Red Wizard of Atlantis

by Ravek Hunter

  “Link your power to me,” Dhroghan said quietly.

  Laghfrin nodded to the Tuatha De and Atlantean wizards standing behind them. To her surprise, several dozen human Druids stepped up to join them. They all opened themselves to Dhroghan and allowed him to pull their power into himself.

  Even as exhausted as everyone was so soon after the battle—she could feel each individual’s weariness through the link—they still tendered an enormous amount of energy as a whole. With what he was planning, she expected that Dhroghan would need every ounce of it.

  Hands tightly clasped into fists, Dhroghan held his arms crossed over his chest, concentrating on the task at hand. Except for his low chant, there was not a sound, not even from the hundreds waiting for what he would do. Not even Laghfrin knew if what he attempted was possible.

  Dhroghan’s hands began to glow with a golden yellow luminescence, and his chanting became more insistent. He was drawing massive amounts of power from them, perhaps more than what they could give. Then the earth beneath their feet began to tremble, subtly at first and then becoming more violent.

  Dhroghan lifted his glowing hands slowly into the air while stone edges forced their way above the surface at the head of each of the graves. The stones grew out of the ground, thousands of them, at the same rate Dhroghan lifted his hands into the air, as if he were physically pulling them up from the soil. In a very real way, he was. And as the stones rose, the earth and the bodies slid beneath them, filling in the space and solidifying into perfect tombs. When it was done, a massive stone monolith twice the height of a human man stood to mark the grave of each man and woman who had died there.

  On shaking legs, Dhroghan turned to those assembled around him. Those brave people of every race that stood with him against the terrible evil that they were never sure they could defeat. Laghfrin was never prouder to be anywhere in her life.

  “As long as there is life on this earth, this place will be marked by these stones in remembrance of our brothers and sisters who died here. Even many thousands of years from now, when their meaning is a mystery and their names are forgotten, the stones will stand for them.” Dhroghan paused to raise one golden-glowing fist into the air. It shown like a beacon of beautiful light in the hazy dusk before the final minutes of nightfall.. “From now until the end of days, this place will be known as Carnac!”

  Chapter 1

  Hellas

  Awakening

  SY5488

  “I am here, my love. Have you forgotten me?” She was the very nature of perfection and harmony, but her beautiful lips were puckered in a sad pout that broke his heart and filled him with sorrow. “Of course you have forgotten me. You think of me only in your dreams, even though you know I wait for you. If you loved me, you would be here with me.”

  Was that a tear that slowly crawled down the perfect pink flesh of her cheek? Her silky blonde hair flailed across her face and neck, driven by invisible gusts of wind, removing the lone tear. Would there be more?

  “Will I wait for eternity, my love? Will I die here alone and wanting?” She made her body stiff and rigid, crossing her hands over her chest, assuming a very serene expression of one no longer living. Her white peplos, so sheer, billowed around her with the wind, revealing hints of her splendid curves in a mockery of her death shroud.

  “Here lies the poor, wretched Anesidora; she died with a broken heart, with unkissed lips and the frozen stare of sadness in her eyes. Weep for her now, oh gods, that she never felt the touch of her lover!”

  Sadness, utter sadness and loss. Akakios felt it deep within his soul, if he had one. How could he leave this divine being to such a sad ending? How could he tell her that she was only a fantasy in a dream?

  Akakios awoke sobbing into his blankets. It was so real. He felt her emotion and longing raw and unfiltered by shame. Was she real? If he did not find out soon, he would go insane from never sleeping. How could he face her night after night and endure her pleas, her pain, her suffering? He must find out if she was a vision sent by the gods or a Demon of his mind’s own making. In this he would be driven by a singular purpose with a certainty like he’d had for nothing else he had pursued in his life.

  ~~~

  The summer morning was cool and breezy, a very comfortable time of the day that Akakios enjoyed more than any other. He left his home earlier than usual to perform a rite of sanctification for a new forge, and he was sure the blacksmith it was built for was anxious to begin his work. His steps were slow descending the front steps from his home due to a birth defect that caused his right foot to never fully develop, leaving it shriveled and unusable. Despite the disability, he was able to walk with the assistance of his staff that he used to half drag his deformed foot along with him.

  Two acolytes of the temple waited for him outside and greeted him humbly, “Eukomai se, Ta Hiera,” I pray for you, Holy. They spoke almost in unison.

  “Eukomai se,” he replied without slowing his gait.

  “We have brought a gift for Kronos today, Ta Hiera,” one of them said with some excitement. Akakios regarded the boys, who were only about ten years old and still many years away from becoming priests themselves. They were of an age that the ancient stories and mythos motivated and inspired their imagination to flights of fancy. Stories that Akakios was only too happy to pass along to the next generation of priests.

  “Show me the gift you bring, child, so I may judge the blessings you shall earn with it.” Akakios couldn’t hold back the slight smile he felt on his face. He was pleased they were eager students.

  Each of the boys produced a small sculpture made from wood. One represented the patriarch god Kronos, and the other portrayed the wise goddess Metis. Akakios knew their forms well and was stunned by what they presented to him. The gods must be speaking to me through these children.

  He recovered quickly. “That is fine work I see from both of you. We will sacrifice the figures to Kronos at the dedication this morning. Now let’s be away. Master Kyros will be in a foul mood if he wastes his entire morning waiting for us.”

  The boys smiled enthusiastically, put their figurines away, and took up positions two paces behind him, as was considered appropriate in public.

  Akakios did not think of himself as a feeble man for his age. In fact, despite his incapacitated right foot, he was fit and generally energetic. He liked to walk the city, meeting people, and enjoyed the thin mountain air. For some reason, he felt especially invigorated today, as if he were subconsciously anticipating something special that would occur without having any idea what it might be. Whatever it was, or even if it was nothing, he would enjoy the feeling while it lasted, especially since at his age, nearly every day was a little more difficult than the one before.

  He turned onto a wide street that ran through the center of the city. He considered the sharp incline and how far he had yet to go and wished he would have instructed the acolytes bring his carriage. It wasn’t that his deficient foot caused him any pain or distress, it was just that he misjudged the distance to his destination. He always hated showing up to a dedication flush and soaked with sweat if he could help it.

  The people he passed made reverent signs to him and often touched his clothing for blessings. He was used to it and waded through them as if they weren’t even there. Most interestingly, his god, Kronos, also suffered the affliction of a shriveled right foot. Given his position, many believed him marked by Kronos, lending much credence to his close relationship with the deity. He knew it was just a coincidence, but how could he dissuade the faith of the believers? Besides, it worked to his advantage more than a few times, as much or more politically within the temple as with the faithful.

  Akakios acknowledged many people on the street this morning. Working people dressed in light chitons, the length of which was typically short this time of year, with a tunic fastened at the shoulders and belted at the waist. Most wore dull colors suitable for the physical labor of a tradesman, a shepherd, or a hundred other strenuous
labors. On their feet, they wore either sandals or boots. There were a few merchants out as well. They wore more colorful chitons of better fabric and perhaps added a few pieces of jewelry. And of course, there were the servants, lots of servants running this way and that, stopping long enough to offer their respect, as everyone did, no matter their social status, when they passed Akakios on the street.

  The old priest’s mind wandered while he waved and smiled. He’d lived in the mountain city of Sesklo all his life, and he knew practically everyone who called this beautiful city home. Like all the city-states in the Confederation of Hellas, the city observed a patron deity and protector. In the case of Sesklo, it was Kronos, patron of blacksmiths, artisans, fire, and harvests. These were the domains of his god.

  Slowly winding his way higher and higher on the main thoroughfare, he was reminded why he loved Sesklo so much. It was a city of many elevations with grand vistas, beautifully sculpted marble carvings, and white stone buildings held up by high, fluted columns set adjacent to stone-paved streets lined with statuary. It was an industrial city of sorts, having the reputation of the finest metalworkers, sculptors, craftsmen, and artisans in all of Hellas. Their work was exported well beyond the city, well beyond Hellas, even as far as the courtyards of the Emerald Isle a thousand leagues to the west.

  On nearly every surface of every building he passed, there were beautifully chiseled artworks dedicated to a god or hero with scenes from mythology—each one told a familiar story. Even the stores of tradesmen were not known by a sign hanging over their door but instead by the artistic representation of their craft and the god that it was dedicated to on the outer walls.

  His mind continued to wander as his feet guided him to his destination. It was often like this because of his sleep deprivation, and although the whispers of the faithful were not meant for him to hear, he knew that when he was seen in his current state, he was considered to be in communion with the gods. For once, the rumors might be true. There was only one thing that Akakios was troubled by, and because of it, he had slept fitfully for the better part of a year.

  At first, he would have the same recurring dream every night, but unlike normal dreams, the images were vivid and memorable. They involved a distorted vision of Kronos and the distant figure of Metis, the goddess of wisdom. The dreams hinted at a union between the two, not as a sexual act, but as a creation to beget something or someone. Later, the dreams evolved to include the result of their union and, eventually, a name or identity of their creation was revealed to him: Anesidora.

  In his dreams Kronos told him that her name meant “all-gifted,” and he was presented with visions of Kronos, Metis, and other gods he could not see clearly bestowing gifts upon her. Not gifts of a material nature like gold and silver, instead, favors of character, persuasion, the power of speech and a way of speaking, needlework, weaving . . . and above all else, beauty. It was her mother, Metis, who finally gifted her with fine clothing and jewelry. In these dreams, it was as if Anesidora was being presented to him, and he started to feel the tug of a deep sense of love growing for her. Sometimes the dreams included the appearance of Metis with a saddled, winged horse from legends called a Pegasos, ready for flight. For what reason, he did not know.

  The dreams continued to evolve over the months, and soon he found himself engaged in mundane discussions with Anesidora. She made him feel like a young man again, huddling together with a lover, laughing over follies in poetry or weeping with the tragedies of literary prose. Before long, Akakios could not deny that he had fallen deeply in love with this fantastical figure and felt compelled to find her. And each morning that he awoke, he thought himself a silly old man. Why would he have these fanciful dreams? They were for young men looking for inspiration to adventure or the pursuit of a lover. Yet the feelings lingered each day, and he couldn’t resist the power they had over him.

  The dream he had the previous night was the most distressing yet. Anesidora appeared to him in all her beauty. The peplos she wore, a long garment pinned at her shoulders, with a gold chain around her waist, was nearly sheer, revealing the perfection of her body. She stood in front of a temple at high elevation with winds that blew her silky blonde hair and silvery garments one direction and then another. Yet most disturbing was that she was reaching out to him, not to an image of himself in his dream, but to him directly, saying, “Come to me.”

  The dream repeated over and over during the night, and by morning Akakios decided that he must speak with the Hierophant, Head Priest of Kronos, about these dreams. Perhaps the two of them could interpret their meaning together.

  Akakios, deep in thought as he walked, was startled to see that he was only a few strides away from Master Kyros’s forge. He smiled warmly to himself, for he knew this family well, and entered the storefront, where the blacksmith displayed and sold the metal tools, parts, and weapons that he produced. Even at this early hour, there were several patrons making various selections with the help of shop stewards. Apparently Kyros’s business was prosperous enough that he could afford the building of a second forge, bringing on two more apprentices.

  Greeting Akakios when he entered was Kyros’s wife, Theokleia. With long blonde curls and a shapely figure not hidden by a sea-green peplos, she was considered one of the natural beauties of the city.

  She bowed to Akakios and kissed his hand. “Eukomai se, Ta Hiera,” she was smiling broadly at his arrival.

  Akakios took her by the shoulders and hugged her warmly. “Eukomai se, dear one,” he returned. He’d known Theokleia since the day she was born. In fact, he was the priest who presided over her naming ceremony.

  “Kyros is enthusiastically awaiting your arrival!” she told him with a mischievous grin.

  Akakios smiled, still holding her hands. “You mean he is impatiently pacing and cursing the late arrival of the club-footed Ta Hiera!”

  Theokleia laughed amiable, lilting laughter. “You’re so bad,” she whispered and kissed him on the cheek. “I have missed you!”

  Theokleia had grown to be a beautiful and vivacious woman, but to Akakios she would always be the happy little girl with blonde curls who listened so intently to the ancient stories he used to tell the children on the steps of the temple every week. With childlike enthusiasm, she ran ahead of him. “Kyros! He is here! Be on your best behavior now, or he might just crack your new hearth!” She giggled.

  Akakios and his acolytes followed her through the back of the storefront and out into a large courtyard beyond. On one side of the spacious area was a forge in full operation attended by two young apprentices. On the other side was the new forge, freshly constructed and cold to the touch. The entire area was covered by a thick leather canopy that kept the sun and rain off the forges and their workers. Sitting just behind the new forge was a small portable pen holding a single pig. Reluctantly, his gaze shifted to rest upon Master Kyros, who was standing in front of the cold forge next to his wife with his arms folded and clearly impatient to get the ceremony over with.

  Akakios was always impressed by the figure of Kyros. He was a large man, typical of a blacksmith, with short brown curls that fell shoulder length from a full head of hair and intense brown eyes. He wore a basic chiton and a protective leather apron to keep the hot metal sparks from burning holes in his clothing. Akakios could see by the ash on the man’s arms that he had been hard at work for hours already. Although impatient to get done with the dedication, he showed Akakios proper respect with a quick bow and greeting.

  “I know I’m a bit early, Kyros, but I have a very busy day, so why don’t we get started,” Akakios announced in mock self-regard.

  Kyros blinked and then moved away from the cold forge, doing his best to hide his embarrassment, efforts that were completely blown by Theokleia’s giggle.

  The Ta Hiera directed the two acolytes to take positions on each side of the forge. However, before getting started, he quickly whispered to the boys, “You have your gifts handy?” Of course they did, and they smil
ed proudly when Akakios placed the figures within the forge.

  While Akakios prepared for the Ritual of Fire, everyone in the courtyard began to gather to watch. Kyros and Theokleia had invited several friends and patrons, and by the time Akakios was ready to start, the open space in front of the forge was crowded with onlookers.

  The Ta Hiera signaled one of the acolytes, who retrieved the pig and tied it squealing onto the newly cut block anvil. Everything prepared, the acolytes initiated a rhythmic chant that started in a low, measured cadence. The spectators in the courtyard went very quiet, eager to watch the ritual unfolding before them. It was a rare thing for a new forge to be dedicated by the Fire-Bringer, and most people never witnessed it in their lifetime.

  Akakios commenced by calling out blessings from Kronos for all the elements of the forge—hammer, tongs, paddles, the whetstone, sharpening and sanding implements, molds made from ingots and clay, the block anvil, slack basin, bellows, crucible, and most importantly the stone hearth.

  He called out the blessings in time with the chanting that increased in volume and cadence, rising higher and higher, faster and faster. The intonation was nearly a rapid scream by the time Akakios called forth his final blessings on the hearth. Abruptly the chanting ceased, and Akakios threw his hands into the air above his head. With that motion, both of his hands burst into flames.

  There were startled noises from the crowd, and they took a collective step backward and away from the heat of the flames. Akakios shouted words that only he knew the meaning of and thrust his hands into the charcoal-filled hearth.

  It was said that only a hearth in service to a worthy metal worker would ignite, although if the truth were to be told, Akakios never had one not light. Immediately the hearth blazed to life, and the Ta Hiera stepped back, the flames now gone from his hands. The forge had passed the Ritual of Flames.