by Gene Stiles
His voice turned as hard as the granite walls surrounding him. “I also promise that should you take the side of Atlantis, you will be considered our enemy and treated as such in the coming battles. The choice is yours.”
A decision would be thrust upon Clearwater much sooner than they would have liked and Zeus would have his answer before his feet even touched the deck of the Sea Dragon.
The Harbormaster saw the ominous situation forming far quicker than the people debating in the conference room. He sent a panicked message to the governor while desperately attempting to come up with a plan. The two Atlantean warships were well within the bay and demanding berthing space long before the missive reached Oramond. The Harbormaster tried to send them to docks far from the Olympian ship, but they refused. It was obvious they knew the Sea Dragon was there. His only option at the moment was to let the warships dock where they would, make sure his superiors knew about it and have a contingent of Aam on wharves nearby.
It was harvest time in Clearwater so cargo ships filled most of the berths, but one open space was directly across from the Sea Dragon. Ignoring the Harbormaster’s directives, Captain Azerial eased the Cronaseous into the slip and tossed the lines to the nervously milling dockhands. His sister ship, the Merilane, weighed anchor far out in the bay to block the vessel should she attempt to run. That was fine with Azerial. His warship was armed to the teeth and more than a match for the moored blade ship. The glory would be all his when he took the enemy vessel.
Even before his ship neared the harbor, the captain ordered his gun ports open and his crew to general quarters. Azerial knew how lucky he was when his short range Bird had spotted the Olympian flagship sailing alone toward Clearwater. The Sea Dragon was easy to identify by her matte-black hull, ebon sails and vicious-looking masthead even before the drone snapped an image of her name on the stern. He sent a coded message to Atlantis and followed vessel, waiting until he was sure it was unaccompanied by a hidden fleet. Once the Sea Dragon was berthed and vulnerable, he ordered his ships into the port.
Captain Azerial stood on the bridge studying the Olympian ship tied up a mere thirty feet away on the other side of the pier. He was no fool so it bothered him that the main deck of his enemy was devoid of crew and her gun ports remained closed. No captain would leave his vessel unattended, let alone the ship of the infamous Poseidon. Maybe they thought themselves so superior they had no need to place guards, but the empty decks sent a chill up Azerial’s spine.
He heard a steady stomping of feet coming up the wharf and turned his attention toward the shore. Roughly sixty green-clad Aam moved in his direction, their weapons held tightly against their chests. They fanned out as they marched, taking up positions on both sides of the pier between the two ships. Even though the bulwarks of the Cronaseous bristled with the muzzles of his crew, the Clearwater soldiers made no move to aim at his men. They simply stood in silent formation as if awaiting orders.
Tense moments passed as Azerial lowered the gangplank and walked down to the rough-timber dock, a squad of men behind him. Knowing the firepower of the Cronaseous could sweep the city guard from the sea-dampened wood in a heartbeat, the captain ignored the implied threat and turned toward the bulky man who approached him.
“I am Commander Bullimus,” the gigantic, blond-haired Nephilim said as he stopped in front of the captain. His blue eyes were as hard and cold as a mountain glacier as he stared down at Azerial. “You have violated the directives of the Harbormaster and the sovereignty of Clearwater Fortress. Turn your vessel around and leave our waters or face the consequences.”
Captain Azerial barked out a harsh laugh, unintimidated by the huge man or the guns surrounding him. He puffed up his boulder-like chest and planted his fists upon his broad hips. His hazel eyes glowered and his thin lips split into a deadly, cruel grin. “You dare threaten a Captain of Atlantis?” he said, his tone sinister and ruthless. “My men would leave you in a bloody puddle if I should but raise my hand.”
“True,” Bullimus replied calmly, nodding his head. “But if you do that, you would die first and your vessels would be sunk where they sit.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings.”
Azerial looked up at the long palisade of interlocked granite blocks and oaken gates that gave the fortress its name. The hundred-foot tall stone wall sat a mere three hundred feet from the shoreline and ran the entire length of the harbor. Plasma cannons and railguns were placed every twenty feet, those nearby pointing their muzzles directly at the Atlantean warship. The Captain felt his blood run cold.
Before he could speak, Azerial saw three men walking in his direction, a squad of Aam a step behind. The ice in his veins melted in the blaze of hatred that burned behind his eyes. He knew the golden-eyed man well from all the images he had seen and there was no mistaking the monster of a man at his side. Poseidon. Azerial barely noticed the Governor, his seething mind centered on the Olympians. The men stopped a few feet away, Commander Bullimus moving aside as they approached.
“We wish no conflict with you,” Governor Oramond said firmly, stepping up to face the Captain. “We ask that you respect our neutrality and leave our city immediately.”
“You would stand against Atlantis?” Azerial said, his words as sharp as a freshly honed blade. “I am here on the orders of the Lord Father, himself. These men are enemies of the People. I will take them and their vessel back to Atlantis or destroy them where they stand. You will obey the will of Cronus.”
“We do not stand against Atlantis,” Oramond said, choosing his words carefully, “but we also do not stand against Olympus. We have remained outside of your war and continue to do so. As long as our independence is respected and violence is not brought to our shores, we take no side. Our port is open to all.”
“Your impedance is not only offensive to me,” Azerial snapped back, his temper flaring, “but to the Lord Father. “Do not forget, Clearwater Fortress is a city of the empire. We could wipe you from existence as easily as we would a fly from the wall. Step aside and I will forget your imprudence.”
“Not as easy as you might expect,” the Governor responded coolly, realizing that the time of decision loomed on the horizon. He glanced at the Sea Dragon, noting her closed gun ports and empty decks. Zeus and Poseidon stood silently behind him, watching to see what he would do when he was pushed. Oramond knew he was being judged by not only Olympus and Atlantis but by his own troops. He had to tread carefully.
“These men came to us with honor and respect,” Oramond said firmly. “They are not threatening you. You are the aggressors. If the roles were reversed, we would be telling them to leave you in peace while you are here. What you do once leaving our waters is not our concern.”
Captain Azerial wanted to grab the Governor by the throat and snap that contemptuous neck. His face was livid, the flames of fury fanned by the hint of a smile he imagined he saw flickering beneath Zeus’ thick red beard. He gave serious consideration to raising his hand, knowing everyone on the dock would die in an eruption of hellfire – including the hated Olympians. Cronus would erect statues in his name and his family would be honored forever. But, Azerial had no desire to waste his life for the sake of wounded pride. He balled his half-raised hand into a fist and dropped it to his side.
“The Lord Father shall hear of this,” the Captain said with a low growl. “We shall see how sanctimonious you are when the full might of Atlantis is standing on your doorstep.”
Azerial bored his incensed hazel eyes into the Olympians. “We will meet each other again very soon,” he promised venomously. “You will not have a city at your back when that happens. We shall see how smug you are then.”
After the Cronaseous was clear of the wharf, Poseidon raised a comlink to his lips. “Stand down,” he said quietly. Behind the thin screens disguised as gun ports, the tense crew of the Sea Dragon eased their fingers off the primed weapons aimed at the spot recently vacated by the Atlantean warship. O
ut in the bay near the turning Merilane, the cargo ship Peerless lowered dummy crates back over her cannons and calmly awaited her turn at the supply docks.
“Thank you, Governor Ormond,” Zeus said, clasping the other man’s forearm. “I know you put your city at risk defending us. I shall not forget that.”
“As I told Captain Azerial, I would have done the same for him,” Oramond said bluntly. He did his best to hide the quiver in his voice caused by the adrenaline still surging through his veins. “My people and my city have vowed to stay impartial. I act only on their will and in the best interests of Clearwater.”
“Still,” Zeus said, pretending he did not notice the tension in the Governor’s voice, “I fear your neutrality will be put to the test after this. Should you require our assistance, you know our terms.”
Oramond nodded, knowing in his heart the decision had just been ripped from his hands. He looked up at the sun lowering over the mountains as he turned toward Clearwater and said, “I suggest you await nightfall before leaving the port. You know Captain Azerial will be planning an ambush for you just outside our borders. You are welcome to join me for dinner.”
“Again, I thank you for your hospitality, sir,” Zeus said graciously. His golden eyes sparkled and a smile played across his full lips. “As for what might await us at sea, do not concern yourself. We prepared for that.”
As night fell on the city and the sky filled with a diamond-like blanket of brightly glowing stars, Captain Thalassa eased her eight-ship fleet out of the small cove twenty miles north of Clearwater Fortress. Their ebony hulls nearly invisible in the darkness, they sailed toward the city and the Atlantean vessels lying in wait. By the time the Sea Dragon left harbor the only trace of the warships’ existence would be found on the cold ocean floor.
“Clearwater was the last major Prubrazian city to join us,” Zeus said, now safely back in the Sanctuary. He leaned back heavily in his thickly padded rocker, his bare feet up on a cushioned footstool, weary from the long journey home. “I am sorry they were forced to make such a hurried decision, but having their armies available if needed could prove crucial in the days to come.”
“With the exception of the confrontation with the Atlantean warships, the city was a paradigm for what our envoys met with throughout the continent,” Demeter said from her small, overstuffed sofa near the hearth.
She ran her slender fingers absently through the long, blond hair that cascaded over her gently sloped shoulder and down across the rise of her full chest. The heat radiating from the crackling fire felt good against her dark, naturally tan skin. Being inside the cold limestone walls of the underground city always made her feel chilled even though an evenly controlled temperature was maintained at all times. Like her sisters, Demeter had grown up in the pits where it often reached a hundred and twenty degrees and even the brightest summer sun sometimes felt cool against her flesh.
“With the disruption of sea trade caused by our erstwhile brother,” she continued, giving Poseidon a quirky grin, “most of Prubrazia has been forced to become completely self-sufficient. It has made them fiercely independent and the happier for it. After all, that is why those settlers left Atlantis in the first place – to create a society of their own. Now they want nothing to do with the problems of the outside world. I do not fault them for it. I applaud them.”
“Luckily for them,” Hera added, handing Demeter a fresh cup of hot tea and curling up next to her sister on the couch, “the majority of the towns and cities do not have resources not found in abundance on the Atlantean continent. With the exception of feeding his ego as colonies of the empire, Cronus has no use for them. They are not worth fighting over and as long as they do not align themselves with us, he does not need to make examples of them as he did with those who outright defied him.”
“Cronus has now been effectively cut off from the rest of the world. That is both good and bad for us,” Hera said, her face as foreboding as her words. “There is nothing more dangerous than a wounded, cornered animal.”
“True,” Zeus agreed, gazing into the flickering flames as he leaned upon his elbow, his head upon his curled fist. “We must be extra vigilant and see what his next move will be. I am sure he has not taken the loss of Clearwater well.”
“No,” Hestia replied as she rested her forearm on the thick mahogany mantle above the fireplace. Her luxurious auburn hair glimmered in the red and yellow light as if it were kin to the blaze. Her jade green eyes stared into the embers, a hint of a terse smile on her thin, ruby lips. “But our Sisters in the pleasure houses tell us the seeds of dissent we have planted are causing such turmoil on the continent that Cronus is busy getting his own house in order.”
“Besides,” Hades said, his black eyes narrowed as he shuffled through the reports laying on his lap, “much of the trouble he is having at home at the moment is not of our doing.”
He looked up at his siblings and friends gathered in the huge living room of Zeus’ quarters. “As we all know, the supplies of uridium have dwindled to near nothingness. That means the tech which relies on it for power is becoming useless – plasma cannons, condensed light pulse rifles, other high energy-based weapons and even skyships and sleds. Without a new source, what we have left must be used to fuel the Proto-Suns that run our cities.”
“That is why we and Atlantis are now relying more on explosives, swords, hand-to-hand combat and wheeled vehicles,” Lelantos added, stretching his long legs out on a cushioned ottoman. “As yet, Cronus has not captured nor duplicated our bows,” he said, proud of his creation. “That will not last. They have cost him too dearly and he does have many of our aeros. He just does not know how we fire them.”
“We will deal with that when it occurs,” Zeus said a little too sharply, tired and wanting nothing more at the moment than a warm, soft bed. He realized there was more to discuss that could not wait though and knew he had to give it his full attention before he could rest. Much had occurred while he was away these last months.
Almost as if she could read his mind, Adrasteia spoke up. “I do not believe we must make decisions this very night. There is a lot yet to go over, but it seems as if the Creator is giving us a pause.”
“What do you mean?” her adoptive son asked, intrigued by her comment in spite of the fog that was slipping over his mind.
“While we are experiencing an extended autumn, the hardest winter on record has hit Atlantis. The city is in chaos at the moment,” she said, seeing the dim sparkle of interest in her son’s golden eyes. Adrasteia knew Zeus well. He would push himself into exhaustion if she did not give him a way out.
“This is another of those things Hades was speaking about which we had nothing to do with,” she said, not only addressing Zeus but all of those around her. “You have all been so busy with your duties, you probably have not noticed the changing climate. Summers have become longer in some places and winters harsher in others.”
“I have noticed an inexplicable variance in ocean currents,” Poseidon said, nodding his head. “Storms are occurring in places where they should not be and are increasingly violent. The parts of the sea that should be cold and turbulent this time of year are warm and placid.”
“Yes,” Adrasteia replied, an edge to her voice. “From what our scientists tell me, the natural wobble of the planet has been slowly increasing for years. With that comes elongated seasons. Add to that the volcanic eruptions on the other side of the world and it seems we are headed for a cooling period. It has pushed us temporarily southward just enough that Atlantis has dropped into a different temperate zone.”
“Though the long-term ramifications are unknown,” she finished, “what it means to us, for now, is the Lord Father will not be in a position to attack anyone until winter ends.”
Adrasteia gave Zeus a tiny smile and placed a hand on his muscled forearm. “It also means you can rest for a few days, my son,” she said gently. She stood and caressed his furrowed brow softly before turning to the others. “It
is late and you all look exhausted. I suggest we reconvene in two days. Take time to spend with your loved ones and enjoy a small respite. You have earned it.”
After their guests said their goodbyes and Zeus retired to his bedchambers, Adrasteia busied herself clearing the cups and snack plates scattered about the room. She was far more worried than she let on. It was not the changing weather that concerned her. It was the storm of war.
No matter what she had told the others, Adrasteia knew Cronus better than most. Not only had she spent a lifetime studying him, but the long hours in the company of the Lady Rhea gave her insights into the man. She doubted he would let winter slow down his destruction of Olympus. His hatred and fear of his children was far too strong. And her son was at the center of that maelstrom.
She washed the dishes and placed them on the drying cloths, the simple tasks a soothing balm to her troubled soul. There was only one logical step left for Zeus to take. He must invade Atlantis. Adrasteia trembled at the thought. It meant he would soon confront his father face to face. Had she given him the strength to defeat Cronus or would her teachings of understanding and justice instead of vengeance cause a chink in Zeus’ armor that would lead to his death?
Adrasteia thought of her father, Morpheus, and how his death had taken such a toll on her mother, Haleah. The once vibrant, inspirational warrior woman now rarely left her rooms. A lifetime of pain, loneliness and loss made of her a mere shell of her former self. Adrasteia feared the same for herself should Zeus fall. He may not be of her own loins, but she loved him more than life. The one thing she knew for sure was that, no matter what happened, she would be at his side when the Creator decided his fate.
Later, as she curled beneath her thick, fluffy blankets and let the night ease her churning mind, Adrasteia sent out a silent prayer, asking that her son be granted a quick and easy victory and that his soul would not be lost in the process as was his father’s. Only one part of that prayer would be answered.
