Zakaria smiled, his gaze fixed on a distant bank of clouds in the sky, which was visible in a few ragged patches of blue through the dense green canopy of tree limbs and spiderweb vines above.
‘Once, there were more religions that shared our beliefs,’ he said. ‘I still remember the days when the Western Council still existed, and what I was when I joined them. In a sense, I am the last living Cathar, as I simply merged my Cathar beliefs with the spiritual teachings of the Council when I joined. The Catholic Church thought they had exterminated all of us all those centuries ago, but one Cathar, or former Cathar, at least, still draws breath.’
Both of them had a gentle chuckle at this, their laughter tinged with melancholy.
‘Regardless of the beliefs we once held,’ Awang said, ‘and the religious teachings we all once followed, prior to becoming beastwalkers and learning of the teachings of the Councils, deep in our hearts, in the marrow of our bones, in the aether of our souls, we have always known our purpose … most of our kind does, at least.’
Zakaria snarled suddenly and spat onto the earth in disgust.
‘Not so for the traitors who have allied themselves with the forces of darkness and destruction, the Alliance scum.’
‘Evil beings they are,’ Awang agreed, his own face scrunching into a stormy frown. ‘But such is the way of true balance, yin and yang; one cannot exist with the other.’
Zakaria clenched his hands into fists.
‘To be given such a gift as ours, and then to use it for evil, for oppression, exploitation and destruction … ugh! Devils! Hellspawn! They can only be demons!’
‘Demons indeed,’ William, who had been listening in silence, said. ‘And their head Devil has a name: Sigurd Haraldsson.’ His expression was grim and sombre, and his eyes gleamed with the lightning-flare of a ravenous desire for vengeance, for violent retribution. ‘He and all his devils must be thrown back, with all the force we can muster, into the pits of whatever stinking hell they crawled out of,’ he growled.
‘Aye, my friend,’ Zakaria murmured, his eyes shining with the zealous glow of a spirit-possessed paladin. ‘We will cauterise their evil from the face of this planet. Those traitors and their vile masters, the Huntsmen. We must, or all will be lost for every peaceful and gentle being that resides on this Earth. All will fall before the ambition, power and greed of our enemies. The moment for action is now; too much of this planet is on the verge of collapse. The time of the soil, insects, reptiles, birds, fish, amphibians and mammals will be over if we cannot stop them. The Sixth Great Extinction is well underway, and we must be the warriors of light who fight those who would oversee the destruction of all life on this planet for the mere furthering of their short-sighted goals of profit and avarice.’
‘The Seventh Age will be the age of cockroaches if we fail,’ Awang whispered, his barely audible voice laden with grave severity. ‘Those humble scavengers will be the only survivors of the storm that is brewing, the storm that the Huntsmen are doing their utmost to unleash.’
‘I can’t stand cockroaches,’ a new voice interjected. ‘So we’d better make sure we do everything we can to prevent the age of cockroaches becoming a reality.’
The beastwalkers all turned around, experiencing the tingling sensation that indicated the presence of one of their kind, and saw a Japanese woman approaching. She was of an average height, and neither slender nor curvy but somewhere in between. Indeed, at a quick glance she initially appeared to be completely physically unremarkable, yet if one held their attention for a tad longer on her, scrutinising her deceptively plain features with more focus, one would discern quite clearly that she would not have blended too easily into a crowd. There was something about her that stood out, yet it was not easy to pinpoint. On her wide face delicate yet striking features were arranged, all seemingly equidistant from one another, the most captivating of which were her piercing obsidian eyes, sharp with a quick, easily discernible intelligence, which were set beneath straight, bold eyebrows. About her bare shoulders, revealed, like her arms, by a black tank top, long, straight jet-black hair swished like falling ink transmuted from liquid to solid. Aside from the pale skin of her face, every other square inch of her body – as much of it as could be seen, anyway – was covered in intricate and colourful tattoos in the old Japanese style. While she outwardly appeared to be in her thirties, perhaps, she
