by Gene Stiles
The man emerged into being with an audible crack of thunder, suddenly standing at his mother’s side. He was far taller than she, a wild mane of silver flames dancing around his narrow, hawk-like features, held away from pure obsidian eyes by a narrow band of plain, unworked gold. He wore a robe of platinum, infused with fine threads of gold, bound at his waist by a sash of shining burgundy with tasseled ends that hung to his knees. The robe trailed behind him across the shattered mosaic of a great tree before a giant pyramid inlaid into the musty, sand-strewn floor, unsullied by its passing. The man stopped within a breath of Cronus, placed an old and gnarled hand upon his shoulder and gazed down with sad, but firm eyes.
“You have done well, Cronus,” Uranus intoned, the richness of his words as thick as a syrupy, chocolate ambrosia. “So why are you here? What answers do you seek of us that you do not already have yourself?”
“I am not sure,” Cronus replied, shaking his lowered head to hide the bright blush of shame that enflamed his cheeks. “It was not even my intent to come here.”
“But here you are,” his mother chuckled, a hint of chastisement coloring her tender tone.
“Yes,” he nodded, raising his tear-filled eyes to her.
Uranus slapped him hard across the face, leaving raised welts that burned like the crack of a barbed berry bush. Without thought, Cronus lashed out, his clawed hand passing through his father as would a stick through smoke. Sarcastic laughter met his feeble attempt, driving the anger from his soul as would icy cold water suck the air from his lungs. His heart stopped, shocked that he would react with such instantaneous, blinding fury.
“Forgive me, Father,” Cronus said, bowing his head before the wraith.
“No. That is what I wanted,” the gigantic ghostly form responded sharply. “Tears are not for a man. Anger is. You must find the source of it and use it.”
“What if I cannot?” Cronus shivered not from cold, but from fear his blasphemy would drive his parents into the darkness. “I have driven the unholy aberrations from our lands. The traitors that were with them are gone. I have no enemies. Atlantis prospers. What have I, greatest of all the People, to be so furious about?”
“It is not rage that fills your slumber with nightmares,” his mother murmured softly. “Are there truly no assassins sleeping in your midst? What do you run from in your slumber?”
“Demons,” Cronus whispered, his troubled mind quaking at the memory of their vicious glee as they tore flesh from his body. “Monsters so small it is impossible to fight them. They slash at my heels and calves, tearing bloody chunks of meat from my legs. They seek to bring me down and, when I fall, they pounce upon me, trying to rend the very life from me.”
“Give name to those that would destroy you and you will know what to do.” Gaia said lovingly, gliding forward until she was within a breath from him. Her slender, shining arms enfolded him in her golden aura, calming the horror that rippled through him, warming him and driving the cold from his soul.
His father stepped into Cronus, his phantasmal form enshrouding him as would a heavy cloak. An almost electrical charge exploded inside him, infusing his sinews with a power likened to an erupting sun. Cronus arched with the energy coursing through his burning nerve endings, his feet lifting from the cold stone floor, his square jaw clenching with pain. Every muscle, every tendon, every fiber of his body detonated with reddish gold fire, rays of light bursting from him like sunlight through rifts in a blanket of clouds. His fog-filled mind blazed with crystal clarity and he knew. He knew their names. He knew them well.
They were called his children.
The night had closed around him when Cronus awoke with a start, his mind sharper than it had been for many months. Moisture in the meadow atop the stalks of yellowed grass glittered in the bright moonlight as if the heavens lay close upon the ground. A warm winter wind blew lightly among the trees, singing like the whispers of a thousand voices. Hunters of the night slipped from their warrens and dens to fill the black forest with the sounds of their hungry cries. Somewhere, hidden within the thick foliage, a night bird begged the question, ‘Who? Who?’
And Cronus knew the answer. He threw his leg over the seat of the sled, bringing the silent engine into life. A caliginous smile split his thin lips more vicious than the meanest predator, his emerald eyes opalescent in the dim light of the eventide. Gliding swiftly over the bending grasses at the edge of the woods, he headed back to the glowing lights of Atlantis, knowing in the depths of his soul what he now must do.
They watched his flight with hate-filled eyes, outraged and bitter that their most cursed prey had evaded their closing grasp. If he had only slept for moments more, the pack would have pounced, tearing the heart from his chest and feasting upon the bloody organ in front of his dying gaze. A deep-throated growl rumbled among the group, savage and venomous, as they watched Cronus fade into the distance. Yet, their plan would not be deterred by the escape of a single man. Their murderous but just goals were not so easily thwarted, especially since they were so close to their target.
Guel eased back his arm, his supple new spear aiming at the moss-covered ground. His coal-black eyes burned with animalistic rage, glowing red beneath his thick brow ridge as he watched the sled disappear behind the cover of the forest. He knew it was only dumb luck that they had even noticed the cloak-covered form in the dimming of the day, still the loss of his vile adversary gnawed at the very core of his flame-seared soul. He wanted to scream out his fury, to beat his fists into the bark of the nearest tree trunk, but he held the seething storm inside him. The beast within would have its vengeance this night and Guel would wallow in the blood of the dead.
“There is no need to remain quiet. He is far from hearing.” Guel laid the blackened feathered spear against the thick trunk of the dark oak near where he hid. The ebony cloak he wore over his fur-lined, black leather clothing made him practically invisible among the deep shadows of the nighttime forest. “If we move quickly, we will be at the edge of Atlantis by the time those creatures bed down for the night.”
“We shall kill them in their sleep,” Luc snarled, “and they will never foul the earth with their presence again.”
“It is hard to kill a god,” Clef sneered, running his hairy fingers along the wide, silver blade of his hunting knife, “but let us see if they can heal themselves once their heads have been removed from their shoulders.”
Harsh, ferocious laughter accompanied his words as they slung their packs over their shoulders. A barbaric air stirred around them, feral and fierce. Nothing but pain and agony came from those giants so despised and only the same and more laid upon them would serve. The Izon ran, burning up the distance nearly as fast as the sled Cronus had used. A thick layer of black, billowy clouds slid in from the west blotting out the bright glow of moonlight and the sparkle of stars. A more perfect night for slaughter could never be.
Amelia walked along the edge of the meadow, just beyond the confines of the glowing city streets wearing only a light, amber cloak over her silver Enviro-Suit. The evening breeze tickled her full, pink lips like the caress of a lover’s touch, a smile of remembrance flushing her high cheekbones. Waves of unfettered midnight hair flowed down her back like a cascading waterfall as she walked, her slender fingers tasting the tips of winter grass. Her dark eyes glistened with the joy of her beating heart at the welcome silence of the night and the freedom of her solitude.
Amelia loved the wonder and beauty of this world. She was young in the years of the People, just thirty-five Earth years old, and like her parents and their parents before them, she was born into the underground caves of Atlan, but unlike them, she did not fear the open sky. They huddled in their laboratories in the Great Pyramid, took the covered walkways to and from their homes and stayed within the confines of their rock-covered houses. Amelia worked in the fields tending crops, sinking her fingertips into the loamy soil and feeling the shifting seasons upon her skin. She marveled at the myriad aromas of growing things.
She was awed by the impossible variety of colors of the birds and the endless harmonies of their songs. She drank deeply of fresh, clean waters and thick, heady air. A life more splendid she could never imagine.
The nighttime was by far her favorite. When the toils of the day vanished and the exuberant conversations of her friends and family quieted into satisfied relaxations, Amelia often slipped away from the slumbering city streets to bask in the soft glow of a billion stars. Massive tree trunks stood like sentries along the perimeter of the meadows, their thick branches like watchful arms to enfold her, their shadowed undergrowth protecting her as would a mother’s warm skirts. She felt completely safe.
She was not.
Amelia stopped suddenly, her head cocked to one side, roused from her revelry by a sound that did not belong. No tremor of fear caused a rise of hair on her nape, more a simple curiosity of a noise unheard before. She froze only in consideration of a new nightly denizen, hoping to catch a glimpse of it before it sensed her alien presence. By the time her primordial brain screamed danger, it was far, far too late.
Hairy paws as rough and strong as tree bark grabbed at her ankles, jerking her feet from under her. Dark eyes wide, hands thrown out before her, Amelia fell to her face on the mossy ground. She struggled to rise, to call out, but her arms were yanked away, filling her nostrils and opened mouth with lichen and dirt. Amelia gagged and tried to turn her head and get a breath of air into her aching lungs, but could not. Heavy hands pressed her skull deeper into the fetid earth until her body shrieked for air. Stars yellow and white sparkled behind her fluttering eyelids, alighting a shifting pool of blackening fog that entrapped her. Far too slowly, Amelia slipped into those muddied waters in her mind, battling her way into a night of unconsciousness. ‘Why?’ was her last muddled thought. ‘Why?’
Guel let go of the girl when the last weak spasms of fight left the writhing body. He turned her head and welcomed the automatic hiss of air that she sucked through her parted, filthy lips. He did not want her dead. Oh, no. He wanted her alive. A cruel, evil sneer hid behind the thick curls of his heavy beard as he lifted himself from her prone shoulders. He had plans for this one.
“Strip her,” Guel ordered, staring coldly at the girl at his feet. He spit a thick, green ball of phlegm into her snarled hair and kicked her viciously in the head. “These creatures cannot breathe or even walk without their shinny suits or their fancy belts. They are like turtles lying on their backs, weak and helpless.”
“Jax, stake her to the ground and do whatever you want with her. They heal quickly,” Guel grunted, savagely slamming his booted foot into her side before moving off with the others. “Just keep her alive and awake. Stuff her mouth so she cannot scream or give away our position. I have use for her when we return.”
Jax grinned fiendishly like some predatory animal. He always felt a surge of pleasure when he inflicted pain on others. With each shriek, with each whimper, with each twisted torment, his massive, battle-scared chest swelled with power. As his boning blade sliced through the thick, sliver material, Jax noted the smoothness of the unblemished skin and could not help but let his knife press lightly into the sweet, soft flesh, eyes shining at the red rivulets of bright, warm blood oozing from the wounds. He always wanted one of the People to play with, knowing they could heal themselves so quickly. His sadistic desires would rejoice in the tenderest of torments he could heap upon this hapless body and it would fix itself so he could do them over and over again. Jax felt a hard swelling in his loins at the dark thoughts burning in his brain. This thing at his feet would be his masterpiece of agony.
Guel and his band slipped easily through the shadows at the edges of the city. He sneered at the incompetence of the Atlanteans. So confident in their superiority and power were they that not a single guard roamed the quiet streets nor watched for approach from the woods. The streetlights cast only dim pools of brightness along the narrow avenues, widely spaced with darkness, giving Guel plenty of cover to reach the first row of lightless stone houses. Guel raised a closed fist, barely visible as the rolling clouds extinguished the last of the night stars. His men, dressed in their midnight black garb, melded into gloomy corners without a sound.
A low humming touched the silence of the night with melodic fingers, growing minutely louder as a man walked carelessly down the walkway on the side of the road. He was dressed in colors so vibrant he would have made the birds blush. A happy smile played across his chiseled features, his blue eyes glittering in the glow of the street lamps he passed. Shortly he would be home curled with his wife on a plushy, cushioned couch sat before a blazing fire. His three wonderful sons would be deeply asleep at this hour, giving him and his love one of those rare, special moments alone. Life was good.
And short.
The man turned to step upon the stone walkway in front of his home, much too far away for any of the Izon to reach him before he entered the house. It was time to put all these many months of practice to the test, Guel thought, balancing the borithium spear in his large, scarred hand, raising his arm just a little back from his brawny should, aiming for the spot near the center of the Atlantean’s broad chest.
The hiss of air was almost inaudible, but just loud enough to cause the man to pause to look over his shoulder. He was surprised at the stinging pain in his chest and glanced down to see a thin, black rod extruding from his turquois vest, a barbed tip dripping bright red blood. In wonderment, he wrapped a gloved hand around the sticky shaft, amazed at its sleekness. He did not notice his knees buckling or the tearing of fabric when they hit the rough-hewn gravel around the walkway. Only astonished bewilderment registered in his dying brain as his lifeless form collapsed into the green bushes planted next to the house, then a final breath sighed from his parted lips and he was gone.
Guel stood over the crumpled body, placing a booted foot on the blood-soaked cloth. He savagely jerked the deadly spear from vest, cruelly grinning at the sucking sound it made as it pulled through the torn skin. He knelt down on the dead man and drew his skinning knife from its calfskin sheath. Guel rolled the body over and grabbed a handful of wavy, blond hair, bending the muscled neck backward. His dark brown eyes sparked with red embers, flaming with feral, rabid pleasure as sharpened metal brutally sliced through tendon and sinew, stopping only when it grated against thick bone. The nearly severed head lay at an obscene angle from the rest of the corpse, dark blood only trickling from the hellish wound without a pumping heart to expel it.
“Heal from that,” Guel muttered pitilessly, wiping the stains damping his blade on the creature beneath him. He motioned the rest of the Izon to his side, speaking barely above a whisper. “Spread out. Take as many as you can within these ten houses only. Be silent and leave no witnesses. None. Make sure no one cries out and, most importantly, make sure they will never Heal. No survivors.”
“No survivors,” the Clan nodded, slipping like murderous, merciless wraiths into the warmth of the bloody night. And the demonic, ferocious rampage began.
Guel stared dispassionately at the naked, broken girl staked spread-eagle in a rusty puddle of her own fluids. A dirty strip of hide tied tightly around her head bound the ball of fur that stuffed her mouth, preventing anything but low moans from escaping her parted lips. Her dark, terrified eyes were open wide above the gag, wet with pain and the rivers of tears that cascaded down her pale cheeks. Jaggedly torn flesh hung in pieces from shallow, bloody cuts covering her once smooth skin, some already closing with Healing. Her slender, delicate fingers, bent and broken repeatedly until the leather lashes that held her swollen wrists threatened to cut through to the bone. Her long, shapely legs lay splayed so widely the muscles and tendons quivered in protest. Beneath the dark patch between them, the mossy ground stunk with the yellow of a spent, uncontrolled bladder that soiled the green.
“You have done well, Jax.” Guel gazed at the heavily breathing man sitting with his back against the trunk of a nearby tree. He noted indifferently the untied, sligh
tly open front of the other man’s breeches and the white stains on the black leather.
“It is time our ‘ancestors’,” Guel spat, “learned for themselves the many lessons they have taught us. We must inflict upon them the same pain and agony, the same loss, the same fear and terror they exacted from us. We have done so tonight.”
“There are more lessons yet for them to learn,” he added once the grunts of assent subsided. He pointed at the helpless woman at his feet and continued cruelly, “And we will teach them through her.”
“We will teach them what it means to be abused, degraded, dishonored and humiliated when they, too, are defenseless,” Guel said viciously, unfastening the laces of his leather vest and pants, dropping his clothes onto the damp earth.
Amelia’s horrified eyes bulged so wide her dark pupils were as pinpricks in a sea of milky white. The agony that wracked her bruised, broken and bleeding body vanished into the torrent of terror that exploded in the maelstrom of her maddened mind as she realized what was to come. Her incoherent screams were muffed by the wet cloth stuffed into her mouth as she convulsed, fighting furiously against the heaviness of her own body and the thick ropes that secured her to the ground. Powerful, animalistic paws grabbed her arms and legs, pinning them down against her useless struggles. Two more held her shaking head, brown, hairy, callused fingers holding the lids open, forcing her to stare into the barbarity of her plight.
The growling, naked monstrosity fell between her spread out loins, slamming into her virginity with hate-filled, bestial eyes. Amelia spasmed, her nostrils burning from the stench of the abhorrent abomination that savagely ravaged her. Her widened eyes bled a million tears of searing pain and repugnant revulsion upon the uncaring moss as she tried vainly to close them.
After a while, as Izon after repugnant Izon took their turn with her, something broke deep inside her tormented, tortured mind. Amelia stopped fighting the burning bonds that cut bloody bracelets around her wrists and ankles. Her beaten body went limp and cold upon the soiled leaves and sharp twigs. Her open eyes no longer saw either the floating clouds or swaying tree limbs above her nor the furry, monstrous creatures that assailed her useless flesh. She smelled not the loathsome, noxious scent of their sweating or that of their expelled poisonous passion. Amelia could not hear the lovely songs of the night birds or the vile grunting and demonic laughter of her vicious violation. Amelia lay quiet and uncaring, lost in the sweet, silent blackness that cocooned her mutilated mind.
