The Wrath of God

by Jay Penner

  Khaia says something to the executioner.

  Then she vanishes from Apsara’s vision.

  The surface of the granite slab is cold against Apsara’s burning skin.

  The guards tie her hands and feet to the ropes.

  She is spread-eagled for all the world to see.

  Once a Princess.

  Once a Queen.

  Her stomach feels heavy. Her baby stirs as if in protest.

  She looks up to the skies as tears fill her eyes.

  Then there is a loud sound of the trumpet and the beat of drums that lasts for what feels like an eternity. When the noises stop, and there is deathly stillness, the executioner looms into her vision.

  His terrifying masked face looks down on her.

  His hand raises the club.

  Apsara’s ears fill with the roar of a mighty waterfall, and her heart beats wildly.

  And then there is a powerful blow on her right wrist. Pain shoots up her arm like a million needles in her palms as the bones shatter.

  Apsara’s scream dies in the rag that covers her mouth as she kicks in a haze of red-hot agony. She chokes on her vomit and feels the burn in her throat, and her wrist goes limp.

  Help me, Indra, my father, my brother! Teber!

  And yet there is only stillness in the air.

  PART V

  A King has an obligation to contain his ambitions for his actions alter the fate of not only the slaves and courtiers before him, but a great many that live far away from his eyes, never seen…”*

  DAIVOSHASTRA CH. XIV: “DUTIES”

  CHAPTER 54.

  KALLISTU

  We disembark and assemble on the dock. It is a surreal scene around us—smoke rises from hundreds of vents, and the central temple island has a million cracks in it. Cliffs walls spew gas, and the air is putrid with the smell of something rotten.

  What is happening?

  It has taken us forty-five days to get here, and on the way, I have done everything to ensure that this band will remain loyal to me and is willing to obey my every command. Including attempting a coup if the situation is dire. They see that the King has failed and has put the entire Kingdom to risk.

  A small contingent guarding the dock and approaches us. I am desperate to rush them and lead my men to find Apsara, but I know that a stupid move now could put the entire mission in jeopardy. I decide to curb my impulses and remain calm.

  I hope I am not too late.

  “General Teber, greetings. We are relieved to have you back,” he says, saluting. The man looks wary and unhappy. He is disheveled, dirty, and his eyes are puffy from lack of sleep or too much drink.

  “What is happening here?”

  “We are cursed, general,” he says, looking around pathetically. “We no longer know whether our gods favor us. We have been enduring endless tremors; we cannot even sleep well at home at night.”

  “Why have we not evacuated yet?” I ask. The man looks around uncomfortably.

  “The King will not let us. A fleet with a few hundred of our peasants and artisans managed to leave, but then the King ordered a blockade and even had trade boats scuttled. We are to await evacuation orders.”

  I curse under my breath. “What is the King waiting for?” I mutter. I am anxious to get to the palace. Sometimes it is helpful to know what is happening by speaking to the men on the ground than those that dwell in the clouds.

  “I have to get to the palace to assume my orders,” I say, turning to my small but capable force.

  The captain clears his throat, and his men fan out in front. They are outnumbered, look fearful, but they still block our way. “Your orders are to stay here, sir, and prevent anyone from accessing the docks. We will be sent word when you are to go to the palace.”

  “Are you joking, captain? I bring news from Egypt. The Supreme Council has recalled me with explicit purpose. I am not to be a dock guard.” I snap at him. He shuffles on his feet and scratches whatever hair is left on his head.

  “I know, general, those are my orders, sir. I bow to you, but those are my orders, I can verify—” he says, and he looks miserable.

  “By whose orders?”

  “The Oracle’s, sir.”

  “I do not take orders from the Oracle,” I say, puzzled. At a distance I hear some clangs and chants—another ceremony, I wonder, to appease gods that are livid at us.

  “The Prime Minister and the Oracle are issuing security orders, sir. The King is pre-occupied.”

  The clangs and chants grow louder at a distance. We begin to spread around the small unenclosed area, and I hear more clamor and sounds again from above. While the Palace amphitheater is quite far and high above, the sounds carry well at this time of the day and direction of the wind.

  “Captain,” I call him, and he comes running. “What is going on? Is there another joyous celebration to welcome more tremors?”

  “Do you not know, sir?” he says, dropping his voice. “It is time for the Queen’s execution.”

  A heavy rock lands in my stomach. “The sounds— “

  The captain looks up the cliff and points. “It is being carried out right now.”

  No. No. No.

  It is time to act. I turn to my men, who are now clustered close to me. “This is it,” I shout, the strength coming back to my being, “A public execution of a Queen on a pretext and another pointless spectacle for the gods by this mad King. Let us put an end to it all. It is time to depose the tyrants!”

  This is something we have discussed on our journey home, but now is the time to put their commitment to test. The dock guards, of course, are perplexed.

  There is some consternation but some of my closest commanders—Itaja, Kilonas, Eluminnas—raise their hands and swing their swords in the air. “We are with you!” They announce, and soon the entire band is with me. My forethought has paid off—these men have always spoken fondly of the Queen and share a universal disdain and distaste for the King and the Oracle.

  “We will fight to the death if need be, but the King must go,” I shout, with little idea if any of this will work. None of us know how big of a force is still on the island to fight us. But if I must die trying, I will. “Come with me!” I urge the bewildered dock guards—and soon they too shout their approval and join me. We are now a band of about a hundred-and-twenty-five.

  It is a coup, even if it starts small.

  We rush up the winding stone and mud steps of the cliff.

  My lungs burn, and my calves are on fire.

  I pray that I am not too late. We dodge the steaming vents and the acrid smoke but make progress. My skin feels like I have been in a heated water pool for hours. The chants grow louder as we near the amphitheater and just as we come up a low swell beyond which the external compound comes to view. We face ten more guards. They recognize my attire and salute, and the leader says urgently. “You are back, sir? You are to—”

  My men quickly surround them with their swords and spears drawn. The dock captain speaks to the man, “General Teber wishes to bring peace back to our island, brother, let us not wait until it is too late!”

  “I cannot, I mean, — “he stutters in fear and anxiety.

  I lean and place a hand on his shoulder. “You have been lied to, and soon we will have nothing if I do not put an end to this disgrace, now step aside, or join us, because we cannot wait. Do you want the blood of an innocent Queen your hands and enrage our gods beyond what they are already?” I ask rhetorically.

  I hear someone making a speech, but I cannot hear what he is saying.

  Then the voice stops.

  There are horns and drums.

  The man looks around. The smoke, cracks, the blackened ground; none bode too well, and by now they have seen the cruelty of their rulers. “We will join you, sir!” he says, and nods to his men. One man begins to protest. I thrust my sword into his chest, and he collapses with surprise in his face. I then nod to the others. “We have to go.”

  My heart thunder
s in my chest, and I do not know what I will see. I pause and speak to one of the archers and ask him to join me. And suddenly the chants and trumpets stop and there is nothing but silence.

  Is it over?

  We arrive at the entrance, and a few people at the rear benches look back. I point my sword at a guard posted at the gateway, and he retreats without resistance. I rush to the corridor that leads down to the focal area.

  The benches are full. In the center is the execution bed and there—

  My heart explodes.

  Apsara!

  Spread-eagled, naked, her body shaking and legs kicking the ropes that hold her to the poles. These wretched vermin even have a rag tied to her mouth to prevent her from screaming.

  An executioner in a mask is slowly walking to the other side of the stone bed on which the woman of my life writhes in agony. He wields a thick club.

  Breaking her limbs?

  Beating a queen to death in front of the citizens?

  I only briefly catch a glimpse of the nobility.

  Rage consumes me.

  My vision blurs.

  I scream at the archer and watch him raise his bow and pull the string on an already hoisted arrow. I then rush down the steps with my men screaming from behind.

  CHAPTER 55.

  KALLISTU

  Her legs shaking and kicking, and her body wracked with agony, Apsara tracks the masked executioner as he walks to her other side. In the haze of her pain, she realizes what Khaia meant when she had asked Apsara to end her life instead of enduring this punishment. The executioner would break every joint first, and she thinks if this is just the beginning, how long before she embraces merciful death?

  Just then she hears some commotion. She raises her head and looks up—she sees a large group of soldiers rushing down. She cannot make out who they are due to the tears and dust in her eyes, and she turns to her executioner, who is now looking up at what is happening.

  Just then, from the corner of her eye, she sees a glint fly through the air—and the executioner’s skull ruptures. Blood erupts like a fountain, and the man collapses.

  What?

  There is a great roar and clamor, and the scene around her descends to chaos. It is a blur of men fighting as she looks around. The sound of blades and spears fills the air. There are screams, orders, and shouts, and yet she is fixed where she is.

  She wonders if someone will come and kill her quickly. Instead, she feels something at her feet; someone is hacking the ropes.

  Suddenly all her limbs are free.

  Her broken wrist falls to the side and strikes the stone bed, and she doubles up in agony. A hand holds her face and rips the gag, and she gasps for air. But before any other sounds come from her mouth, she feels a powerful hug—and even in the frenzy of the moment, she recognizes the touch and the smell.

  Teber!

  It is as if all the gods smile down on her, and her pain is forgotten, even if for just the moment. She looks up at his face.

  He smiles. There is love and rage in those eyes.

  His hair is patched with blood and comes down in the front in curls.

  “No one will ever hurt you again,” he says.

  Someone drapes her with a garment. Apsara lets out a loud gasp and a sob of relief. She shivers but feels the warmth of his embrace for a moment more before he addresses her again. “Stay with Itaja, I am right behind you,” he says.

  “Don’t leave me—” she starts, but he is gone, and his soldiers surround her and usher her forward to the descending corridor. She takes unsteady steps, and they enter a darkened passage. Suddenly a sturdy resolve grips her, and she taps Itaja’s shoulder.

  “Tie my right hand, my wrist is broken,” she says, struggling with every word, pointing to her limp hand. “Give me a knife.”

  Itaja grunts and inspects her wrist. Apsara cries out in again in pain as he manipulates the bones and settles them before placing her hand in a basic harness. He holds her until she stops shaking and hands her a short sharp bronze knife. She grips the handle and takes a deep breath.

  “Keep going!” She hears Teber’s voice from behind, and he is a blur as he gets in the front. They are now in a semi-dark path that opens up to another room. It is one of the audience rooms of the palace, and Apsara is familiar with this place.

  “Stop, wait!” she hears Teber’s voice, and they all come to a halt. Apsara knows why.

  In front is a wall of soldiers.

  King’s Guard. Loyal only to the King.

  CHAPTER 56.

  KALLISTU

  I eye them. The room is dark and depressing—only a small stream of light comes through an opening on the stone roof. In front are the King’s Guard—I know Uppiluliuma—the tall, powerfully built captain of the guards, not a native Atalanni but from distant lands North. He is known to have no loyalty except to the King. I do not know his history, except that this savage will not yield.

  “Stand aside, Uppi. Rest of your guards are either dead or are with us. It is time to end this madness and restore a semblance of normalcy.”

  Uppiluliuma scoffs. He waves his sword.

  “Sedition. General Teber. I accuse you of sedition, treason, and disloyalty. You lay down your weapons, and we will consider a merciful end to you and everyone with you.”

  What a fool. The world comes down around him, and he speaks of loyalty to a senile, vicious bastard. His men, at least three visible layers deep, slowly fan across the room, spreading from corner to corner. I signal my men to do the same. I turn back to make sure Apsara is protected. She is defiant and trying to argue with one of my men.

  Brave, yet foolish.

  I turn back to Uppiluliuma. “You are blind to what you see around you. What use is loyalty if that is used to protect a vicious King who seeks to destroy the very Kingdom that trusts him to keep them safe?”

  Uppiluliuma scoffs. “My loyalty and oath are to the King, Teber. What he does is of no concern of mine. What good is oath if it bends based on convenience or circumstance?”

  “The oath is to the land and its laws, and not to a man. And if that man fails in his duties, then your oath is no longer binding,” I say.

  He cranes his neck and laughs. “Is that your way of justifying the treasonous scoundrels that hide behind you?”

  Itaja shouts. “Shut your fucking mouth, you foreign donkey. You have no sense of oath because you have no loyalty to the people, just to the king who pays you to be a savage and rape as you will.”

  That riles Uppiluliuma. “I am a greater citizen than you bastards ever were. Plotting behind the king and losing every battle,” he says and spits on the floor.

  There is no sense arguing with this brute. I decide to lay down the ultimatum. “Step aside, or you will all die,” I say, and address the men around him. “Your master will die. He is no Atalanni, but you are. Lay down your weapons or run away.”

  They do not move.

  A gentle vibration tickles the feet. Everyone looks around in fear. We are in a closed space, and it is risky to stay here. “Kill them!” I shout, and we attack the heavily armored guard with the full force of our anger. I rush the group and Uppiluliuma charges at me. Uppiluliuma is a big man, a full head taller than me, but he has spent his life walking behind the King, while I have spent it fighting our wretched enemies. I let him push my sword back, and he loses his footing due to the forward momentum. I pull a short knife in my belt and stab him in the shoulder. He yelps, but it is not sufficient to stop him. I jump back as one of the King’s Guards stumbles and falls in front, his neck hacked away and blood gushing out in spurts.

  Uppiluliuma recovers and swings his sword hard and connects with mine. A jolt of pain rises up my shoulder, and I stagger back. Just then the floor shakes again and pieces of the ceiling drop. I worry that we will all suffocate and die. There are more screams, and I realize that the corridor we came from is shut off due to a collapse of the ceiling. We have only one way forward—to kill the King’s Guard and run until
we exit this subterranean complex.

  The air is thick with dust.

  Some cough as they fight.

  I make out Uppiluliuma fighting one of the dock guards. He smoothly severs the guard’s head and meets my sword just in time.

  This time I will not let him stop me.

  I pirouette with my sword held out in one hand and my knife in the other, and he awkwardly tries to stop the arc of the blade, and just then I thrust the sword forward and slice his thigh. He grunts, and before he can act, I upward thrust my knife right under his chin and yank it forward. Uppiluliuma shudders and falls. He clutches his throat and thrashes about. I leave him and attack the others—but the situation is dire. I can see that the wall of the king’s guard is pushing my men back. The King’s Guard is desperate, and even as we hack them down like sacrificial animals, their greater number is taking a toll on us. I quickly glance back to see Apsara still guarded in a corner, but I do not know how long we can hold. I jump forward with renewed effort, exhorting my men, shouting encouragement.

  The floor is already slick with blood and flesh, but we are beginning to tire. I flinch twice as blades cut my shoulder and forearm—just enough to slice the skin and draw blood.

  Help us, Goddess Mother of Earth. Whose side are you on?

  Suddenly a horn sounds from the corridor behind the wall of the King’s Guard. Everyone stops after a few moments of the skirmish. It is as if every soldier is hoping for a truce.

  From the darkness appear more armored soldiers.

  I struggle to recognize them.

  Phaistos!

  Rishwa right behind him.

  There is much confusion now. Will they join the King’s Guard to kill us? I take a defensive stance, and my men do the same.

  Swords out, shields in front, helmets back in position.

  “Everyone, stand down,” says Phaistos. “The Prime Minister orders.”

  The King’s Guard is unsure what to do. Many look down on the pile of bodies on the floor and their leader, Uppiluliuma, is still twitching on the floor. His face is smashed in with men running over it, and I doubt he can issue more orders.