Atlantis - Return of the Nation

Atlantis - Return of the Nation Page 4

by Steven Cook

  The difference between the two was immense. One, the shorter, was looking around nervously in awe at the surroundings. The other was fully cloaked, but was obviously staring directly at the tall man from beneath the filthy cowl of his cloak in barely veiled aggression.

  Although the man was over six and a half feet tall, the final cloaked figure topped this by at least another foot. The voluminous cloak covering its head was spread at least three feet wide. Heavy breathing could be heard, as air was forcibly drawn in and expelled.

  The tall man’s nostrils flared as he too caught the earthy smell. He rested his hand casually on the hilt of his sword and addressed the guide.

  ‘Have they accepted our terms?’

  ‘I speak for myself and my people.’ A deep, heavily accented voice echoed from beneath the hood.

  ‘Wonders never cease,’ sneered the man.

  The massive figure before him tensed, taking a half step forwards. The guide quickly stepped forward between them.

  ‘Everything has been agreed. They get their revenge…’ he indicated the massive figure behind him. ‘…and he gets the girl of his dreams.’ he pointed at the smaller man, who had wandered closer to the dais.

  ‘Or at least he thinks he does,’ the guide added quietly.

  The tall man smiled and a nasty chuckle emanated from the hood of the massive figure.

  ‘Take your places.’ They moved towards the dais.

  As they approached the Head Priest fawningly directed them to different quarters of the strange construction.

  The smallest of the three figures had thrown back the hood of his cloak to reveal a man in his early forties. Patchy stubble covered his chin and his head was almost bald, with wispy blond hair standing in all directions. He followed the directions of the priest until he stood to one side of the dais.

  In front of him on the surface of the dais was a pair of handprint shaped depressions. Following the instructions of a priest he gently rested his hands in the depressions and looked up at the others. His eyes snapped back to the dais as a soft hum caught his attention.

  Part of the surface had split and was slowly lifting up, revealing a small window looked into the depths of the dais. In the depths a strange light pulsed at a slow, regular frequency. He looked at the blinking light for several seconds before a snorted laugh caught his attention.

  Raising his head he looked around. Directly across from him was the hulking shape of the still cowled figure. He could hear its congested breathing even from the distance of ten feet.

  To his left the guide had also pulled back his hood to reveal an attractive hard faced man with close-cropped black hair and pale translucent skin. The man who had been waiting for them took the final quarter to his right.

  The small man looked at both of the men, trying to put an age to them. They appeared to be in their early thirties, yet had looked the same when he had first met them over fifteen years before.

  The lesser priests moved around behind, checking the quartet had assumed the correct positions. One by one they indicated to the Head Priest that all was ready.

  After looking around carefully the small priest moved to a position where he could look directly at the tall man. At his feet was a set of foot shaped depressions. The Priest carefully slipped off his leather sandals and gingerly located his feet in position.

  There was a definite change in the atmosphere as the Priests feet settled in place. The giant cloaked figure turned his head one way then the other, searching for the source of the humming noise he could now hear.

  The High Priest was now in his element and threw his arms wide in supplication and called out in a forceful, loud voice, betraying his earlier nervousness.

  ‘Oh Great Poseidon, God of the Oceans, God of Earthquakes, Overlord of the Seas, Brother of Mighty Zeus and Father of our ancestors, search our souls and hear our prayers.’

  There was a short pause before a booming bass monotone voice suddenly reverberated from the very air around them.

  ‘THIS IS POSEIDON. WHO DISTURBS ME?’

  The four figures at the Dais looked up into the air in wonder as the sound surrounded and penetrated them.

  ‘Poseidon, I am your High Priest, guardian of the souls of your people. I come before you with a petition from the people.’ The High Priest’s voice cracked with nerves.

  ‘HIGH PRIEST, TELL ME NOW THE PETITION OF THE PEOPLE.’

  The priest looked at the tall man, who nodded curt encouragement. He gulped the raised his voice again.

  ‘Poseidon, it is the petition of your people that the Island of Arcanadia be permanently released from exile.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘THIS PETITION REQUIRES THE JOINT CONSENT OF ONE OF THE RULING CLASS, ONE OF PURE BLOOD, ONE OF OUTWORLD BLOOD AND ONE OF AN OUTCAST RACE.’

  The priest looked at the four figures.

  ‘Poseidon, I have the necessary representatives to give the consent.’ He called to the air above him.

  ‘RULING CLASS, GIVE ME YOUR CONSENT,’ ordered the booming voice.

  The tall man was suddenly bathed in a bright light that speared down from an unseen source in the roof of the chamber. He felt a prickling sensation in the palms of his hands. The air around him warmed dramatically and he started to sweat. Whether it was due to the heat or nerves he wasn’t sure.

  ‘I am of the ruling class,’ he stated proudly, ‘I give consent that the petition for the rescinding of exile be approved.’ The tall man held his breath.

  As quickly as it had arrived the light disappeared. The man shivered as the heat vanished.

  ‘PURE BLOOD, GIVE ME YOUR CONSENT.’

  The guide was bathed in the bright light. He also experienced the prickling sensation and the heat.

  ‘I am a pure blood Arcanadian. I give consent on behalf of all pure bloods that the petition for the rescinding of exile be approved.’

  Again the light disappeared.

  ‘OUTWORLDER, GIVE ME YOUR CONSENT.’

  The middle aged man flinched as the light washed over him. He automatically jerked back his hands as the prickling sensation swept across his hands. Ignoring the frantic orders to replace his hands hissed by the priest standing nearby he looked at his palms.

  Several hundred tiny speckles of blood covered his palms.

  ‘Put your hands back Outworlder.’ The large man ordered menacingly.

  He looked up to see everybody looking at him. Tentatively he replaced his hands. He winced as the tiny needles dug into his palms again.

  There was a short pause, and then something appeared in the window in the dais before him. He leant forward to focus on what was happening.

  With a start he realised that the strange pulsing light was changing. It began flashing across the window, leaving traces of light lingering. Suddenly he realised that he was looking at words forming before his eyes.

  ‘Read them out,’ hissed the priest.

  ‘I am not a native of Arcanadia,’ he stammered. ‘I give consent on behalf of the rest of the world for the rescinding of exile to be granted.’ he looked up and smiled nervously at the others.

  The light flicked off and the voice boomed out again.

  ‘OUTCAST, GIVE ME YOUR CONSENT.’

  The light washed over the giant form opposite.

  ‘I am a so-called outcast. I give consent from all the Outcast races for the petition for the rescinding of exile to be approved.’ the giant muttered from deep within its cowl.

  The light disappeared. There was silence.

  The tall man looked at the High Priest.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I do not know my Lord. I have never done this kind of ritual before.’ the priest looked nervously around, his short lived confidence draining.

  The voice boomed without warning, assaulting their ears and their bone
s.

  ‘HIGH PRIEST, YOUR PETITION AND CONSENT HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED. AS ALL RACES HAVE BEEN VERIFIED AND ARE IN AGREEMENT THEIR PETITION HAS BEEN GRANTED. THE PROCESS FOR RESCINDING EXILE HAS BEEN INITIATED. ARCANADIA WILL REJOIN THE WORLD IN TWO DAYS.’

  The quartet stood back from the Dais. The tall man removed his hands from the dais and walked towards the High Priest.

  ‘The Ceremony is complete?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes my Lord.’ the priest bowed his head.

  ‘Are the priest gathered here the only ones able to initiate the ceremony?’

  ‘Yes Lord, the priests of Poseidon have maintained the details of the ceremony within the highest ranks of the order only for twenty three generations. Only the twenty here have the knowledge to carry out the ceremony.’

  The tall man smiled. He reached out and wiped the palms of his hands down the pristine robe of the cleric, leaving streaks of blood.

  ‘That is good to know.’

  He turned away to face the trio while the priest brushed at his robe in disgust.

  ‘You know what to do.’

  The three separated. The guide and the hulking giant reached beneath their robes and withdrew weapons; the guide a sword similar to the one carried by the tall man, the bulkier a pair of short handled axes. The middle-aged man took up position at the foot of the stairway and also drew a short sword which he held uncomfortably in his hands.

  ‘My Lord?’ the High Priest questioned.

  With his back to the Priest the tall man drew his own blade, the metal on metal sending a clear ringing sound across the chamber.

  ‘We do not want anybody changing their mind and sending us into exile again do we?’ He slowly turned to look down at the Priest.

  The High Priest raised his hands in supplication.

  ‘My Lord, we answer only to you. You have our absolute loyalty.’ he started to back away.

  Around the chamber the guide and the giant were efficiently herding the rest of the nervous priests together.

  ‘I have to be certain that exile cannot be reinstated. The only way that is possible is for me to be certain that there is nobody alive to reinstate it.’

  The tall man whipped out his left hand and grabbed the joined hands of the priest. With a quick tug he pulled the priest towards himself and turned him around.

  The High Priest opened his eyes and mouth wide in shock as the sword came up in a smooth motion to be thrust straight through his body. He looked down in shock at his chest to see the point protruding from his pristine white robes. As the sword was pulled back a red stain started spreading from the fatal wound. As his eyes lost their focus the Priest’s final thought was that Poseidon would exact revenge.

  He collapsed like a rag doll to the floor.

  ‘Kill them all,’ the tall man ordered the others harshly.

  Heedless of the pleas for mercy the two started hacking into the other priests. The guide moved in with efficient stabs and slashes of his sword. The larger used vicious swings that crushed rather than cut. Two priests managed to slip past the assassins to make a break for the stairs.

  The tall man moved with surprising speed. He sprang to one side and lashed out with his blade, catching one of the fleeing priests. The headless body made another half step before stumbling to the floor.

  The final priest pulled up in front of the middle-aged man.

  ‘Please, let me pass,’ he begged, flicking his eyes back towards the slaughter.

  The middle-aged man licked his dry lips. He glanced past the priest to see the tall man regarding him coldly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Stepping forward he drove the sword into the priest’s stomach. His gasp of fear and surprise matched that of the priest. He was surprised with the ease of how the sword sliced through clothing and muscle.

  The priest collapsed forward, his hands grasping at the middle-aged mans shoulders. As blood bubbled out of his mouth and his eyes began to glaze over he muttered something.

  ‘Poseidon curses you. You will never attain the happiness you seek.’

  The priest slid to the floor, leaving a smear of blood down the robes of the man. The sword was still embedded in the priest’s stomach.

  The middle-aged man stepped back in horror at what he had just done and wiped ineffectively at the blood on his robes. His eyes were drawn to the body.

  ‘Come here,’ ordered the tall man.

  The middle-aged man shuffled past the body of the priest without taking his eyes from what he had done and made his way across the cavern to join the others. The guide and the giant had completed their grisly task and carried their dripping blades by their sides.

  ‘All dead,’ confirmed the guide.

  ‘Good,’ commented the tall man, ‘our plans progress.’

  ‘I need to get out of here. When can I collect the girl?’ the middle-aged man interrupted, staring at the rest of the bodies, his chest heaving as he hyperventilated.

  ‘You do not,’ said the guide.

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve done everything you asked of me.’ he slumped visibly.

  ‘Do you think we are so barbaric as to force a woman to be with somebody she has no interest in?’

  ‘Barbaric, you just killed twenty people without a thought. You made an agreement with me.’ He looked at the faces before him.

  ‘We made an agreement with an Outworlder. With the exile rescinded we will return to the world, you will return to the world as a citizen of Arcanadia. We need an Outworlder to fulfil our plans.’ The guide explained, his face set in disgust.

  The middle-aged man stepped backwards as understanding dawned on him.

  ‘Your usefulness has come to an end.’ The guide didn’t move as the frightened man stepped further away from him.

  His retreat was curtailed as he walked backwards into a solid object. Spinning around he realised that the hooded giant had silently manoeuvred behind him. He looked up into the depths of the cowl and saw a sight that drained all the energy from his limbs.

  ‘God help me,’ he whimpered.

  The giant slowly reached out a massive hand and wrapped it around the man’s throat. The man lifted his hands and attempted to pull the fingers away from his throat. He might as well have tried to lift the statue they were beneath.

  ‘Your god is pathetic,’ said the guide.

  The giant shuffled his feet then flexed his arm, lifting the man from the floor until they were face to face.

  ‘Pathetic,’ it grunted.

  With a quick spasm the fingers were tightened, crushing the vertebrae and trachea together in a sickening crunching and popping sound.

  The fingers relaxed and the giant let the body drop to the floor.

  ‘We must be prepared,’ said the tall man, ‘return to your people and get ready to move. We will be discovered and Outworlders will come. When they do we must be ready to resume our place. Our allies will be watching the shores ready to collect Outworlders.’

  The trio made their way towards the stairway, leaving the bodies of the priests and the middle-aged man where they had fallen.

  The man was dimly aware of footsteps heading away from him. He tried to call out but he didn’t have the energy. His body wouldn’t respond and he couldn’t feel it.

  In a panic he attempted to draw in a breath. It was useless; slowly his vision dimmed as much needed oxygen was used up without being replaced.

  Finally darkness descended over him and his body relaxed. Boy Lorenson died alone at the age of forty-two, one hundred and thirty eight years after he went missing.

  *

  Chapter Three – Disaster

  Gibraltar 18th May

  Craig Bradbury looked on with minimum interest as Danny Morehouse rotated his wrist, examining the shiny black watch fitting snugly around his tanned wrist. Its cle
ar numerals and sweeping second hand made him smile.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Danny after several seconds.

  Craig reached over to grab his wrist and twisted it so he could get a better viewing angle of the face. His fingers left smudgy prints on the shiny material.

  ‘You and your girly jewellery,’ Craig commented in his thick Liverpudlian accent to his best friend and current shopping companion. He released the wrist.

  Danny looked sideways at him in feigned disgust before turning his attention back at the watch. He raised his part shaved eyebrow at the man standing on the other side of the counter in apology before speaking.

  ‘The Chanel J12 is a piece of art. Its face is thirty-eight millimetres in diameter and both the main body and strap are made of highly polished ceramic. It runs on the kinetic energy provided by your body motion. I’ve been after one of these for years but I’ve never been able to afford one.’ He lectured Craig, who simply shrugged and wandered away.

  ‘It even fits without needing altering.’

  Danny raised his hands to his shoulders in mock prayer.

  ‘Praise the Royal Navy for being stuck on extended sea duty and not seeing land for months at a time.’

  The shop assistant smiled.

  ‘You have a discerning eye sir. Everybody has followed the example of Chanel and created their own versions. However, I believe that Chanel are in a league of their own.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there mate,’ Danny lowered his arms. ‘What’s the best price you can do?’

  The salesman looked at the young man before him and considered whether he was actually interested or was wasting his time. He looked at the counter between them and checked the watch that the man had removed. It was a Tissot automatic T-Lord chronograph, hardly a cheap watch, but not in the same league as the Chanel.

  ‘Sir, the best I can manage is three thousand three hundred pounds.’

  ‘If you can do three thousand I’ll take it.’ Danny countered instantly.

  Craig didn’t turn to look, merely shook his head at his friend from where he had wandered and started to look at some of the other glittering displays inside the premiere jewellers.

 

‹ Prev Next ›