by Gene Stiles
Cronus was far from perfect, Mnemosyne thought as she took the lift up to the war room, and much of what he had done was barbaric even to her. When his children arrived in this world, she thought the ecstatic joy of his firstborn would ease his troubled soul. Instead, it turned into fear-fueled blackness as Cronus remembered his bleeding father, Uranus, lying in his arms and whispering, “You, too, will die at the hands of your own son.” That doom-filled prophesy set him on a course that was now coming to fruition. What it would do to the Lord Father left her timorous and incredibly apprehensive.
The lift doors opened and her contemplations were shattered by the tumulus, enraged clamor filling the chamber. Men and women rushed from station to station, checking on the data and images scrolling across the screens. Shouted orders sent others bolting for the lifts in a furious frenzy. Cronus and Iapetus stood at the head of the long oval table, their eyes like burning suns as they stared at the giant monitor on the wall. Mnemosyne looked up to see a city in flames and a ferocious battle being fought in the blood-soaked streets.
“What has happened?” she asked as her platinum-haired sister threw her arms around her, her pale blue eyes wet with tears.
Phoebe’s alabaster skin was ashen as she sobbed into Mnemosyne’s shoulder. Catching her breath, Phoebe whispered through trembling lips, “Zeus has attacked Azmerizan. The war has begun.”
Poseidon landed his fleet a hundred and twenty miles air miles north of Azmerizan in a deep estuary where the salty waters of the sea met the crystal waters of a mountain river. A white, sandy shoal curved like a hook in the ocean hid wide, dark waters and the miles-long, sun-baked beaches perfect for setting up a base camp. The current of the serpentine waterway was steady but gentle, almost imperceptible in places. He ordered his forty ships anchored and the longboats sent to offload supplies and weaponry. The lower draft troop carriers were able to get close enough to the land to allow gangplanks dropped so his men could simply walk to the warm, sandy beach.
“I do not like this,” Poseidon grumbled from the main deck of the Sea Dragon. The warm, light breeze rippled through his golden-red hair as the bright sunlight set it ablaze. His monstrous arms were tense as he leaned against the bulwarks watching the crews stacking boxes and crates along the shoreline. “You should not be here,” he said, his broad brow furrowed and his lips tight. “In fact, all of you should have remained in Olympus.”
“For the hundredth time,” Zeus said with a stern sigh, “I will not send my men into battle while I remain safe in my study.” He tightened the belt that held his sidearm and sword to his hips and looked up at his older brother. “Especially this first battle. I know I cannot be everywhere, but taking out the port and facilities in Azmerizan will cripple the Atlantean hold on this continent and strike a hard blow to Cronus’ ability to add more ships to his fleet. It is crucial to our efforts and I feel it is vital to show the People I lead our forces myself. We are not the Twelve sending others to fight in our stead.”
“Alright!” Poseidon was not ready to give up. His green eyes flashed like chipped jade in firelight as he spoke. “I understand that, but did you have to bring the rest of our siblings with you? It is foolish and dangerous to have our entire family in one place at one time. You take the risk that Cronus could wipe us out in a single stroke! Then what will happen to our revolution?”
“Again,” Zeus said, frustrated and weary of having the same argument they had been having since they left the repurposed Atlantica fortress, “we shall split up after we make our broadcast. By doing that here, Cronus will not have time to react before we strike.”
Zeus knew his words would not mollify Poseidon, but it was important to him that his brother understood. “After that, Hades will fly to the Tartarus Sanctuary and take the city and mines. Our sisters will return home and coordinate our attacks from Olympus.”
Poseidon could not help a small, wan smile at that. He shook his head remembering how well those orders were received. “They did not like that idea at all, to be sure,” he said with a tiny chuckle. “Our sisters are fierce warriors in their own right. They think you are treating them like little girls.”
“This I know,” Zeus replied with a tight grin. “They will have their chance, but for now their spy network in the pleasure houses all over the empire is our greatest source of information. Only they can run that operation. We need them in Olympus.”
“And it keeps them safe,” Poseidon said coolly.
“Yes,” Zeus agreed, putting a hand on his brother’s broad shoulder, “But, please do not mention that to them. I do not wish to go through that again. Please, brother, just trust that I know what I am doing. We will all be separated soon. This I promise you.”
The high, rolling hills and low mountains surrounding the river were covered with dark forests and vast meadows of brilliantly green grasslands. It provided a welcomed relief from the weeks at sea and fresh fruits and game to appease the hungry. Unfortunately, this was not intended to last longer than a few days for the sailors of the fleet. They quickly set up tents for the command and communications center and barracks for the troops. Even though there was little daytime rest, Zeus made sure the nights were free of duties except for the guards patrolling the encampment.
“We chose these first two cities carefully,” Zeus said as he swept his hand over the huge map of Prubrazia spread out on the table. “They are the farthest cities from Atlantis and the most difficult for Cronus to reinforce before we can take them.”
Zeus ran his finger along the coastline to the southeast. “Azmerizan has vast resources, weapons facilities and the largest shipyards beyond the Atlantean continent. When we capture the city, we not only end the major threat to Afrikanikis, but we make those resources our own.”
“Unfortunately,” Hades pointed out grimly, “Cronus knows this, too. He has four battalions of Aam stationed there. At least three thousand troops, if not more. We have a Sanctuary city in the mountains a hundred miles inland and west of Azmerizan. We have only about nine hundred warriors there. The rest are civilians. We will be vastly outnumbered even with the two hundred we have with us.”
“That is why Poseidon will attack from the sea first,” Zeus said as he glanced at Hades. “He will draw the soldiers toward the port before we attack the rear of the city.”
“Our Sisters in the pleasure houses tell us the commanders are over-confident,” Hestia said from across the table. She let her lustrous auburn hair flow over her shoulders, only brushing it way from her dark green eyes when it got in her way. “They believe the captains could never contemplate anyone would dare invade their city. That is their weakness.”
Hera was furious she would not be allowed to join the battle. From what she had learned, the men of Azmerizan were vicious and cruel and took particular pleasure in hurting women. There were many houses that catered to their degenerate tastes, but none of her girls worked in them. A man harming any of her Sisters in such a way would quickly find himself missing parts that would take a team of Healers a month of Lending to replace. If his body was found at all. Still, Hera thought of all women as her own. An attack on any of them was an attack on her. Her hard-set stance and blazing emerald eyes said she wanted to pay them back with her own two hands.
Her thin lips were terse upon her sharply oval face and her words were clipped as she spoke. “We have sent word to our ladies to add something special to the commander’s drinks when we are ready to move. It will not kill them, but it will dull their senses for a time. Others will die in their sleep. That should give you some advantage.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Zeus said, quietly, a touch of wicked humor in his golden eyes.
“You already are,” Hera said, her face stone cold. “I should be going with you instead of being sent away.”
“Forgive me, sister,” he replied, all trace of levity leaving his tone. He knew how she felt about men who hurt women or the helpless. He, too, had heard the stories of barbarism and
they sickened him. “I promise you we will serve justice on all those your Sisters point out should those men survive the battle. You have my word.”
“That will have to do,” Hera snapped bitterly, not in the least placated. “Now let us get this broadcast underway so we can destroy this vile city.”
Admiral Helacort strode like a king along the cobblestone street toward the huge pier where his warship, the Zeridacat, was berthed. Every citizen who saw the tall, heavily-muscled, ebony-skinned man either slid fearfully into storefronts or bowed deferentially as he passed. To block his path or fail to give him obeisance resulted in immediate, horrific punishment.
Helacort was feeling particularly sated and satisfied at the moment. The new girl brought to his quarters was only fifteen and not from the city’s houses. She was the daughter of a farmer who made the mistake of displeasing him. Her terror was divine, her screams of agony delightful. Helacort felt a rising in his groin as he remembered the delicious acts of pain and debasement he visited upon her young and tender flesh. A week of Healing and she would be ready for a second round.
The Admiral was still licking his lips in anticipation as he neared the gangplank of the Zeridacat. His foul face still smiled savagely and his dark eyes still glittered with lust. That is the look they still saw on his features after the blast from his erupting vessel ripped his bulky body in half and spread his entrails over the blood-soaked pier.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Poseidon shouted as his fleet rounded the slight curve of land that sheltered the Azmerizan harbor. Running at full sail, the first volleys from his ships were intended to wreak mayhem on the anchored ships and spread chaos throughout the port and were not aiming at specific targets. That would come on the next run.
His armada opened up with every weapon at their command. Milky-white plasma beams and the lava-red rays of pulse cannons ignited every wooden construction they touched in a blazing conflagration that swept through the city like the enraged breath of the Creator. Those ships shielded from energy blasts shattered under the impact of the eighty-pound iron balls shot from the railguns. The explosive missiles captured from Atlantean vessels whistled through the blue morning sky and sent a deadly hail of rock chips and splintered wood through the panicked city streets.
Caught unaware, a full half of Azmerizan’s hundred-ship fleet was sunk or rendered useless in those first vital moments. In the time it took for the Olympian armada to finish their run and make the wide turn to bring them back into firing range, the captains of the remaining ships managed to prime their weapons and raise anchor. The cannons guarding the city from the towers around the port blasted at the retreating fleet, setting three vessels ablaze.
Five Proto-Sun powered warships raced through the burning wreckage and burst into the open sea to combat their assailants. Poseidon was ready for this. He split his command into four-vessel battlegroups that each attacked a single warship. The narrow beam of the blade ships made it difficult for the Azmerizan captains to get a good bead on them until they were close enough for the Olympian railguns to rip through their energy shielding.
As Zeus anticipated, the Aam of the city rushed toward the docks to man the defenses. His legions poured into the streets from the unprotected west. On his strict orders, his men ignored the terrified, running citizens and helped many seek refuge in untouched buildings. Warning them they would not be harmed as long as they did not enter the fray, the Olympian forces left only a small squad of heavily armed men and women behind to guard and protect them. One look at their frightened, but, in many cases, grateful faces told him most would not be a problem. His people could handle the rest.
Only when he was within a mile of the harbor did Zeus meet intense, brutal resistance. Word of his assault reached the Azmerizan commanders and they were prepared. They spread their men out in an arc to protect the port and blocked the streets with companies of well-trained troops. Zeus was met by a blistering wave of energy that cut through his men like a scythe. The huge coated shields of the city troops rendered the Olympian plasma guns and pulse rifles useless and the commanders thought themselves safe behind them.
They were wrong.
“Bring up the Gargoyle!” Zeus shouted above the screams filling the flaming, crimson-soaked boulevard as he hunkered down behind a shattered wall of granite. His dark blue leathers were covered in blood and ash and a jagged line of torn flesh marred the side of his chiseled cheek. Blisters covered his left arm where a pulse rifle had seared his skin. Zeus ignored the pain as if it did not exist, his golden eyes blazing as he chanced a glance at the mass of troops stretched across the road ahead of him.
Major Decoleze could not hear much above the sounds of battle, but he felt the deep rumble beneath his black-booted feet even from his position ten rows back from the front line. He stared at the smoothed-stone roadway as if it could identify the source for him. When it did not, Decoleze scrambled up a pile of debris and looked out over the Olympian troops. All he could make out through the smoke was the shadowy shapes of gigantic creatures surging forward. He assumed correctly that a contingent of the monstrous Nephilim he heard about was moving forward. He could not see what they were pushing. If he had, the Major would have shouted for his men to scatter.
“Halt!” Eriktis bellowed above the noise as he neared the front ranks of Olympians. His huge, massively muscled body was dressed in torn and bloody leathers with plates of treated black metal molded to his chest and torso. His sky-blue eyes watered with the smoke, but he could still make out the Azmerizan forces blocking the street far ahead.
“Lock it down!” he ordered, watching his men slam the braces behind the Gargoyle and kick blocks behind its huge, wooden wheels. “Load!”
Zoramar lifted the five-hundred-pound iron ball into the railgun as if it was only a child’s toy. Milo and Samilene cranked back the levers on either side, raised their hands and stepped away, holding the thick, braided ropes that would release the chocks. On command, the Olympian warriors ahead of them broke their shield wall and threw themselves to either side of the boulevard. As soon as they were clear, Eriktis shouted, “Fire!”
Decoleze had no time to yell out as the Gargoyle launched the massive round boulder. All he could do was stare in open-mouthed shock as the muzzle of the beast roared and reared on its wheeled legs with the recoil. The ball hit his men like an unstoppable behemoth, crushing their corpses into a bloody pulp as it ripped through the ranks. The shields were useless against the horrifying force of that kinetic impact and they fell like blades of crimson-soaked grass. Before they had a chance to lift themselves from the tangle of bodies fleeing from the Gargoyle’s power, the Olympians were upon them.
Lelantos stood like some terrible bird of vengeance perched on a rooftop above wide streets flowing with rivers of dark red blood. His gold-flecked hazel eyes were grim and narrowed like a winged raptor staring at the broken body of its helpless prey. A twisted mass of the dead and dying curled upon the roadway, the wounded mewling and crying out as they struggled to crawl away from the sickening devastation that entrapped them.
He could feel a vile, acidic bile burn in his throat as Lelantos watched their feeble attempts at escape. It crushed his heart to be the harbinger of such doom and agony. Over three hundred men and women lay dead at his feet or screamed for mercy and an end to the hail of steel-tipped aeros that pierced their torn and ravaged flesh. Lelantos took no pleasure in their wails even though he had watched this legion wantonly kill anything that moved, even their own citizens - men, women and children who only sought to flee the fighting.
Lelantos raised his hand and the archers he had stationed in every open window, within every darkened door and on every rooftop along this section of roadway lowered their bows and their heads, each feeling their own bitter sorrow at the carnage they had wrought. For most, this was the first true warfare they had ever seen. Nowhere was there even the smallest sense of satisfaction.
Reaching the street, Lelantos and his warriors cautiously mov
ed among the battlefield with swords drawn. It was like stepping through a pile of bloody, squirming maggots. More than one of the Olympian soldiers retched against a shattered wall as they went about their loathsome task. Those soldiers who could be saved were pulled from the crumpled masses and taken inside empty buildings to be tended and treated. Those living but too far gone to be helped were given the quick mercy they had denied to their own victims.
Had it not been for the message from Zeus that the city had fallen, Lelantos would not have taken the time to tend to the injured and dying. As much as it would have pained him, he would have left them in the streets and moved his men forward. Though he had seen much in the battles at the side of Zeus, though he had the blood of countless men and women on his blade and in his heart, every death was like a blister on his soul. It was only the bitter knowledge that he fought for the safety and freedom of all the races of humanity that he was able to catch any moments of troubled sleep at all.
Lelantos walked through the boulevard as if he walked through a graveyard, sad, reverent and quietly. It was easy to tell which of these people had fallen beneath the aeros of the Nephilim. The gaping holes in their torsos were almost large enough to pass a hand through. Nothing could stop the power of the giants’ bows. Not the curved metal shields. Not walls of wood. Not flesh, nor sinew nor bone. In some cases, Lelantos found five and six of the dead pinioned together by the five-foot length of a single aero. Others were stuck to the granite blocks of a crumbled wall, standing limp and silent, their eyes staring in shocked wonder at the bloody shaft that held them upright.
A young archer sat in a shadowed corner, his forehead resting on his upraised knees. His bow lay next to him on the sidewalk and his quivering arms were tightly wrapped around his trembling legs. Lelantos could tell by the heaving shoulders that the boy was sobbing uncontrollably. Now that the ferociousness of battle was over, shock was setting in. He squatted down next to the soldier and laid a gloved hand on the young man’s stooped shoulder.
