Helios

PROLOGUE

“First the Sea God curses us. Now the Sun God laughs at our misfortune.”

“Gods,” the king said and spat on the sand. “I have had my fill of the gods and their cruel jokes.”

The mariner raised his fearful eyes. “Your blasphemies are what have brought us to this place. You mock the gods at our peril.”

The man’s insolence was yet another reminder of the king’s abasement. How long had it been since he had seen the fields of his kingdom? How long since he had felt his wife’s embrace? Would he ever find his way home? And if he did, would he find anything left of his former life? These men were all that remained of the fleet he had set out with, so many years ago. Somewhere along the way, he had ceased to be their king, commanding their respect and obedience. Now, without even a ship to call his own, he was nothing to them.

He touched a finger to the pouch that hung around his neck, feeling the outline of the object concealed within, the orb in which the blind seer had shown him his future.

Another joke from the gods.

“Enough about the gods. We are men. We live or die by our own choices.” He turned away, contemplating those choices.

Gods or not, his shipmate was not wrong.

The sea was calm now, after the upheaval that had wrecked their ship — the last of his original fleet. The storm had killed more than half the crew, casting the survivors upon this unfamiliar shore. Even if he could compel the sailors to dare the Sea God’s wrath once more, they had no ship. There were not even enough timbers remaining from their vessel to build a raft, much less a vessel large enough to carry them home.

And if we had a ship, would we be able to find our way?

The Sea God had cursed them, sending a storm to blow their ship to the far edge of the world. It had taken them years just to find familiar waters, and then, with their destination so close….this.

A sea of a different kind began at the water’s edge. Sand stretched out to the east as far as his eyes could see. It baked under the scorching gaze of the Sun God, vanishing into a silvery mirage that looked like water, but was only pure heat. There were no trees to hew for timbers. No plants to provide food or shade. No fresh water to drink.

If they remained here, they would perish.

Is it my fault? Did my hubris bring this curse upon us? He shook his head. Gods and curses. Empty superstitions.

“We will move inland,” he said. “This desert cannot go on forever. We will find water and food. We will survive — not by the whim of the gods but by our own wits.”

The sailors looked at one another, refusing to meet his gaze.

He uttered a short, harsh laugh. “Very well. I will go inland. And I will survive by my wits. Join me and live, or trust the gods. I care not.”

Without waiting to see who among them, if any, would choose to follow, he turned his back to the sea and began walking. He could not fault them for their slavish devotion to superstitious beliefs. They were simple men. Uneducated and fooled by the trickery of the priests, misled into believing that natural forces were manifestations of divine power. He found it strange that they were comforted by the idea that the pain and suffering was all part of some mad game played by the gods. Belief meant their lives, as short and miserable as they were, had some greater purpose.

It was a seductive notion, to which even he was not immune.

The catastrophe that had brought them here was almost enough to make a believer of him. The sailors had imagined themselves caught between two terrible monsters: a gyre, like a serpent with teeth the size of mountains, and a whirlpool that swallowed ships whole. Monsters or no, it had been an event unlike anything he had ever witnessed.

The attack had come without warning, in the middle of the night. There had been a sound, louder than any thunderclap, and then the sea had vanished beneath them so abruptly that, for a few seconds, they had all floated in the air like birds. Then the first monster took the ship in its jaws, breaking the vessel in two, flinging men overboard and dashing them upon rocks that had never before seen the sun’s light. Even as the survivors clung to what remained of the ship, the sea returned to devour them. How long they churned in the vortex, he could not say, but at last they were vomited onto this strange shore.

It was almost enough to make him believe in the gods again, as was the fact that any of them had come through it alive. Whether the gods existed or not, he would never again beg them for favor or mercy.

The shimmering mirage retreated, always just out of reach, but in time, he glimpsed mountains rising up like islands. They seemed real enough, but one of the peaks was hidden behind a dense black cloud.

An omen? His men would surely think so, but all of them had chosen to remain behind.

As the mountains drew closer, the receding mirage revealed other signs. Columns of white smoke rising up from the desert floor — not manifestations of divine power, but simple cook fires.

Fires meant people, perhaps a settlement, as well as food and water, but he was immediately on guard. Strangers could be even more fickle than the gods, especially in these unknown lands. Would they meet him with hospitality or violence? The possibility of the latter was not enough to convince him to turn aside, but he stayed wary as he closed the distance.

He could soon discern tents, stretching in either direction as far as he could see, and closer still, the people themselves, tending small flocks and herds.

Nomads.

He had an instinctive dislike for those who chose such a life, calling no land their own, taking what they pleased from the earth and then moving on when there was nothing left, but he knew from experience that exile was not always a willing choice.

His approach did not go unnoticed. The shepherds and drovers scurried away, and other men — harder-looking men — came out to meet him.

They were a ragged lot, dark and sinewy from years of toil under the harsh sun. He supposed he appeared much the same way to them. Unlike him, they were armed with bronze swords.

He raised his hands to show that he posed no threat. One of the men strode forward and barked out a command, or perhaps it was a question, in a language he did not recognize.

“My ship was wrecked,” he said, waving his hands up and down in an attempt to pantomime what he was saying. He finished by crashing one fist into the other in hopes of simulating the wreck.

The men shared a look and a few incomprehensible words, then their apparent leader motioned for him to join them. He followed without hesitation. That they had not shown any aggression thus far was a positive sign, and he had no intention of insulting them with undue caution. If it was their intent to harm him, he was already as good as dead.

They led him into their strangely deserted camp. The faces of women and children stared out from tents, watching him. Did they know where he was being taken, and what fate awaited him there?

He thought that they would take him into one of the tents, but they passed through the camp without slowing, and kept going, toward the smoking mountain.

Beyond the far edge of the camp, the terrain began to rise, sloping all the way to the foot of the mountain. Large creatures moved about on the slopes — too large to be sheep or goats… Cattle perhaps? But there appeared to be no plants upon which to graze. The man leading the group followed a route that kept the creatures at a healthy distance.

The sun lowered into the western sky and the camp vanished into the heat haze behind them, and still they walked onward, drawing closer to the mountain. It had not looked very imposing from a distance, but as they approached, the immense weight of the place reminded him that men also worshipped mountains as gods. Perhaps these men did. Perhaps they were going to take him before their Mountain God for judgment.

Or sacrifice.

The party moved into a dry river bed, following it into a draw that carved down the slope. They encountered a bearded man stationed as a guard at the head of the trail leading up onto the mountain. Words were exchanged, and the bearded man gave him an appraising look before turning and heading up the trail.

The other men sat down on the ground. He sat down as well. It was hardly the strangest thing that had happened to him in the course of his travels.

Afternoon became evening, and then dusk was upon them. One of the group coaxed the coals of the watchman’s fire to life, and that seemed unusual. Where had they found wood to burn as fuel? He had not seen a single tree since being thrown up onto the shore of this strange land.

The men spoke to one another in their shared tongue, their voices not louder than a murmur, but he could sense their anxiety. They were nervous, scared even, but of what he could not say. Certainly not of him; he was in their power.

It’s the mountain, he thought. The setting sun revealed the fire behind the cloud of smoke that shrouded its summit. Lightning danced across its face, and peals of thunder rolled down the slope in an unceasing assault on the senses.

One of the men jumped up, the rest doing the same in the space of time measured by a heartbeat. He got up as well, and saw two men moving down the trail in their direction — the watchman and…someone? Something?

It was a man, or at least it walked upright like one, but his face was hidden behind a strange mask or veil. A faint glow emanated from the fabric, but it was surely a trick of the light.

In his earliest memories, the castaway king had heard stories of how the gods disguised themselves to walk among men. His pulse quickened.

The newcomer strode forward until they were almost face-to-veil.

“My ship wrecked,” he told the mysterious figure, repeating the pantomime he had used earlier.

“You are Grecian?” The voice, muffled by the heavy fabric, was weak and halting. An old man’s voice. The words however were in the king’s own language.

“I am,” he replied, and he thought better of saying more. If the old man spoke his language, then perhaps he also knew of his reputation, and that might not be such a good thing. “You know the language of the Greeks?”

There was a grunt from behind the veil. “You should go. It is not safe for you here.”

“I would gladly take my leave, but alas, I have no ship. I humbly beg your hospitality for myself and my men while we build another.”

“We have nothing to spare. Return to your men. Lead them elsewhere.”

The king frowned. “We are lost. This land is unknown to us. Without food and water, we will perish.”

The veiled figure sighed. “That is something we share, Grecian. If it is God’s will, we will survive until tomorrow. I do not believe he brought us here to perish.”

“Which god?”

“There is only one.”

The cryptic answer was no more frustrating than anything else the man had said, and the king sensed that further supplications would prove futile. At least these people were not openly hostile. Still, he could not return to his men empty handed.

“The herd that I saw.” He gestured to the dark hillside where he had seen the creatures. “Are they your animals, or wild beasts that we may hunt for meat?”

“Stay away from them,” the veiled man said, his voice not quite as weak as it had been a moment before. “Those are holy creatures. It is death to approach them.”

“Holy,” the king muttered. “Another god laughs at my misfortune.”

Despite the brusque reception from their leader, the men escorting him offered him a few sips of water and a mat to lie on, though the incessant thunder prevented him from sleeping. The next morning, they led him back to the seaward edge of the camp and bade him goodbye in their strange language. He took it as a hopeful sign. Perhaps the old man would reconsider.

He arrived at the shore to find the survivors gathering bits of flotsam from the sea. They had managed to catch a few fish, which were drying in the sun, but fresh water remained elusive, as did any source of wood. The sailors seemed almost disappointed by his return, as if they believed the gods might deign to show them favor once he was gone. They greeted the news of the nearby encampment more enthusiastically, and began plotting to raid the nomads.

“It seems I did not make myself clear,” the king told them. “This is not a mere tribe of tent dwellers. They are a nation. They would come down upon us like the sea.”

“What of these sacred cattle?” one of the sailors asked. “You say they roam wild outside the camp, with no herdsman to tend them.”

“Their god tends the herd,” the king reminded them.

“Their god,” the sailor spat back. “Not ours. We will go at night, under the cover of darkness. Surely their god can spare one cow.”

“If you slaughter their sacred animals, they will never help us.”

“We do not need to kill it,” another man said. “We can return it in exchange for water and food.”

The men were desperate beyond reason, and the king knew that opposing them would be as fruitless as his appeals to the leader of the nomads.

They set out after noon, traveling northeast across the scorching sand, giving the nomad camp a wide berth. Some of the men carried clubs and crude spears fashioned from timbers and other detritus, and knives of knapped stone. The king trailed along behind them, quietly protesting their rash course of action, but ready to cast his lot in with them if the need arose. They were his men after all, his subjects, even if they rejected his counsel.

By late afternoon, they passed the northernmost limit of the nomad camp, and continued toward the smoking mountain. It was not long before they caught sight of the strange cattle roaming the foothills.

Up close, he was less certain of his original impression of the beasts. There was no question that they were living creatures, but instead of fur, their hides looked as rough as the stony soil upon which they stood. They were big, too — bigger even, than the legendary Minoan bull. They were not behaving like cattle or any other kind of grazing animal, though. They were not grazing at all, but moving back and forth, slowly, ominously, never stopping.

What are those things?

“This is a mistake,” he said.

The men paid no heed. One of them, carrying a length of rope that had been left behind by the tide, approached the nearest animal. It gave no indication that it noticed his approach or was even aware of his existence. Emboldened, the man ran up alongside the animal — its shoulders towered above him — and he threw the loop of rope around the beast’s head.

The creature continued moving, dragging the hapless man along. Undeterred, he got his feet under him and tried to pull himself up onto the animal’s back, with the intent of mounting it like a horse. But as soon as he touched it, there was a loud crack, like the sound of a ship’s mast snapping in half during a gale. The man was flung away, crashing to the ground in a smoking heap just a few steps away from where the king stood, a distance of fifty paces. For a moment, the air was filled with a sharp smell — the smell of lightning — but it was just as quickly replaced by the odor of burning flesh.

It is death to approach them, the old man had said. Now the king understood what he had meant by that.

The other men stared in disbelief at their fallen comrade. Then, almost in unison, they raised their weapons and charged the creature.

“No!”

The king’s warning fell on deaf ears. The men closed to within a few paces of the creature and attacked. As the first blow was struck, the world vanished in a flash of light, and he saw no more.