by Gene Stiles
Cronus ran his fingers along the top of the rock wall. The last time he stood here, Rhea was at his side, leaning against his shoulder and telling him how proud she was of him. Now she waited across the veldt to murder him. The pain that tore at his heart turned it as hard as the cool stone beneath his huge hands. She would pay for her treachery, he vowed as he stared into the suddenly cold night. It was Rhea who would die on the morrow, but not before she watched him kill all of the children she poisoned against him. And it would be by his own hand.
Commander Enyalius stared through his farseers at the bizarre forces arrayed against him. Never in his life had he seen such collection of strange and terrifying creatures. It was not the sea of soldiers that stretched across the horizon that drew his amazed attention. It was not the units of gigantic Nephilim scattered among the battalions that narrowed his mahogany eyes. He had fought them before and they fell like any other man. The bestial, barbaric, leather-clad Izon were barely worthy of notice. It was the monstrous things at the fore that made even the battle-hardened commander shudder in disgust.
There were fifteen of the grotesque, misshapen behemoths jumping up and down on the flattened grassland. Some were hunched and twisted, their over-muscled paws dragging on the ground. Others had extra arms and legs malformed and mammoth. What he could make out of their horrible faces seemed nightmarish and sickening. Even compared to the largest of the Nephilim, these things were gargantuan. They did not hold swords in their hands but carried spiked clubs the size of small oak trees. Though miles away, Enyalius could hear their howls and roars as they screamed into the azure sky and it sent a shiver up his stiffened spine.
The commander felt no fear of the beasts only repugnance and revulsion. As twisted as they were, they could not possibly move as swiftly as his well-trained warriors. If the cannons did not kill them, they would be cut to pieces by his men before they could do much damage at all. He admired the tactic though. Having the gruesome abominations at the front of the Olympian forces was meant to unnerve his men as much as did their companions. Those he did worry about.
Enyalius never faced them before, but he knew who they were as did they all. These were the children of Cronus. Zeus and Poseidon stood slightly before the rest, their legendary weapons held in their hands. Zeus leaned almost casually on the hilt of his sparkling silver sword, the tip sunk in the soil at his feet. Poseidon stood in a wide stance, one hand on his hip, the other wrapped around the shimmering shaft of his golden trident. Behind them were Hades, Demeter, Hestia and Hera. As much as he hated it, the commander had his orders. These people were not to be attacked. They were to be avoided as much as possible. He was to concentrate their fire on the rest of the army.
Enyalius fingered the sword at his side, his face cloudy and dark. He was the greatest swordsman in Atlantis. He knew he could take Zeus apart if given the chance and he relished the moment the two faced each other. But he was not to be given that honor. Worse, he was to hold them as long as possible then retreat to the edge of Atlantis. They were to regroup at the One Tree and wait. It galled him. Running was not in his nature. He would rather face a slow, torturous death than be seen as a coward. Yet he knew what happened to his predecessor, Commander Hernaculus, and he had no desire to go out that way.
“They wait for us to advance,” Poseidon said firmly, staring at the legions across the veldt. “I still find it troubling we were allowed to come this far without opposition. Something is not right here.”
“I agree whole-heartedly,” Hera said from behind him. “We must move with extreme caution.”
“Caution, yes,” Zeus said sternly, “but move we must.” He raised Excalibur high in the air and shouted over the coms. “Forward!”
They did not run or bellow insults at their enemy. The Olympian army marched slowly, the steady beat of drums setting the cadence. The shield bearers to the fore stretched for over a mile like a living wall of brightly polished steel. They were vital to the plan and this time of morning was chosen carefully. The sun rising high behind the backs of the Atlanteans reflected off the curved silver surfaces, blurring the line of troops into a single mass and stinging the eyes of their squinting opponents.
Hidden behind the glow, the cannons and railguns aimed their deadly muzzles to the skies and opened fire. Huge balls of iron and stone arched upward, some exploding above the Atlanteans and sending a nightmare rain of shrapnel into their ranks. Massive rounded boulders bounced across the meadow and tore bloody, screaming lines through the terrified troops. Within seconds, the Atlanteans responded in kind and the sunny day erupted in hellfire.
There is a grisly rhythm of discord to a battlefield which Zeus had learned well over a decade of fighting Atlantis. The tempo started slow and steady, building in sound and speed as weapons and men collided like hesitant dancers on the floor together for the first time. The partners first had to decide who was to lead and who was to follow, choosing aggression or defense. The music rose in waves of brassy steel on steel, deep thunderous explosions and brief moments of quiet pauses. The choir would then add their dreadful voices to the symphony, wails of the wounded in high-pitched sopranos, terrified tenors screaming in agony, bellowing bassists rumbling in rage and the full-throated roar of the baritones.
The conductor sought a concert of controlled chaos, waving his demonic baton from one section to another, each horrifying note blending in hideous harmony. The atrocious orchestra responded rapidly to his murderous ministrations. From the flanks, the few energy weapons of Atlantis sang songs of sizzling, white-hot plasma smashing into silver shields and dripping notes of fire into the grassland. Red and blue beams of Condensed Light rifles added color to the calliope’s clamor. The steel-tipped swarms of aeros slicing the skies were like woodwinds whistling in the wind.
Zeus intended to crush this cruel cantata. From the rear of his ranks rose the rumble of Ravens taking to the air. The dark blue warbirds swooped down on the Atlantean artillery unleashing havoc on the enemy emplacements. Flaming fireballs flew upward in black, burning clouds of metal, ash and men. Their orders were to concentrate on the outer cannons only and render them useless leaving the ones in the center of the army alone. Zeus would handle those. Once their mission was completed, they swept the skies in search of Atlantean airships. Most were destroyed in Cronus’ attack on the Olympian armada, but if there were any left to engage, these Ravens would hunt them down like hawks on mice.
There was something odd in the Atlantean rhapsody and it tickled the back of Zeus’ mind. After a few more rounds, Zeus ordered his own artillery to stand down and stay where they were, clearing the field for his troops. The Olympian legions split into companies and raced forward in zigzag patterns, making it difficult for any surviving Atlantean gunners to get a bead on them. Before they reached the enemy lines, he executed the next part of his plan.
Zeus did not fail to notice how the firepower of Atlantis avoided him. Even when the air whistled with black clouds of aeros, the swarms were scattered far afield of his position. He smiled viciously, having seen this tactic before and counting on it. They did not want to strengthen him and his brother, which is why he and Poseidon bathed their weapons in energy before the battle and why his sisters and Hades carried pulse rifles.
Together, the children of Cronus mounted sleds and sped toward the Atlantean army. Zeus saw the center of their foe back away like a wave, giving him access to their heart. He would not take the bait. “For Olympus!” he shouted, swerving to the right and skidding to a halt just short of their leading edge. A platoon of warriors ran toward him and he eagerly awaited their arrival.
Poseidon shifted to the left, Demeter and Hestia in his wake. They were easily within range of the Atlantean guns and archers, but still, no one fired upon them. Instead, squads of bellowing warriors surged toward him in an attempt to overwhelm them with sheer numbers. Ahead, Poseidon could see rows of cannons blasting the legions behind him. He hit the ground on the run, his sisters having trouble keeping up
with his long-legged stride.
He did not go far. Long before the soldiers could reach him, Poseidon gripped Triton in both his mammoth hands and pointed the prongs at the gunners. He felt the silent hum of the trident course through his body and adrenaline vibrated in every sinew of his body. The sonic blast tossed the soldiers aside like leaves in a hurricane. Bones snapped and ripped through bloody flesh. The invisible wave smashed into the guns like a giant fist, tumbling them through the troops amid screams of pain and panic. Those that survived broke and ran as if a hoard of savage demons nipped at their heels.
Poseidon did not pursue. He stood still, shaking with the flood of energy pouring through his veins. His emerald eyes glowed as bright the sun, his smile vicious and primal. At that moment, he yearned to tear into the retreating ranks. His heart pounded in his heaving chest and his jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. A dragon rose inside of him that Poseidon did not know existed struggled to break free and rip into his enemy. Small wings fanned out from either side of its gaping jaws, fangs glistening with acidic saliva. It curled and coiled, the scales making grating sounds as it flexed its long, serpentine body. A feral growl slipped through his slightly parted lips and he started to walk inexorably toward the scrambling warriors, the monster in him choosing to ignore his brother’s strict orders.
His sisters stood in shocked awe staring at their brother. They both knew of the power of Triton, but neither had witnessed it in use nor seen the effect it had on Poseidon. During the great sea battle, they were safely below decks. What they now saw both amazed and frightened them.
His gargantuan form was enshrouded in a dim blue aura that shimmered in the sunlight. Within the cocoon, Poseidon looked like wraith personified. His deep green eyes danced with sparks of crimson fire. A vengeful wind swirled within the shield and sent his wavy hair rippling around his long, squared features like an angry red corona. The artistically sculpted planes of his incredibly handsome face were shadowed and grim making him appear almost monstrous and diabolical. His mammoth muscles swelled beneath his clothing, trying to rip free of their material constraints. The veins and tendons on his bulging, bare forearms stood out in high relief against his darkly bronzed skin like the steel-blue runes pulsing on the shaft of his trident. He took one step and then another, advancing on the Atlantean ranks like a merciless tide.
“Wait!” Demeter shouted above the noise in his turbulent, barbaric mind. Hestia stood with her, blocking his path to the fleeing soldiers. They had tried to grab his arms, but the shield prevented them from touching him. At first, Poseidon stared at them blankly, his brow furrowing dangerously, and Demeter felt a cold chill travel up her spine.
“Wait, brother,” she said firmly, putting her hands up before her. She glanced back over her shoulder, worried the enemy might attack while she was turned, but they were too busy running from the ferocious apparition to pay her any heed. “Wait for Zeus.”
The name of Zeus and her quiet, stern tone cut through the berserker haze that clouded his brain. Poseidon shuttered and relaxed, the fevered fog parting with the sound of her soft voice. “Whoa,” he said, sitting the butt of Triton on the stones at his feet. He felt thick and unfocused, but not weakened in the least. “That has never happened before.”
Poseidon stood in a circle of tranquility in the eye of a hurricane. The massive battle raged around him, filling the skies with flame, fear and fury, but none of it touched him or his sisters. He shook himself to loosen his cramped muscles and ran a hand over his crinkled brow. In his growing clarity, Poseidon saw his enemies giving him a wide berth. The Atlantean soldiers did not even fire aeros in their direction as they raced away toward the city. It did not feel right and it troubled him.
He would have asked his sisters, but the words forming on his lips were lost in the horrendous eruption above his head. Instinctively, Poseidon ducked and spun on his heels, both hands clenched around Triton. Demeter and Hestia did not move, rooted to the ground by the astonishing sight above and beyond them. They squinted against the searing light and covered their eyes, a single thought forming in their minds. Zeus.
Enyalius saw the trio speeding toward him and knew he should retreat as ordered, but his arrogance and pride would not allow it. He had yet to wet his blade with the blood of his enemies and he craved its savage sustenance. There were only three of them and he would easily kill them himself and let his men pick up the pieces. The glory would be his alone. Shouting commands as he went, Enyalius swung his leg over the saddle of his sled and aimed straight for the Olympians, his entire unit pounding through the meadow behind him.
Hades stopped ten yards behind Zeus and jumped off his sled. Small patches of damp grass burned around him and filled the air with wisps of white, curling smoke. He did not like being so far away from his brother, but Zeus made it very clear it would be extremely dangerous to be any closer. He glanced at Hera and saw the same misgivings written in her verdant eyes and the set of her rigid stance. They grimly nodded to each other and slipped their swords from their scabbards, seeing the oncoming hoard, and took up positions to protect their little brother should the need arise.
Enyalius leaped from his sled before it came to a complete stop, landing lightly on the balls of his feet just a couple of yards in front of Zeus. He warily eyed the other two Olympians, noticing how they stayed back and to the sides, alert but otherwise unconcerned. Their attitude galled him but brought a smug sneer to his hard-lined face. They would pay for discounting him.
“So you are the famous Zeus,” he said to the red-haired man standing before him. “You do not seem so special to me.”
“Appearances can deceive,” Zeus replied coldly. The soldiers running toward them were still too far away to be a threat, so he let the other man have his moment. He could tell by the way the warrior moved he would be a formidable opponent. “I offer you the chance to surrender.”
“And I offer you the chance to die,” Enyalius said, drawing his blade. He could not help the chill that shivered up his spine when he saw Zeus slide Excalibur from its sheath. The golden symbols on the shining silver sword moved and pulsed like molten rivers. He sat his disquiet aside and stared hard into Zeus’ amber eyes.
“I have heard of the power of your fabled blade,” Enyalius said disdainfully. “Are you so much a coward you fear to face me as a warrior without the use of pathetic parlor tricks?”
“I would not waste Excalibur’s energy on one mere man,” Zeus replied icily. The runes faded until they were only a dim memory. He slid his right leg backward and lifted his sword slowly. “Come,” he said softly, his tone as hard as a granite cliff. “Take it from my hand.”
Enyalius struck with the speed of a coiled viper. His sword swept upward from the ground, aiming to disembowel his foe from crotch to sternum. Sparks crackled where steel met alien metal. Zeus turned sideways as the other man moved, meeting the stroke and sweeping his blade up and over his head. Instead of stepping away from the attack, Zeus shifted inside the arc, smashing Enyalius in the jaw with the pommel of his sword. The force of the blow rocked the commander back on his heels and brought tears to his eyes. Before he could recover, a sting ripped across his exposed throat and a river of crimson spurted from his neck. He dropped his blade, his trembling hands attempting to stem the stream of hot, sticky blood pouring from his severed arteries. Only the bones of his spine kept his head from tumbling from his shivering shoulders. Shocked amazement filled his foggy brain as his knees buckled. Before they even hit the ground, Enyalius had one last surprised, conscious thought. “So easily. He killed me so easily.”
Zeus did not stop there. Almost sixty soldiers roared in rage as their commander fell and rushed to converge upon him. Excalibur reached for the sky and replied with peels of thunder. Jagged streaks of silver-blue lightning exploded from the majestic blade, the runes blazing like volcanic lava. The startled and stupefied warriors slipped and stumbled on the moist grass, tumbling over each other in a frenzied attempt to flee from t
he cobalt blue fire descending upon them.
They had not the slightest chance. Zeus brought the Excalibur’s tip down and bathed their running bodies in sapphire flames. They danced like marionettes bereft of their strings and fell thrashing in the grass. Their clothing ignited and they rolled upon the hard-packed ground screaming in agony. Zeus ignored their torment and advanced mercilessly upon the scrambling soldiers, Hades and Hera close behind him.
It was not his intent to kill, but to instill fear and horror in the Atlanteans. Zeus struggled to hold back the true power of his sword, sending an arc of lightning over the heads of the terrified enemy troops. It crackled and split into forked barbs that rained down on the panicked fighters. Burns and blisters covered exposed flesh and spasmed muscles and tendons. Bodies floundered and fell, flopping like fish out of water which knocked many of their hysterical companions from their feet. Dread and confusion swept through the Atlantean ranks, many of their own trampled to death in the panic-stricken stampede to escape the god-monster who attacked them.
A primordial, elemental fury swelled up within Zeus, something deadly and hungry. The sounds of the battle raging around him faded to muted mumbles. A reddish film blurred his vision as if he looked through ruby lenses which lent a surreal quality to the fantastical dreamscape forming before him. In his mind’s eye, Zeus saw a ravenous beast, caged and rabid, howling to be set free. Wickedly curved talons reached through the bars of its prison attempting to tear flesh from the tiny pieces of food that ran from it. Around its huge, impossibly muscled neck was a thick, spiked iron collar. A long leash of rusty chain links led from the black ring, the other end firmly gripped in Zeus’ own hand. The creature looked back at him with narrowed, accusing eyes, pulling the links tight.