by Gene Stiles
As much as it galled Cronus to admit it, he was painfully aware Iapetus had pulled him from the fire more times than he could count. He would be a rotting corpse by now if not for this man. Yet, his pride and anger prohibited him from saying as much. “Well,” he said, his tone as hard as granite, “Crius has proven himself more than once. He has earned his command. Also, among the Twelve, you and he are the only ones I truly completely trust.”
“Move the troops forward,” Cronus said, changing the subject before he said more than he wished. “We attack at dawn.”
Necromilus lay on a flat rock ridge above the port city, his enhanced farseers sweeping over the oddly quiet streets. On such a moonless night the sky was a blanket of brightly shining stars and swaths of colorful galaxies, stunning in its beauty. Aborea glowed brilliantly below his perch, the city blazing with lights and the harbor shimmering with ship lamps. Everything looked normal and serene, but the hair stood up stiffly on the forward scout’s neck. Something was seriously out of place in that tranquil scene.
From his position ten miles outside the city limits, Necromilus had clearly heard the Atlantean forces moving through the countryside earlier in the day. The stomp of thousands of boots and the creak of wooden wheels echoed off the limestone outcropping where he lay and he even imagined he could feel the vibrations of their passage against his prone body. Yet, nothing seemed amiss below him. It was as if Aborea was completely unaware of the massive armies converging on their flanks. Not a single ship moved from their anchorage and no defenders flocked to the high stone walls boarding the city. If the Olympians did not prepare soon, they would be slaughtered in their sleep.
So engrossed was the scout with the eerie strangeness of the situation that Necromilus did not sense the black shadow until he felt the hand that stifled his agonized scream and arched his head back. Before he could move, a silvery blade caught the starlight as it slit his startled throat from ear to ear. He remained where he lay, crimson blood gushing from his neck that pooled in a near-black puddle beneath him.
Cronus stood at the top of the grassy hill just west of the towering range of craggy mountains that arched around the southern border of Aborea. Before him, vast plains of flat, open ground created a half-moon around the city from the mountains to the sea. At the moment, it lay empty and serene all the way to the harbor and for ten miles beyond. His eyes were hard and slitted as he read the terrain warily. They would be exposed and without cover until they reached the high limestone walls a mile out of Aborea. They would have to move fast.
The stiff breeze blowing inland from the seashore was salty and chilling even though a brilliant yellow sun rose high above the rocky peaks. The dewdrops blanketing the field glittered like colored diamonds, their stunning beauty about to be trampled by thousands of booted feet.
The plated black armor the Atlanteans wore over thickly padded tunics kept the brisk, early morning from reaching their skin. The dampness they felt on their flesh was not from the air but from the heat generated by their own adrenaline. The rows of men and women stacked behind Cronus shivered in anticipation of the coming battle – most with the excitement of blood and glory, but many in soul-searing fear.
From where he stood, Cronus could see the gun emplacements along the top of the wall, deadly-looking muzzles aimed at the fields he would have to cross. If he did not take them out first, his men would be slaughtered before they could get within a quarter mile. He did not want to level the city. He wanted to capture the port and all of its facilities for his own use. Worse than such a waste, toppling the buildings might crush Zeus and his brethren if they were within, depriving him of the pleasure of killing them himself.
“Crius is ready on the other edge of town,” Iapetus said, interrupting his thoughts. “He reports no movement in the city and the Olympian ships have not even unfurled their sails. Our fleets are just outside the port and prepared to attack on your command. Either we have caught the city unaware or Zeus is hunkered down behind the walls awaiting our move.”
Cronus loosened his sword in his scabbard and ran a hand through his fire-red curls. He licked the salt from his darkly tanned lips, his slitted, jade eyes sparkling with flickering lightning. His voice was sharp-edged and filled with hatred. “Zeus is no fool. He knows we are here. He is taunting us, daring us to bring our forces into the open.”
Tightening the leather headband that kept his hair from his grim, hard-planed face, Cronus came to a decision. “Send in the warbirds. Have them concentrate fire on the walls. Tell them to keep away from the city proper until I say otherwise.”
Iapetus only nodded, grateful the Lord Father had heeded his advice instead of rushing headlong into a killing ground. He turned to his lieutenant and gave the order. The whine of the warbird’s engines echoed from the back of the ranks, rolling through the air like a coming thunderstorm. If the Olympian were oblivious before, that horrific sound would definitely wake them from their slumber.
The Atlantean ships had not even cleared the ground before their thunder was drowned out by an explosive roar above them. A squadron of Olympian Raptors screamed through the clear blue skies, a trail of black barrels falling behind them. As they hit the warbirds, the vessels were enshrouded in yellow-red fire. The center of the hellish blaze was blue-white hot, melting men and metal alike as it cut a wide swath across the blackening plain. Not a single ship survived long enough to escape or even raise a wing in surrender. The ear-splitting shriek of the Raptors ended in a stunning blast that shook the ground as they went supersonic and disappeared into the sun.
Most of the bombs hit their intended targets, but the few that went astray smashed into the rear of the Atlantean legions. Warriors, equipment and tents went up like torches, exploding ordinance erupting and fueling the growing carnage. Those troops far enough away to escape the horror surged forward, slamming into backs of those in front of them. Pandemonium swept across the ranks as bodies entangled and tumbled to the ground.
Cronus picked himself up off the grass, thrown off his feet by the earth-shaking eruptions. Bellowing in rage and shouting orders, he screamed into his comlink. His gaze swept back toward the city, fully expecting an army to surge through the city gates. Yet, nothing moved. The guns on the battlements remained silent and still.
Iapetus was already on his sled, speeding toward the terrified confusion. The energy-shielded armor he wore was molded to his enormous musculature, its weight nothing to the monstrous man. It had taken the impact of the sonic wave that tossed Cronus to the dirt, yet his body ached from the vibration.
Weaving the sled through the terrified ranks, Iapetus yelled into his coms. His commanders fought the swell of turmoil, rushing to save equipment and supplies. Like a raven-haired demon, Iapetus battered his way to the back, his iron presence forcing the soldiers into a semblance of order. He drove the warriors forward, away from the devastation behind them, organizing them into battalions once again and sending squads to search for the wounded. It took over two hours to restore discipline and transform the army back into a fighting force. Once accomplished, Iapetus raced back to Cronus, knowing what they must now do.
The Lord Father stomped over the hillock, his bronzed skin near purple from the fury the swelled inside him. Even before he received the reports from Crius, Cronus could see the reddish-gray pillars of smoke rising from the north. He knew with seething certainty the warbirds at his brother’s command suffered the same fate as his own. Their air power was completely annihilated and, still, no other response from Aborea. The city might as well be dead.
The blood-thirsty serpents which had plagued Cronus for centuries curled and hissed in the pit of his stomach. The fangs in their open maws dripped acidic venom into his veins, burning through his ebony heart. He fought their screams for vengeance, needing clarity of mind if he was to exact a hideous retribution from Zeus and his minions.
“We must attack,” Iapetus said, his voice grating across Cronus’ frayed nerves. His long, black braid was fr
azzled and singed, his armor covered with soot and ash. Yet, his eyes were flat and blank, his baritone voice emotionless and dispassionate. “We must do so now while our forces are enraged and yearning for revenge and before fear can infect them further.”
“I know,” Cronus snapped back, his face grim and angry. “Do you think me incompetent? I have already ordered our armada to strike from the sea. As soon as they begin, we will assault the walls from both sides simultaneously.”
“At your command,” Iapetus responded tonelessly. “Our legions are moving out as we speak. They will be within range within an hour.”
Cronus only gave him a curt grunt and mounted his sled. He would be at the fore when the battle began. He would unleash the serpents and lay waste to anything and anyone who impeded his path. This he swore to the Creator!
Admiral Koskican swept into the harbor with a strong, steady wind at his back. His armada filled the open mouth of the bay, unafraid of a Ripper that might tear out their hulls. It was far too wide for that nightmarish weapon to be lurking beneath the waves. With the northern and southern fleets combined, eight hundred warships raced across the nearly placid seas toward the Olympian vessels anchored quietly offshore.
A demonic sneer spread across his face as he stood on the bridge of the Golomon, his legs planted like oak trees on the swaying deck. He saw no frenzied activity on the enemy vessels, no rush to unfurl sails, weigh anchors or open gun ports. The surprise of the attack and the speed of his assault had caught the Olympians unprepared and ripe for the slaughter.
On his orders, his captains kept their prows aimed at the mastheads of the other ships until the last possible moment, preventing the gun ports of his opponents from getting a bead on his crafts. Koskican, with a wedge of three hundred ships behind him, tore past the silent vessels at full speed, intending to reach the berths where the larger warships were docked before they could enter the fray. He would not be bogged down in the bay in a gunfight with the enemy while the deadlier craft bore down upon them.
A chill not born of the wind rippled up his spine as he passed the lines of Olympian ships. Something strange caught his attention as he flashed by that cut through the haze of battle. At first, the cause of his perplexity eluded him, so intent was he on reaching the shoreline, but just before his armada buried itself among the anchored ships, it hit him. Not a single crewman appeared on the decks of his opponents and the vessels, themselves, seemed more like abandoned derelicts with faded paint and tattered riggings.
Alarms went off in the Admiral’s head as his armada opened fire and he screamed into his comlink, “Turn about! Turn about! It is a trap!”
He spun the wheel hard to port, the Golomon canting dangerously as it fought the wind. His warning came too late. Koskican bellowed in rage, his voice lost in the massive thunder rocking the waters all around him.
The firepower of his fleet was awesome, but Poseidon had turned that very strength against him. The abandoned and anchored vessels were only bait, their rickety hulls packed with explosives and oils. The Atlantean armada weaved a deadly path through and around their hapless prey and rained hell upon them. But the victory cries became wails of agony as their quarry erupted in balls of flame and splintered wood. The oils ignited and swept across the once-calm water like a wildfire, surrounding the armada in a blazing inferno. Chunks and splinters of burning wood fell upon Koskican’s mighty fleet like a molten hail of horror. The exploding armaments of his own ships flooded the air in a monsoon of nightmarish fury, spreading the fearsome devastation across the churning, boiling seas.
Almost half of the Atlantean armada was completely destroyed within those first monstrous moments. Those that survived the flames raced back into the open ocean only to run headlong into a wall of Olympian warships. While Koskican was busy congratulating himself on the success of his surprise attack, Poseidon was sweeping into the mouth of the bay behind him, blocking his escape. For hours, the two armadas fought a vicious, barbaric battle that left only the sharks pleased with the outcome.
Cronus swung his sword in a savage downward arc that cleaved the Olympian soldier across the body from shoulder to hip, leaving only a steaming pile of guts and blood in its wake. Spinning around, his red-slicked blade ripped through the three Aam surrounding him like a hot knife through butter. His bronzed flesh glistened in the sunlight, covered with sweat and sliced skin. Steel struck steel as he parried another blow, kicking out at the exposed kneecap of his opponent. The scream of agony ended abruptly as Cronus severed head from neck. A fiendish, feral grin spread over his tightly pinched lips as he whirled through the battlefield, a hurricane of death and destruction. The serpents were free and unrestrained at last.
His artillery smashed into the Aborean walls from all sides. Explosive missiles blew huge holes in the soft limestone rock. Hundred pound balls of iron crashed against the battlements, turning cannons and men into heaps of metal and bloody pulp. The plasma weapons touched wood with a fiery caress and melted stone into molten slag.
The city’s defenses crumbled far easier than Cronus had expected. His legions ran across the open plain toward the breaches, howling like maddened, gleeful beasts. The Olympian cannons still managed to wreak havoc on his first battalions before they went silent, leaving hundreds of men scattered like broken dolls across the blood-soaked landscape.
Cronus was leaning low on his sled, his long, red curls fanned out behind him like a flaming cape, when the counter-attack came. His bright, jade eyes blazed like a demonic viper anxious to sink its fangs into the enemy as the sky above blackened with swarms of angry hornets. Razor-sharp, steel-tipped aeros rained down upon him and his men, pinioning many like squirming bugs on the flat, crimson-stained ground.
He had prepared for this. Each man carried a large, round metal shield. At first sight of the deadly cloud, they fell to one knee and raised the disks above them like a canopy. Most of the aeros bounced off harmlessly, only a few slicing exposed flesh. The armor his Aam wore deflected much of the rest. Cronus could feel the barbs hitting him like hailstones, but none penetrated his defense.
The Lord Father was within a hundred yards of the gates went Zeus hit the rear of the Atlantean army. The Olympians surged from the foothills behind them, thousands strong. Their cannons slaughtered the unsuspecting army by the hundreds and destroyed their formidable artillery before it could turn to respond. Zeus’ archers sent a thunderstorm of death over their enemies then crashed into their stunned ranks like a juggernaut of raging fury. The lines broke like saplings and splintered into clusters of desperate clashes.
Cronus found himself caught in the open between the city walls and the mountains behind. To the north, Crius was in similar dire circumstance against Hades and his Olympian forces. The well-planned Atlantean attack shattered into chaos. That did not mean, however, that they were defeated. The Black Guard commanders were battle-hardened and ferocious. Their warriors were depraved and barbaric, feeling an almost sexual arousal in the grisly havoc. Even the most frightened among them fought like rabid Murcats, knowing if they did not, it would be their rotting corpses left behind to fertilize the ground.
Zeus and his legions took no pleasure in death. They gave quarter where possible, but no mercy where it was not. The very reason for this carefully laid trap was to lay waste to the Lord Father’s forces and break the back of his armies. He knew Cronus could not resist the possibility of his children gathered in one place and the chance to crush them all at once. Zeus and his siblings spread the rumors of their base throughout empire, the mines and pleasure houses, hoping to draw Atlantis to this specific place.
Aborea was hastily constructed, most of the buildings mere shells, the only people residing there well-chosen volunteers. The Crescent Mountains which cradled the vast plains were riddled with massive caverns and huge caves, perfect for hiding his army. The flat, empty plains created an open battleground free of innocent civilians. Here is where he had chosen to make a stand far from populated cities.
And then the storm came. Dark, tumulus clouds rolled over the gruesome battlefield, turning day into night. Blinding blasts of blue-white lightning ripped the sight from the warriors, leaving behind sparkling afterimages of red and yellow. The dark brown puddles of dried blood turned into slick rivers of mud and gory entrails. Monsoon rains hammered the armies, covering them with thick layers of sludge and soot. The deluge of water was so heavy seeing one’s own hands was nearly futile. It quickly became impossible to tell friend from foe. The Creator roared out his fury at the carnage with detonations of thunder and screaming gale-force winds that rocked the very ground beneath their feet.
“It is senseless to continue,” Lelantos said, hunkered down before the blazing fire in the cavern. His light-blue, scalloped armor lay in a crumpled heap next to him, many of the tiles torn loose and hanging askew. The tan under-tunic and breeches he wore were tattered, ripped and caked with smears of brown-gray muck. It clung damply to his muscled frame like a second skin, steaming in the heat of the flames. “We cannot fight in this storm.”
Zeus stared into the glowing embers, his golden eyes as dark as the skies outside. A dim aura of Healing surrounded his bare, chiseled chest as the last of his deepest wounds faded from his bronzed skin. His lion’s mane of wavy, blond-streaked, red hair was tangled in knots and plastered against his hunched, burly back. He sat cross-legged on the hard, rocky ground, poking at the fire with a long wooden stick, it's tip black and charred. A constant moaning echoed off the limestone walls from the huge side chambers filled with the worst of the injured. The sounds cut jagged lines in his soul which even the gift of Healing could never erase.
