The Ballad of Persephone Read online

  “I’m the new guy,” Osiris yells, pointing to his name tag he didn’t bother to check. His wide smile distracts a muscular woman making her way to the ship’s ramp.

  “You’ve got nice teeth for a fuel-ee.” She winks at him. “Come-on then, times ah wastin’.”

  They walk up the short ramp to the tanker’s cabin. The engines rumble, igniting a soft-blue glow at the rear afterburners. Five minutes pass before the behemoth rises off the tarmac. The craft lumbers on with a trajectory 20 degrees above the horizon. It pushes hard with a volatile cargo of liquid and solid fuel mix. Blue flames spew out a trailing gray smoke tail, joining the whine of engines struggling to achieve lift. The hulking mass moves slow, looking relatively smaller the further away it gets, disappearing into the open expanse of sky.

  Like all tankers, the crew cabin is bleak, bare, slick with an oily residue on every surface. Twelve Fuel-ees make up the bare minimum of a detachment on a tanker this size; on this trip, the roster is six - another check-mark on the list of suspicious things.

  Violent rattling on the airframe eases once power is reduced on level flight at 15,000 feet. The grizzly female fuel-ee stuffs a sandwich in her mouth while staring at Osiris like a piece of meat.

  Is she flirting with me, he wonders, and immediately shudders at the thought.

  Another crew member retrieves his meal from a bag, grimacing at the grizzly woman glaring at the young man. “What are you doin’?” he asks his counterpart.

  The fourth crew member looks aggravated as he huddles in a corner, trying to fall asleep. His face is wrapped in a rich burgundy scarf, showing off a pair of bloodshot eyes closing from fatigue.

  “How old are you?” the woman asks. She strains at Osiris’ name tag, “Asir?”

  “Old enough,” the Prince says.

  “I don’t like him.” She stares up and down the length of him. “He’s too clean.”

  “Do shut up, the lot of ya,” the aggravated man in the corner shouts. He pulls a blanket over his cloaked head.

  “Don’t mind Erich; he sleeps a lot, or Ruia, she’s just rude. I’m Tymaeus, people call me Tim. First time on a tanker?”

  Osiris nods.

  “It’s going to be an easy job this one.”

  “Really?” Osiris asks. “I noticed we’re short on people.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tim says. “The clients have manpower…a quick getaway if you know what I mean.”

  Osiris looks at him cockeyed. “Who are they?”

  “They’re much scarier than him,” Tim says gesturing to Erich. “More like her.” He scowls at Ruia.

  Ruia purses her lips.

  Tim pinches Osiris’ collar, “Where’s your safety vest?”

  “I didn’t get one. This is my first job.”

  Ruia grumbles as she pulls a package from under her seat. She tosses a red vest in clear packaging at Osiris. “Put that on,” she snaps. She waits for him to don the garment over his coveralls. “It goes inside, idiot; close to the skin to protect from absorption.”

  Like a pervert, Ruia watches every move Osiris makes as he exposes his bare chest. She ignores the pattern of dots beneath the left side of his chest; though, Erich notices it.

  ~ Abandoned Fuel Depot, Cappadocia ~

  “Five miles in, there’s a village ripe for the picking,” Bal says with greedy eyes to his Captain. He lifts a rusted covering on a water barrel of similar condition, expecting to find at least a swallow – the receptacle is dry. “Where is that tanker?” He licks his dry, crusty lips.

  “They’re in the middle of nowhere,” Dardanes says. “But they could have protection from the Principality – this one doesn’t take kindly to slavers. The banner of Moira controls the region, House ENlil.”

  “I curse the House that got us in this mess. I say we ransom the Royal to whichever house they crawled out of and be done with it.”

  Dardanes does not respond. He looks past Bal at the canyon walls on either side. They are in a narrow valley leading towards conical mountain stacks of Cappadocia. This gap is the only direct route into the village, with a roaring river on the other side. The pirate sighs with thoughts of better days on the open seas. He leaves his companion without a word.

  Bal looks at him with suspicion crawling up his back.

  All the prisoners are herded into a bleak building. They crowd together like a collection of human baggage waiting for transport. Huddled in a corner away from the gathering, Koray hugs her knees with terrifying thoughts showing on her face. Farah is propped up next to her, weakened, yet more coherent than she has been in the last 12-hours.

  The Queen’s appearance is haggard like the others, with only her original travel clothes making her stand out from the rest. Residual marks on her neck are not prominent as before, indicating Dardanes’ antidote is working. Her strength is still diminished. She looks around the dusty room for her daughter.

  Still, in a poor state from her dose of poison, Persephone makes her way towards a sectioned-off kitchenette. She fumbles with dirty bowls on a rusted sink. She sighs with relief when water spurts out from the faucet, albeit at a trickle. The running water distracts her from the discomfort and fatigue. Satisfied with her collection, she ignores the footsteps behind her in favor of a hasty retreat.

  “Where are you going?” Bal whispers with a hint of delight. He slams his weight against her back, clasping her body with his giant arms. He smells her hair. His hand grabs her waist then makes its intrusive descent. He feels the fear manifesting in her trembling body - it excites him.

  No matter how immune to the terror Persephone is convinced she is, the impending moments locks her mind into a perpetual cycle of fear. Her feeble attempt to recall adrenaline-fueled rage cracks in favor of tears and shallow breaths. Her body solidifies into a weakened statue. Her grip on the bowl intensifies – this distracts Bal. He shoves her aside for water.

  Thirst quenched, he grabs Persephone’s face. His repulsive hand shifts her head from left to right.

  Persephone is frozen with fear.

  He rips her tattered clothing down before bending her over the counter to admire her bare skin. He spins her around to gaze at her naked front. Thoughts of his Captain’s orders are fleeting. His groin burns. His solid fist smashes her jaw

  She falls hard on the floor.

  Bal throws himself on her, clamping her wriggling body to the ground. His foul tongue licks the sweat on her chest, hot breath assaults her skin. It violates her delicate nipples. He hits her again, this time spinning her around.

  She claws the ground, screaming for anyone who would hear.

  Bal’s firm grasp on her waist sends shock waves through her mind. Everything is going black. Her head buzzes, muscles tense. Then, piercing pain enters her body. Her palms curls, clenching into petrified fists. Each thrust slams hard into her, until only shallow gasps remain.

  Her eyes flood with tears. Hate tries to burst out, but is subdued with grunts from behind. Again, and again, the tribesman’s disgusting flesh violates her innocence. Persephone can’t breathe.

  Bal pulls away. He kicks her legs down, fixes himself, ending with a victory spit. “I prefer redheads.”

  The door creaks open. A tribesman looks in.

  “What?” Bal yells.

  “A message for the Captain,” the thin pirate mumbles, his eyes fixed on Persephone crumpled on the floor. He licks his lips and his hand drops on his crotch; his gait becomes anxious. “The shuttle is here is all it said.” He moves forward.

  Bal grasps his throat. “What shuttle?” He lets the man wriggle his ignorance then turns to Persephone. “She’s mine.” He pulls his comrade out the door.

  Still frozen, Persephone waits for the evil man to reappear; minutes pass – he doesn’t. Feeling returns to her arms and legs, prompting movement towards bunched up rags. She grabs the heap and dresses as best as she can. Pain in her groin burns. Her face is sore, yet a warming sensation pushes back discomfort.

  Knots fester in
her stomach, loosening with each breath. Swirling juices seep up from her stomach, souring her mouth. She rocks her head back then forward in nauseum, throwing up bitter contents from within. Spasms in her stomach continue to spew bile. Tears roll down on spit leaking to the ground.

  A violent scream wants to burst out, but can’t. She struggles to appear as if nothing happened, but really, she is overwhelmed and embarrassed, as if she had done something wrong. A trolley catches her wandering gaze. The half-dozen bowls are ideal for carrying water, she decides. She spends the next 10-mins filling drinking water for her companions.

  Creaking wheels capture Farah’s broken thoughts into the singular focus she was severely lacking. She sees her daughter emerging from a room, rolling a trolley with water splashing to the ground. After a slow blink, the image changes to Persephone distributing bowls to the people. A common house slave, Farah thinks. She closes her eyes once more – after an eternity it seems, the gentle touch of a hand presses her chin. “Drink, mother,” Persephone says, with the rim of a bowl on her lips.

  Koray sees dry blood on Persephone’s upper thigh. Thoughts of her own suffering disappear. A fit of tears overwhelms her, flowing for her ‘Sephie; Koray’s trembling lips giving form to her rage at the evil. She closes her arms around Persephone, tightening her embrace with any solace she can provide.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” Persephone says in a sharp tone. A slamming door plunges both girls’ hearts to oblivion. They dare not look up to greet their fear. Three tribesmen hurry over to them. Without remorse, they pull Farah and the girls out of the building.

  “How much further?” Samiri asks his stout shuttle pilot.

  “Not far,” the pilot yells over the roaring engine.

  The trip is an uncomfortable one; Samiri is strapped in the rear seat of a small craft designed to move livestock. Putrid scents of animal feces assault his senses, yet there is no discernible reaction on his face. “Is there any traffic in the area?”

  “No,” the pilot yells. “I’ll let you out at the outskirts.”

  The shuttle lands in a clearing surrounded by a thick tree-line. Afterburners kick up dust on a strip, used as a common drop-off point. The side door swings open the moment the landing struts hit the dirt. Samiri jumps out, happy to be away from the smell.

  He looks around for a path. A narrow one catches his eye on the far right. The departing shuttle rumbles away, returning the area to a perpetual stillness.

  A gentle wind entices the flutter of leaves. Samiri stops walking. He cranes his neck towards the sounds around him. His heightened Watcher senses pick up subtle hints of stale engine fluid in the air – quite distinct from the exhaust. A craft was leaking, he remembers. This is enough for him to change direction to a ledge beyond the tree-line.

  Ninety miles out from Cappadocia, Aspasia’s shuttle races to intercept Samiri. She types in a sequence on a screen, calling up Prince Vali.

  “Report,” he says in an official voice.

  “We are ten-minutes out,” Aspasia says. “If they are there, then the area will be cleared in twenty.”

  “No, Scout the area first; I want conditions to warrant my rescue. Don’t be a blunt instrument, Aspasia. I’ve taught you better.”

  “Of course, Highness.”

  “What of the other location?”

  “The trail ends in pTah, Sire. An Illyrian slave merchant provided the intelligence.”

  “Then it’s simple. Send your team to pTah where I shall meet them. Handle Cappadocia personally – if the Princess is there, then we shall return to take care of matters. pTah right now is the more solid lead.”

  “Yes, your Highness.” Vali’s image disappears. She relays orders to drop her off near the river Hyles, behind Cappadocia.

  Chapter 12: Hope Stifled

  One street across from the prisoner building is a line of storefront-sized rooms, long since abandoned. A wooden path separates two structures leading to the rear of a lengthy “L-shaped” wall. Inside the last room, Persephone, Koray, and Farah lay crumpled in a corner. Three menacing tribesmen watch them with malicious intent as they wait impatiently for their Captain.

  Pounding boots move along the creaky floorboards outside; each step brings terror into the girls’ minds. Farah, regaining a fraction of her mental focus, pulls herself up to stand on shaky legs. It is time to end this she repeats silently. Footsteps stop at the wooden door. Through the dirt-encrusted glass, the silhouette of Dardanes appears. Several seconds pass before he enters.

  “The tanker is almost here, tend to the transfer,” he says, stepping inside the room. Without questions, the men depart. A mask of regret covers the Captain’s face. Each passing second, he sinks further into the pit of realization – this unprofitable endeavor will cost more than just money. It may well cost him his life, and he feels the noose tighten around his neck. “I- “

  “Whatever Vali is paying you,” Farah interrupts, spitting the words with as much contempt as she can muster. “Is your head worth it?”

  Dardanes eyes reveal a hint of remorse. “Not in the slightest. But it is Octavia who commissioned this affair. We don’t have much time.”

  “Octavia?” Persephone asks. Her questioning gaze digs into her mother’s resolve.

  Farah drapes her arms around Koray to begin moving. She gives the handmaiden a warm look of concern.

  “I’m ok, Your Grace,” Koray says, smiling through the pain.

  Farah stops to gaze at her daughter. I may not get another chance.

  Your Grace? The truth dawns on Dardanes. His heart nearly stops. “Queen Farah,” he whispers, then looks down. “Persephone.”

  “This is my fault, my daughter,” Farah says solemnly.

  Farah’s gaze is heavy on Persephone. “I did unspeakable things to bring you into this world – to give your father an heir. I was naive, blinded by ambition, blind to the evil that transpired.”

  “Mother, what is going on?”

  “When we are safe, I will reveal all.” Her head hangs, shame overcoming her. “In the event of my death, I want you to promise to seek sanctuary with Thoth, both of you…promise me!”

  Persephone nods.

  A thunderous noise rumbles overhead, the crew ushering in the tanker’s arrival.

  Dardanes grabs the Queen’s hands. “I had no idea.” He drops on his knees at Persephone’s feet. His eyes fall on her bruises, his eyes strain at a guess for what happened. “A thousand pardons Highness.”

  He receives a hateful stare in place of an answer.

  Koray grabs hold of Farah’s arm, tightening her grip as fear courses through her. Bal’s silhouette covers the door’s pane.

  Persephone feels her stomach plunge at the precipice of uncontrollable fear. A glance at Koray pulls her back into overwhelming hate. The frightened handmaiden trembles, as the door cracks; Bal enters brandishing a dagger. He lunges at Dardanes.

  There is not enough time to reach a weapon. He barely avoids the blade to his back. A head-butt sends Bal staggering back two paces. The tribesmen square up for a brawl. They slam into each other, pounding, slashing.

  Persephone swings at Bal connecting with exposed ribs. There is a sharp snap, she’s broken at least two. – .

  Hate builds in her mind, of earlier desperation for what they’ve done to her mother, and Koray, and her; it floods her senses. She imagines a warm glow under her skin, yet it is real. Electric sparks tingle damaged tissue on her face, muscles in her legs, ruptured vessels in her cervix. It’s real, she thinks, smiling inside. Hate is subdued, yet the power remains.

  Bal shakes off his pain to focus on the girl. He doesn’t see his Captain wielding a heavy wooden beam, nor the beam swinging down on him. Bal crashes on to empty crates in a corner, knocked out, or dead – there is no time to check.

  Dardanes clasps Persephone’s hands. “Half a mile north in a cave blocked with a red bush. It’s the only one.” He stares deep into Persephone’s eyes. In that split-second, a plea f
or mercy shines; Persephone nods her forgiveness. Dardanes smiles. Koray screams.

  Dardanes’ expression turns to a painful gasp for air as his body convulses from the murderous blade entering soft-tissue. Bal rips across his back with enough force to sever his spine. His body drops like a stone.

  Koray struggles with Farah’s weight, trying to make it outside.

  Persephone has Bal’s full attention. She swings with frightening power, connecting with his jaw. A surge courses inside her – the inhibited strength she’s subdued for so long. Clenched fists match a roar of hate descends on Bal.

  He shifts his wounded head in time to avoid the killing blow, swings his leg to trip the unskilled Princess, sending her crashing to the ground. Before she moves, he positions himself with his hand aiming for her neck – the poisoned ring is made ready in anticipation of trouble. He thrusts his fist down. She catches his wrist with both hands. Her arms begin to buckle under the pressure.