by Gene Stiles
She was not aware when they left her nor of how long her abasement lasted. She did not see the night things find their weary way into their dark dens and deep burrows. Amelia did not notice when the first rays of the morning sun slipped golden shafts of shimmering light through the thick canopy of the green forest leaves. She did not feel the warming fingers of the rising sun upon her defiled, naked skin or the cool, wet moisture of the damp, green mosses beneath her.
Amelia was unaware of the passage of time or the sounds of the shouting voices calling out her name. She did not hear the murmurs of soft, sweet concern when they found her nor the din of outrage and fury that echoed around her. She did not feel the delicate tenderness in the many hands that carefully cut the bloody bonds from her hands and feet or those that lifted her gently from the crimson-stained earth. Amelia did not notice the padded cushion beneath her when they laid her on the sled or the softness of the warmish blanket covering her bruised and beaten body.
She was not cognizant of the huge, angry mob gathered outside her home nor the fact that it was Cronus, himself, who lifted her in his muscular arms and carried her catatonic form to her large, plush bed. Amelia paid no heed to the constant, golden glow surrounding her unmoving body nor the cycle of a hundred hands that Lent her their strength to Heal her battered flesh and mind. As days turned into weeks and weeks became months, Amelia hid alone in the darkened safety of her silent soul.
“We tracked the group to the south,” Iapetus grumbled, standing as solid as the One Tree in front of the Table of Twelve. “We believe they are Izon from the short stride of the boot prints we found. Following them has been difficult, though, for they are using sleds stolen on the night of the attack and are smart enough to cover the remains of their encampments.”
“I give you one job to do and you fail me?” Cronus roared, slamming his sledgehammer fist into the table, rattling the crystal goblets in front of the others. “How could these creatures escape from my best Aam again? Do I have to hunt them down all by myself?”
The rest of the shocked-speechless council backed away from the spill of intermingling liquids pouring over the polished wood surface and the dark, blazing fury spitting venomous anger at the head of the Table. Cronus rose from his black leather chair like an avenging angel, towering over the granite-like Iapetus, looking as if he would throttle the man with his own two massive hands. Instead, he stuffed his trembling, white knuckles deeply into the pockets of his gold-threaded, dark maroon robe, struggling to cage the churning demon threatening his tear free of his soul. His glacier-cold, emerald eyes crackled with sparkles of incandescent, explosive lightning as he glowered down at his Second, waiting impatiently for a response.
The furious green fire in those eyes would have incinerated lesser men on the spot, but Iapetus stood immobile, unmovable and impassive. He remained outwardly calm, allowing the scalding waves of ferocity to wash over him like a rolling tide, but inside they battered against his soul like caustic acid. His brother, his Commander, his Lord Father was correct. He had failed not once, but many times.
The Izon, with the help of the People and a few of his own Aam, had escaped their compound, killing many of his men and friends and he did not stop it. Iapetus neglected to see the subterfuge of the traitorous Captains and his conspirator Aam even when it was happening right under his very nose. He failed to foil the Clan’s flight from Atlantis and the desertion of so many murdering renegades. And now, he was inept at capturing even this tiny band of marauders. What good was he? What good at all?
Iapetus hid his scathing shame behind a hard-fought mask of impassivity, the darkness in his heart obscured by the flatness of his ebony eyes. His carved-granite features showed no emotion save for the pinched spread of his thin lips and the tick in the corners of his tightly clenched, square jaw. His posture remained straight and rigid, his huge, broad shoulders as flat as the Table, his bulging arms lay firm against his side.
“The group traveled south along the edges of this forest,” Iapetus intoned flatly, his deep voice rumbling over the room like a thick blanket of thunder. He turned a small crystal and a large holographic map appeared above it. His rock-like fingers traced out a thin red line down the periphery of the southeastern forest that spread from the outskirts of Atlantis to the mouth of a wide river delta. “We lost their trail on these shores. It is possible that the group had a ship awaiting them. If so, they could have taken this passage all the way to the Southern Sea and it is impossible to know in which direction they fled.”
“Forgive me, Lord Father,” Iapetus muttered, dropping to one knee before Cronus and bowing his head.
Cronus grappled with the coils of the great serpent squirming inside him, swelling his massive chest almost to bursting. Long, sharp fangs dripped with poisonous venom from the blood-red cavern of its gaping maw. The vicious viper, so long restrained, seethed with malicious desire, seeking to use its power to force Cronus to kill the incompetent derelict prostrated before him. Burning fire coursed through his veins, fueling a furnace of molten rage that strained and struggled to erupt from his core into his knotted knuckles. He wanted nothing more than to smash and crush the worthless bones of his brother into bloody powder for his ineptitude, but he would not. Cronus refused to allow the vile demons inside of him access to the light of day or to be exposed to the entire council. They would not control him! He would control them!
Cronus brushed locks of fiery red hair, damped by the sweat of anger, from his furrowed forehead. His lionesque mane billowed around him like a blazing corona, shimmering in the bright sunlight radiating through the chamber windows. He glared down at the bowed head of his brother, fighting the violent urges inside him. Instead, Cronus took a deep breath of cool air in through his narrow nostrils and let it out through his slightly parted lip. He reached out and laid a long-fingered hand on the back of the head of Iapetus.
“Rise, brother.” Cronus spoke harshly, but the malice lacing his words faded away into tiny filigrees of red. He reseated himself at the head of the Table, leaning forward slightly in his high-backed, leather chair and steepled his fingers before him. He closed his jade-green eyes for a moment, breathing softly around the tops of his fingertips.
“We have learned critical lessons from this horrific attack,” he stated sternly, his steely gaze resting for a moment upon each and every face of his kin. “Firstly, as I have always said, these Izon are little more than animals, vicious and untamable. They must be eradicated from the face of the planet.”
“The actions of a few,” Phoebe responded softly, brushing back her long, platinum hair over her shoulders, “do not define the integrity of the whole. They are still our own descendants, our own bloodkin.”
“But the eons have led to a corruption of their bodies, their language and their core values,” Mnemosyne interrupted, raising her hand to still the murmuring voices. Her shimmering hazel eyes were moist with sadness as she scanned the room. The waves of her glistening auburn hair rippled over her turquois, silver-threaded gown as she shook her head in sorrow. “It is not their fault.”
“This heavy, bleak, violent world has deformed them body and soul. For millions of years, they were bathed in the grim, asperous, extreme brutality of this untamed planet. Their bodies, unaided by Polaris belts, were forced into immediate, incredibly painful adaptation. It must have been horrific. They found themselves imbedded in a world of vicious terrors, gigantic beasts that fed on them as we would an ear of maize with none of our weapons to protect them.”
“How could they not become maddened, berserk savages?” she asked compassionately.
“You may be correct,” Themis agreed, her sleek, golden-blond hair hanging in its normal tight braid slung over the shoulder of her ocean-blue gown. “But that does not give them excuse for the sickening assault on Amelia or the massacre of the People. I must concur with both Cronus and Phoebe. The Izon pose a serious threat to our security and safety and any found on this continent must be sought out and exte
rminated. But only those that are within or around our island. Those of the Clan who fled to create their own peaceful societies should be left alone.”
“Iapetus,” Cronus ordered, “scour this entire landmass and ferret out any Izon within its borders. Kill any you find.” His eyes blazed again as he glared at his brother. “Can you at least accomplish that task…or do I need to find someone who can?
“No, Lord Father,” Iapetus growled, his onyx eyes sparking at the insult. “On my honor, it shall be done as you command. You have my word.”
“I shall hold you to it. Now go.” Cronus dismissed him with a wave of his hand, steadfastly ignoring him as Iapetus strode from the chamber.
There was no vessel awaiting the Izon when they reach the sun-drenched shores of the vast river delta and they had no intent of running further. They built a small, blazing campfire of driftwood on the sandy beach, heating the dried fish and deer meat they had brought with them. Once their bellies were full, the men washed themselves and their clothing in the icy cold waters, not from a desire to remove any bloody reminders of the night before, but to cleanse away the heady scents so as not to draw the attention of other unwanted predators. Skins of dark red wine passed from hand to hand amid lascivious laughter and lewd, vulgar dances of their vile, murderous conquests.
Guel warmed his cold, stubby fingers over the brightly burning wood, staring deeply into the dancing flames, his face twisted into a vicious mask of grisly satisfaction. The heat simmering inside him was not a product of the crackling fire, but from memories of surprise, shock and the pain of his blade plummeting into the soft, bloody skin of his enemies. He licked his thick, dark lips not from grim gratification, but from the wetting of a barbarous, hideous, ruthless appetite awoken. He craved again the flow of hot crimson over his fingertips, the pugnacity of spilled intestines as his blade ripped ragged ribbons of tender, yielding flesh.
Overlaying every terrified, horror-stricken countenance, bathed in exquisite rivers of excruciating agony, Guel saw the burned, bloody body of his beloved and his unborn child. He felt again that searing rage and wretched helplessness as Sheel lay dying in his arms in the cold, wet, green grass. With each knot of steaming entrails he spilled on silky sheets, every lake of exsanguination spreading over slick marble floors, with every expression of shocked stupefaction, Guel ripped his knurled claws into the visage of the Ancestor that killed all that he had lived for.
And he would do it again and again.
After a scant couple of hours of sleep, the small band erased every trace of their camp, dusting over the blackened spot where their fire had been with fresh beach sand. Instead of escaping downriver, Guel led his people along the nebulas gloom of the forest that split the northern meadow. The sleds of the People were useless in the thick morass of briars and brambles that marked the boundary of the dark woods like a high hedge of stone. The Izon jammed the vehicles as deep into the thicket as they could, covering them over with piles of scrubs and brush. Strapping their meager supplies on their backs, the pack traveled back toward Atlantis, skirting the western edge of the forest, searching for a passage through the dense underbrush.
A cool, whispering breeze rippled down from the distant snow-capped peaks and out across the tall brownish grasses of the meadow, warmed by the brilliant yellow rays of daytime sun. Here and there, ponds of clear, cold water dotted the landscape like patches of shimmering blue gems. Herds of deer bolted at the noise of their approach, accompanied by the howls and roars of frustrated predators denied their kills. Some of the larger beasts took time to stare at them with furious eyes as if debating the wisdom of attack before ambling off in search of an easier meal. Guel and his men gave wide berth to any solitary Dire Wolves, fangs bloody with fresh meat, or the big, tawny cats that watched them warily, but without fear, that they might happen upon. These creatures would not hesitate if threatened by the little man-things.
The Clan made no attempt at stealth as they paused to slacken their thirst throughout the day, choosing a ground-eating pace instead. They were rewarded mid-day by a thinning of the thorny shrubbery through which they could force themselves. After a few yards of hacking and fighting their way through burrs and spikes that tore at their leathers and ripped rivulets of red into their exposed flesh, the band found themselves beneath the quiet canopy of monstrous evergreens.
So thick were the branches above that only smoky shafts of dim light filtered through the trees creating a premature twilight on the forest floor. Swaying ghosts of mist peopled the hot, muggy woods twirled by the faint breeze that slipped weakly through the thick branches. Little vegetation grew on moss-carpeted ground, blanketed by a deep layer of pine needles. Few insects chirped or chattered in the gloom causing a surreal quiet the raised the hairs on the back of the neck.
“We will rest here until morning,” Guel commanded. “By then, the cursed Ancestors will think we have escaped and will have given up the hunt.”
“Then we will return and kill more of them,” Jax snarled, slipping the heavy pack from his wide shoulders. He plopped down on the soft, green moss and stretched his sore, achy legs out before him using the pack as a backrest. “Maybe we will find another one to play with,” he added, licking his lips with wicked anticipation.
Dark laughter rumbled through the Clan, mutters of happy agreement rolling over the men.
“I yearn to once again feel their lifeblood bathing my skin as the light leaves their filthy eyes,” Clef grinned fiendishly, rubbing his gnarled hands together. His dark eyes glittered beneath his thick brow ridge with a burning, rage-filled hate. “It felt wonderful to see the shock and pain on their faces as we ‘animals’ taught them the how to die.”
Grumbles of assent and snickers rippled through the other dozen men grouped in a circle on the ground. Wiping dried blood from their blades, each shared stories of the torture and death they had inflicted on those creatures in Atlantis, delivering unto them a barbaric justice they so richly deserved. Every man here had suffered immeasurable agony and loss at the hands of the People. Loved ones had been ripped from their lives by those callus creatures for the slightest perceived insult. Many of those gathered wore the proof of their abuse upon their extensively scarred bodies. Others carried theirs in the twisted, foul, black serpents of their minds, waking at night with throat-scratching screams and sticky sweat bathing their bodies. Thoughts of hatred and revenge were the only thing that kept them from slipping into raging madness and they would see their burning thirst quenched on the red blood of the Ancestors.
Morning came almost unnoticed in the denseness of the forest, but the woodland denizens awoke on instinct with chirps and growls and scuttles through the nettles. The Izon built a small, smokeless fire to warm their hands from the chill of the nighttime air and heated some of the meat broth they had in their packs. Sitting close to the meager flames, they spoke little, their minds boiling with hatred that shone in their eyes with a blaze that put their tiny campfire to shame.
“We will move through the trees as long as we can,” Guel growled quietly, his wide hands spread over the dying flames. “I am sure that even the stupid Ancestors will have guards out after our attack. We will have to be careful when we near the city.”
“We will slip past them easily,” Clef huffed, pushing curls of jet-black hair from his thick brow. His dark eyes glistened in the dancing fire light, eager to repay those who had taken from him all that he loved. His mind boiled with the remembrance of holding his dying wife, her beautiful body blistered by the weapons of those animals, her stomach swollen with their unborn child, as she slipped away into eternal night in his arms.
“Still,” Guel nodded, knowing what drove his brethren, “we must not underestimate our foul enemies. That would be our undoing. Break camp and let us reap upon the People the lessons of pain they viciously sowed upon us.”
The dank forest proved their friend as they stealthy traversed the woodland floor. Little underbrush grew beneath the branches interlaced abov
e. The dense carpet of needles, thick and sharp upon the ground, muffled their quiet footfalls as they made their way north. No predators of any size dared penetrate the thorny briars that edged the woods like the walls of a mighty city. Small pools of brackish water quenched their thirst. The heat of the daytime sun bounced off the treetops as would a pebble thrown at a granite cliff leaving the air cool, but in constant twilight. Still, several times throughout the day, the Izon froze in place, their bodies flat upon the cool ground, at the sound of parties of men skirting the grove, hunting them as they hunted the People.
As the sun slowly sank behind the western mountains, the Izon reached the tip of the forest closest to the glowing lights of Atlantis. Before them, the trees thinned out, allowing the brightness of the city to touch the floor of the grove. The Clan stayed deep in the darkness, silently spreading furs upon the soft mosses to rest until true night arrived. No fire was lit to warm the men nor was it necessary. The air was hot and muggy with the moisture of a far off storm.
Jax sat upon a downed and decayed log staring into the murky darkness, chewing on a piece of dried deer meat. His heavily muscled and deeply scarred chest rose and fell in a slow, constant rhythm, but his blacken heart beat quickly in lustful anticipation. He licked his wide, thick lips at the thoughts of the pain and torture he would inflict on helpless bodies this night and a wicked smile spread across his wide, square features.
