Rise of Prophecy

by Abdur Mohammed

  The early morning breeze flows through the balcony, caressing large orchids spread across a wall. Timon stands at the banister looking out at the horizon. How much longer must we endure the decadence of this world? He ponders.

  When he was thirteen, he was sent off to his cousins in Aryavan; he loathed the lot of them. ‘Half-breed degenerates’ is what he would refer to that royal family as.

  Their predecessors had attempted to assassinate his father long before his birth, but fate turned the tables on them; that generation was annihilated from existence. Only one minor Aryan house remained to take up the mantle of sovereign.

  As a pawn in his father’s political game, Timon was to remain in Aryavan for five years, serving as a prisoner from his point of view. It was not all bad though, for he would learn their ways, but more importantly, their weaknesses. He secretly made plans for the future; ideas that would make the Aryans pay for his indenture-ship, along with everything else he didn’t like about the world. Something unexpected happened just after his sixteenth birthday, he fell in love.

  Leena, an Illyrian noble girl, was sent off to Aryavan on her sixteenth birthday; the Illyrians practiced a similar form of ‘Royal hostage’ to the Atlanteans, but theirs lasted two years. Her presence made Timon’s remaining time there bearable.

  She was tall and elegant, raven-haired, with gentle features which made her appear kind; an attribute she naturally possessed. Leena always loved animals and helped the poor; there were so many poor souls in Aryavan. Both teenagers’ stay in the kingdom ended around the same time. They were devoted to each other, so they made plans to get married in Atlantis.

  It was a happy time for Timon, for the resentment he harbored since childhood was washed away by Leena’s presence. Fate would intervene in their love affair; tragedy would strike the couple in Leena’s hometown of Ganovce in Northern Illyria.

  Ignoring every word of caution, Timon accompanied his intended wife to her home. They spent the winter there oblivious to the rest of the world, living a carefree life. One afternoon on their way to a transport bound for Atlantis, they were attacked.

  Illyrian nomads descended upon the prince’s party, killing everyone except Timon and Leena. The couple was whisked away deep into the unknown regions of the kingdom. Rape and torture were inflicted on both hostages until death would fall upon Leena. Timon was ultimately left to die in a swamp.

  The memory still haunts the prince. Every day since he has sought a way to end the existence of the ‘nomad scum.’ Today, he is one step closer to see this happen, for secrets have been revealed to him. The priesthood has uncovered knowledge of a once mythical place called Lumeria. If the stories are correct about the power that exists there, then he can not only wipe the nomads out of existence, but he can also bring the world to yield. For Leena, he has convinced himself.

  Timon stretches then makes his way back inside his large bedchamber. Fifty-feet away, two guards in red uniforms stand by the entrance; the Red-Guard, an elite royal order of mindless brutes, are always ready to serve their master. He walks over to his bed then looks at the lifeless naked girl lying there.

  Her stomach is bloody from a half-inch wound; her neck is bruised from powerful hands that constricted around it. She was a mere servant who bore a small tattoo on the inside of her right forearm; the mark of a nomad tribe. The girl was an innocent refugee, serving the royal household faithfully for three years. Her innocence did not matter, for she was a nomad.

  The prince walks towards the guards, “Get that out of my sight,” he orders pointing at the body. “Burn the bed.”

  The guards open the chamber doors. Four male servants hastily enter. They collect the body with the prince’s bloody clothing. As they hurry out, Timon’s aide, Bana, enters the room.

  Bana is a young, ambitious man in his early twenties. Son of a nobleman, he faithfully serves the prince and is privy to all his dealings. His neat, effeminate features fit well with his station. He has become arrogant with his high status.

  Bana hurries in, “Your Highness, I have good news.”

  “It better be exceptional news Bana; it’s too early to deal with you otherwise. What is it? Spit it out.”

  “The sacred texts have arrived. Lord Inias has it in his possession, and prince Varna will be escorting them here.”

  “Good,” says the Prince. “Wine!” he shouts. An old bald servant hurries in; he stands motionless in front of the prince. “Well? Pour it you fucking twit.” The frightened servant fills the cup, bows then leaves.

  There is an awkward silence in the room as Timon gulps down his drink. Bana stands there, looking at him in his underwear. The aide has a particular inclination toward young boys, but this was a man, a prince no less. Silent lusting would be his only escape here; he gets lost in his thoughts.

  “Bana!” the prince screams. “Where is Varna?”

  “He left before sunrise,” Bana responds, a bit flustered.

  “And? Nothing? Get out.” Timon is amused, knowing he has reminded Bana of his place in the scheme of things.

  “Yes, your highness.” Bana bows then makes his retreat.

  The prince makes his way to a corner desk drawer; he drops a thin gold necklace with a blue opal gem attached. He took the piece from the dead servant, a trophy of sorts. It was turning out to be a good morning.

  -CARRELL’S SHIP, ON THE BAY OF ATLAS-

  The water approach into the capital goes through the ‘Bay of Atlas.’ It’s a busy port, with dozens of sea vessels traveling daily. The waters leading up to the rocky cliffs are calm, crashing gently on to the high towers rising from beneath the ocean. A one-half mile apart, the towers reach 328 feet in the air, with large circular observation spaces at the top; glass windows wrap around the multi-level platform.

  Inside the protected bay is the seaport itself. Giant circular port landings are scattered in the watery enclosure, with a variety of vessels parked alongside each other: military vessels, cargo ships, fishing boats, all litter the piers.

  One mile out from the approach towers, a small passenger ship is inbound; the ‘Rusty Anchor.’ It’s a crude vessel, probably older than any passenger on board; that is except the old Captain Carrell. It appears at first to be constructed out of wood, but it is a metal alloy with a painted illusion.

  Hungry seagulls do nose-dives near the ship, scooping up their breakfast with enthusiasm. Some of the passengers run about the deck to look at the singing birds and the skyline of Atlas. The skyscrapers appear majestic behind the light mist in the foreground.

  A ten-year-old girl runs along the deck holding her doll; her country dress flows in the wind. She smiles when she sees the ivory colored temples on the cliffs for the first time. The birds begin to intrigue her as they fly overhead, so she runs to the portside railing to watch them dive after their meal. A pair of large dolphins catches her attention. She is beside herself.

  A man, huge by eight-year-old standards, steps behind her to block the early morning sun. Captain Carrell is a weathered old sailor, with a scruffy beard and skin of a leathery texture. A pleasant ‘Grandpa-type,’ with a pipe full of tobacco in his mouth, wearing a beat-up old captain’s hat.

  Carrell smiles at the girl, “Be careful missy, if ya fall in…they’ll eat ya.” The little girl is terrified. She scans the crowd back aft for her mother then runs off.

  The captain smiles, knowing that he’d rather have to deal with a scared girl than a drowned one. The brat was too close to the rails, he tells himself. On his many journeys from Parthon to Atlas, someone always ends up in the water, but he has been lucky so far. He spots Alexius at the bow.

  Carrell first met Alexius the day of his birth. The sailor saw a pregnant woman jump off the cliff in Parthon; luckily, he was able to dive in after her, successfully saving both lives. Since that day, Carrell has had the family of Lord Arias as his patron, bestowing wealth on him. For this old ‘sea-dog,’ the ocean is where he chooses to call home. He has been fortunate to join Arias on
many adventures; oh, how he longs for those days.

  “Quite a view isn’t it?” he shouts out to Alexius after sucking on his pipe.

  “This place has not changed. You still telling that stupid dolphin tale?”

  The old man smiles, “Gives them a good fright each time. I’ll bet she falls in before the towers.”

  They both look for the little girl. They see her hugging her mother safely in the center of the deck. Alexius pulls out one square piece of currency; the body is platinum with gold borders, with a golden emblem in the center; it is worth ten gold pieces. He slams it on a raised platform, encouraging Carrell to do the same.

  “This place has not changed; garbage polished to look like pearls. Magnificent garbage all the same,” Alexius points out.

  “You should see Egypt then,” Carrell says enthusiastically. “Not exactly the capital of Atlantis, but a different kind of magnificent.”

  “Any advice old man?”

  Carrell looks over his right shoulder. He notices two beautiful prostitutes looking their way. The girls let the wind raise their sheer dresses, showing off the goods underneath. They blush with their seductive smiles.

  “Sure,” Carrell says in a serious tone, “I’ll give you the same I always do, stay away from the ‘Furry Chariot or you’ll be a poor man by morning.”

  They both chuckle, and the old man slaps the younger one on his back. Suddenly, the boat engines stop, making the seagull’s songs louder.

  Blue beams shoot across the waters between the towers. A giant wall of light manifests itself, shimmers then disappears. One advantage the seaport has against any would-be ocean intruders is an invisible field barrier, able to withstand speeding crafts. The high towers scan incoming vessels, then decides whether to let them in or send them to a watery grave. Fortunately for this lot, it has been deactivated.

  The boat engines hum to life, the craft pushes off. Passengers who haven’t grabbed something substantial, rocks back suddenly. Everyone hears a scream then a splash. The little girl went over the side; not learning to hold on to the rails when looking for dolphins.

  There is a look of disappointment on Alexius’ face. The old sailor takes the cubit with a smile. They both look on at the skyline as the boat stops once more.

  -EARLY MORNING AT THE FURRY CHARIOT-

  At the edge of the busy commercial district and a residential one, exists the exclusive ‘Furry Chariot Club.’ The building is five levels high, sitting at the corner of ‘Market Street’ and ‘Ocean Avenue.’ It marks the very edge of the two districts.

  The front of the building is adorned with expensive flowers, all spread out to give an appearance of elegance. The marble stairs are short, twelve in total, which leads up to dark, heavy doors. Urns are lit at the entrance, creating an ambiance of a temple; but this is no temple.

  The interior décor of the receiving room teases the visitor with exotic paintings scattered amongst photos. There are also pictures of past events; a collection of erotic celebrations. The carpet is a rich burgundy color. There is always pleasant incense burning. The first person you will meet is a young, scantily clad, host or hostess.

  Identification is required before proceeding further; those meeting you enforce this rule. A pair of inconspicuous guards, whom you shall never see, silently observes incoming patrons. Once your IDs are scanned, your credit established, you are free to follow your concierge.

  The first area you will see is a long bar, stretching along the wall to the left. Behind the bar, at the center, there is an enclave with mirrors for walls; it seems quite out of place at first, but for the vain at heart, it’s a welcoming spot. To the right is a moderately sized standing area, about 30 feet square; it ends at a stage for live entertainment.

  Continuing past the end of the bar open booths appear; they can seat six in a semi-circle comfortably. These booths give way to a private area, with a more ‘cozy’ appeal. At first glance they appear open, but with the tap of a switch on the table, a barrier of light surrounds the booth, hiding whatever sordid activity is going on inside. At the end of the area is the manager’s office.

  The place is quiet now, with yesterday’s crowd already disbursed; only a handful of people are moving about. The city’s overnight workers usually visit at this time, either for a meal on the second level or a romp with one of the club prostitutes.

  A single female sits at the bar holding a steaming cup of coffee; she’s in her late twenties. Her long red hair is curly, falling comfortably on her petite frame. It matches her hazel eyes perfectly. Even though she stands at five-feet-seven inches, is 110 pounds soaking wet, her fiery temper manages to get her out of trouble, but mostly into it. Those she has inflicted her brand of mischief on refer to her as ‘demon,’ everyone else calls her Lyra.

  Lyra sips her drink, nervously shaking her dangling feet like an overactive child. She occasionally checks the band on her left arm. She is interrupted by a well-dressed middle-aged man who came down a nearby stairway; his collar has the emblem of a city councilor.

  The councilman stops at her side, “I think I am in love,” he announces. He pulls a stool close. “You’re new. How about an early morning ride?”

  Lyra slams her cup on the counter, smiling at the man. The loud ‘thud’ alerts the manager, Rovina.

  Rovina is a ‘no-nonsense’ woman, medium build, raven hair, and not only the manager but also somewhat of a sister to Lyra; her uncle Yanis is Lyra’s guardian.

  Lyra smiles seductively at the man, “You want to play do you? I’m not cheap. You look like you can afford to lose some coin.”

  The aroused Councilman moves closer to her, brimming with expectation. She spins on her stool, meeting his gaze.

  He looks at her well-defined legs wrapped in expensive leather, then runs his hands up her thighs. She slaps his hand away then gives an innocent look.

  “Three gold pieces,” the councilman offers. “I’ve always wanted a redhead. Say, is it red down there too?”

  “Seven and you can find out,” she plays.

  He dips in his pocket then holds out a handful of silver and gold cubits; he looks hesitant, “All I have are five-ers.”

  “I take those too.” She gives him a naughty smile. He smiles back, beginning to rub his body on her.

  His expression quickly changes to panic as Lyra now holds a thin blade to his testicles. He feels the point begin to pierce his trousers. Fear is quickly overcoming him. Lyra looks at him with a smile.

  “Do I look like a working girl?” she grumbles. The Councilman nods, grunting his acknowledgment which aggravates her more.

  Rovina quickly steps in, “Now now, the young lady here is a guest. How about I introduce you to some of our exclusive girls?”

  As she begins to pull away from the relieved man, Lyra grabs three cubits from his hand while kissing him on the cheek. Rovina gives her a dirty look.

  A beeping sound emanates from Lyra’s armband. She reads the incoming message. She happily picks up her mug to slurp on the beverage. She stops then looks around; no one is near. She reaches over the bar, grabs a small bottle, then generously pours some of the liquor in her coffee. With as much haste she returns the container. Rovina approaches just in time to see the theft; all she does is shake her head.

  Lyra pretends to be innocent, “Did master Yanis leave yet?”

  “He just did. And would you stop attacking the customers,” says Rovina as she makes her way behind the bar.

  Lyra rattles her ill-gotten coin, “It has been a profitable morning.” She gets serious. “The bitch just sent orders.”

  “Have some respect,” Rovina chides. “What are they?”

  “The books are at the ‘Broken Temple,’ in the old quarter.”

  “The abandoned one, by the river? No one goes there, not even in daylight. You’ll need backup.”

  “No time. I need to get there, fast.”

  “Meet me by the waterside. Get Liviana her books, and maybe she will release you this time
.”

  Lyra looks up at the ceiling, “It’s not much to ask. To return to Egypt. To be a simple bar-wench?”

  “You’re never satisfied being simple at anything,” Rovina points out. She makes her way to the glass wall in the center. A tap of a switch raises a section of glass, allowing her to disappear down a flight of stairs.

  -BEHIND THE FURRY CHARIOT-

  A rhythmic ‘sloshing’ sound can be heard from the water hitting the edge of the high retaining wall. Rich green moss covers the stone which spreads along a descending roadway to the left; a jetty jots out to the waters at the end. To the right are some stables belonging to a neighboring business.

  Rovina is stroking the mane of an elegant horse, trying to calm the animal. About ten feet away from her, a hover-bike sits under a small shed. The vehicle is sleek; it looks like one of the newer models on the market. She sees a parking violation sticking out from under the seat.

  Lyra strolls around the corner on the narrow cobblestone, oblivious to Rovina with the horse. A map on her band distracts her, up until she runs into the horse.

  There is fear in her eyes, “You’re not serious. I am not getting on that!” she exclaims with disgust.

  Rovina shakes her head, “I just don’t understand why you are afraid of horses.”

  “No,” Lyra protests, “keep that thing away from me,” she warns.

  Rovina points to the hover-bike.

  Lyra climbs on the bike. As she sits, she tosses the ticket on the street. She dons the accompanying helmet as the engine ignites. The crisp sound brings joy to her face.

  “Uncle Yanis will be back just after noon,” Rovina yells. “Please return before he does. And oh, if you put a scratch on that, you’ll have to pay for it.”

  Before pulling down the visor, Lyra looks at Rovina, “I am just a poor little bar-maid,” she declares sarcastically.

  The bike rises three feet in the air when the stands retract. Lyra engages the throttle, speeding off in an instant.