KRONOS RISING_DIABLO

by Max Hawthorne

  With a thunderous snort, the god began to travel even faster through the water, powerful strokes from all four of its paddles propelling it toward its destination. Soon, it reached full attack speed. It was ravenous now and oblivious to all else. Its entire being was focused on finding the source of the delightful taste it had discovered: the taste of blubber and blood.

  ***

  The funeral ritual had begun. Immersed to their knees in the seaweed-strewn water at the edge of the lake, the burly drummers pounded out a steady rhythm. Their booming bass tempo reverberated throughout the caldera, the bowl-shaped structure causing it to echo back and forth and amplifying it. From a distance, the sound was reminiscent of the pumping of an impossibly large heart. The lower portions of the tall, hide-covered drums the men used were embedded in the lake bottom, enabling them to transmit their signal directly into the water. The drummers, themselves, were soaked with perspiration, both from the oven-like heat of the day and the endless toiling of their calloused palms. Seemingly tireless, however, they labored on, their muscular brown frames glistening in the sun.

  All around the northern edge of the lake, the crowd was gathered. As he stared down from his elevated hut, it appeared to Artek that the entire population of the island had gathered for the anticipated festivities. The old, the injured – even the nursing mothers were present.

  It was a significant day for the fledgling chieftain. Besides the importance of the funerary ceremony in terms of uplifting the peoples’ waning spirits, it also marked his ascension to power. It was his first official act as the new tribal leader and he wanted to make a lasting impression.

  Casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure everything was in order, Artek paused to check his reflection in one of the wall-mounted, silvery canisters. He cocked his head to one side, adjusted his tall, feathered headdress, and then looked again. Satisfied with his appearance, the young shaman took a firm grip on his ornately carved staff and began the procession down toward the nearby dock.

  Stretching out some sixty feet along a shallow point, until it submerged at the drop-off, the ten-foot-wide launching dock was anchored into the lake’s sandy bottom via massive pilings, hand-hewn from the largest palm trees on the island. At the shore end of the dock, it connected to a forty-foot-wide deck of sturdy driftwood planks with a short set of sand-strewn steps leading up to it. Permanently set into the center of this deck was a huge, two-man winch, wound with heavy palm-frond rope as thick as a grown man’s arm. Attached to the end of this cable and resting at the top of the downward-sloping dock was the raft.

  With the sound of conch horns echoing all around, the funerary procession made its way along the baking sand and toward the deck. Artek led the way through the crowd, followed by the ten council elders and a score of acolytes, half-a-dozen of whom struggled mightily under the combined burden of the sacrificial throne and former shaman Nornak’s colorfully ornamented corpse.

  Stepping solemnly up onto the deck, Artek faced the expectant throng. He raised his staff for silence and then began his rehearsed speech. As his words rang out, he made it a point to catch and hold each and every listener’s gaze in turn.

  The young shaman had the gift of oratory, without a doubt. His deep voice resonated with comfort and reassurance, as he strove to allay his audience’s fears that the gods were lost to them and that the spirits of the volcano would come to take them all. He hinted at the possibility that a few of the young godlings might have escaped the recent avalanche. Or, perhaps, there might be other secluded nurseries that the people didn’t know about. Desperation was his eager ally and he soon had them enthralled. It was all smoke and mirrors, of course, but the people needed something to believe and to cling to. In truth, Artek thought mirthlessly, he wanted to believe it as much as they did.

  His rhetoric complete, the young leader took a brief respite before gesturing for the throne to be brought up to the launching dock. The elders made way, moving to reserved spaces within the now jubilant crowd that gave them the best possible view for what was to come.

  Carefully working their way up the creaking stairs and past the enormous winch, the struggling group of acolytes set the decorated chair and its deceased occupant down into pre-cut grooves in the raft, tying it in place with ropes already attached and removing the ones that bound the body in place.

  The raft, or serving tray, as it was jokingly referred to by children and adolescents, was essentially a ten-foot by ten-foot wide platform of wood, resting atop a pair of huge, chiseled logs some twenty feet in length. The logs were tapered on the ends, giving them the appearance of wooden pontoons nearly three feet thick. Bridging these pontoons were one-foot-wide, three-inch-thick palm tree planks that were sturdily connected by means of lashings and heavy wooden dowels, hammered into place.

  The raft’s paired pontoons rested in well-worn grooves that ran the length of the dock like inverted railroad tracks, vanishing into the murky water. The raft was a gravity-based affair; the dock upon which it rested sloped intentionally downward, its angle increasing as it approached the deepwater drop-off.

  The thick rope wound around the six-foot winch was primarily used to retrieve the raft – or what remained of it – after it served its purpose. The rope was attached to the raft’s bow section, with the chair and its occupant facing the crowd. At the given moment, and via considerable manpower, the entire assembly was pushed backwards down the blubber-greased tracks, its speed increasing until mass and momentum took over and sent it careening down, to end up in the water with a tremendous splash.

  The rest, as they said, was up to the gods.

  Raising his hands for silence, Artek turned and studied the water behind him. The wind had finally died down and the foul-smelling mixture of seal blood and blubber had dissipated, leaving behind an oily stain that spread across the surface of the lake. There was no sign of their invited guest, but the shaman knew from past experience that the creature would come, probably soon. One thing about this particular god: when it came to its food, it was very predictable.

  Turning back, Artek surveyed his audience. Suddenly, he espied Martika, mixed in with the elders in the front row. Unlike those of the rest of the crowd, her eyes were not fixated on the lake, nor were they on him. She was staring up the beach at an ornate hut a few paces from his.

  Artek’s lips tightened and he frowned as he studied his promised bride. Finally, he shook his head and, with a heavy sigh, gestured to the nearest elder. It was time to initiate the portion of the ceremony he’d been dreading night and day.

  The elder gave a quick bow and then turned away. He worked his way through the gathered throng, then turned up the path leading toward the huts and disappeared into the one beside Artek’s. He emerged a short time later, accompanied by two towering guards. Between them was a woman of average height. She was ornately dressed, as if for a matching ceremony.

  She was Rakela, Nornak’s widow.

  It was obvious even from the beach that the woman, despite being middle-aged, was still quite attractive and desirable. The now-hushed crowd parted as the elder and the three newcomers approached.

  Artek studied Rakela as she was brought closer. She moved slowly yet with surprising steadiness. Although, as shaman, he could never say it aloud, he was impressed with both her stolidity and composure. Considering that her husband had just perished in the middle of the night, she demonstrated tremendous courage and devotion to their ways. Especially taking into account what was about to happen.

  The guards and the elder stopped a few paces from the deck. Rakela paused and looked around, her tired eyes deftly searching the now-subdued crowd. Spotting Artek’s promised bride, she smiled sadly, gesturing for her to approach. Martika moved quickly to Rakela’s side, her stony exterior cracking and then crumbling. The two women embraced, holding each other tightly while exchanging quick, whispered words. With tears running down her face, Martika finally tore herself away. Then, with her eyes once more to the ground, she re
turned to her previous position.

  Artek studied her intently. But Martika continued to avoid his gaze.

  With a shrug of resignation, he stepped sideways on the deck and gestured for a nearby group of acolytes. The chosen four came forward and, with appropriate gentleness, took hold of Rakela’s hands and arms, escorting her up the stairs.

  Passing Artek, they guided her toward the raft.

  As Nornak’s widow, the law concerning Rakela was explicit. Unlike the bride of a normal member of the tribe, the life-mate of a chieftain or elder was considered irrevocably bound to her spouse, both in body and spirit. If her mate perished before her, as was often the case, the woman was not permitted to find a new partner. Rather, she found herself in the unfortunate position of being forced to join her deceased husband as he made his glorious final journey.

  Along with her mate, she would be sacrificed to the gods.

  As they reached the raft, Rakela turned one last time. She looked around, searching for and finding Artek. There was a long, unspoken moment between them as her sorrow-filled eyes bored into his. The young shaman met her gaze but then recoiled. He wasn’t sure whether it was pity or disapproval he was seeing, perhaps both. Regardless, and despite himself, it was he who looked away.

  Visibly shaken, Artek turned his back to the woman and faced the crowd once more. Behind him, Rakela allowed herself to be willingly tied to the raft. The crowd, adrenalized by what they knew was coming, began to grow boisterous, and as he studied their collective faces the young chieftain suddenly realized something that struck him to his core.

  Martika was staring at him. Or rather, she was glaring at him.

  Glinting in the sun, her big blue eyes stood out from the crowd like brilliant aquamarines. Artek actually flinched as their gazes locked. It was not the fact that she was looking at him for the first time in twenty-four hours that unsettled him. Rather, it was what he read behind his promised one’s stare that was so unnerving. It was a combination of two things. The first might have been described as wariness. The other was anger . . . mixed with loathing.

  Averting his eyes, Artek sighed heavily. Regardless of his personal feelings, he had no choice in the matter at hand. He was the tribal leader now. His duty was his duty and the law was the law. He could not, and, more importantly, would not shirk his sworn responsibilities. In the young shaman’s mind it was all very simple: The gods came first. Nornak had known it. Rakela knew it. And in her heart Martika did, too. It was the way of things.

  Still, he should have seen it coming. Martika and Rakela had always held a tremendous fondness for one another. The older woman had doted on Artek’s promised since she was a child and, after Martika’s mother’s passing, some ten years past, she had raised her as one of her own.

  It was common knowledge that Martika’s affection for Rakela was nothing short of love. And now she was watching Artek sentence her to death.

  From the look on her face, he could tell that she would never forgive him for what he was about to do. Worse, she would never trust him enough to become his bride or even his consort.

  Artek’s burgeoning brow lines creased up at the thought. It was incredibly frustrating, but the young shaman was forced to admit that he couldn’t blame Martika for despising him, or for distrusting him, either. After all, how could he?

  The woman being secured to the raft was his own mother.

  ***

  The god drew steadily closer. Cruising just under the water’s surface, the huge creature had covered the four miles from the center of the lake to its northern tip in just over five minutes. The shoreline was in sight. Caution kicked in as the ten-thousand-foot depths beneath its scaled belly began to grow shallow and it slowed its approach. Moving stealthily forward, it remained submerged as it continued to follow the pungent trail of phocine blood.

  Despite the fact that this particular god had, over the decades, devoured dozens of the bipedal mammals that, for some reason, seemed to willingly offer themselves to it, it continued to stalk even this most helpless of prey. The creature had learned to associate the strange, thrumming sounds with a readily available source of food, but when it came to hunting it could not be conditioned. Regardless of circumstance, its predatory instincts remained sharp and strong.

  Five hundred yards out, the titan surfaced loudly for air. As it did, it both heard and felt the tremendous crash that signaled the entrance of prey into its aquatic domain. Displacing tens of thousands of gallons of seawater as it cruised forward, it closed the distance between itself and whatever waited.

  ***

  The raft had been successfully launched. Backed by cheering crowds and a thunderous drum beat, the weighty construct had barreled noisily along down the dock’s creaking tracks, building up speed until it and its passengers entered the lake with a watery explosion.

  The backward-facing position of the dead shaman, along with the slender ropes that held him in place, had saved Nornak’s corpse from the humiliation of being prematurely launched into the lake. His widow, however, had suffered far worse treatment. Even though she knew what to expect, Rakela’s frightened grip failed her on impact and she was tossed, feet first, over the edge of the raft. Only the braided rope that tethered her to the back of the ceremonial chair kept her from slipping completely beneath the surface of the choppy green waters.

  Kicking and clawing her way back onto the slippery platform, the battered woman rose awkwardly to her feet. She waited for the worst of the swaying to subside, then moved unsteadily forward on the raft. A moment later, she resumed her assigned position behind Nornak, her hands now resting on her dead husband’s rigid shoulders. Leaning forward, she kissed the back of his head. Then, with her eyes closed and chin held high, she awaited her fate.

  Artek could tell the wait would not be a long one. Moments earlier, he had spotted the distant spout of the approaching monster. As predicted, its senses had led it infallibly to its quarry. The god would arrive within moments to claim its prize.

  With a quick signal to one of his acolytes, the shaman turned back toward the crowd. On cue, and not missing a beat, the drummers changed their rhythm from the pulsating heartbeat they had been steadily pounding out to an even louder, more regimented cadence. His muscular arms raised high overhead, Artek’s powerful voice carried across the beach, leading the divine one’s congregation as they began to chant its legendary name.

  Gronn . . . Gronn . . . Gronn . . .

  As if it heard them, the god-beast arrived. Surfacing next to the bobbing raft with a ferocity that sent waist-high waves surging up to scatter those on the beach, the creature revealed itself. Rakela’s high-pitched scream was annihilated by the titan’s throaty bellow as its scale-covered head rose up out of the water to the height of a tall palm tree. Streaming saltwater, its ruby-colored eyes blinked once as it gazed down at the insignificant life forms tied to the flimsy raft.

  Rakela, previously calm, appeared to go insane with fear as she stared up at the face of her “god”. She began to bite and gnaw at her bonds, yet at the same time seemed incapable of averting her eyes from the nightmarish apparition looming over her. Then, with a loud snort, the creature slipped back beneath the waves. On shore, the villagers held their collective breath as they waited for the spectacle to unfold.

  Spurred on once the creature was no longer in view, Rakela worked feverishly to free herself. Using her tongue to add saliva to her already bloodied wrists, she managed to free one of her hands from its restraints just as the raft was bumped hard from below.

  Caught off guard, Rakela was thrown roughly to the unforgiving wood. Her grunt of pain was punctuated by a loud splash. As she glanced toward the front of the raft, she realized the chair she was tied to was now empty. Nornak was gone, propelled over the side by the impact. She could see his body bobbing on the surface fifty feet away, his plumed headdress protruding from the water like a peacock’s crest.

  Struggling to stand atop the bobbing platform, Rakela watched in horror
as the god circled back toward Nornak. Its gigantic jaws, lined with dagger-like teeth, barely broke the surface as they opened in a nightmarish yawn. A split-second later, the creature swallowed the dead shaman whole and submerged from sight.

  The crowd cheered.

  Rakela’s fear-widened eyes remained fixed on the swirling waters where her husband had just been. She began to violently tremble and clung desperately to the top of the ornate chair, squealing in terror as the raft was nudged again and again.

  On shore, Artek and the villagers watched in grim silence.

  Annoyed that its repeated attempts to dislodge the balance of its meal had failed, the pliosaur raised its toothy muzzle up out of the water in an effort to gauge Rakela’s position. The pupil of its nearest eye dilated as it zeroed in on her. Then, with a sideways snap of its crocodile-like head, it attempted to envelope her in its jaws.

  The scaly titan’s sheer mass was its enemy at this point. The wall of water it displaced as it struck nearly upended the raft and it missed the shrieking woman by inches, crunching down on the ceremonial throne instead. There was a sharp cracking sound as it wrenched the weighty chair free, followed by a thunderous snap as it slammed its jaws together, reducing it to kindling. A rumble of displeasure escaped its scaly lips. Furious at being denied its intended snack, the pliosaur spat out the distasteful pieces of wood and submerged once more.

  For long moments, the water remained calm. Then Rakela, teetering on the brink of insanity, suddenly realized she was free. The god’s destruction of the throne had severed her remaining bonds. Soaked to the skin and bleeding from her nose and one ear, she made it back to her feet. She could feel the gnarled surface of the slippery wood between her toes as she fought to balance herself.

  Eyes wide with dread and stammering uncontrollably, Rakela eyeballed the surface of the lake. There was no sign of the huge reptile. All of a sudden, a hundred yards away, the water began to churn across a large area. With a crazed look on her face, Rakela dropped down on all fours and dug her broken and bloodied nails into the floorboards of the ravaged raft as best she could. She gazed back at the shore, some forty yards away. The raft was still connected to the dock by the thick winch rope, but she knew there was no chance her tradition-obsessed son would order her to be brought back in.