Liviana is confused, “I do not understand, what is the Amon-I?”
“It is power, lost for countless eons.” She makes her way to Liviana. “Be warned. The texts contain the ways to return the forefathers to the world; this return needs their essence, or else they will rise with the untampered might of their race.”
The words sink in for a moment. Amon-I was translated in the old tongue to mean ‘A history.’ Old Mother is now telling them that the Amon-I was an object of power.
Liviana runs her hand over her head, frustrated with the new complications, “We need the Amon-I to resurrect the forefathers properly, is what you’re saying; the sacred texts list the procedures?”
“That is one way to put it, yes. Less poetry, but yes,” Old Mother responds. She looks at Mica. “Did you know that some of the great poetry today was first composed by the Watchers?” Mica shakes his head.
“Where do we find it?” Liviana asks.
“The texts will guide you, but first, ask yourself, why do you seek Lumeria?”
The question gives Liviana some pause. “I know of the power hidden there, but I do not seek it. I am trying to prevent war; to save humanity from annihilation.”
Old Mother smiles; she sees the frustration on Liviana’s face. “War is a part of the great cycles; a tool by which life cleanses itself from age to age. When the great civilizations are gone, who do you think will inherit the world?”
“I don’t know,” Liviana admits.
Mica looks to Old Mother, “What about the artifact we are seeking?”
“The ‘Key to Lumeria,’ fashioned by the great Thoth himself.” Old Mother stares past the window as if remembering a time long forgotten. “He was the keeper of forbidden knowledge, the master of a high order. The only Anuk availed of the secrets of the forefathers.
He foresaw the coming events of his time, so he constructed the key in secret. From any of the ancient structures, the key can access the magic of the gods. More importantly, it will allow its keeper to traverse the many dangers of Lumeria.”
“So, the key is only secondary to the Amon-I?” Liviana asks.
“It is, but do not underestimate its importance. It was entrusted to a special line. If the line survives, then they are the ones to use it.”
“Who is the line?” Liviana inquires.
“A mystery to be solved,” Old Mother chuckles.
“And the Gem of Persephone?” Mica asks.
“A curiosity,” Old Mother says. “The name surfaced sometime after the Great War. It is possible it is a simple Anuk trinket.”
Liviana wants to ask more questions, but fears that she will end up asking the wrong ones. She ponders on what she has so far, which was not much more than she already knew. She suspects that Old Mother will not tell her all that she came here to find out. The answers are in the texts she convinces herself.
“You said ‘an ancient evil’ pursues the Amon-I. You meant Timon?” Liviana asks.
Old Mother smiles at her. She moves in close to hold Liviana’s hand, then looks at Mica examining the broken disc on his chain. Liviana helps her to the window plants. They pick up small tin cans then begin to water the little pots.
“Does he know he’s playing with a Watcher’s key?” Old Mother smiles while watering.
“It’s broken; what harm could it do?” Liviana jokes.
“Timon is but an instrument whether he knows it or not,” Old Mother explains. “War is coming, and if the agents of evil find Lumeria, they may raise the forefathers, or attempt to destroy them.”
“Essence or not, I’m afraid war will bring their wrath,” says Liviana
“Then pray we get those books,” says Mica. Liviana is startled; Mica has never been able to sneak up on her. “Those are odd plants,” he points out.
He caresses the royal blue colored leaves on a burgundy vine. His touch causes the release of golden-like pollen into the air, which shines brightly for a few seconds. Old Mother caresses his face.
“That’s the Orchid of Sana; it means ‘to you. It’s part of the sacred Lotai flower.” Old Mother explains. “It can heal many ailments with just a sip, program the mind if needed, and,” she looks at Liviana and caresses her face as she bends down to look at the leaves, “kill.”
Mica looks at Old Mother and kisses her on her silver head of hair.
-EARLY MORNING ON FOOD ALLEY-
The sun is not up yet in Atlas, but the city is already alive with activity. There is always something going on, with lots of hungry people roaming about. In this part of the commercial district so close to the city center, the famous ‘Food Alley’ is always open for business.
There is a multitude of cuisine available here, catering for every discerning taste. From fancy restaurants to ‘fast food’ ones, offering Illyrian, Aryan, and Atlantean dishes. The area is always busy at day or night, with a recent business model taking hold of the entrepreneurs; they call it ‘Take-out.’
A moderate-sized food delivery truck is parked on a sidewalk just in front of a small green and white striped awning. Neon signs glow stating ‘No. 1 Aryan Food Restaurant.” An apartment window is just above it, displaying a large sign announcing, ‘Vacancy.’
The restaurant opens well before sunrise. The eating space is small, holding two rows of seating which can seat six comfortably; they number eight per row, ending at a counter before the kitchen. A wall separates one side of the booths from another more spacious room.
The owner, Chow, is from the far eastern shores of Aryavan. He is a proud immigrant to Atlantis. He is short, a bit round, gray with a bald spot, and has a lazy eye. It is hard to determine his age; at first glance, you would think he is in his sixties.
His thick Aryan accent makes his speech hard to understand. He has a habit of switching from the common tongue to his native one instantly; mostly to scream at the cooks behind the kitchen wall. There is always a symphony of knocking pans on steaming pots, mixing with his Aryan curses.
Chow makes his way from the kitchen to a pair of hungry customers; soldiers, dressed and ready for breakfast. He regards his new tenant, Deidra, and her friend Alexius with respect. A bell at the top of the front door ‘dings,’ using Chow to turn to welcome the incoming customer. His smile quickly turns to a frown at the sight of the red-headed mess rushing toward him.
Lyra stops at his side with a look of desperation, “Chow, I have to pee!”
“Crazy bitch, of all places on food alley, you come here?” Chow responds.
Lyra pushes past chow. Alexius begins to raise a finger to point but decides to leave it alone. He notices her satchel and wonders, It can’t be her.
“You in trouble or something?” Chow asks as he hurries after Lyra, who is now in the kitchen area.
“Or something,” Lyra responds. She enters a small section at the side then rushes into the bathroom.
She quickly sits on a stall, anxious to let her agony disappear. The resounding relief brings joy to her face. Finally, peace and quiet after a few hours of avoiding the authorities. She looks at her precious bag. She did not care about the contents or what Liviana wanted with it. All she cared about was that this was her opportunity to get out from under the ‘Witch’s clutches.’
~LYRA~
When she was a child of just six, Lyra lived on the Dalmatian coast in Illyria. Her family was not part of the aristocratic class, but they were comparably successful. Life seemed simple as a child. Her days were spent in school, accompanied by the more fun, mischievous affairs she found herself in.
Her father was always absent, Dead somewhere, is what she told people. Her mother got involved with some unsavory types, and eventually had to be incarcerated; Lyra was left with relatives she loathed. That was her excuse to further her criminal career.
She befriended one of the temple slaves, Mica. Together they escaped their gloomy lives through made up adventures. One day, she learned of the real possibility of her father’s death. With Mica’s help, she snuck into th
e Grand Temple to pray for her father’s soul. She was caught, flogged, and sent away. She lost her only real friend that day.
Ten years would pass before she would run into Mica, and they would pick up right where they left off. One obstacle was between them, however, Liviana. She was a sophisticated woman, and Lyra regarded her as a threat.
Once she realized that Liviana treated Mica as a brother, her entire outlook changed. The adventures she dreamed about were now becoming real. As the years passed, there was no task too small for her. She gained a reputation for excelling at criminal endeavors: theft, pirating, smuggling, large-scale destruction, public indecency, were only some of the charges against her in Northern Illyria.
As any resourceful criminal finds out at one point or another, their past will catch up to them. On a routine smuggling job, Lyra was caught and charged for all her crimes; death was imminent. Liviana would be her only savior. Instead of the hangman’s noose, she was sentenced to be a slave for five years in Egypt. She served her time then became a ward to her former master, but she is still indebted to Liviana. Now she has a chance to pay her debt and retire peacefully as a ‘happy bar wench’ in Egypt.
Lyra looks at the satchel, wondering where she could hide it. She looks around, unable to see any break in the ceiling; but then again, that would be too obvious. Suddenly, she remembers something.
Chow smuggled illegal mammoth tusks in his restaurant back in Egypt, and always kept his product in the walls. There has to be something, Lyra insists and begins looking around the floor.
Frustration overcomes her with the absence of any hidden vaults to be found. She embraces the fact that she will have to convince Chow to help her hide the stolen items.
Lyra breathes deeply before walking out. As she steps into the adjacent room, she runs into Chow.
“You wash hands? This restaurant,” the little man protests. “What you have there?”
There is commotion outside; raised voices sounding official. Lyra rushes out with Chow to the kitchen; they peek through a hole in the wall. Three policemen are questioning the customers. The civil patrols were known to be ‘Hot-Heads,’ always looking to exert their idea of authority on the populace.
A cook’s coat and hat on a rack catch Lyra’s eye. She quickly puts the items on; Chow helps her tuck in her hair.
Three police officers enter and begin looking around. “A criminal may have fled here,” one officer barks.
Chow points to a door at the end of the kitchen, “Woman run through, went out back,” he says. “Stink like garlic.” Lyra discreetly punches him.
The three men hurry out the back way, pushing the kitchen workers as they run through with their guns drawn. The iron door shuts with a ‘bang,’ ending the commotion. The cooks return to their steaming pots. Lyra runs into the bathroom.
She strips out of her clothing, pondering on whether or not she should tell Chow about the books. She shouts for the little man.
Chow enters the private area, offering Lyra a small package of clothing. He looks at her in her underwear, blushes a bit before giving Lyra his package.
“You pay later,” he informs her.
Lyra takes the package. She struggles with the knitted shirt, which is at least one size smaller than she needs; the trousers fit, but they are shorter than expected, with the ends of the legs stopping at her knees. She looks ridiculous.
“What the fuck Chow!” Lyra complains as she turns to a mirror.
“Crazy bitch this not department store,” Chow says throwing up his arm. “These grandson clothes. What they want?”
“Better you didn’t know. Say, can you hold something for me?”
Chow thinks for a moment, “You rent upstairs apartment, and you keep your ill-gotten product here.”
“No!” Lyra says sternly.
“Then take your merchandise somewhere else. I have respectable tenants upstairs now; don’t need likes of you. They soldiers, with rank and money. I make them take you away!”
A thought popped into Lyra’s head. If Chow’s new tenants were as he claimed, then the likelihood of the premises being searched just dropped. But why pay for an apartment when she had free lodgings at the Furry Chariot?
“Fine you lizard; I’ll take it. How much?”
“Eight-hundred ducats.”
Lyra’s mouth opens. She shakes her head, “Forget it. Find someone else to screw with. I’m not in the mood.”
“Okay, Okay. Five-hundred, and you get me discount for strip show at Furry Chariot.”
“Four-hundred and it’s a deal, but I pay by the week,” she says while shaking Chow's hand. He retrieves a key then passes it to her.
Lyra drops to her knees and then kisses Chow on the cheek. “You will always be my Chow-Chow.” He blushes as she caresses her hands on his face. “And no, I didn’t wash my hands.”
Chow fumes as Lyra hurries up the back stairs. He mutters some curses in Aryan and then picks up a waiting platter. He makes his way outside grumbling.
Alexius and Deidra look at the incoming platter with steaming egg soup and bread. They take the bowls gratefully.
“What was that all about?” Alexius asks Chow.
“That just police being a menace to society. Oh, you have new neighbor, she move in today.”
“You mean the girl who was running from the patrol?” Deidra points out.
“Oh no, redhead demon my friend from Egypt. She works for me from time to time.” He leans in close, “Her family owns the Furry Chariot.”
Alexius’ face lights up; so too does Deidra’s. Chow retreats into the kitchen area.
“Do you think Andros will help you out?” Deidra asks Alexius.
“I doubt it,” he answers. “If anything he wants me gone from here. FaW-C will be the perfect place to let me roam out of sight.”
“That’s what you wanted isn’t it?”
“I thought I did.”
“Go to Stavos,” Deidra suggests. “I am sure he will help.” She remembers some news and gets excited, “The rumors are true. He is starting a campaign in the wastelands. It’s quite ‘hush-hush.’ Prince Timon himself ordered it.”
“Stavos will send me right back to Andros. Where in the borderlands?”
“Anatolia, then across to Cappadocia.”
Suddenly, Alexius remembers a passage in the journal; a part that tells him ‘The key to power begins in Cappadocia.’ This campaign is one he must be a part of, and groveling to Andros may be the only way to achieve this. He continues to slurp his soup, as he hatches a plan.
Chapter 17: The Loyalty of Friends
Situated at the western edge of Atlas, the armed forces of Atlantis headquarters occupy an impressive sixteen hundred and twenty-eight acres of military property. It has over eight hundred buildings, an airport, and fifty-two miles of private roadways. This facility is no garrison, but tradition has kept the reference alive; the first military established here considered themselves a remote outpost of the once glorious Hyperboria, and it has always been referred to as ‘Garrison’ ever since.
Unlike Atlantean bases in far-off territories, this one is magnificent. It is a blending of old with new architecture, where the wide-open columns of marbled buildings give way to structures of steel. There are some training fields on the perimeter, which the foreign garrisons have mimicked.
In the center, there is a quarter mile long reflecting pool, with 108 flags standing on each side; they represent all the units of the Foreign Legion. If a flag is at half-mast, a unit is back in Atlantis; they may be in the capital or one of the other regions of the continent. At full mast, the flag signifies that a unit is still deployed. If it is lowered almost to the concrete ground, this means it has expired.
Along the side of the reflecting waters, administrative buildings rise to fifteen levels. At the head of the pool, a large ‘old-style’ structure reminds the residents that this was the first camp of the brave men and women, who first arrived on these shores.
The rec
eiving area of all the administrative buildings is the same, spacious, bright with light streaming in from outside. Large panes of glass form outer walls, showing off the flag poles. As one enters, there are several greeting counters spread along the space, with soldiers at the desks screening visitors headed to various departments.
A young slim baby-faced male soldier, posted to the desk for ‘Administrative Services,’ quietly reads a trashy book behind his counter. He ignores the glares from Alexius, who sits on a row of visitors’ chairs across from him. Occasionally, he glances over at the annoyed captain, hoping he would not come over again; frustration fills his face as his fears are realized. Alexius lumbers over to his desk.
“I’ve been waiting here for one hour! Is Commander Andros in or not?” Alexius growls.
“He is captain. It should not be long now,” the young man responds with a hint of arrogance.
What is this military becoming? Alexius asks himself. He reaches over the counter to swat the book from the soldier’s hand.
Alexius points a finger, “The next words out of your mouth better be ‘Sorry for making you wait, Sir. You can go up now, Sir’. Say it, or I’ll smash that pretty face of yours.”
“Sorry for making you wait, Sir” he repeats in a trembling voice. “You can go up now, Sir.”
“Thank you, corporal, don’t mind if I do. And stand at attention; don’t move until someone dismisses you,” the captain orders. The soldier acknowledges and springs up.
Alexius makes his way to a lift, smiling at his triumph. As the doors close, he looks at the soldier, whom he suspects will notify Andros of the event.
It doesn’t take long for the lift to reach the 13th floor. The doors open in a busy office space, with staff members moving about in haste. It is a mix of civilian and military personnel, each with their assigned duties, carrying about their routines. A bunch of bureaucratic monkeys, Alexius thinks.
He doesn’t care for the lot, mostly because none of the soldiers in the administrative corps ever had to be out in the field. They lived lavishly and were always clean. Andros is one of them, responsible for the entire department. He was a brute who tried to ‘flex his muscles’ every chance he got, like in Illyria. The truth of it all is that he is an aristocrat playing soldier.
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