Chains of Prophecy: A Tale of Mythic Discovery

Chains of Prophecy

  By Jason P. Crawford

  Samuel Buckland Chronicles Volume 1

  Chains of Prophecy

  Jason Patrick Crawford

  Copyright 2013 Jason Crawford.

  Published by Epitome Press

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, please contact the author at [email protected].

  Discover other titles by Jason Crawford at

  https://www.jasonpatrickcrawford.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon or your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  https://www.jasonpatrickcrawford.com/landing-page.html

  Endorsements

  “A complex and imaginative story.” – Mina Khan, author of A Tale of Two Djinns

  “Chains of Prophecy has great descriptions, action, and dialogue.” – Ivan Amberlake, author of The Beholder

  “Great story with fast-moving action.” – C.L. Blanton, author of Absolution’s Curse.

  “I took it everywhere with me.” – Fire and Ice Book Reviews

  Dedications

  Special Thanks To:

  Angelique Gunnels for inspiring me to start writing;

  Patricia Hankins for cheering me on the whole way,

  and my wife, Cherrie, for her awesome cover art and for never giving up on me or letting me quit.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bonds of Fate Preview

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  Writing is, depending on who you ask, an art, a craft, a calling, or a profession. For me, I fell into writing when my sister-in-law said that she was going to write a book, and she asked my wife and I if we wanted to join in on “writing nights.”

  Sure, I thought. I’ve always wanted to write a book. That sounds like fun. And so we sat down and started writing.

  And I’ve never enjoyed anything more.

  I was swept away in the story I was creating – in fact, it didn’t feel like I was creating it at all, but that it was being made around me, that I was watching it happen. I wrote my first novel, The Drifter, but I wasn’t done. Almost as soon as I put that down, I was working on my next book, Chains of Prophecy. I published both of them in July of 2013, and I’m still writing.

  I think that the best thing about writing is that you get to be the first one to experience your story. You get to be the first one these characters tell their problems and their triumphs to, and you get to laugh and cry right there with them, in real time.

  I hope that you enjoy your foray into a world where Angels and Demons war for souls and a simple accountant can become the savior of us all.

  Jason P. Crawford

  PROLOGUE

  The bar upstairs was closed, with the liquor put away and the stools on top of the bar, but the basement was full of light and choking smoke. The stairwell, with its wooden guiderail, spiraled down into a bright room with oak tables and chairs of dark cherry and red velvet upholstery, and the cold January weather did not seem to pierce the room’s boundaries. The walls were decorated with pictures of movie starlets; Greta Garbo, Jean Harlow, and Fay Wray smiled down on the mostly-empty room, baring flesh and teeth equally. Murmurs came from one table, the only one occupied. From a distance, a visitor could mistake the group of men - thin and portly, tall and short, a mishmash of wool pinstripes and plaids and greys and blacks – for gamblers around a card table, perhaps, or businessmen discussing a contract they are considering. It wouldn’t be until the visitor pierced the circle and laid eyes on the table itself that anything would have seemed amiss.

  The seven men wore masks representing monsters, such as ghosts, dragons, demons and other creatures of nightmare. The masks were carefully crafted and well-kept, as if cleaned and polished between each use.

  The men were gathered around a leather-bound manuscript. The book was old but preserved, and the text within was indecipherable to any scholar of linguistics. Underneath the text was a great seal, a pentagram inscribed with sigils and markings to focus sorcery and magical power.

  If passers-by could see into the world of the ethereal, they would see that spirits had been summoned to keep anyone who might invade the sanctified space at bay. The portly man with the largest mask, a horrific, snarling demonic thing, raised his hands and chanted into the air. The lights in the room began to flicker as the other participants joined in, holding hands, bowing their heads, and intoning the words of the ritual.

  “Tonight, the age of the United States comes to an end. Tonight, we take power, with the magics passed down to us for centuries. Tonight, we bid goodbye to the old, and usher in the new.”

  A visitor would also have heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above the men, but their chanting covered it and they remained unaware. The footsteps began their descent, still unnoticed, on the stairwell as the ritual came to a crescendo, and a dark shape began to form in the center of the room, its nebulous, smoky body, undefined and shifting, stretching from ceiling to floor.

  When the intruder called out, however, the ritualists did notice.

  “Blasphemers!” No older than sixteen, the girl’s black hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a close-fitting red dress; her sleeveless arms were covered by the woolen jacket she had borrowed from her father and her legs by newly-popular nylon hose. Her hands, one finger bearing a promise ring and another a family crest, were covered with script that mirrored the writings in the book the cabal had been using, and they were held out toward the group of men. Some of them had begun to murmur and pull back before the leader stepped forward, gesturing at the dark cloud, a cloud which had begun to form into a winged shape, possessed of multiple sets of red eyes and toothy maws.

  “What are you doing here, girl?” His lip was curled up in a snarl, and his voice mocking. “You have no idea…” His words were cut off as ice began to form on his throat; his fingers clawed at the frozen water as his eyes widened, but he stopped when he saw the source of his torment. Materialized before him, its hand on his neck, was a wispy figure formed of roiling fog and cold rain in humanoid shape. The creature smiled at him, and, with a voice like booming thunder, laughed as it spoke.

  “You should stand stronger creatures to guard your crimes, thieves! We are here to purge your evil and avenge those you have done wrong!” The strangled man tried to wheeze out a command, but his breath could not pass his lips, and, before the terrified eyes of his cabal, he fell, unconscious.

  The sound of his head hitting the wood parquet floor seemed to shock the remaining six into action, and each began chanting his own spell; small, fiery imps joined the attack alongside great creatures of stone, or earth, or glass. A
nother mist-figure formed and attacked the first, who continued laughing as it fought.

  The girl held her ground, her spine straight and her hands moving like a magician’s. The imps dissipated in small puffs of smoke; the golems turned to fight each other and melted back into the ether they had been summoned from. Her face was tight, her grey eyes focused, her concentration absolute; her mother would have been surprised to see this in her teenaged girl, normally bubbly and cheerful, but now controlling powers beyond most imaginations.

  The six summoners became more and more agitated, more panicked, as their creatures were defeated. Finally, their hands fell, and still the girl stood. There was sweat on her brow, but her breathing was controlled and her eyes were on her enemies.

  “Hand over what you stole from my ancestors.” There was a pause. “Hand it over now, repent, and I will allow you to live. Do not, and you die here.”

  One of the sorcerers removed his mask; he was a handsome young man, dark of hair and of eye, but his smile reeked of corruption. “You can’t stop us. We will always return.”

  The girl’s smile was sad, but her voice did not waver as she changed her stance. “Not after God’s judgment.”

  “Now!” cried the unmasked man; the six others threw their hands, their spells, their will, at the demonic figure which had been watching the battle with a detached amusement. At the cry and command, it stirred, bellowing out its anger and its hatred as its form solidified into a creature of nightmare. It was a demon of flame, something which, many years later, J.R.R. Tolkien would recreate for a great wizard to die fighting.

  The girl tightened her lips. Her eyes turned to the demon. She began her spell.

  The unmasked man turned, grabbed the book off the table, thrust it at another member of the cabal. The other man’s eyes were shocked under his piggish mask.

  “Run!” He pushed the pig-man away. “Go now!”

  As the fight began, the pig-masked fellow in the pinstriped suit ran past the demon, past the girl, up the stairs, praying to whatever powers that existed that he would not be seen.

  He was in sight of the door when the bar exploded.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rich Mason, day-time talk show host, smoothed his hair as he addressed his guest. “Mr. Caitlin, you have such a collection of successes under your belt.” The portly gentleman leaned forward in his chair. “Two years ago, you invested your inheritance into DelCo, a previously unknown software company. Within six months, you rose to their board of directors, and under your advisement they began producing products that, well, frankly, drove everyone else back to their holes crying.” He laughed, and so did his guest. Mason brought up his hand and started ticking points off on his fingers. “Your company now controls over 65% of the market share in word processing, algorithmic software, database construction, and your interface runs on more than 80% of privately held computers in the world.” The host shook his head, his thinning hair swaying. “Tell us, what do you owe your success to? How did you manage this?”

  His guest adjusted his rimless glasses and flashed a bright smile. “Well, Rich, firstly, I would like to thank God; without His inspirations, His revelations, I would not be where I am today. Then, as always, one must credit one’s spouse, family, for their support during difficult times, so, thank you Susan!” He looked toward the camera, and the audience gave an appreciative laugh. “And Mom as well, of course.” He leaned in toward Rich. “You know, I promised Mom I’d mention her if I ever made it onto T.V.” Another round of laughter.

  “As for my specific inspirations, well, I’m sure that many of you know that I have invested a significant amount of my company’s profits to charity work. We have constructed wells in Africa, bringing drinkable water to millions of refugees in war-torn areas. Very recently, I donated over 50 million dollars’ worth of computer equipment to the beleaguered Los Angeles Unified High School District.” Caitlin raised a finger. “And before you ask: no, I didn’t do it for the tax write-off.”

  Rich Mason laughed; it wasn’t every day that a celebrity like Gregory Caitlin came onto his show. Dr. Phil or Oprah back in the day, sure, but not Rich Mason’s Coffee Hour. It was only local folks who appeared on his program – the top placer in the L.A. Fair’s art exhibit, perhaps – and so Rich had jumped on his producer’s offer to have Caitlin do a guest appearance to promote his upcoming events. Caitlin hadn’t even wanted any compensation for the appearance, which pleased the bean-counters to no end.

  “So, Mr. Caitlin…”

  “Call me Gregory, or Greg if you prefer.”

  “Okay…Greg, then…I understand you have a special announcement that you wanted to make on our program.”

  “Absolutely. Now, I have a soft spot for struggling workers in a tough economy, you know – I remember what it was like to be one – so I chose this show to be the springboard for my political campaign.”

  Rich blinked. This wasn’t a political show, and he hadn’t been briefed on this announcement. He glanced off-stage at the director, who just shrugged and waved his hands back toward the guest chair. His meaning was obvious: Who cares? Stay with him!

  Rich turned back to Caitlin and shoved his hands into his pockets. “A political campaign, huh? Hope you weren’t looking for fundraising here – I’m fresh out!” He turned them inside out, demonstrating his point. Gregory shook his head.

  “Don’t worry; I plan to run my campaign without fundraising events. If people believe in my message and want to donate, fine, but I won’t be hosting parties in order to raise cash.” He nodded at the camera, smiling. “I don’t need to, after all.”

  “What office are you planning to run for?”

  “Governor.” A gasp rushed through the audience. “I’d run for President, but I’m not old enough yet.” Another smile, more laughs.

  “Really?” Rich leaned forward. “Which party?”

  “As anyone who has read my website recently knows, I am a registered Libertarian. I will be running on that platform – freedom, independence, tolerance, and principled consistency.” He raised his left hand – his plain gold wedding band shone under the fluorescents – and added, “Before anyone laughs and says, ‘You can’t win unless you’re a Democrat or a Republican, especially in California,’ I say this:

  “Take a look at my track record, my company’s success, all the things I’ve managed so far…” The audience hung on the drawn-out pause before Caitlin continued.

  “…and go ahead and tell me that there’s something we can’t do.” This last was delivered with his eyes focused on the camera, and brought a raucous uproar from the crowd as they jumped to their feet and applauded. It was several minutes before the crew was able to restore order so that the taping could continue.

  “Gregory Caitlin for governor!” Rich sat back in his chair, shaking his head and smiling. “I already know who I’m voting for!”

  ~~~

  Sam Buckland shut his computer down, sighing. At least it was Friday, time to go home. He stretched in his seat before making sure his papers – client’s documents, notes, detailed records of his recommendations to them – were in order, filed away, locked. He smoothed his tie over his shirt, waved goodbye to Philip, the other accountant in his office, then headed out the door to his car, pulling out a silver dollar that his dad had given him years ago as a good luck charm.

  Sam slid into the leather seat of his restored black 1963 Ford Falcon convertible and knuckled the dollar, watching it flip from finger to finger on his left hand, dropping it into the door pocket. As he always did on Fridays, he cranked the top down and drove out of the parking lot, wind blowing in his hair and across his face. He smiled, remembering the days when he would ride in this very same car with his parents, before his father had given it to him as a surprise on his 21st birthday, three years ago.

  “Really, Dad? You mean it?”

  “It’s a young man’s car.” His father had wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders. “I enjoyed it when I was young
; now, it’s your turn.” Then, his dad had glanced around, making sure that no one else was listening. “Not to mention, you’re a man now; time to go cruisin’ for honey, if you get my meaning.”

  Sam laughed at the memory as he cruised down the 5, heading for Acton, where he lived. His dad hadn’t been wrong, either; it wasn’t three days into his new job that he had gotten a taste of what a classic car can bring a man who dresses well and knows how to keep himself. Amusing, however, because as much of a “typical man” Sam’s dad had been in his youth, when it came time to get married he completely switched sides. Even took his wife’s last name.

  The road flew by at 90 miles an hour as Sam cruised home. His salary at his accounting firm was better than most novice number-crunchers. Sam had Mensa, the high IQ society, to thank for that; the vice-president of the firm, Mr. Gonzalez, was a member, and so was he. Sam’s resume had mentioned the fact – just a blurb, really – but Mr. Gonzalez had picked up on it. It was never discussed, of course, but Sam was sure that was the reason that his starting pay was about 10k more than Philip’s, and why Sam was getting the higher-profile clients.

  Sam was not above using personal connections to get ahead. It wasn’t dishonest, after all, and no one was getting hurt; it was just the natural reaction of humanity on humanity.

  Sam pulled up to his three-bedroom cookie-cutter house in Acton. The garage door opened at his command, ushering his classic Ford into its warm bosom. He checked the mail, did his pushups, pullups. When the car was cool, he checked the oil – something else which had been drilled into his head by his father – and went inside.

  The house was cool compared to the summer Valley heat outside. Sam took off his work clothes and changed into his casual jeans and T-shirt. He turned the treadmill in his living room to its warm-up setting as he flipped the T.V. on to his favorite talk show, Rich Mason. He liked Rich because the guy wasn’t full of himself – he seemed to enjoy what he did, to be excited about the insights and the ideas that would come across his stage.