Colony - Nephilim

by Gene Stiles

  “The empire has become too large and unwieldy,” Iapetus replied, unusually relaxed during one of Cronus’ tirades. He stretched his bulk across the long, red brocade couch that rested against one of the richly paneled, dark oak walls of the chamber, sipping casually on a large porcelain cup of strong, steaming green tea. His heavily muscled, pillar-like body was clad in a simple black tunic that stopped mid-thigh, a wide, silver-studded, leather belt encircling his almost non-existent waist.

  It was only a thin façade though. Behind his flat, night-black eyes was a rising concern for his brother’s well-being. For so long, Cronus had remained calm and reserved no matter what problems presented themselves. It was as if he had managed to bury his emotions, allowing logic to dictate his actions. Yet, ever since the conclave in Nil, he became more unstable, his outbursts more frequent and increasingly furious. Meeting Zeus, the harbinger of the Prophesy had unhinged him. Iapetus worried Cronus might be slipping once again into madness with dire consequences for all of Atlantis and the big man had no idea what to do except to be there to listen to the Lord Father.

  “There are too many of us now,” he continued, his deep voice rumbling through the large room, “and everyone has their own ideas and opinions. We are spread out all over this vast planet making it difficult to govern from a central location. Each city and outpost has their own priorities and difficulties.” Iapetus glanced up at his brother’s rigid back, noting the white knuckles of his hands. “But you must know, Lord Father, the majority of the People still love and respect you. Do not let the whining of the vocal few distract you from what is most important.”

  “What they need is a unifying element,” Cronus said thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping the silver spires of the city. His voice was detached and introspective as if he had not heard a single word Iapetus had uttered. “Something like we had when we were forced to leave Atlan or when we first awoke on this new planet. We need a threat and an enemy for them to fear so they will unite behind us once again.”

  Cronus looked over his shoulder at his brother, his emerald eyes glimmering with cold, flickering fire. With a predatory grin that chilled Iapetus to the bone, he almost whispered, “And I have the perfect cause.”

  Thea felt strangely ill at ease and had no idea why. The day was perfect. The blazing rays of the golden sun above her were diffused by a thin, wispy blanket of high cirrocumulus clouds that floated leisurely through an azure sky. A cool, gentle breeze blew across the River Gaia, rippling the low, green grasses of the colorful, flower-strewn meadow. The One Tree spread its ancient, majestic branches behind her, blocking out even the sky-reaching towers of Atlantis. The air was rich with the birdsong and the gay laughter of children at play. The scene was joyous and serene and nothing seemed amiss. So why did she this tingling sense of impending doom?

  It appeared most of the population of Atlantis had heeded the Lord Father’s call for a day of rest and celebration. Hundreds of people wandered over the veldt listening to various musicians playing an incredible array of happy, pulse-pounding music. Many danced among the flowers in front of the stages, their faces radiant with joy. Merchants of all types and sizes plied their wares in brightly canopied stalls scattered around a cleared central area where a huge circular dais had been raised covered by a gigantic, rainbow-hued sunshade. The wooden floor was lined with tables heavily laden with an enormous variety of meats, vegetables, fruits and baked goods. Vendors piled thin ceramic plates high with enticing samples of their best foods with directions to their larger booths outside.

  One side of the dais was reserved and guarded by a few, sword-carrying Black Guard. High-backed, plushy cushioned, carved-oak chairs lined the edge of the stage facing inward. A high, polished mahogany table arced in front of them covered with platters of steaming succulents and tall pitchers of ale and iced teas. The nine members of the Twelve remaining in Atlantis, chatted cheerfully amongst themselves as they ate and looked out at the jovial festivities around them, the pressures and strife of ruling the empire forgotten for a moment in the buoyant atmosphere.

  “You do not seem to be enjoying yourself, Lady Thea,” Hyperion said as he leaned close to her shoulder from his seat next to her. Even the dark mood that enshrouded him of late seemed lightened, his boyish smile returning to his incredibly handsome, artistically chiseled features. He was dressed in an embroidered, floor-length, purple gown, resplendent with a gold belt, medallion and wristbands. His oiled black curls highlighted his shining green eyes and full, feminine lips and squared jawline, adding a radiance to his handsome face. “What is going on your lovely mind?”

  Thea looked up into his smiling face, truly hating herself for saying anything that might sober his lighthearted mood. “I have a nagging feeling something is wrong,” she said, keeping her voice low and soft.

  “What could be wrong?” Hyperion replied quietly, keeping his face close to her. “It is a beautiful day. The entire city is celebrating and joyous. There is music, wine and good food.” He waved toward the high chair at the center of the table and added, “Even Cronus is laughing and happy. I see nothing amiss.”

  “He only appears happy,” Thea responded glumly, her words terse as she leaned forward and scrutinized the man carefully. “If you look closely, you will see his smile never touches his eyes.”

  Hyperion trusted this golden-haired beauty and loved her in his own kind of way. She had incredible instincts and was intuitive to the point of near prophesy. Over the years, he learned it was wise to give significant attention to her insights. He saw the concertation swirling in her narrowed emerald eyes and turned his head to follow her gaze.

  A shiver rippled down his spine as he saw it. Cronus sipped on red wine, nibbled on cheeses and roared at humorous stories as he spoke to those around him, but Thea was right. His eyes glinted like sharp-edged chips of jade. They flinted covertly over the crowd, his companions and the stiff Black Guard standing sentry on either end of the table. There was a cold, calculating darkness hidden in there not reflected in his casual demeanor. It made Hyperion suddenly nervous and leery.

  “Think of all that is going on in the empire at the moment,” Thea was saying as she brushed her long, flowing hair over her right shoulder. “There is strife, discord and violence. Though Cronus handled it calmly at first, his rants and raves have increased in frequency and virulence ever since his return from Nil.” She placed her hand on Hyperion’s thigh under the table, not warm and seductive, but firmly gripping his muscles. “Do you not think it odd that the Lord Father would cease all work at this troubled time and order a day of festivities for no apparent reason and why are there not more guards than just these four? Something is off,” she whispered ominously, searching the throng for the source of her disquiet. “I simply do not know what it is and can find no concrete reason for feeling as I do.”

  Almost on cue, a wave of curious, excited babble rolled over the people picnicking near the water’s edge. Others stopped what they were doing, hurrying toward the shoreline, their voices raised and animated. Shouts of wonder accompanied hands pointing across the raging river, more inquisitive and puzzled than fearful.

  Thea and Hyperion joined the rest of the Twelve as they arose and moved toward the edge of the dais facing the shore. From here, they were high enough to see above his milling masses and close enough to the waterline to see the small group of people standing on the opposite riverbank. The sight of them made Thea’s eyes pop open wide and her jaw to drop, her unease changing to deep, terrifying apprehension.

  They had stepped unnoticed from the dark, dim shadows of the thick Belize Forest on the other side of the River Gaia and stood in a line facing the party goers. There were only six of them, all clad in dark blue leathers. They had no weapons in their hands and appeared unthreatening. From this distance, it was impossible to make out their features clearly, but certain characteristics were plain to see.

  The one near the center was a large man with fiery red hair similar to that of Cronus. At his
right stood a true giant, also with blazing red hair and a full, manicured beard. Next to the giant stood a slender, but a powerfully built man with raven-black hair, his hands clasped at his narrow waist.

  To the left of the men, there were three women. The one nearest the center had long locks of sparkling auburn hair so dark they almost seemed black at this distance. Next to her was a shorter, shapely woman with waves of golden-blond hair cascading over her slightly sloped shoulders. The last woman in the line had her fists planted firmly on her slender hips, her stance one of harsh defiance. All Thea could see from here was the other woman appeared tough, her back stiff and straight, with a flowing mane of reddish-yellow hair.

  The six said nothing that could be heard over the raging river. They just stood quietly as if waiting until they had the complete attention of everyone across the white-capped River Gaia. Once the excited babble shifted into low, anticipatory murmurs, the red-haired man in the center of the six calmly raised his hand. Many among the People waved back, thinking his gesture a sign of welcome. It was not.

  “Zeus! Zeus! Zeus!” his companions chanted loud enough to be heard over the rumbling waters. He closed his fist suddenly and chaos erupted with the fury of a hurricane.

  Red-hot beams of condensed light burst from the thick tree line on either side of the group, raking the tightly packed revelers, cutting many of them in half. The pulsing CL rifles tore a bloody swath through the center of the terrified crowd. High-pitched screams rent the warm air, the fragrance of flowers replaced by the pungent odor of burning human flesh.

  The People tripped and tumbled over each other as they sought to escape from the horrific onslaught. The sun-hot, red beams drew together aiming for the dais where Cronus stood. Those caught between the converging pulses hit the ground, hiding behind the writhing, wailing bodies of friends and family. The stench of seared skin and boiling blood assailed their nostrils as they buried their faces in the trampled grasses. The green meadow was stained with the released bowels of dying corpses, but still they hugged the earth, praying to the Creator that they be spared.

  The sheer mass of people between the shoreline and the Twelve slowed the speed of the attack, giving Cronus time to react. He flipped the thick, arched table over, spilling food and wine across the wooden stage. Shouting out orders, he grabbed those closest to him and tossed them backward off the platform. He lunged toward the nearest Black Guard, reaching the man just as a beam of crimson light neatly sliced the Aam’s head from his shoulders.

  Cronus ripped the sword from the twitching body before it even realized it was dead. As the lifeless guard crumpled, Cronus swung the glistening steel blade at the oak stanchion holding the canopy overhead. The impact jarred his arms, sending tremors through his powerful form. The ropes holding the tent snapped taut as the pole collapsed, preventing the wood from splintering. A second swing by him and the other guard who joined him severed the lines, allowing the canopy to fall like a heavy curtain.

  Iapetus hit the post on the other side of the stage like a mammoth crashing into a sapling. He only grunted slightly as his clavicle snapped and his shoulder separated from the socket with a loud pop. More annoyed by the pain than slowed by it, he whipped his ceremonial long knife from its sheath with his other hand and slashed through the twanging ropes.

  At the edge of his vision, Iapetus saw the remaining guards hacking at the two other beams between him and Cronus. The canopy fell with a crash, but not before the reddish rays of CL rifles cut into the men and left them smoldering on the ground. Iapetus rolled backward, watching as holes appeared in the canvas, the edges igniting the colorful material. In moments, the tarp was an impenetrable wall of angry, blazing flame that separated the assailants from their intended targets.

  As quickly as it began, the attack ceased. Iapetus lay in the dirt, his black robe singed and scorched. Almost absently, he patted out a few patches of yellow flame on his pant leg and vest. He raised his head and peered cautiously across the river. The bank was empty and quiet, Zeus and his people fading back into the sinister gloom of the forest.

  “They will pay dearly for this atrocity,” Cronus growled, his face as dark as a turbulent thunderstorm. His curly, sun-red hair was matted with sweat, ash and broken blades of grass. Upon his chiseled cheek, a long, jagged cut from a pole splinter glowed faintly as the gold of Healing stemmed the flow of blood.

  Iapetus picked himself up and stared out over the carnage. Stalls and picnic tables were overturned, crushed or burning. The sounds of joyous laughter were replaced with sobs and whimpers, howls of pain and mumbled agony. Curls of black smoke filled the air like a thick morning mist, burning his nostrils as he drew in a deep, measured breath.

  Hyperion, Thea and the other council members moved carefully among the piles of bodies searching for survivors. They dragged the injured out into the open and lay their hands upon the wounds. The golden glow of Healing emanating from their hands slowed rivers of sticky, red blood and eased bubbling blisters. Others joined them, laying out the dead with gentle reverence, tears streaming from their faces, and helping to care for the living.

  Cronus pulled a comlink from the belt of a fallen guard and shouted orders, cursing loudly as he commanded sleds and men to rush to the nightmarish scene. Even before he threw the com to the ground, swarms of sleds were visible racing toward them.

  Iapetus met a squad of heavily armed Black Guard halfway across the meadow. He roughly shoved a captain from the first vehicle he saw, throwing his burly leg over the seat. The sled groaned under his weight but responded quickly as he jammed the throttle forward. With the other twenty men hard on his heels, he sped across the Gaia, feeling his craft buck and jerk as it skimmed the swift, uneven waters.

  After hours of fruitless searching through the deep, dank woodlands, Iapetus and the Aam returned to the city. Frustrated and dirty, their skin slashed in a hundred places from thorns and brambles, they sulked and swore as they parked before the Great Pyramid. They dismounted and returned to their quarters as angry with themselves for finding nothing as they were with the monsters who perpetrated the attack.

  Zeus and his siblings had simply vanished.

  At the northern edge of the black Belize Forest, the group of impostors broke from the trees and into the veldt beyond. They were met by a large, covered transport sled and ten dangerous looking men. Tired and bedraggled from their flight through the trees, the group hurried toward a table spread with strong, dark ale and bowls of steaming stew.

  A stocky man in dark brown breeches and a sleeveless, beige vest leaned casually against the driver-side door chewing on a piece of spicy venison jerky. His steely-blue eyes, as cold as a mountain glacier, watched as the look-a-likes quenched their thirst and grabbed some food before seating themselves upon the ground. Emotionlessly, he listened to them laugh at the death and destruction they had caused, relishing in the screams of their victims. He waited silently until they drank their fill and belched out their full bellies then he walked nonchalantly toward the one who looked like Zeus.

  “You have done well,” he said coolly to the man at his feet. “The Lord Father appreciates your service.”

  “I prefer gold over appreciation,” the red-haired man replied, his voice smug and self-satisfied. “We were promised great reward.”

  “And that you shall receive,” the blue-eyed man replied, waving his hand at the men behind him.

  The seated imposters looked up expectantly, anticipating sacks of gold for their troubles. In the brief seconds of comprehension, they had left, their faces registered shock and fear as rifles came up to cut them to pieces.

  “Load them into the transport,” the cold man said calmly. “We will take them to the river and let them be food for the fishes. Leave not a trace.”

  Without a backward glance, he mounted his sled and took a circuitous route back to Atlantis. He had a hot bath and a willing companion awaiting his return.

  Chapter XV

  Word of the attack spread a
cross the empire like wildfire. As with all such stories, the horror and devastation grew with each telling until it seemed as if all Atlantis lay in smoking ruins. It was said Zeus brought an army of hundreds, wantonly murdering helpless men, women and children by the thousands in his attempt to kill the Lord Father. Thankfully, it was said, Cronus and his loyal Black Guard beat the invaders back into the woodlands, saving the city and countless lives.

  Hatred for Zeus and his siblings boiled as the tales grew wilder and more unbelievable. Soon he was reported to be attacking outposts and smaller cities, forcing the inhabitants to kneel at his feet. Men and women of all ages rushed to join the Aam of Atlantis, fearing for their own towns and families and determined to put an end to this madman.

  Metis knew better. Atlantis was never at risk and she now knew that Zeus was not even on the continent when that horrific barbarism occurred. Who the impersonators were or why they struck she did not know. However, she learned through her brother their parents were alive and well, living across the world in Olympia with the children of Cronus. They were appalled at the carnage and loss of life but assured her they were in the company of Zeus when that viciousness was visited upon the city.

  “Happily, most of the People do not believe these stories,” Imbrasos said as he sipped on a tankard of light ale. He wiped a bit of froth from his trimmed blond beard and looked up at his sister. “Hades still rules the mines and made sure the truth is known throughout. Word travels on the seas where Poseidon is respected and among the brothels where his sisters hold sway.”

  “Beyond that,” Khryseis said, brushing her sun-blond hair from her narrow brow, “I have noted a great deal of suspicion among the cities along our coastline. Many merchants return to their harbors from Atlantis not having seen the damage they heard reports of. It makes them doubt the truth of all things said and they tell others.”