Daedalus Krane and the Hand of God

Prologue

The Thief  

Through the darkness stole the thief. Lithe and muscular he made rapid progress down the aisles. His feet, light as air, barely left an impression on the soft sand floor as he ran. His long woollen cloak flapped about his arms and legs, the scabbard of his long curved sword trailed behind him throwing up ghostly plumes of grey dust left undisturbed for centuries. The flickering oil lamp he held in front of him chased away eerie shadows that writhed and twisted in the cloying darkness as if a hundred tailed devils ran with him.  

Cradled within the giant stone covered moss vaults reared up the monolithic oak bookshelves of the vast underground library. Like ancient spectral giants, they stood unmoved by the ravages of time, their weary oak arms groaning with the strain of the thousands of ancient books they had carried for countless epochs. Dark, foreboding, they watched the silent intruder as he darted between them.  

Having counted his steps since he entered the great labyrinth the thief slowed, stopped and holding the lamp up to the bookshelves began searching the volumes. Running his fingers deftly along the dusty spines his hand paused on a decrepit leather spine cracked almost beyond repair. Carefully he drew the fragile manuscript from the shelf. Pushing away a scavenging rat with his boot he placed the volume on the floor. 

The ancient parchments, stained yellow by the passage of time fell open. Catching his breath he gazed in awe at the faded prints of strange and unnatural devices laid out within. With mounting excitement his trembling hands flicked through its pages to reveal dozens of meticulously sketched blueprints of fantastical creations. Flying machines, mythical creatures, devices he whose function he could barley comprehend crowded the pages. Each design was accompanied by tables of mathematical charts, notes on metal compositions, diagrams of intricate cogs, wheels and odd mechanisms all annotated by neat esoteric scripts in a language he could not possibly comprehend. Barely able to satiate his curiosity he reluctantly closed the volume before carefully wrapping it in linen and gently slipping it into his tunic.  

Turning to the opposite shelf he chose a heavy volume of similar shape and size and slipped it into the gap left by the stolen book. Extinguishing his lamp he groped his way forward until his eyes became accustomed to the enveloping blackness. Far away, deep within the crypt, his restless eyes searched out the faint glow of a candle.  

Like a moth to the flame the candle's light pulled the thief to the centre of the library. He flew down the aisles, flitting and dancing between the ramping bookshelves, drawn on by the ever increasing intensity of the light.  

At the centre of the maze sat the robed figure of the Mater Librarian his cowl covered head bent close to the manuscript he was studying, oblivious of the presence of the thief and the loss from his library. The flame of his tallow candle bent and twisted under the torment of his slow rasping breath. His shrivelled fingers each as fragile as a sparrows wing blackened by the print of a thousand volumes, followed the lines of text as he read, like those of a blind man reading Braille.  

From the darkness the thief stepped forward.  

For a moment the librarian was not aware of his presence, but then slowly he raised his withered hands, drew back his cowl and turned to face his visitor. His uncovered head glowed with a peculiar lustre. Slowly his scrawny hands grasped the desk and with withered arms he gradually pulled himself to his feet. His skeleton bent by the weight of the years it had borne shuffled over the sand to face the thief.  

For a moment they stood together studying each other, the librarian turned his head sideways as he inspected the tough Arabic features of his unknown visitor. The thief stooping down was momentarily mesmerized by the face of the librarian .  

Gently the thief placed his hands either side of the old man's cranium like he was embracing a baby's head.  

'Forgive me my friend, for there is something I want. Something I have been sent to retrieve.' The thief's whispered words, unexpectedly hoarse in the deadening silence, threw themselves off the crypts wall, and tumbled away into the distant tunnels, to lose themselves in the shadows.  

The thief released the head from his grasp and stepped back. With one fluid movement the he drew his scimitar from its scabbard and held it outstretched in his hand. The long curved blade glinted malevolently in the candle light.  

The air hissed with the flash of steel.  

Slowly the frame of the old man sunk to it's knees, his head rolled forward and fell with a deadening clump on the floor. His body slipped sideways, slumping to the ground, its fragile life extinguished.  

Carefully the thief slipped the scimitar back into its sheath. Casually he drew a packet from his pocket and considered the crumpled body at his feet. With a rasping flash he struck a match, lit his cheroot before slowly picking up the skull from the floor. It was cold to the touch and heavy, heavier than he expected. He needed two hands to lift it.  

Holding the head up he admired his grotesque prize. Some would have found the skull unnatural, repellent even. But not the thief. He caressed it in his arms and marvelled at its construction. Its beauty surpassed the works of Michelangelo he had seen in the Vatican City and the brilliance of its design far outshone Da Vinci's almost magical creations. Yet it was evidently older than both those great artists. Its features suggested a much, much earlier time. Its bronze surface, once mirror finished had dulled to a patina of soft green oxide which lay like a light rash across its surface. With his fingers he could make out the barely discernible etching of a Greek laurel resting on its forehead. Its nose strong and angular jutted out over metallic lips of a mouth frozen in time, slightly open as if in surprise. Its eyes, black and glistening only moments earlier had now rolled up, their glass pupils were now dull and lifeless.  

This was a wonder he knew that was even more fantastic than the dusty volume that lay close to his chest hidden under his jacket. Its value was unimaginable.  

Reverently he wrapped the metallic masterpiece in a cotton shroud and placed it into the tanned leather bag that he had specially made for the purpose. Extinguishing the cheroot on the sole of his boot he gave himself to the darkness and slipped away, unseen, unheard.  

The wax candle on the reading desk, burnt almost to a stub gave out a final gasp of light and died, smothered by the Stygian darkness.