by Gene Stiles
Before panic could set in, Themis turned to the crowd and smiled as if she had just swept common dirt from their path. “Come now,” she smiled, spreading her arms out to the warming sun, “It is a beautiful day. Let us go have our picnic.” She spun on her heel and glided across the bridge.
“Send all available Black Guard to the valley at once,” Cronus shouted, the three commanders standing at attention in his office cringing at his rabid fury. He strapped on a sidearm, his face burning a dark crimson. “How dare she so such a thing?” he spat venomously. “Turn those people around and send them back to their homes!”
Aberus stared at his shifting feet for a moment, fearful to raise his concerns. His voice trembling, he asked, “What shall we do if they refuse, Cronus? Fire on them?”
Cronus moved up to stand within a hairs breath of the man’s chest. His wrath swept over Aberus, threatening to rip the air from his lungs. “If that is what it takes, yes! Now, get me my sled! I am going out there myself!”
The commanders snapped to attention, saluted and hurried to the door. Iapetus waited until they were well on their way before turning to Cronus. “This could be a major error in judgment, Cronus,” he rumbled.
“You, too, would disobey my orders?”
The fierceness of the question rolled off the massive figure of Iapetus like water on a heated rock. He shrugged, “I would do whatever you ask of me, Cronus. Yet, I fear not all of the Aam, not even the Black Guard itself, would countenance killing their own People.”
“Let us see that it does not come to that then,” Cronus replied, heading for the chamber door.
The two men hurried along the corridor and took the first lift down to the lobby entrance of the Great Pyramid. The polished marble floor resounded with the echoes of running boots and armed commanders shouting orders as they made for the open doors. Cronus and Iapetus strode through the crowd, making their way outside. Just before they mounted the sleds awaiting them on the street, a young guard rushed to their side.
“Cronus, forgive me for the intrusion,” he stammered, “but I did think you should know that Morpheus was spotted inside just a few moments ago.”
Cronus growled bitterly. “I do not have time to deal with this traitor at the moment.”
Iapetus dismounted and told the guard to wait. “Go on ahead, Cronus. I shall deal with Morpheus and join you shortly.” Not waiting for a reply, he stomped back inside, the young man hot on his heels.
Morpheus slid through the silent corridors of the Great Pyramid like a wrath-filled ghost. The directions given to him by Rhea were precise and he had burned them into his memory. Without them, he realized, he would be completely lost. He spent little time in this building, seldom outside of the lobby or the Great Gallery where the People gathered to discuss issues of the day. Usually he received his orders in the offices of the commanders. Never had he entered the labyrinth of wide, dimly lit hallways down here in the lower levels. Unlike the passageways above, the stonework had an unfinished, raw look to them. The floor beneath his feet was rough and light strips were installed at wide intervals leaving long stretches in dark shadows.
Anaxus touched his shoulder, his voice lowered so as not to carry in the quiet, moist air. “We approach the stairwell leading down to the cell block. It should be just around that corner up ahead. From what Rhea told us, there should be no guards below. I shall await your return at the top of the stairs and watch for any intrusion. If you are not back shortly though, I will come and find you.”
Morpheus only nodded in reply. His mind was elsewhere, filled with black visions and horrid imaginings of what may lie ahead. The core of his being trembled both in fear of what he might find and unadulterated rage that someone would dare lay hand upon his beloved. Someone would pay if she were harmed, he swore to himself. Someone would pay dearly.
Not a whisper of sound emanated from their stealthy footsteps. All that could be heard was the slow steady drip of condensation falling from the water pipes mounted to the ceiling and the occasional scurry of frightened feet when some invisible creature bolted at their approach. The walls had a slimy feel to them as if they were traversing the throat of some gigantic beast, working their way steadily toward the vile pit of its waiting stomach.
The bend in the corridor ahead lay buried in deep shadow, no flicker of light marking the hallway beyond. Anaxus and Morpheus slowed, their ears strained for the tiniest sound of movement hidden in the darkness. The main lobby above was near empty when they made their hooded and cloaked entry. They had waited and watched the bustle of Aam streaming out toward the One Tree and knew the diversion was well under way. They had seen no one and believed no one had seen them since they began their trek into these seldom-used lower levels. Still, they took no chances. Morpheus did not speak, just signaled Anaxus to hug the walls as they rounded the bend.
They were greeted by a faint odor of burning wood and oil wafting up from an entranceway that opened on one side of the hallway. The rest of the corridor was dark, without a trace of light to penetrate its brooding blackness. Indistinguishable words of a murmured conversation drifted into the air, punctuated by an almost childish giggle. The sound rippled down the spine of Morpheus like the touch of some kind of slimy serpent. The two men hurried toward the stairwell.
“I knew this is where you would come,” a deep voice rumbled from the darkness. Morpheus stood stock still, their hands resting on the grips of their sidearms. Iapetus appeared from the shadows, the murk parting as a thick fog. In his monstrous paw, he held a plasma rifle as if it were a child’s toy. The muzzle leveled squarely at Morpheus was steady and unmoving. Shifting his dark eyes to Anaxus, he continued, “I did not think you would bring with you another traitor though.”
“Traitor?” Morpheus responded coldly. “How could we be called traitors? We did naught but free the Izon from an enslavement that would never be sanctioned by the Council or the People.”
“Do not move,” Iapetus growled, noting the movement of Anaxus toward the far side of the wide hallway. The barrel of his rifle shifted to cover both men. “Remove your weapons and place them on the floor.” As they complied, he said, “They were never enslaved. With the full knowledge of the Council, we have cared for them and met their every need. In exchange, we required only that they work to build the city. That is not much to ask.”
Morpheus barked with contempt. “You lie. I know for a fact that there are many members of the Council who are unaware of your actions. How dare you think you can speak for them?”
“I speak for Cronus,” he replied unruffled. “Besides, it was not I who killed members of the People for the sake of a few near-animals as did you.”
It stung Morpheus to know there was truth in that statement, but instead of guilt, he felt a wave of fury wash over him. He took a step forward. “It is not I who allows one of the People to be imprisoned and tortured in these loathsome, hidden cells. Now step aside.”
Iapetus matched his step, the muzzle now scant inches from Morpheus. “I think not.”
“What are you going to do?” Morpheus mocked him. “Kill us both? How many of the People are you willing to kill for the sake of ‘a few near-animals’?”
“You, for one.” Iapetus pushed the weapon into his throat and eased his finger back on the trigger.
“Coward,” Anaxus said, a wealth of scorn overflowing from that single word. He spit a great glob of green phlegm onto the floor near Anaxus, wiping the rest from his thick red beard.
Iapetus glanced in his direction, not easing his pressure on the trigger. He glared at Anaxus with black eyes that sparkled like a predator in the darkness. “How could one as you call me coward? You who kill men with explosives while you sit miles away in complete safety.”
“Yet there you stand, holding two unarmed men at bay with an honorless weapon,” Anaxus scoffed. “If it were not for that, I would break you in half with just these two hands.” He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the close confines. “So
much for the myth of the mighty Iapetus. It is a good thing for you that no one is here to tell of this tale.” Anaxus turned around, placed both of his hands on the wall and spread his legs wide. “Here, heroic one,” he jeered, his voice dripping with contempt, “let me make this all the more challenging for you. When you are done with Morpheus, shoot me in the back.”
Iapetus roared, tossing Morpheus down the hall like a doll. He charged Anaxus, his mammoth fist cleaving the air. Anaxus slid down the wall the moment the attack began, curled into a ball and sprung from his hands. His feet connected with the shins of Iapetus, slamming the man’s face into the rough wall above. Rolling away, putting a meager distance between them, Anaxus shouted, “Morpheus, get her! I shall handle this! Go!”
Hesitating for just a moment, Morpheus propelled himself down the stairs to the cells below. He hit the bottom step in a run, uncaring if he was heard at this point. The hall was narrow here, wide enough for only a single person to travel at once. Giant, unfinished blocks of red stone interlocked to make walls bathed in the flickering light of torches mounted against them. Widely spaced on either side of the aisle were metal-banded, wooden doors, locked from the outside with a simple slide bar. The odor was nauseating. The entire hall reeked of mold, mildew, urine and blood. Morpheus pulled part of his cloak over his nose and slowed his pace, peering into the gloomy cells whenever he heard a whimper, cough or the slightest movement. He had to stop at far too many doors.
Behind him, he heard the grunts and thunder of two titans hammering into each other. He wanted to turn, run back and aid his friend, but love and fear drove him forward. Door after door he checked, looking carefully into each, mindful of how little time he had to find her.
At that, he almost passed her by. He gave the locked cell a cursory glance, preparing to survey the next one when a soft moan whispered into his ear. He stopped, looked closer through the slit cut at eye level in the door. The odious stench that assailed him caused Morpheus to gag and cover his mouth and nostrils. The malodor assailed the senses with a pungent combination of human waste, blood, sweat, fear, pain and even expended sex. His breath caught in his lungs and Morpheus was beyond loath to investigate further. Still, he took another look. It was near black inside the cell, the far end completely blanketed by shadow. A glint caught in his vision and he noted a small table to one side, shiny blades picking up the ambient light slipping in the cracks of the door.
A frigid fist clamped his throat when the next moan trickled the silence. Morpheus pulled a torch from its bracket, slid back the slide and opened the door.
The cell exploded into hellish relief when the torch flames burned away the shadows blanketing the back wall. Morpheus screamed in horror at the naked, dangling mannequin pinioned by chains against the stained and rough-hewn stone. “Haleah!”
He took but one small step in her direction when a searing agony scored a bloody line across his back. He stumbled forward, the torch flying from his grip. He tripped on the uneven, wet surface, sending the contents of the table spilling across the floor. He hit the rock hard and rolled to one side, fire coursing through the rip near his spine. A flash of silver arced in the dim light toward his face and Morpheus threw up his arm to ward off the blow. The blade parted his cloak and shirt, slicing into the muscle of his forearm as if it were made of silk. He lashed out with a savage kick, fueled by a rage so great that it numbed the pain to near nothingness. He heard the satisfying crunch of bone and his assailant howled in torment.
Morpheus sprang to his feet, balanced on the balls of his feet, cradling his injured arm against his heaving chest. Across the room, near where Haleah hung unconscious, a small, wiry man struggled to his feet and shook his head like an animal shedding water. In the sparse light of the torch that lay sputtering on the damp floor, the man’s dead, black eyes glittered with fiery red sparks. Neither of them moved nor spoke for long seconds. Morpheus took the moment to wrap a piece of ripped cloak around his profusely bleeding arm, his gaze never leaving his opponent.
“It was you who did this to her, was it not?” Morpheus said, his voice deceivingly soft, flat, devoid of inflection.
The small man smiled, if the slice across the lower face could be called that. It was more a cold shaping of the lips that slashed a line below high, cruel cheekbones. “Ah, yes,” he chuckled, running his grimy fingers down the curve of Haleah’s chest, “and I must say I have never had such a wonderful time.” He nonchalantly knelt and picked up a long, serrated blade in one hand and a short, spiked whip in the other. “She held out for so very long I feared she would actually die before she told me what I wanted to know.”
“You would be impressed at how close I took her to the edge without losing her,” the man preened, his whip-holding hand lowering to rub his crotch profanely, his other hand sliding the cold blade flat-wise down to her stomach. “And even when I knew she had nothing left to give, I continued. It was glorious!”
Morpheus snapped his good arm forward, the blade palmed in his hand slicing through the foul air before imbedding itself so deeply into the brain of the abhorrent, disgusting excuse of a man that not a trace of it protruded from the eye socket. The Other slid to the floor with a sigh, dead before the rest of the body could even register the fact.
Morpheus knelt down beside the still, repulsive form, checking to make sure the creature was dead. He spit into the despicable face. “My only regret is that I could not repay you for your deeds in kind”, he whispered coldly. As an afterthought, he pulped the face with a single, crushing stomp of his booted foot.
Tears cutting deep rivers into his face, Morpheus unclamped the manacles from Haleah’s ankles. He removed the chains from her scarred wrists and lifted her still, limp body into his arms. He held her for long moments, weeping silently, yet gladdened by the barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest against his. After an eternity, Morpheus carried Haleah out of the cell and into the passageway leading back toward the stairs. For a brief, empty piece of time he forgot all else but the warmth of her skin and the near-imperceptible beat of her heart.
The rumble of a mammoth, heavy body crashing down the staircase brought Morpheus back to his surroundings with a sudden, blood-curdling shock. Anaxus lay twisted at the base of the stairs, limbs bent at impossible angels, blood running from his mouth, nose and ears, spreading in a wide pool around his mighty, sweat-sodden head. His soul dampened, feelings seared to nothingness, he laid Haleah gently on the cold stone floor with a heavy sigh. Morpheus tightened the makeshift, blood-soaked bandage on his sliced arm and moved to the center of the aisle, waiting. His breathing stilled, the air moving through his nostrils in a slow, rhythmic movement. He felt no pain, just a quiet acceptance of death to come. The footsteps confidently striding down the stone steps toward him held a promise of finality that he could not deny.
He watched from some faraway place, still as the rock walls around him, as Iapetus stepped over the inert form of Anaxus. Even as Morpheus watched, dark, black and blue bruises disappeared from the muscle-rippling skin. With a sickening crack, Iapetus reset a broken arm, his expression devoid of emotion. He came to a stop just out of striking distance, sparing only a quick glance at Haleah crumpled against the wall.
“It is just me and you now, Morpheus,” Iapetus intoned as if it were a death sentence.
Morpheus nodded dispassionately, preparing himself for combat. He harbored no assumptions that he would prevail against the mightiest warrior of the People. Iapetus was as good a fighter as he was and did not seem to have been even slowed by Anaxus. Still, he would not go quietly, Morpheus promised himself.
“Let us end this then,” he whispered, sliding his left foot in an arc behind him, resting serenely, beckoning Iapetus forward with his open hands.
Not choosing grace in these narrow confines, Iapetus charged, his monstrous shoulders brushing the walls on either side. Morpheus knew he would never survive the impact of that charging mammoth so he did the unexpected. He threw himself at Iapetus, di
ving to the floor, twisting his body to slide past the trunk-like legs, kicking out as he passed. Iapetus flipped backward, his back smashing into the floor with a resounding crack.
Tucking his head into his chest, Iapetus brushed off the pain as if it were a gnat and used the momentum to throw himself into a back flip. He twisted as he landed on his feet, kicking out when Morpheus was just halfway to his feet. Morpheus managed to turn his body just enough to take a glancing blow instead of the one which would have crushed his heart with deadly force. He bounced off the wall, hitting his head against the uncaring stone. A bright explosion of stars filled his blurred vision and he stumbled back for the briefest of moments…just long enough for Iapetus to lock gigantic hands around his throat. Morpheus was ripped upward from the floor, his head driven into the unyielding rock ceiling with the force of a catapult. Bones cracked, a shockwave of nerve-burning pain cascaded down his tortured spine and blackness began to wipe the last remnants of consciousness from his numbed brain. His body sagged like a limp rag.
Iapetus flung him down the hallway where he slid to within a foot of Anaxus before stopping. He screamed at himself from some hidden corner of his mind to move, rise to his feet, but his battered body refused to respond. His torn muscles spasmed and twitched, but would not form a single controlled motion. With a soft sigh of acquiescence, Morpheus reached out to the darkness, seeking to wrap it around him like a warm, painless blanket. From far, far away, a faint echo of words washed against the darkness, disturbing his journey to oblivion.
