by Gene Stiles
“Do you think that is necessary?” Coeus twittered. “These are the People we are here to see. Our brothers. A show of force could be misinterpreted as aggression.”
“And these are Izon that fill the city,” Iapetus returned with a derisive snort. “We have no idea how they will react to our presence. It is only prudent to be prepared.”
“I have to say I agree with you,” Captain Ramathus interjected, standing behind Iapetus. “The atmosphere here is thick and troubling. We have yet to sight any of the People we observed on the pyramid. The why of it concerns me greatly.”
He peered sharply across the waters, his hawk-blue eyes glittering in the sunshine, scanning the milling crowd as if expecting attack. His square jaw tightened as he felt a taut apprehension and fearful disquietude emanating from the gathered masses. Absently, he brushed his wavy blond hair away from his chiseled features and over his tan leather vest. He felt on alert, his muscles tensing, his senses sharpened, his awareness sending him a premonition of danger.
“In the observations we have made, we witnessed no hostility in their demeanor toward the People,” Isis countered with a wave of her hand, her jade green eyes clouded, her smooth cheeks blushed. Her long auburn hair fanned around her oval face in the gentle breeze as if reacting to her irritation. “If anything, the Izon appear to treat them with a reverence akin to worship. I do not anticipate any kind of trouble.”
“Anticipating trouble is why I am here,” Iapetus returned, crossing his powerful arms across his mammoth chest. His onyx eyes glittered in the bright crystal light that filled the room with warm radiance. His wide-legged stance, rigid spine and almost grim countenance told the others there was no moving that mountain. “No more debate. This is an order. Now let us move forward.”
A squad of a dozen black-clad, well-armed Aam accompanied Iapetus in the foremost skiff. A short ways behind him, Coeus and Phoebe shared their own private boat with the four Captains in a single boat at their stern. Iapetus was rigid in his command to the helmsmen on each skiff that no one would go ashore until he deemed it safe. None dared defy him for they knew the consequences would be horrific.
The parade of three small, flat-bottom vessels glided across the aquamarine waters, the jet engines purring quietly. The rumbling voices of the Izon rose in a loud crescendo, amazed and awed at that simple sight. As Iapetus neared the dock, they pulled back, their feelings of wonder and suspicious foreboding slapping him harshly across the face. He cringed at their trepidation, a low growl filling in his throat. There was a danger here he could not put name to. It raised the hair on the back of his pillar-thick neck, sitting in the pit of his stomach like a lump of granite.
The silver skiff pulled up next to the dock close to the shore to give space for the others and to be the last to leave should trouble arise. A quick turn of the small wheel at the helm spun the small vessel around so the prow was aimed back at the cove. Before the helmsman finished lashing them to the wooden pegs on the wharf, the Aam leapt from the boat, swiftly moving to the edges of the boulevard. They spaced themselves far enough apart to provide a wide field of fire, six on either side, plasma rifles crossed over their chests. They spun on booted heel to face the gathered Izon, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of a threat.
Their actions had an unexpected and immediate reaction. The packed throng surged backward, some tumbling to the ground in their rush to put some distance between them and the black-clad giants. Shrieks and screams filled the cool morning air, rippling in waves over the huddled masses. Scores dropped to their knees, their protruding brow ridges kissing the trampled dirt before them, and wailed out words of entreaty, beseeching forgiveness from the startled Aam. The sentries gazed at one another, their mouths open, their rifles lowering and their eyes wide with surprise. They did not know what to do.
Iapetus made the decision for them. He barked out a command, his thunderous voice cracking like a whip over the multitude of noises. The Aam snapped to attention and turned their backs to the Izon, pulling their weapons tight to their chests. He stood at the edge of the dock, his black-booted feet planted firmly upon the huge, polished granite tiles that made up the roadway, his massively muscled arms held behind his back by the hammer-like hands he clenched together. His straight, black hair, pulled back from his boulder-shaped head by a wide leather band at the nape of his thickly corded neck, was lost into invisibility as it flowed down the sleeveless ebony leather vest he wore. Iapetus stood in the center of the road, his tree-trunk legs slightly spread, rooted to the spot and as unmovable as the One Tree, itself. He heard the other skiffs dock behind him, but he kept his onyx eyes on the long, as yet empty, concourse before him.
Phoebe glided slowly down the damp wooden planks of the dock, her arm lightly entwined with that of her husband. Her platinum hair caught the rising breeze, fanning out around her like silver filigrees sparkling in the bright sunshine. She raised a delicately fingered hand in greeting to the Izon swarmed on either side of her, a golden sweet smile glowing upon her alabaster skin. They responded to her, tentatively rising from their knees and moving slowly closer, but staying well away from Aam stationed along the causeway. She smiled warmly, slipping away from Coeus and sinking to one knee near the edge of the crowd, her arms held out welcome. A hush fell over the Izon to the fore and they pulled back as if searing fire blazed from her fingertips. Phoebe’s face fell, her full, pink lips falling, her pale blue eyes shimmering with questions.
“Come, my love,” Coeus said softly behind her, his hand outstretched. “There is much we need to learn before we mingle with these people. Do not be offended.”
“I am not,” Phoebe responded quietly, taking his proffered hand. “I am ashamed that they have been treated in such a way as to fear us. It seems the madness of Cronus has seeded itself here as well.”
Coeus only nodded sadly, drawing her with him to stand slightly behind and to the right of Iapetus. The Captains made a row at their rear, followed by their First Mates. The Atlanteans stood silently awaiting some emissary of the People living here, expecting them to arrive any moment. That moment dragged out toward an hour as the hot, blazing sun rose higher in the near cloudless, azure sky. Not used to being kept waiting, the delegation became more irritated with each passing second. Discussions began on the merits of returning to their ships and the majority agreed.
Just as their feet turned toward the skiffs, a turbulent commotion cascaded over the Izon. Every whispered conversation, every muttered word and even every baby’s cry stilled into the quiet of the dead. A covered sled of some kind appeared near the base of the pyramid making its way slowly toward the dock. As it passed them, the Izon on either side fell to their knees, their foreheads planted firmly upon the grassy soil. They stayed prone and silent even after the stately procession made its way far beyond them.
Iapetus watched as the cortege made its way down the wide boulevard, his midnight eyes hard and glistening. A tick formed at the corner of his square jawline causing the muscle to twitch. His lips pinched together, the corners dipping downward as his anger grew. Iapetus did not harbor the deep, abiding hatred for the Clan that consumed his brother, Cronus. He used them in harsh labor and, yes, he once saw them as only barely intelligent animals. He ordered their deaths and drove them from the lands of Atlantis it was true. But he did so because the Lord Father ordered it done. Iapetus gave it no more thought than he would have the slaughter of a large buck. Until he learned the Izon were bloodkin of the People, he did not even think of them much at all.
But, the Izon were bloodkin. He may not want them around as a reminder of what could be, but Iapetus did not want them trembling at his sight either. Seeing the Clan cowering in groveling subjugation burned through his veins like acid poured on crystal. He remembered how valiantly they fought for their freedom with strength and honor. As a warrior, he respected them. Seeing this, Iapetus wanted to spit upon the cause of their despair, crushing it in the deadly embrace of his bulging arms. It t
ook an act of sheer, rock-hard will to cleanse the emotion from his face as the despicable entourage drew closer down the wide, paved boulevard.
A disbelieving gasp whispered uncontrollably from the lips of the Atlanteans, their faces openly aghast at the sickening tableau playing out before them. The Captains and First Mates, once accustomed to working alongside the skilled Clansmen at the harbors of Atlantis, growled low in their throats, darkened faces regarding one another with set jaws and fisted hands. Coeus shivered in the warming, sundrenched air, barely containing the gut-twisting anger boiling up inside him. He reached out a thin, gnarled hand, gripping his wife’s balled hand in his. He shook his head slightly at the feral fury blazing her pale blue eyes to red, imploring her silently to hold her tongue.
A monstrous golden palanquin made its way toward them held aloft by two long, shiny wooden poles pinned to the sides with thick bolts of silver borithium. A roughly six foot wide, eight foot long, peaked canopy of solid gold, scalloped tiles was held aloft by four polished mahogany columns the size of the arms of Iapetus and carved with unknown symbols. Scaled serpents of pure silver spiraled up from the base of each pillar, winding through and around the enigmatic runes and ending in red-eyed viper heads, curved fangs agape as they stared at each other from the corners.
It was not the opulent ostentatiousness of the garish display that infused the Atlanteans with venomous acrimony. It was not this that forced them to restrain their desire to rush toward the conveyance with weapons ablaze. No. It was what carried the contraption that so enraged Cronus’ emissaries.
Sixteen stoop-shouldered Izon, shaved hairless, were manacled to the wooden poles, four to each side fore and aft. Folds of white cloth wound around their muscular hips and in between their thighs as diapers placed upon newborn babes. A drum beating in the background set cadence to their heavy, carefully measured steps. Iapetus cringed at the haggard, downtrodden look on their brown faces, the empty death in their eyes. It cut into his soul knowing he had once thought of the Izon this very same way.
Four powerfully muscled, ebony-skinned men of the People walked before the litter, crimson skirts edged with gold girdled around their waists their only attire. Wide bands of gold bound their bulging biceps and sheathed their wrists. Upon their high-cheeked heads, the men wore gold and red striped hats that angled sharply from the backs of their boulder shaped heads. Their oval, sharp-chinned faces were grim, their thick lips locked tightly together. Over-large, brown, almond-shaped eyes stared at the Atlanteans with open, threatening suspicion. Hooked on their ornate silver belts hung black whips of braided cord, the ends split into three wicked, barbed strips. Iapetus thought he saw dried, brownish blood on those ugly tips and it twisted his soul.
Ten feet from the Atlanteans, the Izon came to a halt with the silence of the drum. As one, they sat the garish palanquin on the ground. It rested on eight legs of black-stained hardwood carved into the splayed, clawed paws of some gigantic beast. The destitute, tyrannized men dropped to the polished stones, sitting cross-legged next to the poles. Their eyes were empty and dead-looking as if all sense of self had been beaten from their hearts. When they bent their wearied heads, Iapetus saw the scars crisscrossing their backs, some old, some still damp with spilled blood. He growled softly, clamping his fists so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms and drew blood, wanting nothing more than to strangle the four guards with their own whips.
Layered white gossamer curtains infused with gold and silver threads hid the occupants from view as the impressively gaudy litter touched the pavement. The four silent guards split into two pairs on either side of the litter. Together they pulled on braided, golden cords, tasseled on the ends, raising the drapery on all sides into scalloped valances. Inside stood a massive high-backed, jewel-encrusted throne of pure, ornately worked gold. Silver viper-headed serpents wound their way up the legs ending in huge, fanged maws open and hungry. Rubies blazed in their demonic eye sockets, giving the impression that only the prison of the chair kept them from striking out to fill their enemies with greenish, deadly poison.
A giant of a man with skin of glistening copper sat upon the thick, blood-red cushions placed on the throne, surveying the Atlanteans with black, almond eyes, smug curiosity written on his thin, red-tinted lips. The onyx, long-sleeved robe he wore was bordered with a wide strip of gold and silver lace intertwined with bands of crimson that matched the loose cuffs of the cloak. It hung open across his square shoulders exposing a barrel chest chiseled with hardened muscles. His bloody-looking, knee-length maroon skirt, trimmed with the gold so prevalent in the artistry of this place, wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. He wore a conical covering like that of his guards, angled off his head with the front coming to a point at the end. However, his was of darkest ebony embedded with chips of diamond in strange patterns that sparkled like stars in the bright sunshine. A ring of braided gold encompassed it like a headband coming together in the front to form a twisting serpent with jade green eyes that rose to the peak of the headdress. In his left hand, he held a long, gold staff with two sliver serpents curling upward. At the top, their viper heads bent outward, fanged maws open wide. Between the heads rested a glowing sapphire crystal that pulsed and swirled like a dark blue Proto-Sun.
The four guards returned to their posts in front of the palanquin, facing inward at attention and leaving a clear swath between them. The one closest to the Atlanteans turned on his sandaled foot to face Phoebe, Coeus and Iapetus. In a deep and resonating voice, he spoke at last, breaking the tense silence.
“Honored guests,” he boomed as if speaking to both the People and the kneeling Izon, “I give you Apophus, Lord God and ruler of the World. Kneel before his blessed omnipresence!”
“We kneel before no one,” Iapetus responded coldly, sweeping his hand to encompass Phoebe and Coeus and all standing behind them. “We are of the People, three of the Table of Twelve, the council of Atlantis.”
The guard reached for the whip hanging at his side, his dark eyes filled with sparks of red lightning, aghast at such insolence. He took two steps toward Iapetus, letting his whip fall loose on the ground. His back to the Aam stationed along the boulevard, he did not see six plasma rifles raise in his direction. Iapetus put a hand up, warding off the actions of the Aam and stepped slightly away from others.
“You do not want to do that,” he growled, his right leg sliding backward.
The guard ignored the words, snapping his whip upon the smooth pavement, gauging the distance between him and this arrogant, impudent intruder. It mattered not that this stranger was of the People. He would teach him his place before the Lord God! His arm came up, cracking the black cord toward the discourteous creature with a snap that exploded through the morning air.
At the moment the guard raised his hand, Iapetus spun toward him in two lightning fast, rotating steps. Now inside the path of the whip, he smashed his rock-like fingertips into the man’s exposed throat, crushing his larynx into powder. Eyes wide with shock, the guard fell to the road, his hands wrapped around his neck. He thrashed and kicked, trying in vain to suck life-giving air into starving lungs. In moments, the jerking stopped and the hands fell away. Iapetus gazed down upon the wide-eyed corpse then up at the gilded throne, his black eyes cold but calm.
Apophus sat unruffled, leaning to one side, his elbow on the wide arm of the chair, his pointed chin resting in his open palm. His dark eyes glistened with hidden humor, a slanted smile playing across his lips. Serenely, he lifted himself from the throne carrying with him his staff, stepped down on a red, cushioned footstool placed before him. The Lord God ignored the dead man on the street as if he simply did not exist. Gliding over the smooth stone roadway, he stopped just short of Iapetus, assessing the black-leather clad man before him from head to toe.
“Did you say you came from Atlantis? Did you mean Atlan?” the man grinned, finally speaking, his voice higher than should have come from such a large chest, a strange, chipped accent to his words that
made him somewhat difficult to understand. A head taller than Iapetus, he looked down on him, his eyes soaked with sarcasm. At the nodded response, he continued with almost childish mirth filling his words.
“I do not know where you come from,” Apophus chuckled, “but I know you cannot be of Atlan. Atlan is just a myth told to small children. A golden city on a world of red where one goes when they die to be judged and reborn into another body. The world on which all creation began. That is all.”
“I assure you,” Phoebe responded, slipping up next to Iapetus, “we are of the People of Atlan. More specifically, we are from the city of Atlantis, our home on this world. We have been here for eons. Our story is long.”
Apophus felt entranced by her exotic beauty, ignoring the preposterous claim she made. His eyes explored her every curve, the rise of her abundant chest and the paleness of her porcelain skin. She stood, straight-backed, her jaw set, her light blue eyes burning with an anger he did not understand. He moved to be close to this radiant woman and reached out to run his fingers through her soft, platinum hair. Phoebe stepped back out of his reach. Apophus cocked his head to one side, his smile dropping slightly, unused to rejection. He must have this woman!
“This is Coeus, my husband,” Phoebe injected into his fantasy. She easily saw the naked lust in Apophus’ eyes and wrapped her arm tightly around her beloved. He glanced at Coeus with a nod then returned his mind to the vision standing just within his reach.
“You must all come to my residence,” Apophus smiled broadly. “Entertain me with your story. Come, honored guests. I shall have a lunch prepared. Welcome to the city of Nil!”
He spun on his heel, his robe fanning in the breeze, and mounted his throne. The chair turned to face the pyramid, his back to the Atlanteans. With a crack of a whip, the chained Izon lifted the conveyance upon their brawny shoulders and began the trek up the slight grade to the steps of the pyramid.