by Gene Stiles
“There is this, Zeus,” Haleah said, returning to the topic of the camps, the storm of her fury and grief now tempered by time. “With every compound you free, your legend grows. Whispers of Zeus, son of Cronus, fill the streets of every city, outpost and town. You are spoken of as a savior, the one who will free all peoples from the tyranny of your father. The Prophesy is told to children at bedtime to give them hope for the future, taking us back to the time of peace and prosperity on which our society was founded.”
“I am no savior,” Zeus said with a heavy sigh, his eyes downcast and humble. “I am only a man.”
“True enough,” Lelantos agreed, moving behind his friend and placing a massive hand upon his flat shoulder. Hoping to lighten the mood slightly, he added, “And not a particularly handsome one at that. But still, it is not how we see ourselves that truly matters. It is how others see us. You are the leader the world needs whether you wish to wear the mantle or not.”
“Maybe someday,” Zeus replied, weary of hearing of some ancient prophesy made on another world. “As far as my ‘legend’, as you call it, is concerned, it speaks of me first reuniting my brothers and sisters. I still have two brothers to find. I have yet to do so.”
“You will,” Adrasteia said gently from her chair near him. She leaned across the table and touched his hand. She loved this boy she raised and could not be prouder of his character than if he were actually the fruit of her own loins. “I promise you this. I know in my heart that the time is near. The Creator has big plans for you. Have faith.”
“Faith,” Zeus grumbled through his curly red beard. “Too many people put their faith in me. I doubt I can live up to their expectations.”
“You will,” Addy smiled kindly. “I believe this with all with that is inside of me, my son. You will.”
Chapter VII
The Spine of the World runs for over four thousand miles along the entire southwestern coastline of the Prubrazian continent from its pointed tip to the huge, rounded bulge of its top. The cold and majestic snow-covered peaks rise so high into the shimmering blue sky that most of their tops stay hidden in rolling mists and thick, dark clouds. An impenetrable wall of dusty white and dark gray granite and stone streaked with broken bands of reds and blacks meets the rough seashore with not even the smallest of beaches for a ship to make landfall. Mammoth boulders of rock ripped from the ragged cliff by the hands of time and stained with the fetid snows of bird droppings fill the turquoise waters like the jagged teeth of some monstrous beast for hundreds of miles awaiting a meal of unwary ships and men. At the top of the mountain range, vast plateaus and deep valleys lay rich, green and fertile between craggy peaks and rolling foothills dotted with icy rivers and cold, dark blue lakes.
The city of Tartarus sat over three hundred miles inland where the backbone of the land arched like a passionate lover, her belly bulged with a growing life. It rested over twelve thousand feet above the surface of the sea in a humongous valley surrounded by jagged mountain peaks and rolling foothills, once blanketed by endless-seeming grasslands and forests of ancient pines and aspens so dark that the undergrowth lay in eternal twilight. It was a cold, bleak and dreary place built of hard, megalithic stone structures, unpainted and weathered by the titanic forces of nature that ravaged the landscape.
Lake Thakhsi filled the two basins of the flatlands for almost two hundred miles end to end and as wide as fifty miles in places, its water near-black in the center from unfathomed depths. Before the coming of the Atlanteans, it was divided into one mammoth lake and a smaller, shallower one connected by a strait over two thousand feet wide at its narrowest point, but they needed the radioactive ores hidden beneath its northern shores. They used powerful walls of sound to push the water back and hold it while they built a dam of interlocking granite blocks a hundred feet thick and three hundred feet high. They drained the area they separated from the mother lake leaving a gigantic mud and rock-encrusted pit that was an ugly scar upon a once-pristine land.
When they brought him to this place over fifty years ago, he swore they would move him no more. For decades, they shifted him from hopeless mine to hopeless mine, changing his name every time until he almost forgot the one he was born with. The called him ‘little prince’ then ‘Satan’ then ‘Devil’ then ‘Lucifer’ followed by so many others he had lost count and forgotten them. But no matter how many times they tried to make him lose himself in their torments and titles, he never forgot who he was. He was Hades, the unwanted son of a High Lord of Atlantis.
At first, he thought they only moved him from pit to pit out of pure cruelty, always sending him to the deepest, blackest mines where his small stature and wiry body could get into cracks and crevices where others could not go. But as Hades grew and his muscles became as hard as the stone he chipped, he realized they had a much more important reason. They feared him.
Hades had a quick, intelligent mind and a charisma that drew to him the children who were raised in the mines. No matter how many beatings his masters gave him or how many tortures he endured at the hands of the older, stronger boys, he held firm to a personal sense of justice and punishment and a strict moral code. He gathered packs around him, protecting the weak by force of numbers and a perchance for leaving the broken or bleeding bodies of their tormentors in their beds or in the common areas where they could be found easily by others of their ilk.
Yet Hades never killed. If a man or man-child committed a crime against his brethren, his punishment would be just and equal to the offense. If the perpetrator stole food from another, his meals were taken. If a bully beat another, his beating would be harsh and instructive. If a woman or girl was raped, those responsible received the same treatment. If a man took delight in inflicting pain upon others, the agony he suffered would be as he gave and equal to the number of persons he hurt. Never more. Never less.
Hades grew in size as did the respect he received from his fellow miners. By his eighteenth year, he stood nine-foot-eight inches tall with a massive barrel chest and wide, flat nostrils used to the thick, hot, moist air at the bottom of the dank, black pits in which he thrived. He kept his raven-black hair in a short, braided knot at the nape of his sinewed neck and away from his handsome, sharply planed features. Bushy eyebrows the color of night nearly met above his perfectly straight nose, eyes of brooding ebony jewels sat deeply above high, strong cheekbones. He kept his curly, black beard trimmed close to his strongly angled jawline, slightly pointed beneath his sharp, cleft chin to keep the dust and dirt from tangling the hair. His narrow waist and slender hips seemed almost too small to carry his rippling torso, but he moved with the grace of a mountain cat, his legs all corded muscle beneath skin the color of the copper they ripped from the earth.
Every time his masters felt his power over the others grew too great, Hades was sent to another pit to begin again. They were afraid he would use his influence to demand better treatment, more nourishing foods, shorter working hours or more time in the sunlit upper levels. Their concerns were not without merit, but their actions only provoked that which they feared. Hades maintained secret communications with his friends in the mines he left behind and by the time of his fiftieth year, when he was moved to Tartarus, he was ready.
“All work at every mine on the Atlantean continent and beyond has ceased,” Minos said, standing next to the High Chair carved into the bedrock of level six of the pit where Hades sat. His long blond hair was bleached near white from lack of sunshine as was the pale pallor of his skin, hanging in a tightly woven braid down his over-muscled back, stopping just between his sharp shoulder blades. A satisfied grin played across the ample lips that hid beneath Minos’ thick, wiry beard as he brought the news to Hades.
“Thank you,” Hades said, his pointed chin in the palm of his as he rested his elbow upon the polished stone of his chair. His onyx eyes glittered in the flickering flames of a fire set in a rock-faced hearth to his left, the warmth welcomed in the cold winter winds that blew down from above. A small
smile swept over his lips as he pictured the commotion above him. “I am sure our overlords are in quite the panic.”
“Oh, yes,” Minos replied, his hearty laughter echoing off the walls around them. “It is time they learned there is only one Lord of the Underworld and his name is Hades. I hear that the Conglomerate of Mines have ordered a special envoy to travel here to meet with you before the Twelve hear of the Miner Rebellion as they are calling it. They should be here on the morrow.”
“Did you ever think they would lower themselves so far as to negotiate with the likes of slaves?” Hades asked, staring off into the twilight darkness surrounding him.
“We are slaves no more, thanks to you, my friend,” Minos responded, kindly. “I grew up in the Creator-forsaken place and, as strange as it sounds, I have no interest in the world above. I do not mind the work. I only want what my labors are worth. I want to be seen as a man and treated with dignity and honor, not as an animal to be used until I fall then cast aside and discarded into a pit of bones. That is all.”
“And, I promise you, you will receive it,” Hades responded, nodding in agreement. He rose from his chair and clasped his lieutenant by the forearm. “We all will. Now,” he added, draping his muscular arm over his friend’s square shoulder, “let us feast on fresh venison and drink a hearty ale. We should be well rested and refreshed when our guests arrive.”
Over the vehement objections of envoys, the meeting was to take place the sixth tier in the common house once used for the indoctrination of new arrivals. Hades had turned it into the seat of his command where disputes were arbitrated and punishments were meted out and where the miners gathered for feasts and festivals. His choice of this location was carefully calculated to display his power to his ‘guests’ and to prove to them who was the one in charge here.
A High Chair of bejeweled, dark-stained oak stood on a raised dais at one end of the hall in between two gargantuan hearths cut into the stone wall. In both fires blazed with aromatic logs of cedar and hickory. The smoke traveled up cut channels all the way to the top of the mine where it was blown away by the stiff winds that swept the high lands above. Fanciful tapestries of vaguely remembered life on the surface adorned the rough-hewn walls between smoky, dirty windows that faced the wide streets that fronted the level. Rows of benches five deep surrounded the chamber on three sides save where two wide oak doors gave entrance and exit to the building. The only concession given the envoys was a row of five, lushly padded chairs set behind a long mahogany table in front of the High Chair. The seating was intentionally designed to make them feel small and insignificant, encircled by those they thought their inferiors.
“Do you not think we would be better served to have these discussions in private?” Norvell of the Conglomerate said to Hades from his seat at the center of the table. The beady little eyes set in his soft, rounded clay face glowed red above his pudgy cheeks both with anger and with the flicker flames of the fire.
His question was met with snickers and snorts of derision from the miners assembled around him. The hardened men and women easily outnumbered the envoys ten to one, not dressed in finery as were the guests, but dirty, worn and patched pants, shirts and dresses. Their faces were not clean, instead smudged with rock dust and soot, a few covered in scratches yet to heal. Their ragged appearances were done on purpose, some using fresh clay to mar their features and wearing rags they would have only used for cleaning. It was designed to show the Conglomerate the conditions these people lived in day to day. Hades left nothing to chance.
“We are here to serve these people,” Hades said coolly, sitting upon the gaudy throne decorated for this meeting only. Once their guest left, the rubies, emeralds and diamonds embedded in the chair would be removed and sold to feed and clothe his people and to provide them with creature comforts. “They have every right to hear what you have to say.”
Hades was not dressed as the others. His raven hair was cleaned and brushed, held back from his handsome face by a crown of polished gold, a large, fluidly blue opal set above his forehead. His naturally tanned torso was bare, every muscle standing out in high relief from his square shoulders to his slender waist, covered only by a long, midnight-black robe that loosely draped his impressive form. Hades’ breeches were onyx leather that encased his muscular legs like the sheath of a sword. They disappeared into matching boots that came to a sharp point just above his knees. There was no doubt of his power or position to those that sat before him.
“As you wish,” Norvell said, his small, pinkish lips terse in his fleshy face, his round forehead creased with deep furrows. He was the only fat man Hades had ever seen, the flesh falling over his rotund body with no muscle beneath it to give it form. “What is it you want? A mansion above ground? A management position? Better food? Less work? Tell us what you desire and it will be done as long as you can get production back on schedule.”
“I have no need of your mansion above,” Hades said, his ebony eyes glistening like a bird of prey. He stared and the vile creature as would a giant hawk would eye a wounded animal, bloody and ready to eat. Norvell squirmed under that steely gaze, suddenly worried about his personal safety. “This is my home,” Hades continued, casually waving his hand over the chamber and its occupants. “These are my people, those of you ‘above’ discard as worthless or beneath you. I prefer their company to yours.”
“Management? I am already in management. I control the Underworld. Not you,” Hades continued, harsh contempt coloring his words. “Better food? Yes. Better work hours? Yes. Not for just me, but for all who live within the mines. From this day forward, all decisions on quotas, work shifts and living conditions will go through me. I will decide who works where, at what level and in which mine. You will move people only as I command and as I deem fit. I will decide punishment and rewards. Not you. I will decide who will stay and who will go.”
“In short,” Hades stated flatly, his voice stern and brooking no argument, “I run all operations beneath the surface. You can have all that happens above. This is where I belong.”
With grudging consent, all he demanded was met. The mines around the world resumed full production, delivering more and better ores than ever before. All was well and would have stayed that way if not for the arrival of the First Children.
The enormous pumps that served the pit worked overtime as the cold winter rains poured down in sheets so thick it was impossible to see more than a foot in front of your face. Rivers of dirt, rock and water raced through the channels carved into every level, falling over the sides like raging waterfalls. At the very bottom of the mine, the filthy water pooled into a massive black lake that flooded the newest tunnels, weakening the freshly dug walls. The hundred and twenty-degree heat down below caused the rain to steam, filling the shafts with a hot, impenetrable fog for five levels. All work ceased, the denizens of the deep holding up in their homes, pleasure houses and taverns, grateful for nature’s respite from their labors.
“What in the name of the Creator are those?” Minos exclaimed, his face a mask of horrified astonishment.
The grotesque monsters that stumbled from the elevator were unlike anything he had ever imagined, even in his darkest nightmares. They were obviously children no more than ten or twelve years old, but they were misshapen and twisted into forms that were barely human. One had four arms, the extra ones growing midway down its mammoth torso. Another was bent half over, an enormous hump upon its back that caused the knuckles of its monstrous hands to drag the ground before it. All of the fifteen children were deformed in one way or another, shuffling toward Hades, their heads lowered in shame, but every one of them was gigantic, some towering almost as tall as he was. Their oddly shaped eyes darted fervently around the pit, tears of fear rolling down their soft, puffy youthful cheeks. A low whimpering could be heard coming from them like the mewing of terrified kittens.
Hades was horrified by their appearance, yes, but he felt such a swell of pity fill his heart that tears of his own f
ell in rivers and streaked his sorrowful face. What atrocities of nature could have molded their bodies into such abhorrent aberrations? What torments of mind, body and spirit had they suffered in their young lives because of their deformities? It broke his heart to seem them gather before him, staring at the ground and shifting nervously from twisted foot to twisted foot. Hades was glad for the kindness of the rain. At least it kept the spectacle of their appearance from the populous.
“Find out where they came from,” he said to Minos. “Learn what has befallen them to make them so. I have never heard of such a thing in the history of the People. Something is very wrong here.”
Hades found quarters for the children near his own home and kept them away from the mine and out of sight. He felt a father’s need to protect them. He let rumors of their arrival and their demonic bodies to spread throughout the Tartarus pit for weeks, actually promoting fantastical exaggerations, preparing his people for the truth of what they would see.
He also made it known that they were to be treated kindly. Their forms, no matter how disgusting or monstrous, were not of their choosing. The Creator must have a purpose in their creation. They were outcasts like the rest of those who lived in the underworld, unwanted and despised by those above. Most of all, they were children. Children who suffered more than anyone could possibly imagine and Hades made them his own.
In the weeks that followed, they spoke little. When they did, they spoke the Izon language only, the words often slurred through lips as misshapen as the rest of their enormous bodies, making them hard to understand. Hades carefully picked a handful of women to attend them, mothers who could look beyond the obvious and see naught but young ones that needed them. They were well fed and clothed, kept clean and cared for.
Hades visited as often as his other duties allowed. As the weeks turned into months, he saw them brighten and relax. He found them slow-witted, but gentle and sweet. They gathered around Hades when he arrived, each vying for his attention and the treats of toys or sugary breads he brought with him. The other thing he was quick to note was that, despite their often twisted fingers, they had a gift for puzzles and delicate needlework. Yet none of them knew how they came to be or how they wound up here.
