The Brimstone Network (Brimstone Network Trilogy) (2 page)

As the sun rose, Atuk returned to his village and found what he had feared most. No one remained.

A part of him cried in despair, but as he stood in the empty village, in the early morning rays of the sun, a new Atuk awakened. Tightly clutching his spear, its black tip glinting sharply in the light of dawn, Atuk set off into the jungle. He knew what he had to do, and now was the time.

The dark hunter did not hide its trail. After all, who was left to track it? Still, the sun was high by the time Atuk found its cave.

Standing before the yawning darkness, he felt what he thought was fear, but then realized was anticipation. This was what he was supposed to be doing, no matter what his other senses were telling him.

He stepped closer to the mouth of the cave. A horrible smell that made the thick hair on his neck and arms stand on end drifted out of the yawning darkness. It said to him,
Stay away, little man; there is death for you here.
But Atuk did not listen. Holding his spear tightly, he entered.

The floor of the cave tilted down and Atuk found himself walking deeper and deeper under the ground, the nasty stink of the place growing stronger, thicker, with every step. A green fungus growing on the damp cave walls cast just enough of an eerie glow to light his way.

For a moment, Atuk believed his journey would never end, but then he came to an area blocked with rubble, except for a tight opening between the top of the stone and the tunnel ceiling. He crawled atop the loose rocks, carefully sticking his head through the opening. It was
pitch-black on the other side, so he smeared some of the glowing fungus on his hand and stuck it through the hole into the chamber beyond.

Almost at once he wished for darkness again, for it would have spared him from the nightmarish sight that would haunt him to the last of his days.

The hole emptied into the dark hunter’s nest. The floor was littered with bones, animal and human, and all had been picked clean of any meat.

Something white in the far corner of the chamber caught his attention and Atuk pushed himself farther through the opening, holding out his glowing hand for a better look. He had seen similar things in the webs of spiders in the jungle: prey wrapped in bundles of white, sticky webbing; stored, to be consumed later by the predator. There were many bundles lying in that corner of the room, and some were moving.

Below the wrapped bundles something else stirred. Atuk moved his hand again, then stifled a gasp when he saw the hunter, curled and asleep, its back to its supply of food.

It was as Atuk suspected. The hunter was nocturnal. How deep it had come to escape the light of day told Atuk much about the beast.

The hunter did not stir as Atuk crawled through the opening, lowering himself to the chamber floor. It was cold inside, and slippery beneath his feet. Quietly, he moved toward the sleeping hunter, careful not to disturb any of the hundreds of bones strewn about.

At last, he stood before the beast. Even with the glow from his hand, he could barely discern where the shadows ended, and the hunter began.

He looked around the chamber at the remains of so much life taken by the hunger of the hunter in the dark. Some had been his friends, and this just fueled his purpose all the more.

Atuk turned back to the sleeping terror, and raised his spear.

It was awake.

Atuk gasped. Multiple eyes glowed like balls of fire suspended in darkness, and when the creature hissed, razor-sharp teeth glinted dangerously in the dwindling illumination of the chamber.

Channeling his fear into his strike, Atuk stabbed the spear down with all his might, puncturing the hunter’s leathery hide.

The monster’s scream of surprise was deafening in the
confines of the chamber. It had not feared him when it opened his eyes and saw him there.

But it feared him now.

Atuk pulled the spear up and brought it down again and again and again. The hunter fought to rise, but each strike drove it back.

A horrible smell that burned the inside of Atuk’s nose blossomed in the cold, damp air and he knew that the beast was bleeding.

With a final stab, he withdrew his spear, dropping it to the ground, turning to where he remembered the opening into the hunter’s lair to be. He listened to the sounds of the angry beast scrambling to its feet as he pulled himself up and out of the chamber.

The monster was enraged.

Atuk slid down the rocks back into the main tunnel and raced up the passage. He could hear the monster behind him, its lethal claws scraping on the stone. Atuk turned his head slightly to catch sight of the beast as it scuttled after him.

Its eyes were wild, and in the greenish light thrown by the glowing mold, he saw the areas upon its thin, muscular body where his spear tip had punctured its seemingly
impervious flesh. It ran along the sides of the walls, crawling up onto the ceiling as it chased him.

Atuk forced himself to run faster, the faint, enticing aroma of fresh air somewhere up ahead, giving him the extra strength he needed to continue. The muscles in his legs burned, but still he pushed on, chancing another quick glance to see the monster’s progress.

The hunter had dropped back down to the cave floor, and was closer. It would not be long before the beast would be close enough to reach out and snag him with a claw, dragging him back to its lair in the ocean of darkness.

The entrance to the cave was suddenly before him, and he stifled a surge of excitement that was nearly overwhelming. Atuk slowed his pace, allowing the monster to close the distance between them. He could smell it now, the stink of its blood and aroma of evil. It was close, very close.

As was the mouth of the cave.

As were the rays of the sun outside.

Feeling the tickling brush of its claws on his back, Atuk burst from the cave into the jungle, and the scream of pain behind him was even louder than when the beast had been stabbed with his spear.

He turned, his lungs burning as he gasped for air.

The hunter writhed upon the jungle floor. Wisps of oily smoke leaked from its slimy black flesh, bubbling blisters erupting everywhere that was touched by the light of the sun.

His instincts had told him that this thing of shadow would not tolerate the sun’s warming rays, and they had been right.

The hunter’s wails of pain continued, its leathery flesh making a sound very much like meat sizzling on a fire. It had managed to flip onto its stomach, sinking its claws into the earth, trying to drag itself back to the cave, to the soothing comfort of the dark.

Atuk grabbed a boulder from the floor of the jungle and, hefting it in both arms, moved to stand between the mouth of the cave and the monstrous predator. It roared in protest as it lifted its awful head and saw him standing there. But Atuk felt not the slightest bit of sympathy, for even as it burned in the sun its many eyes were filled with cruelty and hate. He raised the heavy stone and threw it down upon the monster’s head, ending its life with a mercy that he knew the beast was incapable of offering.

The flesh of the monster seemed to smolder and smoke
all the faster. Soon there would be nothing left to prove that it had been there other than the memories of the terror it had wrought. Memories that Atuk, and the surviving members of his tribe, would carry with them to the ends of their lives.

A
tuk was but the first of those who have dedicated themselves to the protection of their people.

Of humanity.

In the early days of civilization they were known as the Order of Brimstone; as centuries progressed, the Brotherhood of Brimstone; later, the Brimstone League; and now, the Brimstone Network. Appearing whenever a threat from the countless other realms emerged from the shadows, they destroy evil with a cold efficiency.

And the world has never needed them more.

1.
THE MONKS OF P’YON KEP ALWAYS SAID THAT TIME DID NOT
matter.

That all that he should be concerned with was the acquiring of knowledge, and how that knowledge could best be used for the greater good.

And as thirteen-year-old Abraham stood in the center of the cold and drafty room, wooden fighting staff in hand, with four monks—also armed with staffs—stealthily converging on him, he tried to call on some of that knowledge.

Bram thought he was ready, but then, he’d been wrong before.

The four men, dressed in silk robes of bright orange, moved on him. He wasn’t supposed to think of them as individuals, but as one thing.

One thing that could hurt him pretty badly if he didn’t do as he’d been taught.

His father had sent him here, and many other places around the world, to learn how to utilize the talents he had been born with.

Talents he was afraid to use.

They circled him, like planets orbiting the sun, and he waited for the inevitable. One of their staffs suddenly jabbed toward him with incredible speed. Bram was ready, using his own to block a blow that would have left him bruised for a month. The second came even faster, but he had already caught the movement from the corner of his eye and managed to intercept that one as well, the sound of the two wooden staffs meeting echoing sharply off the stone walls of the monastery training room.

The monks began circling again, and Bram allowed his thoughts to wander as he waited for the next assault.

How long had it been since he had come here, to this holy place of learning, hidden away in the Himalaya Mountains? Truly, he couldn’t remember. He had been to so many places in his thirteen years, completing his education in one, before being sent to the next. There
seemed to be so much for him to learn, so that he could be ready is what his father had always told him. But for what, Bram was never really quite sure.

A staff cracked him on the side of the head.

I deserved that
, he thought, angry at his carelessness.

Another of the monks jabbed at him, and as Bram brought his staff down to knock the strike away, he was hit from another angle. The speed of the attacks increased: another blow to his head, one to his thigh, his shoulder, his lower back.

Their blows were more severe than usual. They were trying to goad him into using his special abilities, but he didn’t want to.

He had lost his concentration and they were taking full advantage of it. He remembered one of his very first lessons here: Never take your eyes from your opponent.

He gripped his staff tighter and tried to regain his focus. Slowly he breathed in, then out, slowing his racing heart, cooling his anger. Because it was anger that brought it bubbling to the surface, tempting him with the knowledge that it was there.

But at what price?

No, he would do this without his fearful talents.

The monks continued to move around him, and Bram moved as well, slowly turning in a circle, expanding his view to encompass their entire bodies. It wasn’t just the eyes; there were telltale signs from the body as well, a twitch of a finger, the positioning of a foot. Learn to read your foe.

And read them he did, as they launched their next offensive. Bram was ready this time—seeing their moves as if in slow motion, countering each of their strikes. The training room was filled with the sounds of wooden sparring staffs striking against one another.

The rounded butt of a staff zoomed toward his face, and he ducked beneath the thrust, carrying through with his own offensive, swiping the legs out from beneath his opponent. Bram spun to face the other three, just in time to knock aside a blow moving toward his middle. He drove his staff into the monk’s chest, punching the air from his lungs and driving him back.

The remaining two had become more wary, avoiding the reach of his weapon, but hesitated only a moment before attacking in unison. On the defensive they drove him back, but he managed to parry blow after blow.

Until he was struck from behind.

There was an explosion of stars as a wooden pole bounced off the back of his skull. He half turned, seeing that it had come from the first he’d knocked to the ground, and he realized he had violated another rule of combat. He’d assumed that this foe was no longer a concern.

Stupid.

He had shown weakness again, and they had used it. Their strikes rained down on him, a storm of violence, and this time, no matter how fast he moved, they were faster.

And that made him angry, because he knew that he didn’t have to endure this, and so did his opponents. There was a way to make it stop.

They had been trying to teach him to embrace his unique skills since he’d first arrived at the monastery. But he’d fought it. He hated the way it made him feel … inhuman.

The monks were relentless, each blow almost like an order to him …
do not fear your gifts … use them as we have taught you … in the battle against the forces of darkness, they will be your most valuable assets.

Or something like that.

Bram tried to block them, but each attempt was more pathetic then the last. Explosions of pain bloomed before his eyes, and he felt his legs begin to give. He dropped to
his knees. It was time to make a choice. Was he going to allow himself to be beaten unconscious, or was he going to give the monks what they wanted and use the power he’d worked so hard to keep down?

As much as he hated to admit it, there really wasn’t any choice.

Crouched over, forehead pressed to the cold, stone floor, blows from the wooden fighting staffs raining down upon his back, Bram reached inside and imagined himself opening a high, metal gate.

He hoped they wouldn’t be sorry.

E
lijah Stone’s father had referred to it as the brewing storm, and he was certain that his father’s father had talked about it in the very same way.

It was a feeling in the air that something was coming.

Elijah had sensed it for quite some time, ever since things had become calmer in the world, since the Brimstone Network seemed to have gotten things under control.

The older man smirked and glanced down at the stack of printouts that had been brought to him earlier that evening, each one documenting a case of supernatural
activity. A herd of demonically possessed cows in Montana, a lake haunting in Russia, a band of chimpanzees at a Chicago zoo that were suddenly able to read and write, the return of a long-forgotten Sumerian weather god to Egypt. All were cases from the last two weeks; all were settled by his agents in the Network.