by Gene Stiles
A gigantic, bronze-skinned giant stepped into the clear, pulling back on an arc of golden metal. A faint hiss whispered in the wind. Duramus felt the sting of some monstrous hornet rip through his throat, stilling his cry as he fell dead upon the cold stone floor, his spine severed. The muscles locked in his outstretched arm, his falling weight causing it to slam down upon the large red button on the desk before him.
A shrill, high-pitched wail rent the warming air causing the guards to turn their backs on the four young women on the road. Their hands went for their sidearms, tearing them from their holsters. The harmless, dirty women erupted into a flurry of fists and flashing steel, cutting a bloody swath through the men before they could even perceive what was happening or what had set off the alarm. They fell upon the rock-like roadway, their life fluids staining the ground a dark, sticky crimson. One or two managed to witness a squad of fighters tear toward the gateway before the lights in their dying eyes flickered out for good.
“Take the barracks!” Zeus shouted, racing for the guardhouse to shut off the alarms. “Kill the wards! Spread out and search for any stragglers inside. See if there is an armory and take all you can carry. Lelantos, take a couple of your best marksmen and get to the roof. We will have company soon.”
Commander Nephilemus stood upon the huge platform set up for Ceremony of Decision, making last minute changes to the sound system, his notes and to the seating arrangement of his staff and officers. He was the living paragon of the Creator’s perfection and he knew it well. He stood good nine-foot-eight inches tall with a muscular body chiseled by a master artist, from his broad, flat shoulders to his only slightly narrowed waist and down to legs as thick as a tree trunk. Every sinew was richly defined beneath skin of copperish bronze that seemed to glow in the brilliant sunlight. His face was sculpted by the hand of the Creator, Himself, with dazzling, ocean-blue eyes set on either side of a perfectly straight nose. Lips of light pink, ample, but not overly so, rested between sharply planed cheeks just above a deep cleft chin centered upon a strong, square jawline. Wavy blond, luxuriant hair, highlighted with shining streaks of red-framed his radiant features, cut just below his thick neck and held from his face by a crown of braided gold embedded with the Tree and Pyramid symbol of Atlantis.
Nephilemus wore a deep-cut shirt of pear-white satin that shimmered with hues of golden strands entwined into the fabric beneath an ornately worked, loosely laced vest of purest gold. His breeches were made of the finest white leather, rune-covered bands of maroon down the outside of each pant leg. Around his hips he wore a wide crimson belt etched with symbols edged in black from which hung a tooled gold sheath. A decorative short sword hung within the scabbard, the hilt rich with rubies, emeralds and stones of polished turquoise.
But there was something dark and ominous that curled inside of Nephilemus that caused others to shiver when they gazed upon him. His eyes were dead, as cold as a mountain glacier. His lips quirked to one side, an evil, cruel sadistic smile playing upon them when he visited the breeding pens. Sometimes his cheeks flushed slightly, his tongue peeking through his tightly closed mouth as he watched the forced fornication in the barren, dirty prison cells. His eyes would darken, shimmering with an unholy wetness as he watched.
His rage was never loud, but the very softness of his words chilled the souls of even his most hardened subordinates. Nephilemus’ orders were followed without question. Those who did not respond quickly enough seemed to disappear without a trace, never to be heard from again. So when the sirens went off for the first time, the Black Guard rushed to the gates as if maddened, flesh-hungry demons nipped at their heels.
“What in the Creator’s name is going on?” Nephilemus bellowed, rushing to his sled and following his men toward the southeastern gate. He knew some overzealous guard must have accidentally set off the sirens. No one would be foolish enough to attack Pettit! His personal empire was sanctioned and protected by Cronus, himself. How dare anyone interrupt his ceremony? The person responsible would be punished in the most horrific of ways!
It was his overly confident arrogance that made the battle so bloody and short. His warriors carried mainly sidearms, only a select few had plasma rifles strapped to their backs. Their heavier weapons were locked away in the armory in the main barracks at the other end of the valley where the bestial Izon were the biggest threat.
Nephilemus stopped cold halfway to the gatehouse, his pretentious pompousness draining from his body as the color drained from his face. The low-cut, manicured green grasses were splotchy with pools of bright red blood, steamy, twisted corpses blackened into caricatures of terrified death. Screeches of agony replaced the wailing cry of the alarms filling the warm morning air. Angry red and blue pulses of condensed light rifles slashed into the unprepared Black Guard from the gatehouse roofs and the dark forest tree-line. Thick ropes of white-hot plasma reduced all they touched to piles of vile-smelling flesh and bone. He stood stunned into quietude as the majority of his forces – gathered near Pettit for the Naming of Clans – were butchered in unrelenting waves of energy and withering firepower.
Nephilemus was still standing in the same place, frozen in shocked incredulity as a contingent of warriors headed his way, led by a bronze-skinned giant nearly as tall as he was. The man had a lion’s mane of wavy, yellow-streaked, red hair that undulated around his square-jawed features in the sick-smelling battlefield breeze. His massively muscled body, sheathed in tanned leathers from neck to foot, strode forward, his steely gaze set with grim purpose.
“Who do you think you are to invade this place?” Nephilemus demanded, a small measure of his imperiousness restored as he noticed the plain, drab attire of the intruders. “You shall pay for your insolence by the hand of the Lord Father, himself! This place is off limits to all of Atlantis! Just what do you want here? What do you think you will accomplish with this travesty?”
“Justice,” the man responded coldly, his voice washing over Nephilemus like the icy waters of a winter storm. Eyes of shimmering gold took measure of the Commander and found him wanting, an appraisal he had never before been subjected to. It raised his ire.
“Bind him,” the man ordered, dismissing Nephilemus with a wave of his hand. “Bring him with us to the city.”
The Commander started to resist, his corded muscles bunching for battle. Four rifles lifted, their deadly muzzles taking steady aim upon his torso. He relaxed and relented, allowing himself to be tied with thick, braided ropes and brusquely tossed into the back of a flatbed sled.
“You will pay for this,” he muttered to no one in particular. “You will pay,” he repeated, his empty threats completely ignored by his captors.
The Naming stage served a new purpose this day, a function never before witnessed in the history of this wretched place. The city of Pettit was emptied of its occupants who now stood amassed in front of the platform unsure of what to expect from the day to come. Behind them gathered the Mags, outnumbering them ten to one, and behind them the Izon captives from the far end of the valley. Loosely surrounding them all stood warriors heavily armed, but with the barrels of their rifles pointed at the ground, the sidearms holstered. Their countenances were tense and stern, but the scowls did not seem to be for the vast crowd, but for the surviving Black Guard and officers bound and kneeling upon the stage, their heads hung in furious, fearful hatred.
“We could not get to them in time,” Haleah spit angrily, standing to one side of Zeus near the podium. “The stench was horrendous. These animals cut the women and men in the cages, cells and breeding pens to pieces before we could free them. None of them survived…nor did the beasts that killed them.”
“In a way,” Lelantos said quietly, placing a hand upon her slumped shoulder, “it is a kindness. Can you imagine the horrors those piteous women had to endure? I doubt their shattered minds could ever have been restored to anything near normal ever again.”
“At least they are at peace now,” Zeus replied softly. “They are in the hands
of the Creator now, whole and happy within His presence. They may rest safely in the sweet embrace of His loving arms.”
“And now for these blackhearts,” he continued, his lips terse and fierce beneath his glowering yellow eyes. Zeus stepped before the podium and raised his hands to the sullen, terrified and uncertain throng spread out in the meadow before him. After their babble lowered to unsure mutterings, he spoke into the amplifiers.
“People of the Valley and the city of Pettit,” Zeus started, his rich baritone voice calm and serene, spreading a blanket of warmth over the crowd, “we are not here to threaten you or to harm you. We are here to free you from this discussing, vile prison, to give you back your own lives to do with as you wish. Have no fear of us.”
No one spoke. They simply stared at him as if they did not understand his words. A wave of whispers rippled through the packed, milling bodies as they glanced nervously at each other, their faces doubtful and uneasy.
“We are also here to render judgment upon those who have held you in such terror and confinement,” Zeus continued, pointing at his kneeling captives. “Such pain, torture and agony as you have been forced to endure cannot and shall not go unpunished.”
“Who are you to judge me?” Nephilemus demanded, rising to his feet, his hands still bound behind him is back. “I am the Commander. Handpicked by Cronus, the Lord Father. I have traveled this world into wild places and built the outposts, cities and towns of our empire! I am the protector of the People!”
“Protector of the People,” Zeus sneered viciously. “Yet you force women of the People into despicable acts. You torture and abuse them. You cage their children. You decide who will live and who will die. You decide who is worthy of what future and how they will serve out their days. You treat the Izon as less than the dirt beneath your boots. How could you call that protecting anyone?”
“The Izon,” Nephilemus snorted derisively. “They are vermin. Everywhere I have been there are packs of them living in caves and among the trees. Few live in anything resembling homes of villages. Most I have encountered treat us as gods and rightfully so. They are to be used or destroyed as we see fit. They are nothing but stupid, ugly animals!”
“They are Bloodkin!” Haleah snapped at him, wanting nothing more than to rip his depraved, repugnant tongue from his mouth.
“Maybe your bloodkin,” the Commander lashed back. “Yes, I know who you are, Keeper. I have seen your halo many times. You are an abhorrent aberration, a repulsive fluke of nature. My lineage traces back in a pure bloodline straight to the founders of the domed cities of Atlan. You are nothing but a freak, a twisted facsimile of one of the People.”
Lelantos had to physically restrain Haleah from slicing the pathetic excuse of a man into bloody ribbons on the spot. She struggled in his powerful arms, her face a mask of savage murderous rage. If not for his hand locking hers around the hilt of her blade, that creature would have died a terrible death.
“See?” Nephilemus scoffed, flipping a backhand in her direction. “The beast can hardly be contained. My point is made.”
“Are you not creating such aberrations here?” Zeus responded, stifling his desire to tear the limbs off of the commander with his two bare hands. “Is that not the purpose behind this entire valley?”
“I do what I do under the strict orders of the Lord Father no matter how loathsome I find it,” he countered. “I do it for the continuation of the species, so the People may remain dominant over the beasts and man-things of this planet. This world belongs to us. Only the purest, the strongest, the smartest, the Nephilim, matter. The rest are as dust in the wind. Inconsequential. Fodder for mills and mines. Domesticated animals to do our bidding.”
“We shall see what your ‘animals’ think of that,” Zeus promised harshly. He returned his attention to the people of the valley. “What say you? Do you agree with this creature’s assessment of you? Are you nothing? Do you wish to live as you always have, held prisoner by his wards and his whims? Or do you wish to be free to shape your own destinies? To make your own families and futures? To live in peace, unfettered from fear and oppression? What say you?”
Strangely quiet during the exchange between the Commander and Zeus, the vast throng chanted out loudly into the bright blue sky, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”
“Wait!” a voice shouted out from the row of bodies directly in front of the stage. A young man of gargantuan proportions shoved his way forward, his fists planted against his wide hips. “What is to happen with us? Where will we go? What will we do? We are the elite. The Nephilim. We were promised homes among the People, to be treated as their equals. What would you have us do?”
“You are free to go to Atlantis if you so desire,” Zeus answered, a small smile showing through his thick, curly, red beard at the brash young child. “All roads are open to you. Take what you wish for your travels.”
“As for the rest of you,” he said, returning his gaze to his mingled audience, “I offer you this. You may come with us to our sanctuary and become part of our homes and community or we will arrange transport to anywhere you wish to go. It will take some time, but you are free to make your own decisions and come or go as you wish. The choice is yours and yours alone.”
“Again, I ask,” Nephilemus demanded, his blue eyes icy and narrowed, “just who are you to make such preposterous proclamations?”
Turning his golden eyes upon the foul apparition one last time, he answered.
“I am Zeus, last born child of Cronus and the Lady Rhea.”
A collective gasp surged from the masses before the platform, undulating like a stormy sea across the vast, low-cut meadow. No one was more stunned and terrified by the pronouncement than Nephilemus and his Black Guard. They alone among the children of the Valley Diefilli knew of the Prophesy and the supposed death of the children of the Lord Father. If this was indeed the Destroyer, no arguments nor the fear of Atlantis would change their fates.
“I am the uniter of all races of man,” Zeus intoned strongly, loud enough to be heard by all, “be he Izon, Atlantean or be he called by any other name. I am he who shall restore honor, justice and law to this world. This I promise you all in the name of Creator and under His watchful eye.”
“And, in the name of that justice,” Zeus finished coldly, his golden gaze searing into the Commander, “you are condemned to death for your atrocities against His creations. That, despicable creature, is who I am.”
“And you still have not found them,” Cronus bellowed, his body quivering and his jade eyes blazing. He stomped through his private quarters, his long, ebony robe swishing angrily across the smooth marble floor. He stared out of the crystal window panes, gazing far past the boundaries of the shining city and the vast farmlands beyond the One Tree to the snowcapped mountains to the north. “How could an entire city of people simply vanish?”
“I do not know, Lord Father,” Iapetus grumbled, his deep voice sounding like rolling thunder in the confines of the room. He stood before the huge oak desk, his hands clasped behind his massive back, the black leathers he wore struggling to contain his almost over-muscled, behemoth of a body. His midnight eyes glistened with flecks of red fury, but otherwise, his stance did not reflect the turmoil seething within his cold, harsh heart.
“How many times do you expect me to forgive your continuing failures before I tolerate you no more?” Cronus barked, turning upon his brother, his vehemence dripping from every word.
“I serve at your command, Lord Father,” Iapetus responded flatly, his boulder-like body impervious to the waves of rage that crashed against him. “Should you desire, replace me and do with me as you wish.”
“Replace you with who?” Cronus bit back. “If I could figure that one out, you can be assured you would be removed and punished severely. As it is, you are sadly the best of my commanders and one of the few of the Twelve still loyal to me. Ingrates and traitors, all of them,” he fumed. “If I did not need them to help run the Atlantean empire, I would e
xecute them all.”
Iapetus shivered inwardly but made no response. After decades of calm, he had hoped that the demons inside his brother had finally died off. Yet, since Pettit had come to light and Rhea fled the city, the ugly nests of the black, maddened serpents that twisted inside of Cronus reared their foul heads once more. Her parting announcement of the child Zeus drove him into a furious rage that lasted for days as he beat the stone walls of his bedchamber and howled like a rabid beast. As much as Iapetus loved his brother and worshiped the Lord Father, he felt the tremors of a familiar fear cascading through his mind and curling deep within his troubled soul. He felt a bitter taste upon his lips and prayed to the Creator that he would be strong enough to help his brother survive yet another violent episode.
Dismissing Iapetus with a wave of contempt, Cronus stomped across the floor toward the adjoining doors of the council chambers, the hard stone reverberating with every heavy footfall. He hated dealing with those pathetic whiners, knowing he would be fought and berated on every decision he made from now one. Yet, in the end, they would bend to his will. He was the Lord Father, savior of the People and all of Atlantis. The People and the Aam, at least, were loyal and worshiped him for their salvation and for the new and wondrous world he had given them. Their lives had never been better and more than they had ever dreamed possible. As long as they supported him, none would dare oppose him.
With a heavy sigh, Cronus placed a hand upon the carved-oak doors of the chamber. His face was terse and hardened, his back straight and stiff, his emerald eyes flickering with reddish sparks. He fully expected to hear the rumbles of discord among the Twelve, contentious bickering and heated disputes. Instead, he was met with absolute silence. The Table was empty, the high-backed chairs shoved back in disarray. All nine of his brothers and sisters lined the clear crystal windows that overlooked the city to the north, nary a word muttered as they stared along the wide boulevard leading into Atlantis. Cronus shoved his way to the fore, a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach. The sharp words taking shape upon his lips died without a breath before they could pass his drying tongue.
