The Power of Five Oblivion

brought, the knife that the Incas had given him – the gold tumi . It was still tucked into his belt, underneath his jacket, where he had been carrying it. He drew it out now and turned it over in his hands, examining his own reflection in the blade. It was a beautiful thing, carved with an Inca deity and a scattering of semi-precious stones inlaid in the hilt. And of course it was no accident that neither the fly-soldiers nor the prison guards had managed to find it. That was the knife’s power. It could never be found. It seemed so long ago since the Incas had given it to him. And yet he had it still. He remembered glimpsing Atoc as they launched the attack on the ice. The two of them hadn’t spoken but perhaps Atoc had been there for a reason, to remind Richard of what he had been given. One thing was certain. Richard needed the knife more than ever.
    The knife was all he had left. Even as he slid it back into place, he knew that his sanity depended on it. The Old Ones might have written him off but in fact they had made their first mistake – and that told him they weren’t quite as powerful as they thought. Sooner or later, someone would come into the cell and when they did, they would be in for a surprise. Richard would go down fighting. He would feel better if he took one or two of them with him.
    And if they didn’t come, if they left him to rot, the knife would give him a swifter end than the one they had planned. There was some comfort in that thought too.
    Richard sat with his legs stretched out, watching the door. He wasn’t beaten yet. He was certain his moment would come.
    Sitting behind his desk on the US Pole Star , Commander David Cain thought about his family, his career, his country and his religion … anything to stop him thinking about the events of the last twenty-four hours. He was on his own, seated in a room which looked more like a suite in a smart hotel than a cabin on a United States aircraft carrier. The walls were covered in green paper, the lights and furniture were antique. The portholes were concealed behind plush red velvet curtains that hung from the ceiling to the floor. A door led to a comfortably sized bedroom. The commander even had a private bathroom. But for the constant rocking movement beneath his feet, it would have been easy for him to forget that he was at sea.
    He shouldn’t have come to Antarctica. At the time, based in Pensacola, Florida, he had been a man on a mission – saving not just his country but the world. It didn’t matter that he had received no official orders. As far as he could tell, there had been nobody left in a position to give them. While his ship had been idly docked there, a quarter of his men had abandoned ship, simply getting up and going home. With every day that passed, more had followed. The United States of America was falling apart, driven by catastrophic food shortages and riots. The politicians had spent years blaming each other but doing nothing and in the end they had simply disappeared, no longer relevant. It was men like David Cain who had to take command. At least, that was what he had persuaded himself on the day he had lifted anchor and made his way south. Now he wasn’t so sure.
    He hadn’t been prepared – but then nothing on this earth could have prepared him for what he had found at Oblivion. The strange thing was that Cain didn’t think he had made any mistakes. He had launched an attack that had lost almost half his army. He had met the one person who might have helped him – the leader of the Gatekeepers – and had delivered him straight into a trap. But neither of these things had been his fault – that is to say, anyone else would have done the same. He was convinced of that. The Old Ones were more powerful than anyone could have guessed. David Cain had been going to church for fifty years, but it was only now that he had actually learnt what the Devil really was.
    There was a knock at the door.
    “Come!” he called out.
    The door opened and three men walked in. One was a fairly junior officer on the Pole Star , an ensign by the name of Paxton. The other two were dressed in the dark blue uniforms of the Royal Navy – a captain and a sub lieutenant. The captain, Johnson, had been hurt in the fighting. He was still leaning on a crutch.
    “Gentlemen…?” Cain came out from behind his desk. There was no small talk, no pleasantries between them. They were all exhausted. There was nothing left to