Rise of Prophecy

by Abdur Mohammed

  Remus is eleven years older than his brother, rugged but yet dignified. Unlike his sister, he takes by his father, tall with a medium build. His slightly greying beard matches his head of neatly cut dark hair. He has carried on the mantle of Lord for the family and has done an excellent job with it. Everyone respects him, including the nobles. Anna is the perfect match for him, with her quick wit and fiery tongue, she tends to keep him in check.

  “You looking for that slut friend of yours?” Anna says to Remus.

  “What? Be quiet, it’s not a day for your teasing,” Remus advises.

  “Just trying to distract you from whatever is eating you. What is it?”

  “Waiting on my brother, that’s all.”

  “It is shameful that he thinks it more appropriate to be wandering around the place,” Anna says.

  “I’ll be back,” Remus informs Anna. He heads towards an exit, ignoring his wife’s objections.

  The temple catacombs store two things, the tombs of saints and the wine cellar. Not many have ventured into the catacombs, but the wine cellar, now there is a place frequented by many a delinquent. On his way into the wine cellar, Alexius decided to pay a visit to the departed.

  Brazen images of saints stand tall in the vast chamber. The place is damp, dusty, with hanging torches begging to be lit. Fire blazes in some crude lamps towards a forgotten area. It is an unmapped section housing dead saints from a time long ago. Alexius stands in front of one stone tomb belonging to his ancestor, Badur.

  He holds his father’s journal close, letting the light from an overhead torch fall on the pages. He reads silently, occasionally passing his hand on carvings on the stone, then comparing them to the pages. There are some matching symbols on the tomb from the journal. One week ago, they would have been unfamiliar, but now they bear a striking resemblance to Archon Inias’ recovered books.

  Approaching footsteps can be heard, prompting him to stuff the journal in his jacket quickly. He pulls out an empty flask. To his relief, Remus stands behind him.

  “You startled me,” he lies.

  “Everyone is gathered; they are about to start. What are you doing here anyway? And don’t tell me looking for the wine cellar; if anyone knows where that is, it’s you.”

  “How did you find me?” He looks at Remus pointing to the lit torches. “Oh. I just got sidetracked, that’s all.”

  “And is it just coincidence you end up at the tomb of your ancestor?” Remus points out.

  “Our ancestor,” says Alexius.

  “Sometimes blood is everything little brother.”

  “Doesn’t take blood to make a family.”

  “Even Andros?” Remus asks.

  “Don’t push it,” Alexius replies with a scowl.

  “But really, why here, why now?”

  “How much do you know about father’s friends? The ones who would come to the house all the time. The ones he went off to Illyria with?”

  “Not much really. One of them is here…”

  “Yes, I met him,” Alexius says. “What about the others, what were they up to?”

  Remus is getting uncomfortable; it shows on his face. He points to the exit. Alexius begins to suspect that his brother has some of the answers he seeks, but today is not the day to ask for them; maybe tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry I’ve stayed away for so long,” Alexius says solemnly. “There is no excuse, but…”

  “Don’t brother,” Remus says, putting his arm around Alexius. “You need not explain. It’s been quite a challenge this past year. I often wonder if I should have become a soldier like my father. It seems our fates have been crisscrossed.”

  “I would make a disastrous politician and you a horrible soldier. Face it; fate has put us right where she needs us to be.”

  “Have you ever thought of coming back? There is always a place for you here; you know that don’t you?”

  Alexius sighs, “It won’t be right. With mother gone, it would feel as if I am returning because of it. I was never meant to have a family it seems, to settle down, to just…breathe.”

  “Surely there is someone out there to make an honest man of you?”

  “Not even the Princess of Atlantis can make an honest man of me,” Alexius jokes.

  They go around a corner then climb a flight of long stairs. “You mentioned challenges this year, such as?” Alexius asks.

  “There has been a lot of oversight from the capital in our local government. I’ve even been called to counsel in Atlas. You know how much I hate that place.”

  “Are you going? What about the senator, shouldn’t he be addressing your concerns?”

  “Otto is an old man, stubborn and unwilling to give up his seat. I will admit that it is my lack of courage to sack him that cements his resolve. I’d feel better if we had someone there we could trust to represent Parthon; to represent the family.”

  “Oh no, don’t even try it,” Alexius says with a smile. “Politics is not my game. Get Andros to play senator.”

  “A senator’s post will be taken as an insult. We both know he desires a proper lordship, not the lesser nobility he has inherited.”

  “The man barely deserves the titles he currently has.” Alexius touches the journal in his inside breast pocket. “I can’t be your senator brother. I have some important things I must attend to.”

  They walk the long halls to the exit reminiscing about days past. As they come upon a split at the doorway, Alexius starts to head off in the opposite direction. Remus knows he’s going to the wine cellar. He shakes his head.

  The crowd has settled now. Etos is going on and on about the patron god Garthos; a marbled image of him stands tall at a left corner, towering over the lesser essential statues. Etos begins his story about the afterlife; his voice echoes with the help of loudspeakers.

  Remus takes his seat next to Anna. She looks at him curiously, waiting for an explanation for her brother-in-law’s absence. He smiles then plays with Chloe. Anna looks over to the side passageway; she sees Alexius being discreetly dragged by Cassandra.

  They make their way to the others, sitting in their assigned seats. Alexius attempts to sit next to Cassandra, but she quickly pushes him off to the adjacent position.

  “Have some respect, it will be over soon,” Cassandra chides.

  “Where’s your pack mule?” asks Alexius.

  “Looking for you,” Cassandra replies. “He should have started in the wine cellar.”

  Andros appears from the opposite end of the hall. He calmly approaches while smiling at his admirers. His family is also in the noble class, with a reputation for being shrewd. They are well respected, but not on the scale that Cassandra’s family is. He takes his seat next to his wife.

  “Fell into the wine barrel again?” Andros asks Alexius.

  “If only I were so lucky,” Alexius jokes. He reaches into his jacket, retrieves his flask, and takes a drink. He offers it to Andros.

  “Don’t disgrace your family, or me,” Andros warns with a smile. Cassandra hits him on the shoulder, obviously not pleased with the exchange.

  “How is Daniu?” Alexius asks Andros.

  “Still locked away in an Aryan monastery. By now Daniu has probably shaved his head, surely wearing those infernal robes they…” he stops as Alexius chuckles. “What?”

  “This is the first civil conversation we’ve had, ever,” Alexius explains. Andros doesn’t finish. Instead, he looks at the activities on the stage.

  A line of young boys and girls enter the altar area. Their ages range from twelve to fifteen. One girl appears late. She is clearly in her twenties; it’s Lizzie, one of the temple youths. They all carry smoking chalices of incense, swinging it slowly in front of them. They circle Etos with the smoke as he chants some prayers.

  Lizzie gives Alexius a warm smile. She bites the side of her bottom lip then bumps into the lad in front of her. Alexius notices, then quickly takes a drink from his flask. He smiles back at Lizzie.

  Chapter 11: A
Pot of Gold Stew

  The kingdoms of Illyria have indeed become the wonders of man; all built on the ashes of the Anuk predecessors. If Rihzon claims to be the economic powerhouse of the conglomerate, then Dalmatia can aptly hold the title of being its big sister. The ‘pearl of the Adriatic’ is the capital of this kingdom, what a capital it is to behold.

  Situated in an inlet surrounded by rocky cliffs, one would feel as if they are entering an ancient version of Atlantis. High walls with towers encapsulate a city of red roofs amidst stone buildings. Giant statues jot out of the rock to reach the skies in calm, bright blue waters.

  The wealthiest of Illyria’s citizens live here. Their fortunes made from trade in everything that could be bought and sold. There was never an item that could not be bartered; even influence had a price. No one was exempt from the allure of Dalmatia, not even the ministries of the priesthood.

  The local monastery sat as most do, on a high hill overlooking the city. In this holy place, there was an overabundance of slaves; temple youths who were free citizens of other realms did not exist here.

  The affluent High Priest Clabber lives in opulence. It has long been suspected that he is involved in illegal activities; black market everything, from slaves to stolen Atlantean technology. Yet, no one dares confront him, for as long as he brings in tribute to the governing order of the priesthood, he will have their protection.

  Clabber is one of those priestly aristocrats who believes he is untouchable. His walk, his speech, his overall demeanor are the stink of a pompous snob who lives in the reputation he has gained.

  The sun has barely risen. This means the High Priest will have his morning soak in the ‘sacred pools,’ inside one of the private quarters. Clabber regally walks across his marble floor followed by a slave girl, Neela; she’s no more than ten. She very carefully carries a platter of fruit several paces behind her master.

  They descend a winding staircase headed to a steaming pool. Fires blaze in ceramic urns, giving a mystical ambiance to the room. Columns rise from the floor, propping the low ceiling. A marbled bench sits across from the water where Clabber has now stopped.

  Neela places her platter near a column then looks over to Clabber. He lifts both arms parallel to the ground as if waiting for some divine inspiration. He clears his throat, signaling his slave that he was ready to be attended to. She quickly runs up to disrobe him.

  At first glance, one would look on in awe at the fat, hairy ‘man-beast.’ That glance would quickly turn into amazement at the short chubby arms disappearing into the body. If one’s breakfast were not instantly regurgitated, then the overlapping stomach rolls, coupled with the ripe sour stench, would quickly bring on this reaction.

  Clabber ceremoniously enters the pool, wading over to the far wall. He closes his eyes, enjoying the burning incense hanging above the perfumed waters. Today is a good day, for he is completing a five day fast in honor of some festival or another. A good soak before a good meal; this brings a smile to his face. First, he will have some fruit.

  Neela walks over to the platter with her bare feet sticking to the wet tile. She is hungry but cannot eat until her master does; none of the children can. Her sad face is a testament to a lifetime of abuse on top of hard work. She begins to pick up the tray but is startled by Mica standing over her.

  She looks up with wide eyes fearing the worst; frozen for a moment, unable to scream. A hand covers her little mouth, another holds her. She does not struggle. The grip begins to relax, the palm drops from her mouth. She looks at Mica with eyes that plead for help.

  Mica knows her pain. He was once like her, a slave to High Priest Clabber. Stolen from Rihzon as a small child, from parents he will never know. His heart breaks for the little girl; all he can think about is making the fat pig pay. Liviana has forbidden any harm to the priest so there will be no killing this morning.

  “Don’t be afraid little princess,” Mica whispers. “Run along now, get something to eat. Hide in your room.”

  Neela scampers off, her tiny feet hitting the metal staircase hard. The noise alerts Clabber who opens his eyes to see Mica standing near the marble bench. The intruder crunches into a red apple, disrupting the tranquility of the bathing room.

  “What is the meaning of this!” Clabber screams with contempt. Mica ignores him, continuing to crunch. “Do you know who I am? I will have you…”

  “Lord Clabber,” Mica interrupts, “what is that smell?” He tosses the half-eaten apple into the water then selects a nice green one. “Smells like…disappointment.”

  “Who are you, what do you want?” Clabber asks.

  Mica sits on the bench, taking his time to regard the fruit in his hand. He reaches for a dagger on his waist, slowly pulling it out, displaying the well-crafted blade to the priest.

  The weapon’s hilt is ivory with intricate gold carvings on it. The symbols shine with the meager light. Clabber sees enough of the images to give him some pause; he knew the markings belonged to the infamous terrorist group that had descended upon Illyria.

  Mica slices into the apple, cutting small strips slowly. He tosses a juicy piece into the pool within reach of Clabber. The part is so thin that it just floats there. Is this a trick? Clabber thinks.

  “You look hungry,” Mica says in a serious tone.

  Clabber turns red as a turnip then wades off to a corner. “I am the High Priest of Dalmatia. You will recognize your master!”

  His arrogance is astounding. Even in this position, he fails to see his dilemma. He watches Mica smile while continuing to throw strips of apple towards him. He looks familiar, Clabber notes to himself.

  “You fucking twat,” Mica says in an aggravated tone, “do I look like your slave? You know who I work for,” he states.

  The confirmation that this was indeed a terrorist was all Clabber needed. A mere bandit or assassin from the cartels he could handle. Not these people, for they could not be bought or bribed. Caution enters his soul; maybe he will be the first that can sway one.

  “Apologies,” Clabber says with humility. “What does your master want?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” Mica responds.

  A cloaked, intimidating figure steps out of the shadows. Fear creeps into Clabber once more, for this could be the master no one has ever seen. Those unfortunate souls who have encountered him have never lived to see another sunrise. The figure steps into the light, twenty feet away.

  “Get your fat ass out of there. Present yourself properly,” Mica orders.

  Clabber hurries out of the water, his heart pounding. He gets to the submerged stairs then begins to climb out. Quite expectantly, he slips backward, creating a big splash.

  Mica pauses his peeling, then looks at the figure; he notices a nod towards the falling man. Grumbling under his breath, he enters the water to help Clabber out. Once they make it onto the tiles, he rolls the ‘beast’ on his stomach, exposing the hairy backside.

  “You’re disgusting,” He says to Clabber. He grabs the nearby robe, tossing it over the abomination. “Cover yourself.”

  As the priest covers up; Liviana reveals herself by dropping her hood. Light from the flames show off the tribal images on her face. Once Clabber notices her, his anger quickly returns when he realizes that this is not ‘The Master.’

  “Who is this cunt? I will have you both killed!” he exclaims with ferocious anger.

  Mica knew never to call Liviana that word. He has slipped up in the past and escaped her fury with a warning. Now, this idiot has angered her.

  In a split second, Liviana moves across the room, stopping behind Clabber. She presses her blade on his jugular making her intentions known.

  “Call me that one more time, you piece of filth,” she warns.

  “You…” Clabber begins slowly, carefully choosing his words; he has an idea who she is now, or what she is, he thinks this may save him, “…are the…”

  Before he can utter another word, Liviana slams the butt of her dagger behind Clab
ber’s head. His body drops to the floor causing Liviana to jump clear. She stands next to Mica, who calmly slices off a large piece of apple, then offers it to her.

  -TURNEY’S BROTHEL AND BAR, PARTHON, ATLANTIS-

  It is well into the morning on this side of Parthon; the skies are clear, the wind is brisk. The parking lot at ‘Turney’s Brothel and Bar’ is almost empty. There weren’t many patrons last night, as they were at the funeral services for Alexa Badur. A vehicle is parked at the entrance.

  The car belongs to the local priesthood, on loan to High Priest Calis of Atlas. He sits quietly in the back seat contemplating his next move. This was a bit unusual for him, waiting outside a seedy brothel; it was by far not the strangest thing I’ve done, he recalls. He looks at a clock display near him. Time was not on his side today, so he exits the vehicle.

  Inside the brothel is quiet, with only one barmaid wiping down the counters. Krista notices Calis. She immediately drops to her knees.

  “Good morning M’Lord,” Krista says in a sweet voice.

  “Good morning,” Calis answers, then quickly helps the young lady on her feet. “There is no need for formality my dear.”

  He looks around the relatively large space. It is clean, well-organized, quite deceptive as the outside seems almost dilapidated, but yet the insides can rival any nightclub in Garthos.

  Krista quickly gets behind the bar, “May I offer your holiness some coffee or tea?”

  “No thank you,” Calis responds politely. “It will be kind of you to take some tea to my driver.” He begins to reach for his money.

  “Yes of course…you need not pay. It will be my honor.”

  “Bless you, my child. I am actually here to collect one of your patrons…”

  “Alexius,” Krista quickly states with a smile. “He’s with my sister Lizzie.”

  “Before you go outside, can you inform him that I am here?” Krista nods then scamper up a flight of stairs.

  The upper level is spacious with a long hallway winding about like a hotel’s. Krista stops at a door, presses her ear against it listening for activity. Since there is none, she hurries inside.