by Taylor Kole
“How long until dawn?”
Inspecting the burning fires, Remus said, “I would say near four shadow bars.”
Looking toward the ladder of ascension, Josh saw nothing but night. Staring at the closer, better-lit wall, he found an identical mural of Olympus here. Yet a layer of soot obscured the image. The armory of the gods waited at its base, same as in Bristalius, but chips marred the stone, soot coated the wall and bushes suffocated the building.
The poor condition felt like an abuse and saddened the now-permanent god.
“I thought no one was allowed in the Hall of the Gods?”
Remus stepped back and lowered his head. “Dacathius has not had a god among us for hundreds of years. Our lands are so overrun, this is the only place our children can grow in safety, and only a small selection receive that privilege. To evict us is to kill almost every child present.”
Josh noticed the gathering of children huddled in fear, some visibly shaking as they stared at the acrylic wall.
“You are all welcome here,” Josh assured them. The weight of his words created a visible effect as shoulders relaxed and worried brows smoothed.
Addressing the group, he raised his voice, “I am here to help all of Betaloome. My first visit occurred in Bristalius, and I have returned.” Voices surged at the revelation, but he pressed on. “I have urgent business which I must attend up there, but when finished, I will aid your nation.”
Chatter equal parts excited and disappointed spread. Remus stepped closer. He lowered his head and whispered, “Law two says no god may return to Betaloome. The penalty is death.”
Staring at the armory of the gods, Josh imagined his scimitar still upright in the soil in Bristalius. Its twin would be housed inside this armory.
Looking at an anxious Remus, he recalled the humiliation of kneeling before RobertJohnson and his gathering of thugs. His stomach knotted but he still said, “It’s time for some new laws.”
XXVII
The door to Bellora’s cell opened for the third time during her week of captivity. The last time, the day before, a guard had rushed in, covering his mouth with a cloth to combat the smell, and replaced her waste and water buckets. The shame of it still haunted Bellora.
At the sound of the door cracking open, she scampered to the middle of the room and stood at attention. Even after seven days, she still expected RobertJohnson to come to her aid. Unfortunately, it was only a normal guard, holding a bucket of water with a drenched washcloth over its rim.
Glancing at the water bucket in her cell, and finding it still half full, meaning this guy was days early, brought her first twinge of hope.
“Wash quickly,” the guard said as he dropped the new pail. “You have the rare honor of being summoned to the Imperial Hall. Be thorough, something as wretched and offensive as yourself will only invite slaughter.” He slammed the door.
Rather than jump and clap, Bellora hurried to the water pail she already possessed, disrobed, and tossed her undergarments in the corner. She wouldn’t need them ever again. After today, she wouldn’t need anything but to be available to her lord, to be the most pleasing of his women. For that she would earn a god-son and be elevated to the highest rank of Atlantean life, just as her visions promised.
Her tunic smelled awful. After submerging it in the bucket, she wrenched it fiercely over the drain hole. A few repetitions turned the bucket water gritty, and dark.
With it as clean as it would get, she hung it on the cracked-open door.
On her second day of incarceration, she had realized that her cell was under the coliseum.
The roar of the crowd during battle might had invigorated her. Using their oohs and ahhs and cries, she visualized a grand spectacle. She transported herself to the balcony of the arena, seated beside RobertJohnson and dressed in rich fabrics. She imagined each match changed for variety: man vs. man, teams of men vs. teams of men, teams of men against eviscerators or trappers. Then a tantalizing idea struck her: two eviscerators battling each other—or a squad of them tearing each other to pieces.
Two and a half days after the bloodshed had ceased, she remembered Ursus. She hoped he hadn’t been that night’s entertainment. Once she assumed her mantle, her intention was to have him assigned to her personal guard.
Taking handfuls of water from the new, clean bucket, she wetted her hair and let the cool water run down her clammy body. Goosebumps prickled her naked flesh.
The nominal hallway breeze would leave her tunic damp, but by slowing her pace through the beautiful city, the baking suns would help with her appearance.
Recalling the streets and buildings—all made of stone—renewed her awe. The roofs in Atlantis were copper. People dressed in all of the colors of the rainbow. Everyone smiled. Children played without supervision, citizens rested on the ground, blankets open, food set about with no concern for a quick retreat. Life went on as if hordes of demons didn’t stalk their lands.
These were her people now, part of her new life.
She splashed her breasts, which had grown smaller over the past week and become more firm. She then thought about how grateful RobertJohnson would be knowing she had kept her flower intact for him.
With the bucket half empty and her body clean, she moved to her knees and carefully poured a stream over her hair.
When free of dirt, its black sheen and uniform cut offered a cuteness no sane man could resist. She repeated the process three times, feeling more like a woman with each rinse.
Unable to use the dirty blanket to dry herself, she wiped off the excess water with her hands and rotated in place to speed her drying. She pictured herself spinning in a ballroom dress. RobertJohnson wouldn’t be as stupid as JoshRidley. He would detect her worth. He would notice the strength in her and the fierceness she displayed by reaching this point.
Shaking out her cleaned hair, she was jittery. Tonight could be her wedding night. RobertJohnson would probably giggle at her lightweight, her eagerness to please him, and how much she welcomed the pain of being deflowered.
After rotating for her dozenth time, growing dryer with each twist, the guard returned, opened the door and stared at her.
“Let’s go, wench.”
Bellora slipped on the damp tunic, trying her best to contain the laughter bubbling up. Straightening the front, she met the guard’s eyes and nodded; ready to see her lover, to lead her subjects.
Two other guards waited in the hall. Passing other cells, she found faces in most of the openings. They watched silently. The dungeons were a quiet place, but these people must be questioning the identity of this stately young woman and where her escorts led her. It surely wasn’t the normal destination: death in front of an audience.
She kept her eyes straight ahead. These criminals would get no sympathy from her. She trusted the rule of RobertJohnson and knew they had earned their predicament.
Exiting the tunnels, she noticed the air smelled different in Atlantis, cleaner. It moved more swiftly. On Betadrius, she could almost tell the time of day by the stench in the air, the heat off the earth, but here everything radiated safety. Pools of water littered the landscape, and the absurdity of that alone forced her hands over her mouth to hide the beaming smile of a madwoman.
As with the prior week, people mulled about seemingly without any fears, turning curious eyes toward her small procession. When Bellora nodded confidently at her future subjects, they furrowed their brows. Some even stepped away, unsure what seeing this young woman being escorted meant. Bellora epitomized beauty, even half clean and wearing rags. With the warming sun drying her hair and creasing her tunic, she imagined the people seeing her sensed something spectacular, they just couldn’t grasp what.
The Imperial Hall, not the Hall of Distress, was visible from a great distance. Its proportions embarrassed JoshRidley’s temple in Reysona. It started with a set of curved stairs, which grew outward with each descending step. They alone would cover a massive portion of her old village.
&
nbsp; The Imperial Hall was far from the gloomy pit of distress people described. It seemed polished and constructed of fine marble. The towering pillars were made more impressive by having statues of heroes etched into their bases.
Halfway up the stairs, the three guards with Bellora stopped and waited. She used this time to look over the capitol city. It stretched further than she could see, and she wondered if all of Atlantis was covered in stone and metal and pools and decorative trees. She saw buildings with architecture that seemed impossible to construct. The coliseum, which waited a thousand paces from her, seemed so much larger from an elevated view, the walls inscribed with symbols and writings. Seeing them, Bellora vowed to improve her reading and learn art in her spare time.
A voice bellowed behind them, turning the trio.
“Is this the rat who whispers of a devil spawn?” a man said.
The golden guard who marched down the steps was one of the biggest men she had ever seen. Though youthful, his thinning hair marked the early stages of balding. His gold and metal armor depicted a bent arm on its front, and by the deep tan of his flesh, she knew he came directly from RobertJohnson’s loins. She also knew her child would be more handsome and elegant than this brute.
“This is her,” one of her escorts replied.
The half-god stopped ten steps from the guards and beckoned her. “To me.”
“It was nice knowing you,” the guard who had retrieved her whispered before shoving her forward.
Wrenching her arm free, she faced him. “When we next cross paths, a full apology will spare your life.”
He shook his head, turned, and descended the steps.
“Come, bitch,” the golden guard said.
With a slight curtsy, Bellora obliged, and they hiked the remaining stairs.
The foyer of the Imperial Hall dwarfed previous concepts of colossal. It would hold all the citizens of Reysona along with its livestock leaving room for each to roam. Vacant, each step echoed. Servants slinked along the perimeter. They kept their heads down, reminding her of her previous life.
A right turn, a left, and they reached an audience chamber. A throne rested at its head. A servant stood to either side.
A man large enough to be another half-god, who had a long scar running down his chest, towered next to the throne. He whispered to a male servant, gripped the servant’s buttocks, and sent him on his way, watching the swaying cheeks as the man departed.
“Here is the bitch from below,” the first golden guard said as he halted at the base of the stairs and stared up at his brother.
The man turned, and she recognized Gatacon. He wore nothing but a leather cloth, a short hatchet tied to it. His shoulders were more than twice her width. His mass was like that of a horse. He descended a step, “Speak child, and I may allow you to live long enough to watch Perea here kill your servant tonight.”
Bellora’s spirit tickled at the knowledge Ursus still lived. She had never seen him in her visions, but having played a crucial role in her success, she hoped to reward him. Still, the rancor in Gatacon’s voice chilled her bones. Surveying the chamber, she sought her savior, RobertJohnson.
“How many will I battle?” Perea asked.
“The question is, how many can you best?”
“I could slaughter ten men without earning a scratch.”
“Ha!” Gatacon laughed. “You are not a god, my dear brother. I will let you face four and pray for your survival.”
“Perhaps you fear I’ll best your record?”
“Never, my young sibling. I would simply rather avoid Father pouring hot oil over my genitals for me allowing one of his sons to be killed so foolishly. Handle four and you may try five at your next rotation.”
As if remembering Bellora, they both turned to her.
“Are you deaf, girl?” Gatacon barked.
The cruelty in his voice made her flinch and her knees tremble. Inhaling, she used the swelling in her chest as courage and spoke rapidly. “What I have to say is for RobertJohnson’s ears. JoshRidley has planted a seed. I can tell him where, but I-I would like to tell our lord of my loyalty and ask for a child in return for a life of servitude.” With the words out, she exhaled, and panted.
“Do you hear that, Perea?” Gatacon said with an inquisitive cock of his head. “She wants to barter.”
Perea laughed.
“Listen to me, child. My father would boil you alive and drink you as broth before he birthed you. Now, tell me what you know of a devil spawn and I will send you to the slave market where you might find a suitable life.”
She only needed RobertJohnson to see her, to hear the love in her voice, and she could win him over. Accepting she preferred death to failing when this close, she balled her fists and said, “I am the one who knows where the woman JoshRidley impregnated is hiding. I have killed all of her guards and left her trapped. For these feats of loyalty, I only ask for an audience with RobertJohnson. Surely he is near.”
Gatacon stepped forward and pulled the axe from his waist. “I will chop those tiny arms from your body and add them to our collection if you don’t speak my answer, now.”
Bellora retreated a step and glanced upwards. Arms dangled from the ceiling. Her heart skipped a beat. Some were coated in silver, others in iron. They were all sizes, but near the front, four golden arms, larger than the rest, more defined, swayed ever so slightly to a breeze she couldn’t feel. Perhaps their movement emanated from an effort to reunite with their bodies.
“You, wench!” Gatacon pointed to a servant woman along the wall.
Fearing his words had been for her, Bellora’s bladder weakened.
A female servant stepped out of the shadow.
“Come to me.”
She bowed her head and padded forward. Bellora noticed her legs shook with each step. Once in range, Gatacon eyed her, then turned his gaze to Bellora. With eyes locked on her, he swung his axe at the woman’s neck. It buried deep enough to shower blood over him with the initial gust. The second, weaker spray of blood, coated his chest.
The woman grasped at the wound as she dropped to her knees and then tumbled sideways. Her head lolled unnaturally as she landed, her arms came to rest seconds later, in a growing pool of blood.
Seemingly without movement, Gatacon closed the distance, gripped Bellora by her neck, and lifted her from the ground.
Her bladder loosened. She tried to apologize, but the vice-grip denied her a voice.
Three minutes later she had given detailed directions to Junea’s hideout and answered any and all questions as quickly and honestly as possible.
Now, tossed aside, trembling, staring at the floor as she waited on her hands and knees for the death blow, she heard Perea address Gatacon.
“Perhaps we should grant her wish after all.” Perea said. His words filled her with hope. “Let’s send her to father’s harem?”
Gatacon scoffed.
“She has brought us information father will appreciate.”
With controlled laughter, Gatacon said, “Do it. Let her have her barter. I will gather some men and deal with the heathen woman.”
“I demand to accompany the party,” Perea said.
Bellora didn’t lift her head. Blood dripped from some part of her face. She had no recollection of being struck. But she bled. Blood filled her mouth. Using her tongue, she found a missing tooth on her bottom jaw.
None of that mattered. Unless she had already passed into the afterlife and was simply being patronized, the evil brothers had agreed to send her to RobertJohnson’s harem.
Clenching her fists, she hated herself for doubting her visions, even for a moment.
“If you are unharmed tonight,” Gatacon continued, “You may travel with me. Have the wench cleaned and delivered to father.”
“With haste”
A hand gripped the back of Bellora’s neck and lifted her to her feet. She fought hard to temper her smile.
She would make RobertJohnson’s bed. She neared the prophe
cy of greatness, where she birthed a god-son, became famous, and change the world. This momentary fear had been but a test of her faith.
Perea rotated her and shoved. “Move, bitch.”
Gladly, she thought. She aimed to be subservient to her betters for the remainder of her life.
XXVIII
Once the youth who were gathered in Dacathius’ hall of the gods processed that a god was among them, everyone started talking; many ran around in excitement, some danced. Laughter was heard everywhere.
The armory of the gods on Dacathius was half the size of the one in Bristalius, the light that activated upon opening the solid stone doors glowed white instead of red. For the kids’ amusement, Josh pulled it all the way open and let them rummage around the gear.
Being half the size gave him half of the selection. There was no scimitar like the one he had grown accustomed to. This was a disappointment with an upside. The ivory handled weapon’s absence meant his original choice had been unique.
Perusing the crammed shelves, he still had his choice of fine weaponry, but nothing stood out as during his previous search.
He chose two katanas which were three-quarters as long as he was tall. They mounted in a criss-cross pattern over his back.
The craftsmanship equaled that of the armory on Bristalius, but centuries of neglect had taken a toll. His ninja blades would hack, but the blades lacked a razor’s edge.
He would reach Reysona and then go get his scimitar.
Fully strapped up, standing in the center of the children, staring up at the glowing-to-life lights, Josh wondered about his travel time when crossing an entire level in Betaloome.
“You are thinking of departing today, m’lord?” Remus stared at the katanas with obvious disappointment. He had tried to convince Josh to select a metal staff, since he was an instructor in its use.
“Yes, immediately. I have pressing matters to attend.”
“Of course. It is only that today is a day of rain. It drives many of the creatures underground, but it makes a rare few desperate for food, and the terrain becomes more challenging. For a dense god like yourself, muddy earth can be a pain.”
