Callsign: King - Blackout

Prologue-Demon

The Kushan Empire, 25 °CE

Vima gazed out at the assembled group-the entire population of the village had turned out to watch him confront the demon-and felt a surge of apprehension. His fear was not for his own life but rather for theirs.

He recognized nearly every face in the assembly. He had broken bread with many of them, particularly since his victory in the games, where he had demonstrated that he was indeed the strongest and bravest of all the warriors in the district. There was no higher honor than to have the chosen one dine at your table, and in the days since the games, he had eaten well. More importantly, he had made friends of people who had previously been only strangers with familiar faces.

His fear was for their safety. The magi had made it very clear to him that if he somehow failed in his task, if Angra Mainyu was displeased with the offering he was to leave upon the evil one’s very doorstep, then he would be only the first to die. Every man, woman and child gathered here to observe would also surely perish.

Vima felt the hands of the magi and their acolytes upon him, prodding and tugging him, and allowed himself to be maneuvered to the front of the throng where the chief magus waited with the sacrificial animal. A low murmur rippled through the crowd, and though Vima could not make out the words, he knew what was being said; it was as if the entire village possessed a single, unified mind.

God has deserted us. Ahura Mazda, the personification of light and wisdom has abandoned his creation to the appetites of chaos.

Vima felt it too. He had heard the revelations of the ancient prophet Zoroaster all his life, but attaining a deep understanding of the mysteries of the universe had never been a priority for him. Nevertheless, he knew enough to recognize that making an offering to appease Angra Mainyu, the source of all darkness, ought to have been unthinkable. Angra Mainyu, the demon of chaos and madness, was the enemy of all Ahura Mazda ’s creations. Vima knew that in some lands people worshipped many deities, some of whom embodied dark forces, but such was not the way of his ancestors. That the magi, the priests who kept the revealed wisdom of the prophet, had proposed making such a sacrifice was ominous indeed.

Vima had heard also of a new religion spreading across the land like a fire in late summer. This faith, it was said, held that there was no God at all, but that the universe and all within it were part of an endless cycle of life, death and rebirth. Many were embracing this new belief, leaving aside the religions of their ancestors. Perhaps the widespread growing disbelief was the very reason Ahura Mazda had abandoned them to the appetites of his enemy.

Vima didn’t know if there really was a God, or many gods as some believed, but the demon was most assuredly real. Of that, he was certain.

The magus thrust a length of rope into Vima’s hand, then raised his arms and spoke an invocation before the assembled crowd. Vima barely heard the desperately hypocritical prayer; no one here believed this act was God’s will, and no one believed that salvation would come from that source.

The prayer concluded and Vima felt the hands of the magi prodding him once more into motion. He gathered his courage and took a step out into the open area where the demon’s presence was a tangible reality.

There was no mistaking the zone of the demon’s influence-a rough half-circle, more than a hundred paces across, where the ground had been scoured down to bare rock by the entity’s appetite. When the demon had first become manifest, only six months earlier, the affected area was only a few paces across, but with each passing day, the demon’s hunger increased and the dead area grew.

After only a few steps, Vima felt the rope in his hands go taut. He glanced back and saw the sacrificial animal, a goat, stubbornly refusing to move. He gave the rope a sharp tug and managed to drag the beast forward, but it continued to resist, planting its hooves squarely on the rocky ground and pushing back with all its might. With a snarl of frustration, Vima reversed course, thrust one arm under the goat’s belly, and lifted it off the ground as he might a wayward child.

Even as he moved, he was acutely aware of the demon’s influence. The air felt thick and moving through it was more like swimming than walking. Yet, when he drew the goat up to his chest, the resistance vanished and he almost stumbled backward into the blighted area. The goat struggled in his embrace and for a moment; it was all he could do to stay on his feet.

A murmur arose from the crowd, but Vima quickly discerned that the disturbance was not related to his difficulties. Rather, the attention of the group was focused on a new arrival, a runner from one of the sentry outposts, bearing urgent news. Vima purposefully ignored this new development and focused all his attention on accomplishing the task at hand. He turned with deliberate care, feeling the inexorable attraction of the demon’s hunger, and faced his goal.

The demon’s cave was a blank spot on the face of the sandstone cliff. Unlike the other caves and depressions that pitted the sheer rock surface, the void was no mere place of deep shadow where the sun’s rays did not reach. Angra Mainyu consumed light just as he consumed everything else, and so looking into his domain was like staring into a hole in the fabric of reality. Vima tore his gaze away from the nothingness, looking instead at the ground directly in front of him, and took a cautious step forward.

Although the ground beneath his feet was flat, he felt as if he was descending a hillside; walking required no exertion at all, and the idea of breaking into a run was strangely seductive. Through a conscientious effort, he resisted the impulse, leaning back, away from the demon’s tempting presence, and slowed his pace even as the sensation intensified with each step forward.

When he reached a point almost exactly halfway between the assembled villagers and the cave, the demon’s powerful attraction was almost too strong to resist. Walking normally was impossible; with every step, he felt as though he might pitch forward, or be snatched off the ground and sucked into the demon’s maw. He turned his body sideways, perpendicular to the cave opening, scooting his feet along the rocky terrain, one leg extended and locked to brace himself against the dark entity’s hunger. After moving ahead a few more paces, he realized that continuing forward would spell certain doom.

Close enough, he thought, preparing to heave the squirming goat in the direction of the cave.

“No!”

The shout from behind him sounded strange, like something from a dream, and in that moment, Vima realized just how quiet the world had become. Aside from the frantic bleating of the sacrificial animal, he hadn’t heard a sound for what seemed an eternity. Curious, he turned to locate the source of the shout and discovered a stranger venturing into the blighted area behind him. The man was tall and broad, and he was clad in a robe of saffron-colored cloth. His olive-skinned visage, framed by a mop of curly hair and a thick beard to match, marked him as a foreign visitor to the land of the Kushans. He was cautiously moving toward Vima, waving his arms with exaggerated slowness and repeating the shouted negative. Vima’s gaze slipped past the approaching stranger and fell upon the gathered crowd of his fellow villagers. They had been joined by a group of men-likewise wearing bright yellow robes, but with shaved heads and facial features more common to inhabitants of the region. Strangely, both the newcomers and the villagers were completely motionless. Vima stared at them for a moment, expecting one of them to move, but the tableau did not change; the men and women were as still as statues.

With astonishing suddenness, the curly-haired stranger reached the place where Vima was standing. His momentum nearly caused a collision, and as Vima recoiled instinctively, he felt the goat slip from his arms.

The animal landed awkwardly and even as it struggled to get to its feet, it began tumbling forward, drawn in by the demon’s irresistible hunger. Vima had half-expected this to happen, but he could not have anticipated what the stranger did next. To Vima’s complete surprise, the big man threw himself onto the rope trailing behind the goat and caught it in his massive hands. He had time to wrap a twist of the line around his wrist before it went taut, snapping rigid as if connected to a team of chariot horses. The stranger’s jaw clenched and the muscles of his upper arms bulged as he began straining to haul the goat back from the demon’s maw.

Vima managed to overcome his shock. “What are you doing? You must not interfere with the sacrifice.”

Mindful of the invisible force that had snatched the goat, he took a tentative step forward and knelt alongside the stranger, attempting to wrestle the rope from the man’s grasp. The hands that held it were as unyielding as forged iron. Nevertheless, the stranger snarled at him, and then said something in a language that Vima did not recognize.

Vima redoubled his efforts. The man might have been as strong as a water buffalo, but Vima had proven himself in games of skill and combat, and he was no trifling opponent. Besides, he did not need to overpower the stranger; all he had to do was get the man’s grip on the rope to weaken.

He tried striking the man with a closed fist, but his arms now felt as heavy as lead. The man shrugged off the ineffectual blow and then, with the casual indifference of someone shooing away a fly, let go of the rope with his left hand and wrapped his fingers around Vima’s throat.

Dark spots clouded the young warrior’s vision and all thoughts of doing his duty and delivering the sacrifice were pushed aside by an overwhelming desire for self-preservation. His hands went to his throat, struggling to loosen the iron grip but his strength fled along with his grasp on consciousness.

The stranglehold did relax, but not because of anything Vima had done. At the edge of complete darkness, he felt the man release him and then, with no more effort than that required to pick up a sleeping child, the big man tucked him under one arm.

Vima was faintly aware that the man had begun to move, crawling along the ground and dragging his twin burdens. Vima felt heavy, as if mired in mud, but as the man pulled him further from the demon’s cave, the sensation diminished. When they had crossed about half the distance to the assembled group-the crowd was no longer statue still, but their movements seemed unnaturally slow and languid-the big man got to his feet and quickened his step. Vima’s head cleared enough to make another attempt at resisting his captor, but the man seemed to sense his intention and tightened his grip, keeping Vima all but completely immobilized. Then he spoke. “Do not fight. I am trying to save you.”

The words were delivered haltingly, giving evidence of the foreign man’s unfamiliarity with the language. “You will destroy us all,” Vima countered, the words burning past the ache in his throat. “If we do not feed the demon-”

“If you feed this thing, its hunger will only grow greater.” The man offered no further explanation, but a few moments later, they reached the assembled villagers who were now moving normally. The magi were talking animatedly with the yellow-robed monks, but then the big man spoke loudly in a language Vima did not comprehend. All conversation ceased and every eye turned toward him.

“The darkness in the cave cannot be appeased with offerings,” one of the monks translated. “It will only grow stronger and consume everything: the village, the mountain, the entire world.”

Vima struggled to his feet, ready to engage the man in combat if so directed, but judging by the rapt expressions of the priests, it was evident that his own role in the drama had ended. The magi craved guidance; God had abandoned them and the decision to make an offering to the demon had been one of desperation, not divine inspiration.

“What can we do?” implored the chief magus.

A grim but satisfied smile turned up the corners of the big stranger’s mouth as he spoke again.

“The darkness that threatens you is the embodiment of desire. Desire, hunger, greed…these things can be conquered through meditation. I will teach you a mantra-”

The monk did not translate this word, but Vima inferred that it must be something like a magic spell.

“-in the language of the first people,” continued the stranger. “When you chant this word, together in one harmonious voice, and empty your minds of all desire, the darkness will depart. Will you do this?”

The magi exchanged a glance and then the chief magus addressed the foreigner. “It may be that God has sent you. We will do this.”

The next few moments were surreal, like something from a dream. Vima had been prepared to offer his life, if necessary, to end the demon peril, but this was almost beyond his comprehension. With the rest of his fellow villagers, he surrendered completely to the guidance of the monks, and sat down on the rocky ground at the edge of the area that had been scraped raw by the demon’s hunger. In a matter of only a few minutes, they were arranged along the semicircle, and all were, like Vima, looking to the stranger for direction.

The monks, stationed at equidistant points around the perimeter, translated the man’s stentorian utterances. “The mantra I will teach you is but a single word. You may know this word, for it is a word of great power and many who seek truth by different paths have discovered it. All of the universe is contained in this word, and when you say it, you will become one with the cosmos.”

There was a pause and then the men in saffron robes began to hum in unison, a single syllable. “Om.”

Vima shivered as the sound resonated in his chest. The utterance lasted only for a few seconds, then ceased at a gesture from the stranger.

“When the monks raise their arms, you must breathe in deeply, filling your lungs with air. Imagine that your body is a clay pot, and that you are pouring air into it, filling it up slowly, from the bottom to the top.”

The monks proceeded to raise their arms, and Vima heard a rushing sound as the entire population of the village inhaled together. To his surprise, he also began to draw in air, caught up in the power of the foreigner’s charismatic presence.

“When they lower their arms, you must sound the mantra until your breath is no more. Then breathe and utter the mantra again.” The stranger let his gaze sweep across the gathering. “Once we begin the mantra, the word must continue to be spoken without interruption. No matter what happens. Only in this way can the darkness be conquered.”

Just when Vima felt his lungs were about to burst, the monks lowered their arms and the villagers began to hum. Their combined voice was low and discordant at first, as if some were uncertain about committing to this strategy. Vima certainly was; he was a warrior, and his faith was in the strength of his hands and his skill with arms, not in magic chants invoking foreign gods. And yet, what had he accomplished with his might and prowess? He had not even been able to best the foreigner, much less defeat the demon.

Banishing his doubts, he closed his eyes and focused on the mantra, channeling his breath into the back of his throat, letting the sound reverberate against the roof of his mouth and out through his nose. The other villagers also seemed to have set aside their reservations, for by the time Vima was forced to draw another breath, the air had come alive with a steady and insistent hum.

The mantra vibrated through every fiber of his being and distorted his perception of time…of reality itself. Hours might have slipped by or perhaps only a few minutes, but his awareness of the world was reduced to that single syllable, his ability to reckon the passage of time measured only by uncounted discrete inhalations.

But then something intruded on his strange calm. A disharmonious vibration shuddered up from the ground beneath him like a note played by a setar with a loose string. Vima’s eyes fluttered open and he heard the intensity of the collective humming diminish as his fellow villagers became distracted by the strange tremor.

“Keep uttering the mantra!”

The stranger’s words, translated and repeated by the monks, wove into the fabric of their chant, gently but insistently guiding them back, yet even as Vima closed his eyes again, the hostile vibration intensified. It was not merely a discordant false note, but a shaking that arose from the earth itself.

An earthquake, Vima realized. A groaning noise, as of millstones grinding together, filled the air, drowning out the sound of the diminishing hum.

“The darkness resists you,” the stranger said. “If you falter, it will consume you. No matter what happens, keep saying the word!”

Vima felt the truth of the exhortation. He had stood upon the threshold of the demon’s cave and knew its terrible hunger. It seemed impossible that they could conquer it with nothing more than a foreign word-a single syllable-yet the very fact that it was now fighting them was proof of the efficacy of the mantra. But would it be enough?

Vima realized that it was too late for that question. The battle had been joined and there could be no retreat. Closing his eyes again, he willed himself to ignore the violent tremor and focused only on his breath.

Fill my lungs as I would a clay pot… Utter the mantra…

“Om…”

Suddenly, the ground heaved and Vima was thrown into the air like so much chaff. Even as he slammed back down, a deafening thunderclap tore through the air.

The combined hum of the villagers quieted still more, and cries of alarm began to shoot through the droning mantra. More thunderclaps and tremors followed, building to a crescendo, but through it all, the voice of the stranger kept guiding them back. “No matter what happens…”

Fill the pot with air… “Om…”

The sound of the mantra, welling up from within and joined by dozens of voices from all around, persisted and enfolded Vima in a blanket of calm, even as the earth seemed to shake itself apart.

For a long time, the opposing forces vied for dominance, like objects being weighed in a scale, but as the initial shock of the demon’s counterattack began to subside, more and more voices returned to the chorus. The grinding noise of the earthquake diminished into nothingness as the air began to vibrate once more to the sound of that single ancient and potent word.

Vima was not conscious of the moment when the struggle ended. Like the transition between wakefulness and sleep, it happened with imperceptible subtlety. He did not notice the abrupt end of the tremor or the final crushing sound of boulders dislodged in the quake settling into place. It was only when the stranger spoke again-loudly and in the language of the Kushans-that Vima realized they had won.

“It is finished.”

Vima’s eyes fluttered open and he let the mantra slip away into a sigh. The air around him was thick with settling dust, but through the pall, Vima could see that something had changed. The area that had once been scoured clean by the demon’s appetite was shot through with gaping cracks and littered with loose rocks, but the most dramatic difference was the cave itself. No longer was there evidence of the surreal nothingness, the hole in reality, which had marked the demon’s presence.

Angra Mainyu was gone.

A low wail began to issue from the villagers, cries from those who had suffered minor injuries during the quake and complaints from some who could, even from a distance, see that their homes had been knocked flat, but Vima paid no heed.

“We did it!” he cried, turning to the stranger. “We have defeated the demon.”

The foreign man gave a heavy sigh. “A darkness like this can never be truly defeated. It only slumbers. But you are safe for the present.”

“Slumbers?” The chief magus stepped forward. Vima could see the roiling emotions in his expression-gratitude for the salvation of the village, despair arising from his utter failure to find that salvation in the teachings of the prophet. “Will it awaken? What can we do to prevent its return?”

The stranger considered the question for a moment, and then gestured toward the cliff where the demon’s cave now looked like just another anonymous pockmark in the stone face. “Though you cannot see it, the darkness is there. What will awaken it, I cannot say, but in the same way that you have defeated it today, you can keep it at bay.

“Consecrate this ground. Make this a sacred place; a place where holy men may contemplate the nature of the cosmos.” He paused thoughtfully. “But you must never speak of the darkness, or of what happened here today. Make no record of this occurrence. It is in the nature of men to believe that forces such as this can be controlled, and it may be that in keeping alive the memory of this day, the temptation to awaken the darkness will prove too great to resist. You must let what happened here today slip from your memory, as if something glimpsed in a dream.”

Despite the wisdom underlying the admonition, Vima knew that the stranger was asking the impossible. None of the villagers would ever forget this day; how could they? Not only had they all participated in the cataclysmic battle with the demon of darkness, they had also borne witness to the failure of their God. And had not word of the demon’s siege on their village spread throughout the empire, carried by travelers along the Silk Road?

No, Vima was quite certain that the events of this day would be spoken of for hundreds, even thousands of years to come.

But Vima was wrong.

In the years that followed, the influence of the magi and the teachings of Zoroaster declined as more and more people began to learn the ways of the Enlightened One-the Buddha-and as belief in Ahura Mazda waned, so also did the recollection of stories-superstitious fables-about demons and otherworldly entities.

Within two generations, the cliff where a warrior named Vima had once faced an entity of indescribable darkness had become a place where monks carved out caves in which to meditate on the nature of the universe. Three hundred years later, long after the Kushan Empire fell to the Sassanids, and shortly before the subsequent conquest by the Hephthalite Confederation, devotees of the Buddha hewed from the cliff face two extraordinary likenesses of their legendary spiritual leader, thereby unknowingly carrying out the long forgotten stranger’s admonition to consecrate the ground where the demon still slept.

It would be nearly fifteen hundred years before darkness of a very different sort would descend upon the land.