by Gene Stiles
“I am sorry for my weakness, Commander,” archer mumbled, raising his ashen face. His blue eyes were puffy and wet, streaks of tears cutting a muddy path down the grime on his ruddy cheeks.
“Do not be sorry, Wilmeran,” Lelantos said softly. “It is not weakness to feel empathy for your enemy. It is strength. It is what makes us different than they are. I would worry greatly if you took pleasure in this,” he said, sweeping his hand over the carnage surrounding them. “Just know we gave them every chance to surrender. We fight not for the sake of glory or conquest, but for the right of all people to live in peace be they of the People, the Izon, the Mags or the Nephilim. We fight not for wealth or power, but to secure the safety of our homes and families.”
The words seemed to ease the guilt the boy felt, but not the horror of it all that glistened in his damp eyes. “It is one thing to let our aeros fly into the air,” he whispered through shivering lips. “It is another to see the aftermath.”
“People are not wooden targets,” Lelantos told him gently. “Wood does not bleed and cry out.” He stood and reached out a hand to help the archer up. “Come. Let us help those we can and mourn those we cannot no matter which side they are on. That is how we seek atonement for our actions. That is how we show and retain our humanity. That is how we sleep at night. Come.”
A shadowy figure flitted through the buildings above the battlefield carefully avoiding the search parties that roamed the hallways. The holo-recorder in her hand captured the entire slaughter in vivid detail. She had been embedded with the legion below since the invasion began barely managed to escape when the black hail of aeros rained from the skies. Like her brethren among the other Azmerizan units, her job was not to fight, but to document every skirmish and action by both sides and to see that the information and images made their way to the Lord Father. She would not fail.
It took her far past nightfall to make her way out of the city undetected and to the skyship hidden at the edge of a dark forest. Of the forty other spies, only twenty-three made their way to the rendezvous in time to board the craft before it took wing Atlantis. Grimly staring at the crystals in her pouch, her hatred of Zeus and all he stood for burned in her heart. He would pay. He would pay.
Major Decoleze knelt on the soot-covered paving stones at the entrance of the Main House of Azmerizan, his hands bound behind him. The tight, black curls covering his big, square head were matted against his face by blood spray and sticky pieces of flesh and brain matter. The ebony eyes sunken in his skull were flat and downcast. The full lips beneath his short-clipped beard bled where his teeth bit at them. He had hated his commanders, but he also knew the price he and his family would pay if he disobeyed them. He expected no less from these Olympians.
A long line of officers flanked Decoleze, most staring defiantly at their captors. The bitter flames in their eyes showed their hatred for the golden-eyed man who stood before them. Behind them, the remnants of their shattered army knelt in grim silence and awaited the judgment of the Olympian ruler. None expected to live out the day so they could only gape in disbelief as the Lord Zeus spoke to them and the citizens who packed the streets, parks and sidewalks around them.
“People of Azmerizan, please forgive me,” Zeus said, his rich baritone voice amplified until it reached all of those gathered within the city. He did not have the power to broadcast across the entire empire from here, but he could reach every screen in every house and public building where families and survivors of the battle had taken refuge. “I deeply regret having to attack your home and I am sorry to have left so much in ruins. We will help you restore it.”
Zeus and his army had taken time to bathe and put on fresh clothing. He stood before them now shirtless, dressed in dark blue breeches and knee-high, black leather boots. A vest of blue armor was molded to the sculpted muscles of his broad, powerful torso, each tile edged in gold. A cape of midnight blue hung over his flat, square shoulders and seemed to highlight the corded sinews of his thick neck. The fiery mane of wavy red hair that surrounded his artistically rendered, incredibly handsome face was held away from his features by a simple three-inch band of gold. Light, bluish-white streaks in the metal glinted in the sunlight as he moved, giving the appearance of living lightning swirling within the crown. On one hip was an ornate, onyx-gripped sidearm and on the other hung his blue-steel sword with its hilt of carved black oak inlaid with vines and leaves. He was a stunning visage standing there that exuded strength, authority and compassion to those who gazed upon him, but, as always, it was his uniquely golden eyes that drew the most attention.
“I hope you will understand why we had to come,” Zeus continued to the enthralled masses. “Your commanders have been supplying arms and ships to Atlantean forces attempting to invade Afrikanikis and the peaceful Nillian people. It was vessels built in your own shipyards that leveled my home and the city of Olympia, killing thousands of people who were doing nothing more than living their own lives away from the corruption of Atlantis.”
“We will not allow it to happen again,” Zeus said, a deep rumble filing his words and his eyes blazing like two noonday suns. “Cronus and his merciless armies must be stopped. I chose to start here to choke off one source of his power. It will not be the last.”
Zeus softened his tone and looked out over the throng and into the cameras that centered on his face. “I am truly sorry you are caught up in this and I offer you choices. Leave Azmerizan and create new homes for yourself. We will gladly give you all you need to start anew. Those who wish, may stay and join us in our fight for freedom from the tyranny of Atlantis, but make no mistake. Cronus will not allow you to live in peace. He will attempt to wrest control of Azmerizan back from us. There will be further bloodshed.”
“Of course,” Zeus added, his words taking on a more serious, deadly tone, “you also have the option of fighting us. I assure you, should you make that decision our response will be swift and harsh.”
“As for these people,” he said sternly, sweeping his arms over the kneeling, dejected troops. Zeus let his words hanging in the stale, still-smoky air for a moment. “To the soldiers. Any who choose to join us will suffer no repercussions or vengeance as long as you abide by our laws and obey our commands. Should you wish to leave the fighting behind, we will allow you to remain as citizens or we will take you and your families elsewhere.”
Zeus could feel the swell of murmured relief that rippled through the ranks like an ocean tide. His next words held a lethal, ominous threat. “But should you remain and raise arms against us…”
“To the officers,” he said, his cold eyes dropping to the line of men and women kneeling on the steps. “You will all be put on trial to be judged by a jury of your people. All citizens will be allowed to bring grievances to us and may testify against you. Those found guilty of crimes against the people before or during this battle will be imprisoned or put to the sword as deemed appropriate for your actions. All judgments will be final and the punishments carried out within a week thereafter.”
Scattered pockets of cheers and the pounding of feet met Zeus’ proclamation. For the most part, however, the city slipped into quiet, bewildered reflection. To be given the freedom to choose their own destinies was foreign to them and they thought long and hard on what they should do.
A steady, cold storm blanketed Azmerizan for three days after the battle. High, black stratus clouds blotted out the sun and left the city enshrouded in a thick pall of gloom that sunk into the souls of every man, woman and child. A chilly wind blew sheets of rain through shattered windows, broken doorways and into roofless buildings and homes. The last of the fires were put out by the constant downpour, but the smoke and ash cleansed from the skies turned into rivers of sticky, brownish mud. It mixed with dark pools of blood and flowed through the streets and alleyways with a stench of death and charred wood.
In a vast, soggy field on the edge of the city wheeled carts dug deep ruts through the flattened grass and filthy dirt as they ca
rried their heavy burden of corpses. Huge tents and canopies were erected to protect the dead laid out in seemingly endless rows beneath them. Each body was carefully and reverently wrapped in blankets and cloaks that left only their faces uncovered so they could be identified by the parade of sobbing loved ones who walked despondently among them. Those who were too badly disfigured to be recognized and those for which only parts remained were taken to a long trench to be buried in a communal grave with a single huge headstone to mark and honor the unknown fallen.
Zeus sat on a large wooden chair in a heated tent at one end of the field. The front flaps were pulled back to allow unrestricted access to him by his men and the grieving. Wine, ale and hot teas were laid out next to platters of breads, honey and jams on long tables on either side of the spacious pavilion free to all who entered. Benches were scattered around iron fire pots to provide relief from the chill of body, mind and spirit. From time to time, Zeus would wander among mourners giving whatever comfort and condolences he could provide.
His golden eyes were filled with sorrow at the loss of life and his lips were tight and grim with the burden of guilt that gnawed at his heart. Zeus leaned on his elbow, resting his weary head on a curled fist. He wore no crown, just a plain headband of black leather to keep the matted waves of hair away from his face. His night-blue linen tunic and breeches were damp and muddy from his time walking between the tents with only a hooded cloak to keep the rain at bay.
“You know this battle is far from over,” Lelantos said from the chair next to him. The soft, tanned hide of his britches was stained a dark brown so they did not show the dirt, but his black boots were caked with dried mud. His hazel eyes were narrowed and alert as he carefully watched the people roaming aimlessly around the room. “Cronus will never just give us the city. He will retaliate as soon as this storm passes.”
“I know,” Zeus replied with a heavy sigh. He said thank you to the Aam who brought him a fresh cup of hot tea and took a long swallow. “The shipyards alone are something Cronus wants back. Add that to the location and vast resources in and around Azmerizan and you can be assured he will fight to regain it.”
“Moreover,” Poseidon said from his other side, “we have dealt him a heavy blow. The ships not destroyed or captured fled and will be back in Atlantis within days. There are not many. The Lord Father’s ego will never allow such a devastating defeat to go unanswered and his response will be brutal. Trust me. I am also sure he will find a way to turn our victory against us and use it to unite the Atlantean people.”
“That is why our people have been working around the clock to restore the tower guns and to build other fortified emplacements around the city,” Eriktis said from his place among the curved group of chairs. His golden-blond hair stuck to his gargantuan back like a living cloak and his bare, bronzed arms seemed impervious to the chilly air. “The railguns are near useless against fast moving targets, but the city armories are full of the black-power projectile munitions. Those cannons are mounted on motorized turrets and their muzzles can be elevated. Also, they are much faster to load and reload.”
The gigantic Nephilim looked tired and worn, but his azure eyes were still bright and hard. “Between them and the few plasma cannons we captured, we should be able to defend against air attack.”
“We have one other issue,” Valkyrie said, her sharp, ocean-blue eyes scanning the crowd in the pavilion. Her ample, dark red lips were terse in her oval, square-jawed face and she fingered the hilt of her sword absently. “Look at the faces of these people. Beyond the grief and sadness. There is seething hatred in many of them as they glance our way. We have no idea how many of Azmerizan’s people your speech and actions have won over. We must also be vigilant for sabotage and attacks from within.”
“All true,” Zeus conceded, his body achy, bone-weary and craving sleep. He set his mug down, the tea having gone cold, and stood up to stretch his knotted muscles. “I will leave it to all of you to keep the peace and ready us for the next battle.” Zeus ran his thick-fingered hands through his tangled hair and signed deeply. “Please forgive me. I must rest for a while. You will find me in the late Commander’s quarters if you need me. Do not remain here much longer. You are all as tired as I am. Get some sleep. That is an order.”
They spoke a while longer before returning to the city and the relative comfort of soft, warm featherbeds. Zeus was right. The exhaustion each of them felt was not just of body, but of mind. The path had been set and this was only the opening salvo of the horrifying war to come. In truth, not one of them could yet conceive of the utter devastation to be unleashed. They would soon enough. Then they would look back on this moment and realize it was the last night of peaceful slumber they would ever have.
Zeus closed his misty eyes and let his head sink into an over-fluffy pillow. Not for the first time since the invasion, just before sleep took him into its loving embrace he thought, ‘I wonder how Hades has fared.”
The famous Mists of Tartarus curled over the winter-browned veldts surrounding Lake Thakhsi and through the streets of the city like some monstrous slithering serpent. They were created by the hundred and twenty-degree heat rising from the twelve-thousand-foot pit that was the mine meeting the icy cold air of the jagged peaks that ripped the skies like frigid talons. The thick, damp, swirling fog hung low to the ground as it crawled across the landscape, its claws refusing to give up their grip until the brilliant yellow sun was almost directly above it. The sullen people who walked through mist wore fur-lined, knee-high boots to keep the heavy beads of moisture from soaking their feet and water-proof cloaks to keep the bone-wracking chill at bay.
Hades sat on the raised dais in the huge rock throne carved from a single block of granite that resided in the bleak and dreary fortress miles away and high above the pitch black waters of the unfathomable lake. Even the over-stuffed cushions and the thick padding on the armrests could not make the hardness of the rock more comfortable for him to sit upon. Or maybe it was just that this chair was once occupied by the masters of Tartarus who had cruelly ruled over the city for centuries and had imposed their vile will upon the miners with an iron hand until Hades had come along. Now the last few of they whose orders had tortured him as a child sat fidgeting at his feet.
Tartarus had not fallen in a blaze of glory when Hades arrived with his five-hundred Aam and walked through the city gates. Instead, it had capitulated defeat with barely a whisper without a single shot being fired. When Hades and his troops climbed the massive steps leading to the fortress, the gigantic, carved oak doors were wide open and the eleven members of the Ruling Council stood solemnly and calmly awaiting him. To say he was surprised was an understatement.
“Welcome,” Governor Sperticus said from the center of the group as Hades approached. “Please come in,” he added with a sweep of his arm. “Tartarus is yours, Lord of the Underworld. How may we be of service?”
Sperticus stepped aside and bade him enter the high-walled compound unimpeded. Stacked neatly in the humongous central courtyard was every weapon in the city’s arsenal. Roughly two hundred black-clad Aam were positioned in ranks as if ready for inspection. None of them carried as much as a sword or long knife. Hades was astonished to see that their faces showed relief and almost gratitude that he walked among them.
Later, after his troops were fed at a sumptuous banquet set out in their honor and they were assigned bunks and appropriate quarters in the barracks, Hades and his commanders gathered in the council chambers with the city leaders and Aam officers.
“We have no quarrel with you,” the Governor assured them as he ran a hand over his bald, domed skull. “If anything, our issues are with Atlantis and its treatment of us in recent years.”
“As you are well aware,” Sperticus continued as wine, coffee and hot tea was served to his guests, “our growing season is short in these mountains. In order to feed the nearly seventy-thousand people who once lived here, we relied on food shipments from the empire to supplement o
ur supplies. Since we are landlocked with no access to the sea, those consignments can only be delivered by air. Over the past three decades, Cronus has slowed those deliveries from once a week to every three months.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Hades asked as he ran a hand over the short black beard that came to a sharp point beneath his deeply cleft chin.
“The uridium panned out many years ago,” Councilman Ramerlic replied. The dark-eyed mountain of a man sat to Sperticus’ left, dressed in a fur-lined tunic that covered his muscled arms to the wrist and fell just below his barrel waist. “Even the side ores of gold, silver and copper have diminished to near nothingness. We simply do not produce enough for the Lord Father to care what happens here anymore.”
Minos sat next to Hades on the dais, doing his best to hide the satisfied smile that touched his pale-skinned face. Though it was true the uridium was gone, the mine was still producing a wealth of ores, but they were being funneled through the underground passages to the Sanctuary hidden in the mountains far from the city limits. His miners only appeared to be suffering. In truth, they were rich and well-fed thanks to Hades and his plan to weaken the city above.
No one above noticed the slow, steady trickle of miners and their families that slipped away through the underground passages to start new lives in other cities and settlements beyond the mountains founded by Hades and the Olympians. Since Minos had taken over stewardship of the pit at the command of his life-long friend, he gathered around him only the toughest and best of the underworld denizens. Even then, only the most trusted knew the full extent of what was going on. Together they had carefully tightened their stranglehold on the city above them. Now their well-laid plans were coming to fruition.
“Our population has dropped from nearly seventy-thousand to a mere thirty-thousand,” Sperticus was saying as Minos returned his attention to the meeting. “Most of the miners have been reassigned to other pits which slows production even more. Of course, that means fewer farmers, less food and less commerce within the city so shops and eateries close. The people left in droves to find greener pastures.”