Oh, Great Ones most certainly existed. They were very fast and very smart. We used them to hunt the big animals – the ‘dinosaurs’. As I said, there have always been traditions of competition. That is what we have immortalised here.’ He gestured at the Arena, which was entirely full now, buzzing and humming with energy.

  ‘The trick is to give the people power and to build the anticipation. We hold the Trials infrequently and we make people pay more than they can possibly afford. We let them participate and make the stakes as high as they can be.’

  Dom snorted. ‘You mean eternal torture.’

  Satarial smiled. ‘I sense a moral indignation. You don’t approve of my gallery, I take it – my collection.’

  A chill ran down Dom’s spine. He knew that his place in the collection was anticipated and he felt like prey. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘When people participate in the Trials – and it is by invitation only – they know the consequences of loss. They lose their freedom. But they could win fame or the opportunity to leave – to attempt the Maze – if that is what they want.’

  Dom took his chance. ‘Why have you never left? You must have more than enough money to continue to whatever is next.’

  ‘Because I refuse to be a slave to the Awe. This is a contrivance I will not be part of.’ His eyes narrowed.

  Dom was confused. He couldn’t see how the Nephilim had any more choice about being part of the cycle than anyone else did. But Satarial was clearly not going to elaborate so he changed his tack.

  ‘Did everyone in your “collection” choose to compete? Did they all lose the Trials?’

  Satarial smiled a cold, tight smile. ‘Yes. It is not possible to incarcerate a person without their permission. Another rule. Even the most special of my collection were competitors.’

  Dom took a breath. ‘Noyach?’

  Satarial’s blue eyes flashed so harshly that Dom edged back. This was a man with incredible anger and cruelty in him. Dom had never seen anything so dangerously potent. The Nephilim’s nostrils flare
d briefly and he spat, ‘Noyach was the first. You might call it an irony.’ He turned back to the scene in front of him. ‘Shall we begin?’

  He walked to the front of the raised platform. The crowd’s buzz grew louder, though it wasn’t the cheering or applause Dom was accustomed to from a sports-stadium audience. It was an amplified hum, a deepening of energy that filled the air with as much fear as excitement. The people were terrified of the Nephilim, and yet also fascinated. He surveyed the strange hybrid creatures he was among. They relished the power. Many of them were smiling broadly, enjoying the fearful admiration. Deora’s face glowed beautifully and she cast a dazzling smile in his direction. He almost forgot that she had been bait to lure him to Satarial. He glanced at Eduardo and saw a strange expression on his face. There was no fear and certainly no adulation, but there was a strange sad look of shame as though he felt some of the burden of the spectacle.

  Satarial began to speak and while it seemed he was barely raising his voice, it was clear that the entire audience could hear him. Dom wondered if it was another Nephilim talent or if it was something about the timbre of the arena. He could sense a strange life-force in the wooden bench on which he sat and he was highly aware that it was part of the living tree.

  ‘Welcome, friends.’ Satarial spoke condescendingly to the crowd. His tone left no doubt that the people in the stands were not his friends. ‘We have always brought you the most fascinating competitors, the most thrilling spectacles and the most harrowing of challenges. Today will be no exception. Today you will witness the challenge of Taoyateduta, the mighty warrior of the Land of Grasses. He was a hero in life and today risks the Arena in the hope of taking an even greater trip through the Maze. As ever, you may join the Trials by helping the contestant, or offering him an even greater challenge.’ The audience roared with a mixture of laughter and mockery at this last suggestion. ‘And we have one other special guest for you today.’