The Ballad of Persephone Page 15

  Regret burns her mind, regret for avoiding her Anuk strength after the incomprehensible tragedy she barely remembers. She tries to trigger a burst of power, failing miserably.

  Bal’s hand’s inch closer to her neck. He is on top of her, pushing, grunting. His face is red with vengeful desire.

  I can’t give in! she screams inside.

  A thin plank cracks the side of Bal’s head, breaking across his ear. Koray steps back with vacant eyes and trembling body, expecting an attack she will not survive.

  The momentary distraction is enough for Persephone to smash her knee into his groin. She slips out from under him, strength returning. A pistol catches Koray’s eye, dropped during the fighting. She grabs it with murder in her heart.

  Persephone snatches Bal’s arm. She wrenches his 220-pound body over hers, hurling him against a deteriorating concrete wall 12-feet away; the impact breaks the surface and flimsy beams behind it

  Koray fires her pistol. Concentrated shots of light fire off towards the fallen tribesman. The careless aim destroys the surrounding area, bringing the ceiling down on top of him.

  Still burning with hate, both girls hold each other’s hand for comfort. They contemplate pulling the body out to remove his head, but the need for escape supersedes want for vengeance.

  They rush out of the room to join Farah. “We have to go, now!” Persephone tells her mother. They slip across the walkway to a covered area.

  Koray spots a bush behind a building, “There!” They support Farah on wary shoulders, pushing forward as best as they can, hoping to find the transport Dardanes promised.

  Rumbling engines from the parked tanker resonate on the canyon walls. Fueling of the depot’s long-empty stores is underway. One Pilot settles in the cockpit, the other monitor's crucial gages inside the crafts pumping-station. The crew is outside manning hoses. Two dozen tribesmen join in the work, eager to refuel their shuttles for a quick departure out of desolation.

  Osiris notices Ruia head off on her own. “Where’s she going?”

  Tim spits a wad of tobacco. “She’s on her own business. No worries now. Keep watching that gauge. I’m off to take a piss, yeah?”

  Hairs on Osiris’ neck rise with his nagging feeling. “Tim, I really have to take a shit!”

  “Well, go on then…be quick about it. We’re not spending all day here.” Osiris runs off to pick up Ruia’s trail.

  Crossing a narrow street, Ruia greets a tribesman. From a distance, her words cannot be made out, but guttural inflections mixed with laughter give away her familiarity with both the man and his language. She blows out a thick glob of mucus, as expected from her degenerate manners, then disappears inside the rundown building.

  What is she up to? Osiris moves closer.

  Jubilant laughter erupts among the collection of heavily armed pirates. Ruia’s distinct voice calls out, “Where is me brother?” Drink in hand, she storms off with four companions in the direction Bal traversed, not 17-minutes ago.

  Back at the tanker pumping stops, engines continue to rumble, but the pilot is slumped on the cockpit floor with his jugular severed. The second aircrew suffers a similar fate – his neck is broken. Refueling of the smaller shuttles is underway.

  “That haul should put wine in the belly.” Ruia laughs, rounding the ‘L-shaped’ structures. The caved-in roofing at the corner raises her curiosity – small rubble rolls down the side as if it recently caved in. She ignores it. “Time to get rid of my lot then we can be on our way. Balaites, you sour bastard. Come out you mangy dog!”

  Silence.

  Ruia’s escorts enter the vacant space. Horror destroys their enthusiasm. Bal shifts his body under a mix of concrete and wooden beams, eyes opening with a stare of death; blood streaming down his arm. The shock wears off. “Who did this?” she asks with her jaw and fists clenched.

  “The girl and her people,” a skinny pirate says. “Had to be.”

  Dardanes’ dead body tells Ruia all she needs to know. She urges her comrades to dig Bal out from the crippling rubble.

  Osiris hears enough. He darts under a covered space, ready to attack, and waits for the group to exit. As he plants his feet on the dirt, ready to speed off in a blink, Erich’s secure grip forces his shoulder back in the shadow. “Where is it you think you’re going?”

  Surprise gives way to shock. Osiris’ eyes widen as the man removes his face scarf. “I don’t believe it. That was you on the tanker?” He nudges his shoulder free only to be pulled back by the former General Markus.

  “I may be just a common Anuk, but I know I can drop you; don’t give me cause, Highness.”

  “Tell me you’re not with them, Markus. It would be a shame if I’d have to kill you.”

  “Relax…I’m not with them.”

  Osiris looks up and down the old General, part suspicious, part thankful. “Then-”

  “Hush, boy,” Markus says. “Save your interrogation for later. Put your energies to better use, like saving the prisoners.”

  There was not enough time to scout the area – Osiris followed Ruia and missed the building with the slaves. “Are Queen Farah and Persephone with them?”

  “What?” Markus asks, surprised. “They’re here?”

  Osiris’ questioning glare remains unchanged. “It’s not like I went in to say hello.”

  Markus’ face darkens. “Come on.”

  They dart off, away from Ruia and her goons. Markus is not a “Pure-Blood,’ but he is faster than the regular human stock. Despite his speed, he cannot keep up with Osiris. Under a minute they reach the other occupied building.

  Six tribesmen have the unfortunate detail of keeping watch on the 50 slaves. Relaxed hands grip weapons, without any thought of having to mount a defense in this barren canyon.

  “Stay here,” Markus says, and immediately slaps Osiris’ protesting hand, reaching for his jacket. “Do as I say. You’ll know when to attack.”

  Osiris reluctantly pulls back out of sight. Markus strolls out to the yawning pirates. The first to see him point a weapon on the dusty figure.

  “I don’t suppose you can spare a fella some water?” Markus asks. “Fueling…its thirsty business.”

  “Stop, maggot. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Really? I’m on your side friend.” Markus pushes his chest up on the rifle’s muzzle. “Yeah, I’m with Ruia’s…people.”

  The men laugh. The rifleman resumes his threatening pose. “We’re her people.” His finger starts its pull on the trigger. His ugly grin shows off stained teeth. He shoulders the rifle, expecting kick-back from the jolt of energy. Within a moment, Markus pushes the weapon to the side, slams his palm on the startled man’s chin, and disarms him. – Osiris notes 0.37-seconds.

  A quick shot burns through the closest tribesman’s face. Another one hits him in the leg. It’s too close for gunfire. Markus strikes his attackers without remorse.

  The commotion alerts approaching pirates. Osiris calculates an unfavorable outcome for Markus. He leaps high in the air out of view and drops in front of the approaching men. The pirates freeze with shock – fighting ensues. Osiris breaks jaws and cracks skulls, smashing heads on the dusty ground. A pile of groaning tribesmen lay twisted on the dirt.

  Markus’ fight shows the same under the covered space. “You done?” he yells.

  They hurry inside. Frightened prisoners huddle on each other, expecting the newcomers to bring a fresh wave of torment. “Don’t be afraid,” Osiris says with hands up. “We’re here to help you.” He looks around with hope. “Persephone!” No answer. “Come out!”

  “They took her, son,” an old man says.

  “They’re not here,” Osiris grumbles to himself. “Where did they take them?” No one knows.

  The doors slam shut; everyone gasps. Tim enters, frantic and out of breath from running. “What happened? The pilots are dead!”

  Markus pulls Tim close. “Help get the people on the tanker.”

  Osiris grabs Markus with
an anxious glare. “We have to find them.”

  “They escaped,” says Tim. “Yeah, I saw it when I went to piss.”

  Markus swats Osiris’ hand off his jacket. “I can’t fly that thing on my own, and I know you have flight training. We can spot them in the air. Hurry, Tim, get them on board.” He throws Osiris a stern look. “You’re a Prince; these are your people. The Queen and Persephone can take care of themselves for now. We get airborne, we’ll call for help.”

  No more words are needed. Tim helps them shuffle the people out the door, in a desperate attempt to reach the tanker unnoticed.

  Back on the other street, Ruia and her comrades finish digging Bal out from under the rubble. His condition is bad, yet he is alive. He blinks at his sister. Ruia stuffs powdered painkillers in his mouth. “Find them!” she orders the men.

  Tucked away in a shallow cave, a broken-down shuttle struggles to start. Sickening plumes of gray smoke sputter out from rear exhausts, after an unsuccessful rumble of starter-coils. The rolling whine settles down to a whisper. It tumbles again, wheezing to a disappointing stall.

  “Hurry… they’re coming!” Koray panics to Persephone in the cockpit. From her vantage point, he spots nine hairy tribesmen hunting for tracks left by their prey.

  Tired of futile attempts, Persephone leaves the controls. A tornado swirls inside her mind and body. Is this what it feels like to be a ‘Pure-Blood?’ Farah’s groaning interrupts her thoughts. She throws her mother a concerned look – the Queen recovered ever so shortly, but now her deteriorated state is begging for medicine. “I have to face them,” Persephone whispers. “You still have the pistol?”

  “No,” Koray says with an apologetic look. “Show me how to start this.”

  The controls are simple – turn the battery on, wait for the light, engage the starter, then push the throttle. This correct combination failed the Princess on each try. Maybe Koray will have better luck. “Bleed-air,” Persephone says in a moment of clarity. “That’s what I forgot. Turn that knob, wait five minutes, then do like I showed you.”

  She leaves Koray to stare at the multitude of switches, forcing her memory to recall two lessons she intentionally forgot. Farah’s groaning intensifies.

  What sort of pain is she in? “Mother, I will return.” Persephone kisses Farah then runs out the dented hatchway.

  Rustling bushes in the distance mean one thing – they’re here. Nine tribesmen, built like beasts, spread out to cover the cave within sight. One brute sniffs the air, catching the scent of exhaust, still stinking from failure. He points to the dark cavity, grunting his order with excitement. The others smile as though they’ve already won, confident their extraction will be quick.

  The shuttle bleeds air in preparation for ignition – A gust of wind slicing through the enclosed space startles the tribesmen. Their worried look changes to bewilderment as Persephone appears in a flash, stopping with an awkward fall in front of the lead man. The secret is out – they have been holding ‘Pure-Bloods’ hostage. They know the retaliation from Hyperboria will be swift and without mercy. Kill or be killed takes on powerful meaning in their resolve. The lead tribesman fires his weapon.

  Shot after shot of thick green pellets pepper Persephone’s back and exposed legs, as she lays face-down on dry grass. The barrage stops.

  Curiosity overcomes the man. He looks at her body heaving with labored breaths. Smoldering holes in her rags reveal welts instead of deadly burns. In one motion she springs up, grabs her attacker’s throat, rips out his wind-pipe, then holds up the bleeding trachea for the rest to see.

  Fire from the left pounds her hard. She ducks down to roll away.

  The tribesmen tactic works to their perceived advantage. Attacking from the right, three of the nine swing daggers, while three on the left shoot without mercy. Two in the middle keep watch for any movement outside the kill box they created.

  A tribesman’s blade scratches Persephone’s arm. She gasps and grips the wound tight, fearing the weapon is laced with poison. She lunges forward, locking the man’s arm into a twist, breaking it with ease, as if it were a dry twig. Incoming fire on both Persephone and her victim forces her to fling the man towards the rest. She rushes the group.

  A slight flicker in the wind brings Samiri into the fight. He plants himself next to Persephone, giving her a quick smile. Seven targets rush them. In bursts of speed the Watcher and ‘Pure-Blood’ dispatch the pirates. The men scream as arms are torn from sockets, bone is broken through thick flesh, heads are crushed in thunderous claps.

  One dying tribesman fires off a shot at Persephone, hitting his mark above her left chest – the scorching on soft tissue burns, unlike previous hits she took on. Samiri brings death to the man with his boot smashing down on his waiting skull. The fight is won – no more remain. The rumble from a successful engine start adds to their victory. The wind carries a choking mist of exhaust rushing out from the warm cave.

  Words fail Persephone. Tears flow uncontrollably at Samiri’s hurried approach. He clasps his arms around her. She grabs him tight. “You came,” she whispers. The unbreakable bond they share reinforces its power in the embrace. Everything will be alright.

  The shuttle’s engine increases in roaring splendor – a sign Koray is ready to relinquish control. Both Persephone and Samiri reach the craft between heartbeats.

  Farah’s condition demands attention straightaway. Samiri removes the Queen’s upper clothing to trace the course of fading royal-blue lines. The marks converge on her heart, collecting into a painful sore no bigger than a grape. “She doesn’t have much time,” he shouts over the craft’s hum.

  “Can you fly this?” Koray asks Persephone, as she climbs into the pilot’s seat. She looks at ‘Sephie’s painful expression. Her gaze falls on the bleeding wound. As in all shuttles, a medical kit is secured under the co-pilot’s seat. Koray finds the small box and doesn’t waste time rummaging through for a bandage. She slaps a square dressing on Persephone’s shoulder.

  The stink from green gel inside the dressing breaks Persephone’s concentration. Seconds pass, the substance fizzles into a white powder, bringing rapid relief. The view outside is clear, the engine temperatures are stable. A push on the throttle clears the craft low into the sky.

  Struggling to gain altitude, the shuttle shudders as it soars; they get no more than 1,500-feet before leveling off. The massive tanker still on the ground becomes apparent on the left. Straight ahead are the rising conical stacks of Cappadocia. The blue river Hayles flows uninterrupted behind a large village on the right.

  Samiri hurries to the cockpit. “We have to put down in the town. Her Grace needs help immediately.”

  Persephone complies without argument. She points the nose towards the village and pitches it down awkwardly for a rapid descent.

  “Hurry!” Tim screams at people stumbling into the Tanker’s interior. Without aiming, he returns fire at approaching pirates.

  Several former slaves fall victim to desperate shots aimed at the ship’s hull.

  Ignorant as they are, the tribesmen do not consider the vessel contains enough stored fuel, if ignited, will decimate a five-mile-radius, or perhaps they consider ‘If we can’t have it, no one can.’

  The last survivor climbs in, the ramp retracts. “Go!” Tim yells into an intercom.

  Alarms blare on panels flashing red. Osiris fumbles with a secondary panel trying to find whatever Marcus demanded. Unsure with his selection, he pulls back three switches, his heart beating out of his chest. – the symbols on the board are not familiar to him. A thin outline of the ship on an overhead monochrome monitor lights up. A border thickens around the seam. Yellow lights on a panel turn green. “The hull is polarized,” Osiris says with a deep sigh.

  Markus shrugs acknowledgment. His focus is on pushing up from the ground. He pulls hard on the control stick, sweating profusely from stress and the warm cabin. Clenched teeth rattle with the enormous rumble from engines blasting away at the surface beneath. r />
  “Turn, turn, turn!” Osiris shouts in his ear. He points to the right, at the spec of a descending shuttle.

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “It’s them…I feel it. Just do as I say, Markus!”

  Frustrated with the order, Markus complies. He points the nose level with the horizon. “I’ll make the call over the radio.”

  “No.” Osiris glares at him. “The Queen and heir to Hyperboria were kidnapped. What are the chances the true villains won’t be listening in?”