by Gene Stiles
“We are warrior-born,” Hera countered. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” he conceded, a touch of warmth coloring his words, “but I would not want you in harm’s way. My worry would be a distraction. Besides, stealth is easier with only two. Use your skills to see that the Lady Adrasteia gets to the Retreat safely. Please.”
Reluctantly, his sisters agreed, irritated that he would send off the women as if they were helpless, but touched by his sincere concern. Addy led them to the river and along the shoreline toward the southern tip of the Defile where the canyon opened in a cliff above the river. Thick, dark groves of forest lined the banks, the trails through them wide enough to permit passage while concealing them from sight.
Brock slung his bulk low over the sled, the shield protecting his face from the whipping stalks as he sped along with to Zeus through the man-high grasslands. He might feel uncomfortable and out of place among this new, small family, but on a battlefield, he was right at home. He knew his place and his deadly abilities. He did not like being away from Hera and her sisters, but he appreciated their brother for sending them away. Despite his envy of the man and his resentment for him coming between him and his wards, Brock found himself beginning to like Zeus.
A high-pitched scream cut through the hazy, smoky air ahead and to their left. Zeus raised his hand, bringing his sled to a sudden, silent stop, letting it sink into the grass. Brock followed suit, slipping from his seat to join the other man crouching among the dense, green stalks. Slinking through the veldt, they edged across the ground toward the babble of raised, angry voices shouting before them. Laying on their bellies, they came upon a clearing filled with rage-filled screams and cheering, laughing men.
A turbulent storm of rabid ferocity coursed through every nerve within Zeus as he witnessed the demonic tableau playing out on the pebble-strewn glade. He saw a dozen people bound and on their knees, forced by the two Aam flanking each of them to watch the horror being played out in front of them. The golden-haired prisoner in the center fought her captors like a cornered murcat, helpless in their iron grips. Haleah. His wrath seethed and squirmed inside of him, cursing him for restraining it within his soul.
On the crimson-soaked ground before her, a bleeding, broken body lay limp in the dirt, eyes closed and unseeing. Even at this distance, there was no mistaking the waves of ebony hair, now matted with blood and sweat. No mistaking the muscular form, no matter how bent or how twisted. Morpheus. Founder of Home. Morpheus. Father to his adopted mother. Morpheus. Savior of the Izon. Morpheus. Mightiest fighter of the People. Morpheus. Dead.
Cronus stood above the still body, a long, blood-stained sword raised high in the air, gripped in both hands, an animalistic sneer contorting his features. In slow motion, Zeus stared, enshrouded in a misty, gray haze as the reddish-silver lance began its descent, frozen, unable to move a single muscle.
Chapter IV
“Thank you for starting the fire,” Cronus sneered savagely, staring across the short piece of ground separating him from Morpheus. “I intended to light it myself after I finished here, but you have done it for me. We planted plasma cubes all over the city. They should level that wretched hovel in no time.”
Morpheus said nothing, his onyx eyes scanning his comrades held hostage behind the Lord Father. They were lined up in front of the oak grove, bound with thick ropes, strips of cloth tied around their mouths to prevent them from calling out. Two Black Guardsmen stood behind each of them, one hand gripping each shoulder, with sickly wet long knives pressed against their throats. Their clothing was ripped and torn, rivulets of bright red blood seeping from open wounds and gashes that marred their exposed flesh. Where there once had been a dozen men there were now only five, Captain Lianas, Ellison, Inopos, Loki and his beloved, Haleah. The battle must have been fierce.
Cronus raised his hand, never taking his eyes off his adversary, the sadistic grin warping his once-handsome, chiseled features. Viciously, the guards kicked their prisoners behind their knees, forcing them down onto the hard-packed earth. They spit and cursed, snarling as the gags were torn from their busted lips. Morpheus saw the deep purple bruises tarnishing Haleah’s beautiful face, saw the mats of blood sticky in her tangled blond hair, the seeping crimson slashes scarring her perfect skin. The rage boiling inside of him did not mist his eyes. It sharpened all of his senses, infusing his body with a calm, deadly desire for brutal revenge.
“How did you find us?” Morpheus asked, his voice deep and menacing, flat as a polished city street as he returned his scrutiny to the barbaric animal standing before him.
“You would be surprised how quickly a man talks when his face is pushed into a blazing fire,” Cronus laughed wickedly, waving a hand toward the kneeling captives. “It cost me ten more men to acquire these fine treasures, but it is well worth the price. Especially that vile, traitorous giant I raised in my own home,” he added, glaring over his shoulder at Loki. “I have special, delicious plans for that one.”
“And now that you have us?” Morpheus asked, cocking his head to one side. His black eyes glistened cold and still as the soulless gaze of the monstrous sharks the prowled the dark ocean depths.
“I intend to kill the mighty Morpheus with my own two hands,” Cronus replied, his full lips split in a taunting grin. He stretched his thick, bulging arms wide and cracked the knuckles of his hammer-sized hands with sickening pops of bone and tendon. “The legends claim that Morpheus is undefeatable, the greatest warrior the People have ever known. I shall dispel that myth once and for all. Lest you forget, it was I who taught your teachers how to fight.”
“And if I win?” he asked casually. “Do my friends go free?”
“Of course not,” Cronus chuckled, his barking laugh echoing throughout the clearing. He slid his four-foot long short sword from its sheath, the silver polish glitter in the bright sunlight. “One way or another, you all die this day.”
Morpheus only nodded, his left foot slipping backward, turning his body slightly sideways. He held one hand near his hip, reaching out with his right to beckon Cronus toward him. The two men circled each other warily as would two rogue Dire Wolves fighting over a promising mate, carefully watching the way their opponent moved, searching for any opening or weakness.
Morpheus slipped his twin two-foot-long knives from his belt, one held with the blade resting along his corded forearm, tip pointing toward his elbow, the other held outward before him. He moved like the dark clouds of a gathering thunderstorm, his mane of midnight hair fanning out like smoke around his square, handsome features. Like an ebony-garbed god of vengeance, calm, serene and deadly, his graceful dancer’s body flowed through the landscape. He slipped over the pebbled ground as a wisp of morning mist would glide over an unruffled pond, his feet leaving no trace of their passing. His thick-wristed hands wove almost mystical, hypnotic patterns slowly through the air before him, easily deflecting the first tentative strikes of his adversary.
Cronus blazed in the light of day like a god of fire, his yellow-red curls surrounding his rugged, aristocratic face like a corona of golden flames. His emerald eyes glittered with demonic malice as a vicious, predatory grin twisted his full tan lips. The muscles of his powerful, square-shouldered chest bulged beneath his loosely laced, black vest, his arms, almost as thick as Morpheus’ legs, bare and corded, glistening with a slight sheen of salty sweat. His attacks were feeble and weak, not intended to do harm, but to test his enemy’s defenses.
When the true battle began, the incredible speed of their movements blurred the air before the onlookers’ eyes. Steel clashed against steel, ringing out like lethal chimes in a gale-force whirlwind. The scene played out like some macabre choreography of violence, the dancers resolved to slash the flesh from the bones of their partner. Feet and fists smashed into the shields of sinews surrounding each man, seldom connecting, rarely denting their defenses.
How long the battle raged could not be measured in real time, the foes lost in the i
ntensity of their conflict. Equally matched in skill and determination, the enemies struggled to gain even an ounce of superiority over the other. Both men felt their skin rip and tear, streams of crimson blood pouring from the touch of razor-edged blades. Their bodies were jarred by the impact of monumental forces of raw power that slipped through their weakening guards.
Morpheus slid away from a vicious roundhouse kick that could have taken off his head, catching the edge of the foot upon his bulging forearm. He felt a numbing shock of high voltage surge through his shoulder, sending electric pain rippling down his spine. He felt his body slowing and knew he must do something quickly. He was faster than Cronus, but the sheer, animalistic gargantuan strength of the man was awe-inspiring. For every five blows Morpheus landed, Cronus landed one, yet the damage was greater.
For the first time in his long life, Morpheus felt fingers of fear tickling his mind. He could not fail his beloved, could not allow Cronus to inflict upon her once again the horrors he had so very long ago. He could not fail his friends nor all of Home or let them be destroyed at the hands of this barbaric beast. He could not! He would not! He would have to get in dangerously close and it would open him up to devastating consequences if he misjudged, but it was the only possible way to end this while he still had the strength to do so.
He used the blow to feign more impairment than it had actually caused. He let his knife drop from limp fingers and stumbled backward clutching his arm, putting a small distance between himself and Cronus. He allowed the pain radiating through his body to show fleetingly upon his face and dropped to one knee, his head hanging toward the sticky red ground.
Malignant, demonic glee written upon his murderously sadistic, bruised and bloodied face, Cronus rushed in, a vicious kick aimed at the head of his helpless opponent. Morpheus sprang forward, low to the ground and beneath the killing stoke. As he rolled, he slashed his blade across the back of Cronus’ knee, severing the hamstring tendon and buckling the man upon the stony ground. A howl of rage and agony rent the air as Cronus dropped hard upon the dirt behind him, screaming and unable to rise.
Unfortunately, the desperate move did not leave Morpheus unscathed. As he fell, Cronus sunk his blood-slickened blade into his enemy’s back just between his shoulder blades. The silver steel sunk deep, ripping down his spine with the monumental power of his coiled legs, stopping a mere inch short of the small of his back. Morpheus lay face down on the solidly-packed dirt, his face shredded by tiny pebbles, his eyes open and blank, his blood and sweat-matted hair tangled around him. Somewhere in his darkness, as consciousness fled from his mind, Morpheus wept, hearing Haleah scream and knowing he had failed his love, his family, his friends and his community and now all would pay the price.
Cronus wrapped both hands around his useless, pain-wracked knee, ignoring the slashes and lacerations covering the rest of his body. Fighting the frenzied serpents inside him, he calmed himself, centering his will on his crippled leg. The golden glow of Healing burst from between his fingertips as the tendons and muscles fused themselves back together, until he could stand once again. With the aftermath of agony still reverberating in his brain, he struggled to his feet and limped over to the inert, nearly lifeless body lying upon the darkly stained ground. Straddling the remains of Morpheus, he raised his blood-soaked sword high in the air, gripping the hilt with both hands, his face a mask of maniacal glee, personifying a god of hatred and vengeance. Within the turbulent noise of rage filling his ears, Cronus heard the laughing cheers of his men, the fury-filled bellows of his prisoners and the pitiful wailings of Haleah as she watched her husband die.
A whisper of angels slipped through the babble, soft and nearly imperceptible, but carrying the force of the Creator’s voice. The crimson-covered, silvery sword shattered in his hand, steely splinters exploding in the air and piercing his black leather garb with the stinging of a thousand hornets. The fist of the Creator slammed into his shoulder, demolishing his clavicle, sending jagged shards of bone into his torn and tormented muscles. The raw power of the blow spun Cronus away from Morpheus, the remnants of the blade flung far into the grasslands.
Both captives and guards froze in silent shock. No reddish beam of a pulse rifle clove the sunshine. No thick, white-hot rope of plasma seared the air. No sword of steel clove the body of Cronus. It appeared as if some invisible had slapped him with the furious energy of a lightning bolt, tossing him like a feather in a hurricane. Almost as suddenly, the ten Black Guard standing behind the kneeling hostages fell to the ground like marionettes whose stings had been cut. This time, in the silence of shock, a quick, metallic twang could be heard carried upon the wind.
In the astonished, mind-numbing confusion, the remaining guards scanned the suddenly terrifying landscape around them, searching for the slightest sign of their assailants. A few even stared with fear-filled eyes into the wispy clouds of the azure sky above them as if an enraged Creator might be visiting his wrath down upon them. For long enough, their prisoners were forgotten.
The moment the blades fell from his neck, Loki bunched his gargantuan muscles, balled his monstrous fists and pulled. His corded forearms bulged, blue-red veins pulsing in high relief beneath his bronzed skin. The thick cords binding his wrists parted with an audible snap that bit the warm noontime air. Grabbing a pair of the dead guards’ knives, he rolled across the ground behind his brethren, slicing their bonds and freeing them to pick up the fallen weapons. He moved quickly, expecting any moment to be set upon by Cronus’ remaining men. But those men had other, more serious concerns demanding their immediate attention.
The hellfire of CL pulse rifles and burning tendrils of searing plasma bursts erupted from the fields around them, cutting the hapless Black Guard into fiery, bloody pieces of steaming, screaming flesh and blackened bone. Their swords and knives useless against such an onslaught, a few dropped them to the ground, pleading for mercy or running into the welcome darkness of the forest.
Iapetus tore across the battlefield, seemingly impervious to the red and white searing energies flashing through the sky or the wails of terror-stricken agony filling the air. Like a rampaging behemoth, he trampled the ground beneath his feet as he raced toward the thrashing form of his fallen brother. He picked up Cronus in his huge, strong arms, oblivious to the smell of his own skin charring as a few stray beams burnt into his flesh. With complete, cold disregard to the melee surrounding him, he rushed into the relative safety of the oak grove, carrying his moaning burden as a mother would an injured child. He did not stop until the screaming behind him was lost among the thick foliage of the dark, quiet, ominous forest embracing him.
Hidden by the tall, green grass, Lelantos notched his last aero, hoping to take out a few more men before pulling his long knives. The awesome power of the golden, borithium bow had sent his shaft through the conveniently lined up Black Guard holding his people as if they were made of the thinnest of gossamers. With Cronus down and the warriors in disarray, he just might have a chance to free his brethren before he was set upon by the Aam. But before he could pull back on the taunt, braided string, an explosion of deadly firepower erupted across the clearing. Leery of being caught in that horrendous crossfire, Lelantos hugged the ground, hands over head, waiting for the one-sided battle to abate. In the aftermath of the brief, bloody battle, he rose, cautiously stepping into the opening, six deadly rifles snapping in his direction.
“Lelantos!” Zeus shouted out, lowering his firearm and racing toward his friend. “I gather it was you who we have to thank for stopping Cronus and decimating his ranks,” he added, clasping a thick, burnished forearm with his own. “You gave us the opening we needed.”
“I am only sorry I did not get here sooner,” the bronze giant replied gravely, the yellow sparkles in his hazel eyes shimmering with moisture as he stared at the weeping Haleah kneeling next to the still form of Morpheus surrounded by the former captives. They held her as best they could, giving her their shoulders whispering pitiful, useless words
of comfort they, themselves, could not find.
“Ah, yes,” Zeus nodded gravely, the weight of a snow-covered mountain crushing his heart. “As do I. As do I.”
The two men slowly crossed the blood-soaked ground to their gathered comrades surrounding the tattered body of Morpheus. Haleah knelt next to him, her head upon his silent chest, her honey-blond hair soaked with his blood.
“We can Heal him if we Lend together,” she cried, her tear-streaked face imploring those around her. “We can save him. We must!”
“I am so very sorry, dear lady,” Captain Lianas murmured gently, his great heart grieving. “He is gone. Only the Creator could heal him now.”
“What shall we do with them?” Lelantos asked Zeus, stepping away from the others and walking toward the five Black Guard lying bound upon the ground. His bow was slung over his broad, muscled shoulder, his gold-flecked, hazel eyes narrowed and grim. His rumbling base voice was bitter and cold, tinged with terrible guilt and deep, biting regret as he glanced toward the western horizon and saw the black clouds of smoke billowing from the flames still raging in Home.
“They must be punished,” Zeus replied, desperately trying to strip the vengeance his body craved and the venomous malevolence churning in his heart from the need his inborn need for fairness and justice as his true father, Morpheus, had taught him. He stood over the terrified, wide-eyed survivors, his yellow-gold eyes, deep-set beneath his furrowed brow, burning into their souls like beams of fiery sunshine through a thickly overcast sky.
“For now, give them water, bind them to a tree and leave them until the others are capable of rendering judgment upon their sorry souls.”
By the time nightfall came, Haleah’s heart-wrenching sobs slowed into a restless, exhausted sleep. An orange, ugly glow still lit the smoke-filled sky above Home adding a ghostly light to the grasslands surrounding them. The fire-fueled winds lost their bluster allowing the black plume to hover above the twisted cityscape. Even the denizens of the dark seemed silent in their sorrow, their rustlings muted and melancholy.