Red Athens, on Red Athens 50, for 100, a Read of Chapter 3 of Red Athens
2
They left. Pericles Knyght became obsessed. Calli talked him
out of his words, for the tyger of Red Athens be the king who understood what
risks to take. Somehow, the Red Athenian’s tears had no affect. He did as his
father ordered. He was much, but all because Pericles Opti had protected the
city for so long before. He had to trust in this, go against his instincts, but
be damned if he felt the overarching doom coming to the city of Red.
“Tell me why?” Calli stood in
between Verce and Numid.
“Let the
boy ponder,” replied Verce, a pipe in his mouth. Numid merely shook his head,
downed the rest of his drink, and walked away. Now, the Free Celt Verce was apt
to go against anything Calli said. A rivalry brewed between Sky Rome and the
Free Celt empire.
He did look
like the perfect Free Celt. Born of the Gaul gods, he turned into quite the
leader, the best of politicians. The blue paint on his face and arms was only a
reminder of the chaos he played with. There is an old saying which sums up the
Verce’s people: between a pact of wolves and a Celt, always run towards the
wolves.
Calli
grunted. “Do you know how to spell your name, son to Chaos?”
“Let us
keep magik out of the conversation,” Knyght said, walking away from the
impending verbal argument. He understood that, for some reason, he had an
easier time making friends outside of his people than inside. He would be
willing to lay his life down for these troubled foreigners. Would he do the
same for Red Athens? Could he?
“The mark
of Aries,” he said to Verce.
“What of
it, young Knyght?” This points out that Verce, though he aged well, was turning
towards the point of merely being a politician. He couldn’t outrun the young
warriors like he once could. But he fought on anyways, not letting the age, the
aches, take control—for he controlled.
“What do
your people think of pieces of the gods?”
Verce
smiled. “A mark such as that would make you a king of much. The peoples of Gaul
believe in much, the chaos of Thorn, the absolutes of Death, and the truth
behind marks given by gods.”
“But you
don’t even believe in his gods!” Calli
pointed out.
“I believe
any signs from the gods should be taken—for there are few today, less
tomorrow.”
A week
passed. Some ships came past them. One burned. They stopped the voyage, came
close enough to take a small boat there, Knyght leading, Verce and Calli
sitting too close for comfort, and Numid sticking on the ship, as Carthaginians
were apt to never leave their sea masters.
The arrows
came first, the bows peaking out of the holes in the ship, fire on the tips,
one nailing Calli in the arm and when he
screamed, and he did, there rose a bloodlust in Knyght. They had been set up by
the Blue Babylonians. Smart trick, he
thought to himself. This battle mage put his hand in the sea, a flood of water
rose into the air, arrows still flying, now clearly a few swordsmen in blue on
the deck. And when the water collided, he felt the pain and glory that was war.
They had to
jump off the small boat as it went to the flames. Within seconds the water had
enveloped this second ship. Aboard another, faster ship, they continued toward
the lands of Ionia.
“I have to
be smarter,” the youngest Pericles said.
“In a
sense,” Verce said as they went back on board. “it would appear you feel cursed
by your powers.”
“But I took
to the mage schools; I made the choice.”
“We all
make poor choices. I have made an infinite number, like going on this death
mission.”
“Why say
that? My father is smart—“
“But you
have no choice, do you? One Red Athens colony falls, the rest will see you
weakening, they will ally with the victors, and the war will be over in a
matter of time. You face impossible odds, young mage.”
Whilst they continued, ships took
them through the wide sea, past the islands, to Ionia, the backdoor to the Red
Athens empire. Knyght thought, while on voyage, to the times he could run
across the beaches of Ionia without fear. His father would laugh with his
mother, and they would hold each other close.
He had met
with his father once before, this scholar will note, and the words exchanged
are still a mystery. Some say the son told the father he intended to become a
battle mage, and the father, prone to rages, nearly had one. Others say the son
simply toyed with the illegal magiks, and this disturbed Pericles Opti.
Days
passed. Knyght drew images, his hobby outside of magik readings. Drew and
watched as something on the horizon came to meet the fleet. There was disorder
in the land of Red Athens, and being a Pericles he felt it more than anyone
else. He sensed something within his father—a lie any tax collector would
catch. Did his father truly intend to be a martyr?
The shores
looked quite chaotic: buildings burning, people running and yelling, soldiers
with heads off, soldiers cut to pieces.
Once
ashore, the young mage going into a small strong point on the beaches of
Ionia. According to the texts, Numid the
Carthage prince and Verce the Celt were already ahead of them, leaving the ship
immediately, preparing a battle strategy.
“What has
the world come to,” Knyght said entering the room, “where one, who has to fight
off the girls, sees two who must chase them down?”
Numid
smiled, as did Verce. Numid is an
interesting character unto himself. Most people, when thinking of Carthage,
will note how they threw babies into the fires for sacrifice; this also
happened on a daily basis in Green Sparta. But Numid was a different kind of
prince; some said he came directly from a line of Nubian pharaohs.
Verce put a
blade to Knyght’s chest. “I see only two
reasons to keep you alive: you are pretty, and so is your mother.”
Calli
grasped Knyght, and, pretending to
laugh, had inched forward into the blade almost drawing blood. “Let us not
rush,” Verce said, “into a battle before we don’t know who we face.”
“Blue
Babylonians. Hammurabi bow. Legions of warriors,” said Calli, “it has all been
seen before. They lack the fighting spirit free men have.”
The Blue
Babylonians were led by a series of warriors said to be the sons of
Hammurabi—they be the Hammurabi Bow. There is also the story of the second city
of Blue Babylon being built over a piece of hell. The mages there said it would
enhance them. Some said the entire belief system of this epic race changed:
they began to kill even there own, a power hungry emperor stopped the freedoms
of the citizens, and mad demons flew over the city.
The battles
came to the colony of Ionia.
The small band went and took
command of the walks along the city. Blue Babylonian soldiers put the small
Greek city on siege. Massive catapults were brought up. The screaming of the
soldiers on each side made Knyght frown. He had yet to see such a hate between
two peoples. Even Green Spartans were said to fight with honor, to the last man
or not, they wouldn’t murder prisoners, but would make them slaves.
The group
stood on the edge of the farthest wall. “Why, again, are we standing so close
to the walls … to death?”
“A man who
lives once has no advantage, where a man who dies—“
“Without
the jokes.”
“I seek to
see what makes them. If we are to beat them, we first must understand them.”
Knyght pulled out a small “square scope” as it was called. He looked deep
within the Blue Babylon lines, but couldn’t take his eye off of the Carthage
diplomat. He admired the power of the people, even if they were rivals in
Sicily. He knew if Blue Babylon allied with Green Sparta the fate of the world
would be balanced.
Deep within
the lines, past the catapults and the archers in blue, was Hammurabi. They said
the Hammurabi line had fallen to evil and power. It was also said the first
laws of chaos were formed in Blue Babylon. A battle mage was curious.
An arrow
killed a soldier standing on the wall, entering into his eye; her cried out for
a second. And the battle began. Numid threw Knyght to the ground, ducked
himself, and began cursing in Pheonican language. “Let it be another day, boy.”
The diplomat stood, took a bow from the dead soldier, and began firing. The
story goes, he died firing arrows protecting a people he barely knew. Even
Calli respected this death, for a Sky Roman understood the honor of the
warriors from North Afrikana.
The scholars are differing on what
happened next. Some said Ionia fell, and the
heroes failed, because they refused to strike back with magiks. Now,
Blue Babylon used the magiks of hell. Some said that, in the face of the
catapult shots and fireballs, Knyght stood holding the line against the empire.
His small band stood strong against the onslaught, only to see the white flag
go up. They, being adventurers, took a small band of elite soldiers to the
ship, went around the canal, and entered in behind the massive lines of
Hammurabi. They found a hill, and for a moment, the mark of Aries warned Knyght
of someone with them, of a gate opening close; or maybe it was his magik; maybe
…
“Where does
justice begin and peace end?” Janus stood on a hill. It is said Pericles Knyght
got a closer look to the Sky Roman god, the keeper of the gates of time, the
two faces god who could save you, then torture and kill you, as that is what
the real gods did—played like boys in their toy houses.
“We failed.
Our presence did nothing.”
“All people
fail in life, someway or another, they grow up in blood.”
Again,
Knyght pulled out his scope. This was a
deep disrespect to the god, as he seemed to be ignoring the deity. The city of
Ionia began to burn. The last hold of
the Red Athen’s empire to the east was gone. Green Sparta had an army willing
to batter down the rest.
“I have to
do something!” He threw the scope down. “I am a Pericles! I do not fail.”
“There are infinite options for
infinite failures.” Janus said. “You are at the beginning, where you have too
many choices. The one wall you fear you can’t escape is the one you must find.”
The god moved his finger forming a square of light and then doorway—he
disappeared.
Knyght
looked over to Calli. Verce was behind them, eyeing for advance scouts of the
enemy.
“I have an
idea,” Knyght said. He smiled. “Perhaps I will look better in Babylonian Blue.”
3
Young scholar, Calli may have been smart, Numid and Verce
talented, but this hero did many stupid things. The documentation is there, the
facts tell the same story. The Pericles line, some said, allowed for failure at
the greatest levels. But why would one tell a story without a succeeding hero?
Outside the Blue Babylon lines,
Calli couldn’t believe it. He watched the Red Athens prince kill a scout,
undress him, and say something to the coming winds. It is said, according to
the Tellers of Mycenae, much like the minotaurs could hide behind masks, so too
could certain men of Dorian blood, the richest line of Greeks. Or so it was
said.
Pericles sprinkled
something—something Calli couldn’t quite make out, but it looked like old magik
mana to him— and the body disappeared, his complexion changed, and he looked
like a Hammurabi Bow. The blue coat, the eyes of a madman, as of course, all
Blue Babylonians had an air of chaos to them; he had the small blade even, that
one short sword; that one long bow, a weapon of immense power, used so well in
later years by other peoples and tribes—the bow created by the Blue
Babylonians.
He looked quite elite, and for a
moment happy, then the pain seemed to return to his eyes, then the blade didn’t
look so good and his complexion shifted. Still a beginner mage, still in the
process of building himself into something.
“Language,
young prince,” Calli said. “It will stop you. May I also say how stupid this
is?”
“It be like
the hawk to the birds. I will be in no danger. Athena,” he said, stepping
forward to the horse, “watch over me.”
He went
into the wall he knew he had to scale, the presence of what his father supposed
he should be, what his forgotten mother
hoped he would be, what he knew he n ever could be.
It began in such a splendid way. He
had always enjoyed cavalry, but being Greek, he was a soldier of the ground. He
took to the small animal—as Greek horses are twice as big—gently, not pushing
it too hard, always keeping it cool, a white cloth spread over its back.
He had his
own cadence when riding. Anger and angst, magik and madness ahd no place: he
was free to ride.
He developed a plan.
He saw a means to ending this war,
unless it came down to a battle of good vs evil. Green Sparta demanded the
death of every Red Athenian. Once allied with Blue Babylon, nothing would stop
the Hordes of Hades.
He put his
hand over the mark born to him. “Where are you today, Aries?”
He passed
bodies on the ground. There eyes were open, there blades with them, coins over
there eyes, and a wicked grin on each of their faces. He smelled the drugs
before he even approached. He knew not what they were from. One body caused him
to stop: a warrior still breathing, blood exiting him, and casting a spell. It
be a battle mage! He pulled his dagger out—the one so many thieves had tried to
take—took a deep breath, and went closer. He spoke in the Blue Babylon language
to this fallen warrior, if that he be.
“What
happened here?”
“A battle
between the armies. Slaves revolted. Slaves always revolt …” He coughed, blood
came out, pieces of spit flew around.
“Slaves always …”He stopped breathing, rolled over, a coin in his hand as though he expected it.
Knyght
didn’t stay long. He was closer to the army than he had expected. Yet, he knew
this was on small piece of it; the true army was many thousands strong and
could easily conquer Red Athens.
Finally, the journey alone ended.
At one point, while closing on the line in the distance, trying to pick up the
trail of the Hammurabi Bow, Knyght’s language was put to the test. A guard, a
picture of order with his well groomed horse and taut chin, approached. Knyght
made no effort to make eye contact, which he feared would make him start
laughing. “Name calls of hell!”
“A son I
am. I am new to—“
“And you
aren’t a spy?”
“Can I say
no to that?”
There was a
rumbled laughing. “You must be one of the bow sons. Follow me to camp, young
Nubian.” He looked Nubian? He wished he had a mirror! Something went wrong with
the magic. What a mage …
He was able
to get a good look at the man after this. This Blue Babylonian smelled of
something rich. His eyes were cold, like his prime years were over. But he
didn’t look old, merely beaten. Knyght couldn’t see his height, or how strong
he was, so he kept to himself for this small journey. You may kill me … but not yet, he thought. That said, he made sure
Knyght stayed ahead of him in the beginning of the journey back to the camp.
Was he a guard or something more? Knyght had no choice but to go with him.
Though, killing him was an option, and Knyght, justice for all as he be,
decided he wouldn’t have a problem doing it.
Comments
Post a Comment