by Gene Stiles
Zeus knew Ra did not have that many, but he would let Iapetus think on that. “And is that the only armament they can bring to bear? Is the armor the only reason Cronus has never been able to defeat Nil before this?”
He could see a flicker of doubt in the raven eyes of the man before him and he pressed on. “You may kill me. You may kill Ra. But we are only men. Ra is not Nil as I am not Olympus. Others will take our place and they may not show the restraint we have to this point in time.”
Iapetus sat stonily listening to Zeus. His face might be blank, but his soul squirmed. He vividly remembered the battle at Olympia when the Falcon goddess alone wiped his warriors away with little effort at all. In his mind, he saw dozens of them marching on Atlantis and the thought brought acidic bile to his throat. He loved his brother and always would remain loyal, but he also knew of the madness that plagued Cronus. Cornered, Iapetus had no doubt his brother would not hesitate to retaliate with sun-fire. Atlantis would suffer the same fate as Olympia. But could he stop this as he had stopped Cronus before?
“I caution you, Iapetus,” Zeus said solemnly. “Do not allow this to happen. From all I have learned of you over the years, you are a good man. You have a conscience. I ask you this. Is Cronus Atlantis? Does he speak for all of the People any more?” He raised his hands and spread them out as far as his chains would allow. “Look around you. How many Atlanteans fight at our side? Perhaps it is time for your Lord Father to step down. Stand with us. You have my word, he will not be harmed.”
“I will never turn against my brother,” Iapetus said, all concerns swept away by the mere suggestion. “Without Cronus, you would not even be standing here to spew such a traitorous idea. Not a single person on this planet would be breathing this air if not for his dedication to the People and his personal sacrifices on their behalf.”
Iapetus stood up and came within arm’s reach of Zeus. Though he had to look up at the larger man, Iapetus seemed to overwhelm Zeus with his presence. “You are but a boy,” he said, sounding like rumbling rolling thunder. “My brother and I walked the surface of another world. Together we built this entire civilization with our own hands. We have defeated all that has been arrayed against us, be it beasts of the field or enemies from within. Even the gravity of this planet and the thickness of the air could not stop us. You and your band of insurgents have no chance no matter what power you think you have.”
“Atlantis is the center of this world,” Iapetus said, his fists balled at his sides. For the first time, Zeus saw unbridled passion flashing like lightning in those dead onyx eyes. “Cronus, the Lord Father, is the rightful ruler. You and Nil are just usurpers attempting to take what we have built. Once the threat you and your brothers and sisters pose is eliminated, my brother will finally be at peace and so will the rest of Atlantis.”
He turned his back on Zeus and returned to his chair. He dropped onto the cushions like a stone falling from the sky. Iapetus stared at his prisoner, once again a pillar of unfeeling granite. “You will be taken to Atlantis and you will face your father to answer for your crimes.”
Zeus made no reply, his hope of getting through to Iapetus shattered. His escorts took him to the dark, damp cells beneath the citadel and shoved him roughly onto the cracked and blood-stained floor. A battered mattress of linen-covered straw and a ledge of rock carved into the wall was the only furnishings. On the ledge was a tray heaped with cold meats, cheeses, bread and a wooden tankard of red wine. It seemed he was to be healthy when he was presented to Cronus. Zeus slumped against the unhewn wall and hung his head, tears flowing freely down his dirty cheeks. They were not tears of fear nor were they for himself. They were tears of grief for all of humanity. No matter what happened to him, the world was about to be destroyed.
Chapter XIX
As a sea captain who commanded his own huge cargo vessel, Poseidon’s adoptive father had taken him to every port city in the Atlantean Empire save one. Hebis. With so many wonders in the world and such a vast array of incredible places to visit, he never gave thought as to why. Now, standing on the bridge of the Sea Dragon, he understood.
Hebis Outpost was located on the eastern end of the enormous man-made channel cut through sheer granite cliffs that fed the tumultuous, raging current of the River Gaia into the ocean. The power of the river ripped an abyssal underwater trough in the sandy ocean bed and provided safe passage to even the deep draft of heavily-laden merchant ships. However, like most east-facing coastlines, the waters on either side of the trough were shallow for almost a mile out from shore. Coral reefs that could shred a wooden hull and hidden, ever-changing shoals made navigation treacherous. Only during high tide could a warship get close enough to the fortress to be a threat. Add to that near-constant banks of fog which formed where the icy, mountain-fed river met the warmer sea currents and Poseidon could see why sailing here was extremely dangerous. Launching an attack against the installation would be nearly impossible from the sea.
From what Poseidon could see through his farseers and from the images relayed by the Ravens, he knew this fortress was the closest thing to impregnable he had ever seen. Hebis was the oldest settlement of Atlantis and literally carved out of the high, mountainous rock around it. Tall battlements lined the seaward walls, the muzzles of unknown weapon types peeking from their enclosures. The nearly ancient docks and ship repair yards looked bedraggled and unused and were only accessible from this side by fighting against the fiercely roaring current of the river. Even the fastest of Poseidon’s blade ships would be slowed to a snail’s crawl, making them easy targets for the Atlantean gunners.
“What do you think, Captain?” Kiranimis stood at his side, his chestnut hair plastered against his round, rock-like skull by the thin, damp mist surrounding them. The burly First Mate rested his wide, powerful hands on the spokes of the wheel even though the Sea Dragon was anchored far from shore.
“I think,” Poseidon said bitterly, “the price of an assault against that place would be far beyond what I am willing to pay.”
Behind him, five hundred ships awaited his command, ready and willing to take on the monstrous behemoth on the coast. He would not waste his men on such a folly no matter how tactically important the outpost was. Poseidon could almost see the Atlanteans behind the ramparts licking their lips in anticipation of such a foolhardy attempt.
“Lord Zeus left that decision to you for good reason,” Kiranimis replied, seeing the angst on his captain’s face. “Little is known of this bleak and dreary outpost. The vessels from Atlantis only see it in passing as they head to sea. The supply ships that service Hebis only drop their cargo and leave. No one has cause to tour the city. The worst, most vicious of the Black Guard are sent there. It is almost more a prison than a settlement. If you think we should leave it, Zeus will trust your judgment.”
“I know,” Poseidon said, his dark green eyes glittering like polished jewels. His wavy, gold-tinged, flaming red hair clung to his sharply-planed, high-cheeked face like a thick helmet and his long, curly beard sagged straight with the heavy moisture in the air. “Still, it infuriates me that we cannot accomplish our part of the battle plan,” he said tersely.
“Our communications officer tell me the attacks on Lycus and Daedalia are proceeding as planned,” Kiranimis said, his bushy, black eyebrows knotted above his mahogany eyes. “However, we have reports of an Atlantean fleet bearing down on Ra’s ships. Perhaps we should re-route and engage them before the Nillian is trapped in the harbor.”
Poseidon stared angrily at the stony citadel before him, loath to admit defeat before the fight even began. Still, the giant of a man was not so arrogant as to think he could take it. His crews would follow him anywhere, but he would not take them into the jaws of certain death for the sake of his pride.
“Order it so,” Poseidon said a little too crisply. “Daedalia is far more important than this desolate piece of rock.”
“Aye, Captain, and warmer, too,” Kiranimis said with a tight grin, hoping in v
ain to lighten his friend’s mood a little. He failed miserably.
The fourteen hundred ships of the Atlantean armada stationed in Tharsis split into two fleets, one headed south toward Daedalia, the other sailing north to Lycus. Each flotilla boasted a sailess, fast attack warship within every fifty-ship squadron. Not even the Olympian blade ships could match the speed or awesome firepower of these steel-clad, Proto-Sun powered monsters. Those vicious vessels and the fact the Atlanteans fought in their own waters gave the Admirals and Captains an advantage and a pretentious self-confidence which would soon be proven false.
Poseidon counted on their arrogance. If Cronus ordered them to stay together and amass upon Daedalia as one unit, nothing could stop them from overwhelming the meager Nillian fleet. As it was, the ploy was dangerous enough and relied heavily on the cities of Albor and Tholis. If his intelligence was correct, the two coastal ports were hotbeds of rebellion only awaiting a strong enough edge to set them against Atlantis. Ra’s assault on Daedalia gave them that. The commanders Zeus sent to the cities in advance consolidated the rebels and briefed them on his plans. He knew what a chance he was taking. If there were traitors among them who leaked the information, all would be lost. The only real proof of the wisdom of their strategy would come once the Atlantean fleet was underway.
The southern coast of the continent was lined with high, ragged cliffs topped with barren desert plateaus. Huge boulders created small islands near the shore which were covered with the white and yellow droppings of millions of seabirds. Some towered like pillars above the dark green waves while even more hid just beneath the surface waiting to tear the hulls from unwary ships. They forced the fleet to remain far out in the deeper, more turbulent waters until they neared the port cities.
Admiral Selinarian swung his ships around the massive fingertip of land between Tharsis and Albor, using the rocky peninsula as a bulwark against the rougher currents. The much calmer seas near the shore meant he could move his fleet faster to smash the Nillian invaders before they even knew what hit them. It meant he was in range of the city’s cannons which would give added protection to his vessels should the Olympians attack from the open ocean.
When the shore guns opened up, Selinarian stared out to sea, fully expecting a horizon filled with black-sailed Olympian blade ships. It took him valuable moments to realize there were none. Forty-pound iron balls smashed into his fleet, quickly sinking those closest to land. Explosive missiles roared from the cliffs above him, raining fire upon his armada. Ship after ship erupted in burning shards of wood, their sails blazing as flames licked up their riggings like hungry demons.
Screaming into his coms, Selinarian grabbed the wheel from his stunned First Mate, shoving the man roughly to the damp wooden planks. He spun hard to starboard, taking his flagship away from the now deadly shoreline. A whistling ripped through the air as a missile tore a hole in the giant rectangular sail on the mizzen mast above his head before exploding in the waves ten yards away. A huge sprout of seawater surged over the decks and washed several crewmen overboard. A blast of thunder hit the main deck just behind the mast. An iron ball slammed into the oak planking sending shards of wood into the quivering flesh of his men. A long sliver the thickness of his wrist stuck Selinarian in the left shoulder with force enough to pass all the way through before impaling the First Mate like a bloody spear.
The warships in his command returned fire with devastating effect. They shrugged off the hailstorm of iron as it dented the steel on their hulls and cracked the timbers beneath. Pounding the shore with every weapon in their horrific arsenals, the warships set Albor ablaze and stilled most of the gun emplacements on the cliffs above them. Still, the damage was done. A quarter of the Atlantean fleet lay on the bottom of the ocean while a hundred more burned like beacons in the coming twilight.
Selinarian had just enough strength left to order the rest of his battered armada to regroup far from the hellish bay before he fell to the deck. He leaned his back against the helm, his head sagging upon his barrel chest as the darkness of massive blood loss closed his eyes forever.
Admiral Marcarilus led his fleet up the northern coast of Atlantis, his deep-blue eyes constantly sweeping the shoreline and the vastness of the ocean off his port bow. Unlike his counterpart that sailed southward, he was a tough, cautious man, his confidence mollified by numerous battles against the master tactician, Poseidon. Marcarilus personally witnessed how the best-laid plans could be torn to shreds by the Olympians he both hated and highly respected. Every ship under his command was on high alert, all sailors on station and ready for combat. He would not be caught unaware.
Marcarilus kept his armada far from the shoreline for numerous reasons. First and foremost because the waters along the coast here were prone to harsh weather conditions and rough seas. A sudden gale could easily smash his ships against the sharp, jagged rocks that lined the cliffs like the teeth of some monstrous creature hungry for blood. Secondly, there were no cities or safe harbors along this mountainous stretch of Atlantis where enemy ships might lie in wait so there was no reason to go anywhere near the treacherous coast. Lastly, out here on the open sea, any approaching flotilla could be spotted long before he came in range of their gunners.
The Admiral had no intention of dying in a sneak attack. He had plans that reached far beyond the bridge of this ship. The Twelve was shattered, no longer made up of only the captains of the starships that brought the People of Atlan to this new world. The Lord Father now surrounded himself with the best and brightest of his commanders - those who proved themselves in battle and were unflinchingly loyal to Atlantis. Marcarilus intended to have a seat at the Table. Destroying the invader fleet in Lycus would ensure that.
The weather stayed with him as the armada swung east around the rocky, barren tip of the continent. A strong, steady wind blew in from the west, increasing the speed of his ships. They raced full-sail toward Lycus, cutting through the white-capped waves like a pack of running Dire Wolves. The steel-clad warships flanked the fleet to port and starboard, staying just behind the Admiral’s flagship. Two days later, Marcarilus was within sight of the embattled northern harbor. He could see the dark-blue, topmost sails of the Olympian ships and a vicious grin spread across his bearded face. He licked his lips in anticipation and bellowed orders into the coms.
As much as she hated herself for it, Captain Thalassa ordered her ships out of the burning port city. The Lord Father’s forces were retaking Lycus block by block and the docks were their first target. Every available vessel from Atlantis poured into the mouth of the River Gaia and word came from her scout ships that a massive armada was bearing down on them from the west. If she did not leave soon, she would be caught between two deadly jaws. Taking the harbor had already cost her almost forty ships and there was no way the rest could withstand a two-pronged assault of from such an overwhelming force.
“Captain!” Rork, her Izon First Mate, yelled, running toward Thalassa from the aft deck and waving his hands. “Behind us!”
Thalassa checked her stern, her bright blue eyes widening at the sight of the wall of sails that breached the western horizon. She was out of time. There was no way her fleet could reach the open sea before those ships were upon them. Her beautiful oval face turned as black as night, the words coming from her full ruby lips bitter. “Through the straits!” she bellowed, her over-thick hands gripping the spokes of the wheel. “The straits!”
Tears of fury fell down her flushed cheeks as the sails snapped in the brisk wind. Thousands of Olympian troops were caught within the city and without her transports to retrieve them, they would be trapped. Worse, Zeus and Lelantos were among them. Captain Thalassa had never lost before. This first failure meant the assured death of the ruler of Olympus and two of her closest friends. Thalassa wept angrily as she shouted orders. She had to put her grief and despair aside for a while. Her duty now was to her ships and crews.
The straits between the Atlantean continent and Delecrete were turbul
ent with rip tides that could crush them against its rocky walls. However, it was also narrow which funneled the winds and increased their strength two-fold. With the Creator’s blessing, perhaps they could outrun the enemy armada. The twisting currents and confines of the channel negated the superior numbers of the Atlanteans and made ship-to-ship battles impossible. Fighting would have to wait until they reached the Hecatus Islands to the east of the strait. Splitting her fleet and using the islands for cover just might be their only salvation.
Admiral Marcarilus cussed loudly and profanely. Not only did the Olympians manage to slip into the straits before he was in firing range, but, in their bloodlust, four of his warships raced into the deadly currents at once. Not even their engines were a match for roaring, tumultuous rapids. Stupidly, they fired upon the retreating vessels. The tides twisted their course just enough so their shots went wild. The explosions struck the cliff walls around them and sent an avalanche of stone down upon them. Even their steel-sheathed hulls could not withstand the tons of granite that smashed into them. Two sunk into the depths. The others swung like pinwheels in the passage, their crews either dead or unconscious from the concussion. There was no way Marcarilus could get past the ensuing chaos to pursue his enemy. They had escaped. Things would not go well for him when he was brought before Cronus. Swearing and bellowing like an enraged madman, the Admiral ordered his ships to break off and return to Lycus. Maybe if he added his crews to the soldiers in the city, he could still salvage something out of this defeat. If not, he was a dead man.
Ra stood on the forecastle deck just a few feet from the bowsprit. The disk on his chest glowed like a noontime sun. Beams of blazing yellow-red horror swept over the decks of the Atlantean ship, shattering all three masts and setting sails, riggings and men on fire. The screaming of the dancing candlesticks sickened his soul, but he kept up the barrage until the hull erupted into a massive fireball. The detonation sent chunks of flaming wood into three nearby vessels, igniting their sails as they attempted to flee the carnage.