The Ballad of Persephone Read online

  Bal stops just forward of the first door, allowing Persephone to peer inside. Small crates are littered around a small cot with restraints tied to a barred window. The men shove Koray inside; one enters and slams the door shut.

  Without sympathy, the other drags the Princess to the adjacent room, dropping her on the ground before exiting.

  Persephone doesn’t move. She cries, watching her blood and saliva stream to the dirty ground. She keeps her gaze fixed on the floor; fearful to look at the bed she knows is there. Slowly she looks at the space beneath the cot. I should hide. She crawls into the dark area.

  Silence brings momentary peace. Tension inflicting her body begins to dissolve, forcing her into the abyss of sleep. She forgets hunger in her belly. A muffled yelp through the thin wall snaps her back from the edge. Struggle turns to crying, pleading, and then a crescendo of screams.

  The horror of Koray’s rape plays out in Persephone’s head. She clasps her ears, attempting to block out the violent destruction of innocence. Her blood begins to boil with rage, infusing her veins with the strength to overcome remnants of the poison in her system. She crawls out of the space, intent on ripping the attacker’s head off. The screaming stops.

  Approaching footsteps brings a new fear. She retreats into the farthest corner under the cot. She sees three men enter and holds her breath. A large hand grips the edge of the frame, lifting it with ease.

  Close to the door, Dardanes stares at her with Farah in his arms. “Get her out,” he orders.

  As best as she could, Persephone claws at the tribesman who yanks her out into the open. The cot drops, promising a similar beginning to the despair in the other room. Persephone looks around for a weapon. She stops when Dardanes drops Farah on the cot then dismisses his men.

  “I’m not going to hurt you!” the Captain says. “Tend to your mistress.”

  The door opens once more. A female pirate brings a tray of food and drink. Persephone crawls up to the Queen. “What have you done to her?”

  “An unfortunate reaction to the poison,” he explains, pointing to the purple vein-like lines streaming up Farah’s neck. “Out!” he yells at the other pirate.

  “Do you know who she is?” Persephone yells, finding strength once more with the encroaching rage.

  “A Royal, I gather, making her a ‘Pure-Blood.’ Now do as you’re told. Be thankful I show pity on you because of Bal’s carelessness.” He points to Persephone’s puncture mark on her neck.

  “Make them stop!” Persephone yells with hate in her voice, pointing to the wall. “Set us free.”

  “I cannot. If I do, my employers will kill us all.”

  “I will kill you,” she whispers.

  “I don’t think so, little one.” Dardanes chuckles. “If you want to escape, listen. I gave her an antidote, but I fear it may do more harm; we weren’t expecting Anuk or a ‘Pure-Blood.’ The poison will be out of her system by the time we reach Cappadocia. I arranged to have a shuttle hidden for you. I have yet to meet a Royal handmaiden who hasn’t been taught to fly.”

  “Everyone leaves,” Persephone says through clenched teeth.

  “No.” His face is cold, unforgiving. “The longer the charade continues, the further away you can get. I’ll send in your companion.”

  The small concession calms the Princess. “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t. Trust in my instincts to survive.”

  Persephone’s fleeting strength diminishes as she calms the storm in her soul.

  Dardanes leaves the room. Persephone soaks a rag. As she reaches for her mother, Farah grabs her hand with a weakened grip. “I am sorry, my daughter.” Her voice is faint.

  “Mother, it will be alright. Rest and it will pass.”

  “No. There are vipers in the nest. Do not give in.”

  “You’re making no sense. Rest, soon we will leave and be back with papa.”

  “My end is near, child. Forgive me for my trespasses. ‘Sephie…I am sorry.”

  Confusion overcomes Persephone. She dismisses it in favor of tending to the build-up of sweat on her mother’s forehead. Footsteps from outside startle her.

  Dardanes shoves Koray in the room. “The order has been given. No one will touch her, or you.”

  Persephone glares at him. “The slate is still not clean between us.”

  “I should expect not,” Dardanes says. “Before you start firing shots, ask your mistress who my employer is; I suspect she knows.” He shuts the door.

  The next click on the lock brings a slight sense of security. Farah slips back into her sleep before any questions can be asked.

  Chapter 11: Not So Innocent Games

  The return trip to Hyperboria for Samiri is quick. He uses the only known ‘clean’ portal from Corinth, instead of traveling with Farah’s court via a shuttle. Time is proving to be an adversary he no longer seeks comfort in. Word reaches him of Aspasia’s mission to the Black-Sea-Port, with a contingent of Watchers, for one purpose – eliminate all traces of her master’s hand in the kidnapping plot. An order requiring his brethren to aid such a venture requires, a hard directive from none other than the Chancellor.

  Inside the Keeper’s Temple is a lavish display of a rich heritage going back eons. Giant polished tiles match 100-foot high ceilings propped up with columns, shooting up in magnificent splendor. Unlike many structures in the populous regions of Hyperboria, the temple is illuminated by blazing urns and hanging torches. The ambiance is ancient – purposely kept in such a condition to incite feelings of holiness in the devout. The quiet halls are bare, leading to dungeon-like rooms that serve as office spaces. Upon entering an area, the illusion of antiquity dissolves into the modern world.

  Posted at the heavy oak door to Thoth’s office, Samiri waits patiently for his new master to return. Amaya, Thoth’s receptionist, sits behind a comfortable station lit with dim artificial lighting. She glances at him stealthily. The female Watcher is no older than one year since commissioning, 21-human-years in appearance – Samiri deduced this from her casual nature. Her delivery of short, poorly thought out answers regarding the Keeper’s location gives away her lack of training. It has been the end of the Watchers for years, he complains in silence.

  He suspects the wait shall be extended; the explanation for Thoth’s delay is ‘Our Lord is conducting affairs at the Royal Palace with Prince Odin.’ Being a proper Watcher means always knowing the spirit of an answer before asking the question. Samiri’s cohorts already hinted that Thoth’s spiriting away King Shuru in the dead of night – destination unknown. With no indication as to when he will receive an audience, Samiri shuffles off to a private area designated for distinguished visitors. He makes a call on his communicator. An uncomfortable moment passes before his counterpart appears.

  “I urge you once more, Aspasia, leave this terrible design to its doomed fate.”

  “You know I cannot disobey my master. Samiri, a new world awaits us at the end of this ordeal. Our kind will finally be free to forge our own path.”

  “I forge my own path,” he whispers.”

  “What?” Aspasia asks surprised. “Our child means nothing to you…”

  “Incorrect,” Samiri says. “I am embracing the concept. For you it is made easy by the life you carry; it is a part of you…”

  “Our son is a part of you, too.”

  “A son?” Samiri’s heart skips a beat. A burning elation electrifies his body. Joy takes over his being. For a moment he forgets the Amon-I, Persephone, and grumblings from Thoth’s order against Watcher procreation. “Send me your location. I desire a meeting.”

  “Very well. There is a clean portal at my intended location. Wait for me there and do not announce yourself. I look forward to your arrival.” Aspasia’s image disappears.

  Minutes go by before Samiri accesses the data-tube Farah had entrusted to him in Corinth. He erases all its information, then composes a new one.

  ‘My Master, I am embarking on an effort to retrie
ve Queen Farah and Princess Persephone. Contained herein is the first location of the villains whom I hope to confront. I know not how deep the conspiracy goes, but caution must be paramount when dealing with Chancellor Gaius and the Watchers Council. I fear an unsanctioned undertaking has left an initiate in a compromised situation. I plead mercy and sanctuary for her; it is through her help that I will be successful in this endeavor.’

  Satisfied with his composition, Samiri hurries to the receiving area to entrust the data-tube to Amaya.

  ~ Black-Sea-Port, Illyria ~

  A contingent of 12 Watchers arrive in a single shuttle near a secluded wharf; twelve is all that’s needed to subdue 100 tribesmen on any given day. In addition to their primary function, Watchers possess a secondary skill which includes combat. This particular team is trained for assassination, espionage, and other unspeakable skills the counsel declares as myth.

  Dressed in form-fitting black clothes and a small sigil of House ENki on the right shoulder, the group disperses around the premises of the berth, where a vessel sits motionless in the water. Aspasia clutches her weapon as she jumps 30-feet up from the docks to the ship’s deck. She signals the rest to follow. One by one, the Watchers land softly on steel-plated flooring. Darkness masks their incursion on the unsuspecting occupants.

  A rhythmic droning from generators deep in the hull flows through narrow passageways. Lights shine red inside. In groups of three, infiltrators search for the pirates. Aspasia comes upon the Captain’s cabin. She attaches a device over the keypad. Seconds pass before a soft ‘click’ confirms the door is unlocked. Weapons ready, three assassins burst into the quarters.

  Lounging on a modest bed are two female escorts and the ship’s captain. The bearded man jumps to a shelf for his weapon. Between heartbeats, Aspasia clears 20-feet between them to rest a blade on her victim’s neck. “Where are they?”

  The Captain breaks out in panic. “Who are you looking for?”

  An uneasy feeling creeps up Aspasia’s neck. The Captain does not match the description her master provided. This is not a tribesman. “Don’t play games with me. I want your prisoners.”

  “Prisoners? This is a cargo vessel bound for Aryavan.” The Captain does not bother asking for the intruder's credentials. He knows immediately from the clothing and sigil these are watchers. “I offer any help you wish.” Aspasia releases her weapon, much to his relief. He grasps his bleeding neck, feeling the sting of the blade on lightly pierced flesh. “I received gold to move into this berth two hours ago.”

  Two more watchers enter the cabin. Aspasia leans in close. “This is a decoy,” she whispers. “They’re here, somewhere. Search the adjacent building.”

  All indications of a gathering are evident around the port building – tables with remnants of meals for 50 people, crude restraints in several rooms, and a gravel field outside with indentations left by shuttles.

  A Watcher strides up to Aspasia with a grim look. “What now?” he asks.

  She points to spots of hydraulic fluid staining the white gravel. “They left by transport.”

  “They could be anywhere,” the young Watcher says.

  “Five shuttles,” she says. “From the mess inside, I’d say they were moving slaves, and in quite a hurry.”

  The younger watcher observes his superior examine the fluid spills. He marvels at the intelligence of these elders, although one would mistake Aspasia for his younger sister. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

  “Apart from the distinctive marks, the spills indicate they left in a hurry – they didn’t bother cleaning up after themselves. Meaning their hurried departure was unplanned. Something changed.” She gestures for the young Watcher to follow. “If you want to catch a bird, you should shake the tree.”

  “Mistress?”

  “The slaves were meant for this port; therefore, a trader would be logged for a visit at daylight. Find out who he is and what he knows. Find the new location of his meeting. One more thing, look into fuel movements and depots within a 500-mile radius - large air shipments included.”

  He nods. “By your command.”

  When the young watcher disappears, Aspasia notices a figure step out from behind a wall; she recognizes Samiri. “I told you to wait!”

  “What did you find?”

  Arguing with him is not a task she is willing to take on at this moment. She decides to enlist his help rather than alienate him from the search. “Well, what do you think?”

  He scans along the ground. “They are heading south.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Samiri points to a heap of seating gutted from at least five shuttles; next to the pile are torn off labels from one-gallon water containers – ten by the looks of it. “See the straps? Grooves cut in the metal connectors are fresh, and they tore off the labels to keep a watch on water consumption. But why load extra weight if you’re leaking fuel?”

  “They’re going somewhere dry, without a known source.” Aspasia’s admiration for Samiri’s intelligence swells. A spark returns to a dead pyre she keeps locked away under layers of mistrust for her former lover. His new stance on her pregnancy returns a resolve to look towards a hopeful future together. It shows in her smile.

  They make their way into the rooms, grimacing at the cruelty inflicted on the prisoners. Samiri immediately recognizes the space where Persephone was kept. He does not divulge this, opting instead to spend an additional moment looking around. Aspasia sees his attempt at deception. She lets it play out, knowing she can win whatever game he is playing. She knows and respects his connection to Persephone.

  A blood-soaked rag catches his eye. He moves the mattress to investigate the ground, sniffing like an animal for a lingering scent. Aspasia moves a serving tray and utensils around. She pretends not to notice as Samiri finds a message written in red under the mattress. She strains to make out the word ‘Cappadocia.’

  “There’s nothing here,” he says.

  “Are you playing games with me?”

  “If I am, know it’s only to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” Aspasia yells. “How quickly you forget your part in this conspiracy. I am a servant like you.”

  “Yes, protect you. Play your part for Vali, and I will play my part for our son. It is the only way we can adhere to our oaths without compromising each other.”

  The mention of her unborn child sends a flood of emotion through Aspasia. She feels a slight kick inside her belly. She gets closer to Samiri, grabs his hand and allows him to feel the miracle. “That’s life,” she says. “Ours.”

  “It is… amazing.”

  The parents forget their dilemma for a moment. They smile as anyone would.

  Samiri clasps Aspasia’s hand. “There will be no blame on you if I find the Princess first. When this is over, you may gain sanctuary with me. Thoth will make sure of this.”

  “And our child?”

  “We will take our leave and raise our son away from the entire world…in peace.”

  His words ease Aspasia’s concerns. “Go then. Find the Princess.” She smiles warmly, but she fumes inside. She knows her oath will be unbroken, and confident she will reach Cappadocia long before Samiri does. She kisses his hand.

  ~ Outskirts of Rekkam ~

  Flowing red hues cover the vast landscape on the approach to Rekkam – a principality of a Greater House of ENki. Large swaths of luxurious fruit-trees tower over rich vegetation, leading up to a serene river. Sailboats make their way towards the edge of the city, a pursuit common with tourists visiting the infamous cultural epicenter.

  Five miles from the sprawling city exists the most significant fuel depot in the region. Massive underground processing plants refine abundant fuel for most of the world’s vehicles. There is a strong military presence here to deter sporadic attacks from dissidents in pTah. A large industrial airport sits at the edge of the complex, hosting ground vehicles and airships. A thick haze overshadows all, like an apparition piercing the veil
of industry.

  Skulking around a giant air-tanker, Osiris attempts to blend in with a multitude of laborers. Dressed in oversized royal-blue coveralls stained with generous helpings of grease, he observes the workers scurrying off to perform their duties in this loud place.

  He was fortunate to learn of an unusual delivery headed for an abandoned depot in Cappadocia. His father’s spy network confirmed suspicious transactions between fictitious entities, pointing to the fuel order. He didn’t have much to go on, but this trip he hoped would take him closer to Persephone.

  “Hey! Who are you?” a rough-looking pilot shouts.