Chapter XXIV
Ayesha's Dominion
Two of Wands
Moving forward and
Setting everything in motion
The salt spray bit Jim’s cheeks, a phantom sting against the gnawing dread in his gut. "Cretan Coast Guard," he rasped, his voice rough with urgency, "and they’ll be sniffing around, demanding answers. We swing north, towards that smoldering cinder. There’s no time to waste. We *must* rip them from the jaws of oblivion."
Every fiber of Jim's being screamed a single, primal truth: his first duty was to unleash a thunderclap of warning upon that doomed isle. Mt. Thera was poised to unleash its inferno, to devour every soul clinging to its precarious existence. He felt a desperate need to sear the horrific reality into Antiope and Helen’s minds. He commanded Genie, her ethereal presence a stark contrast to the burgeoning chaos, to conjure the damning chronicles of Mt. Thera.
"How can they possibly *remain*?" Helen’s voice, usually a melody, was laced with incredulity, a sharp edge of disbelief. "They are a flock of lambs bleating towards the slaughter, willfully blind to the precipice beneath their feet!"
Antiope’s gaze, sharp as obsidian, narrowed. "Perhaps they cling to the phantom whispers of their gods, a desperate prayer against the inevitable. My own research, Jim, it chills me. This island administration… they bleed their own for a capricious god of fire."
"How barbaric," Helen breathed, a shudder rippling through her, the scent of fear suddenly potent.
"How utterly *perverse*," Antiope countered, her voice a low growl, the air around her crackling with indignation.
"It’s a twisted echo of ancient reverence," Jim explained, his words heavy with the weight of forgotten ages. "Some forgotten titan, deemed a goddess by their ancestors, still demands a sacrifice in her name, even though her terrestrial vessel is dust. We carry the scars of such deluded devotion, a grotesque carnival of past practices fueled by amnesia and the intoxicating haze of illusion."
Helen’s eyes, usually alight with a warrior’s fire, flickered with a new, desperate hope. "Do you believe any of our lost sisters still breathe the air of this age?"
Jim’s jaw tightened, a steely resolve hardening his features. "If they are, I will drag them back to the fold. You two," he fixed them with a gaze that was both a plea and a command, "you can linger in this fractured timeline. But I *will* reclaim every stray sister, deliver them back to Artemis’s embrace. Every soul belongs in its rightful place. Everyone must go home."
A subtle shift in Helen's stance, a whisper of defiance in her tone. "And if our chosen sanctuary lies elsewhere?"
Jim met her gaze, his own unwavering, a storm brewing within. "We shall face that storm when it breaks. I will not chain your will, Helen. But know this: the pull of home is a siren’s song, and sometimes, the greatest freedom lies in answering its call."
"Sure, Jim. You'll just weave your web around us, isn't that it? Seduce us into your designs, until we believe the serpent's tongue was our own whisper of choice."
"Do I truly possess such a power?"
"I think I grasp his venomous intent, Helen. He feeds on our fears, doesn't he? Our babes. Our precious, fragile babes. Where shall we cradle their nascent lives?"
"Where our hearts dictate, yet forever bound by the leash of his dominion."
"But he craves only the celestial bloom for our offspring."
Jim's smile, a predatory gleam in his eyes, settled the truth like a shroud. In this suffocating present, they were his, irrevocably. Isis was a phantom, a forgotten dream. As long as his shadow fell upon them, he was their husband, their master. The idea of sharing him, once an alien concept, now felt… inevitable. Each was satiated, in a way, but the chilling echo of the royal children’s ordeal pierced the fragile peace. Jim, the architect of their rescue, the one who clawed them back from the precipice of time. Would he then condemn his own progeny to the dust of the forgotten past?
"Jim, tell me, with the truth clawing at your throat, will you truly allow your blood to wither in the sepulcher of yesterday?"
"The past? Is it merely a chronicle of fleeting mortality, or the fertile soil of our uncharted future? The currents of our sojourns are unknowable, capricious. You are the mothers, the primal forces that birth and nurture. I shall honor the tempest of your maternal instincts."
"So you deny us the solace of your decree? You hoard the knowledge like a miser hoarding gold?"
"How can I possibly foresee the pronouncements of your future selves? The very path you tread is your own creation."
"Do not mistake our desperation for volition, Jim. You are pushing us towards an active volcano, its fiery maw gaping, ready to spew its molten rage."
"Genie’s swift hand can pluck us from its inferno. So you would deny the cry of those who dwell unknowingly in its shadow? Those with lives yet unlived? What alternative burns brighter in your hearts?"
"You’ve twisted our tongues, Jim. You have us trapped. Mt. Thera, then, Helen? Shall we plunge into its obsidian embrace?"
"With the urgency of a storm's fury, Antiope. Jim, can this vessel not tear through the waves with greater ferocity? Can it not outrun the approaching doom?"
The salt spray lashed the faces of the Cretan sailors, a stinging testament to the impossible speed of the vessel they hunted. Half an hour of futile pursuit had bled the hope from their hardened hearts, yet the captain, a man whose eyes had seen more storms than most men saw sunrises, fixated on the vanishing horizon. His gut churned with a primal mix of frustration and a burning curiosity. They were bleeding precious distance, yes, but the unknown craft was charting a course for Keftiu, a name that whispered of both alliance and the deep, unfathomable currents of power.
Minos, the unyielding king of Crete, and Dagon, the enigmatic Egyptian viceroy of Keftiu, were more than mere allies; they were masters of a pact forged in shared ambition, a conduit for a relentless flow of trade that enriched both their realms. But the sheer, audacious velocity of this pursuing phantom had seized the captain's imagination, a claw digging into his resolve. He *had* to know. The chase intensified, his gaze locked onto the spectral silhouette of the *Flying Dutchman*, a dark promise hurtling towards the island's beckoning shores.
Keftiu. The very name was a metallic tang on the tongue, the undisputed heart of the copper trade, a lode that fueled both the burgeoning might of the Hittites and the ancient splendor of Egypt. The formidable Minoan navy, a wall of bronze and disciplined fury, stood sentinel, a guarantee of inviolability against any who dared covet its wealth. Though Keftiu was but a jewel compared to Crete's crown, its mineral heart beat with a power that dwarfed its size. Within the infernos of its mountain furnaces, raw ore was transmuted into gleaming ingots, destined to be hawked by a merchant fleet that commanded the very breath of the sea lanes. Dagon, whose influence stretched like a fisherman’s net across the scattered islands he lorded over, saw himself as the true sovereign of these waters, his navy a mobile extension of his will. He understood the profound weight of belief, a heritage of the Dagon dynasty. The island's primal god, Baal-Dagon, was appeased, and in a nod to the celestial queen, he graciously allowed the veneration of the goddess, her power a simmering undercurrent in the island's spiritual tapestry. A handful of formidable Amazons, women forged in fire and spirit, walked among them, their lives dedicated to the goddess, their presence a quiet assertion of primal female strength.
Even as the earth itself grumbled, spitting recent, ravenous flows of lava, the populace was lulled into a false sense of security, a comforting lie whispered by those in power. Sacrifices, thick with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid perfume of burning offerings, were made to Krftu's dual gods of fire – Baal-Dagon –, and life, in its relentless cycle, churned on. Each dawn brought a fresh armada of ships, groaning under the weight of treasures, eager to exchange their riches for the lifeblood of Keftiu – its exported copper. This was a city drowning in opulence, its free citizens living lives of unparalleled comfort and dazzling luxury. Their minds, honed by generations of skill, possessed an intimate, almost visceral understanding of the forge. Many men, their hands calloused and their brows perpetually beaded with sweat, took turns taming the molten metal. Their reward? Not gold, but an ingot, a promise of wealth they would carry to the bustling market, their personal stake in the island's magnificent, dangerous prosperity.
Many would choose an excursion to Crete and shop there instead of paying inflated Keftiu prices for common goods. Hence many of the Minoan merchants would also ferry passengers between the two isles. Upon arrival in port, each ship however was required to pay a tribute to the lord of the island. The Cretan captain, a man torn between the burgeoning order of the sea and the chaotic thrill of a profitable raid, anticipated catching up to these "pirates" there. He loathed the idea of preying on fellow traders, a practice he had sworn off years ago after a particularly brutal encounter that still haunted his dreams. Yet, the lure of an easy score, a chance to replenish his dwindling coffers without the risks of genuine piracy, gnawed at his conscience. Was this truly any different from the tributes they were forced to pay? A question that echoed the growing disquiet in his gut.
Approaching Santorini, Jim slowed down the craft. Many ships were headed both directions, and Jim simply followed the wake of a ship which was in front of him. The rhythmic creak of the hull and the salt spray against his face did little to calm the tempest within him. He was a smuggler, a man who valued his freedom above all else, yet he was actively seeking trouble. The memory of his last entanglements with rulers and tyrants,, a desperate escape that left him with scars both visible and unseen, was a constant whisper of caution. But the desperation of his current situation, the fear for Antiope and the child, was a louder roar. He had promised to protect them, a vow that felt hollow as he steered them directly into potential danger.
"They're still following us, Jim." Antiope's voice, usually steady, held a tremor that mirrored his own internal unease.
"Don't worry Antiope. I know they're there. We might be seeing some action shortly. Change your clothes to the local custom. Put on your Artemis wardrobe signifying your rank as the queen's guard. I have a feeling you might be given immediate due respect. I'll be your 'boy'. Do you think you can act like Amazons? And I'm your slave?" He forced a smile, a brittle thing that didn’t reach his eyes. The suggestion felt like a betrayal of everything he believed in, a role he never thought he’d be forced to play. He despised subservience, the very idea of being owned by another. But the survival of Antiope and their unborn child was paramount, and if this humiliation was the price, then so be it. It was a bitter pill, swallowing his pride, but the alternative was far more terrifying.
Helen laughed. "Why this is a dream come true. You really know how to treat a girl, Jim. Of course, I'll let you be my slave." Her lightheartedness, her eager acceptance of his role-play, pricked at him. He saw a flicker of something in her eyes, a genuine delight that he couldn’t reciprocate. He was playing a dangerous game, not just with the authorities, but with Helen’s affections. He knew he was deceiving her, using her perceived innocence for his own desperate ends. The guilt was a cold, heavy stone in his chest, a counterpoint to the fear for his own skin. He was forcing her into a lie, a charade that could have dire consequences for them all, and the thought of her potential regret, of her eventual disillusionment, was a shadow he couldn’t shake.
"Wait a second, *sister*." The word dripped with a subtle frost, a promise of ice beneath the surface. "He’s *my* slave too."
A low chuckle, sharp as splintered bone, answered. "But I *want* him as my concubine." The air crackled with the unspoken challenge, the scent of ambition thick and cloying.
"We are Amazons. We do not *have* concubines." The statement was a shield, but the underlying tension hinted at a deeper, more primal truth.
A sly smile, like a serpent’s flick, played on the speaker's lips. "What man could possibly live amongst us?"
"It would give Dagon something to *think about*," the first voice purred, a dangerous tremor weaving through it. "Seeing Amazons keeping a man."
"Yes," the second voice rasped, the promise of vengeance in its tone. "And to let him know that he sleeps with *us*."
"Why, Jim," the first Amazon breathed, her gaze, sharp and appraising, sweeping over the man. "He would *envy* you. Do you intend on intimidating him?"
"Only if he intimidates me first," Jim’s voice was a low growl, a predator’s warning.
"You *intend* on intimidating him." The realization hung in the air, a thunderclap before the storm.
The Amazons, their transformation as swift and silent as a shadow’s descent, reappeared on the main decks. They were not merely in uniform; they were a force of nature clad in parade dress. The polished gleam of javelins, the taut readiness of bows strung with destiny, the cold, unyielding edge of swords – each weapon seemed to hum with their unified intent. As the *Flying Dutchman* sailed into the harbor, a tide of silent awe followed the procession of these breathtaking warriors. The very water seemed to part for them, yielding the right of way, and the grand vessel found berth with the inevitability of the turning tide. The tax collector, a creature of mundane concerns, was the first to dare approach.
"We pay no tribute," the Amazon who had spoken with Jim declared, her voice resonating with the authority of ages. "We have urgent business with the High Priestess. Take us there."
Helen’s words, born of a tongue steeped in ancient power, were woven into a sonic tapestry by a vox linked to Genie. The device pulsed, absorbing Antiope’s/Helen’s resonant pronouncements, emanating the precise syntax of a forgotten dialect. Genie’s voice, a whisper from Egypt’s most hallowed past, unfurled before the native authority, and the man’s immediate, unquestioning cooperation was a testament to its power.
Thus, Antiope, Helen, and Jim found themselves free to converse in the intimate cadence of their shared tongue as the magistrate, his steps heavy with a reluctant reverence, escorted the trio toward the temple.
"What's the plan, Jim?" The question was a thread pulled taut, demanding an answer.
Jim’s gaze, fixed on some unseen horizon, held a chilling clarity. "I am under the distinct impression that Dagon is weaving a web of lies, feeding these people illusions to keep them tethered to this island. He feasts on their wealth, their very souls. If that be the case, we must sever his grip. Neutralize Dagon. Only then can we persuade the population to seek salvation beyond these shores. Without his poisonous influence, they might finally listen."
"Who *is* Dagon?" The question was laced with a healthy dose of suspicion, a primal instinct sensing a deeper rot."
The very air vibrated with a name whispered on the wind, a title clawed from the depths of some ancient, sun-scorched myth. "Genie," the gruff voice spat, each syllable a stone grinding against the ear, "tells me that is the name of this island's ruler. Minos reigns supreme on Crete, but not here."
"So what's the endgame, Jim?" the other scoffed, a cruel, rasping sound that scraped at the nerves. "Are you going to politely ask Dagon to surrender his dominion, to pack his bags and seek a new patch of dirt? I can practically hear his delighted cackle at the mere suggestion."
Jim's response was a low growl, a predator’s promise of obliteration. "I expect no compliance from Dagon. I expect him to drown in the fiery tears of this island."
A disbelieving laugh, sharp and brittle, sliced through the tension. "Jim, you're painting a picture straight from a dime novel, a lost civilization conjured by cheap Hollywood dreams."
"Except this is no fabrication," Jim countered, his voice a steel edge. "This is real, and the earth beneath our feet is poised to explode. How soon, Jim? Give me a timeframe!"
"I don't have the luxury of precise calculation. Two minutes. That's all you'll get."
"A generous offering," the other sneered, the sarcasm thick as volcanic ash.
The throng, a sea of gaping mouths and wide, feverish eyes, parted before them. Their passage was a silent ripple through a crowd thick with the scent of unfamiliar spices and the humid breath of the sea. They were a curiosity, these alien beings, their presence igniting a feverish chase. At the hallowed threshold of a sanctuary, a high priestess emerged, her gaze sharp as a hunter’s. Jim’s eyes, accustomed to the arcane, snagged on the familiar glint of ritual adornments, traces of Artemis’s sacred iconography. The woman, sculpted from a beauty that defied mere mortal standards, stirred a primal suspicion within him. He sensed it, a resonance deep in her marrow – a whisper of Artemis blood.
"I am Ayesha," the priestess announced, her voice a silken whip. "A descendant of Artemis herself. You tread in sacred ground, adorned in her holiest symbols, a blasphemy before the uninitiated. Yet, you demanded an audience."
Helen’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the charged air, a balm and a challenge. "Speak not such foolishness. We are from Artemis. We are the pure-blooded Amazons, born of Sirius, the star that shines for our Lady Isis."
Ayesha’s disbelief hardened into a flinty glare. "Such heresy will see you consumed by flame! Guards!"
Antiope, a coiled viper, had been listening, her senses keenly attuned. The revelation of a priestess devoted to Artemis, yet stripped of her true wisdom, sent a jolt through her. To this woman, Artemis was a mere ghost of a legend. "What knowledge do you possess of Artemis, Ayesha?" Antiope’s voice was laced with a regal authority, a primal echo. "We are the royal shield-bearers of Isis and Qblh themselves."
With a fluid, deadly grace, she unleashed the ancient, Venetian might of her javelin, the air crackling as it struck, stunning the approaching captors into stunned stillness.
"We find the prospect of liberty rather more appealing, thank you," Antiope stated, her voice a steely whisper that promised more than just words. "Our purpose is simple: to evacuate this island. This city is on the precipice of annihilation, poised to be swallowed by the volcano's fury."
Ayesha’s chin tilted, her eyes blazing with a fanatic’s fire. "Lord Baal-Dagon decrees otherwise."
"Dagon is a *poison*, a phantom whispered in the shadows, and Baal-Dagon – that grotesque mockery, his own fractured reflection, forged to shackle the very souls of those who toil and breathe upon this accursed rock!" Jim's voice, raw and jagged, ripped through the suffocating air.
"You *permit* your chattel to spew such venom in my presence? If you were truly of Artemis, your *men* – your *slaves* – would feel the bite of steel for such blatant disrespect!" The accusation hung, sharp and reeking of a world where power was etched in blood.
A flicker, gone as quickly as it appeared, danced in Antiope's eyes, a storm brewing beneath a veneer of calm. "This... *chattel*," she spat the word like a shard of ice, "is my husband, Theseus. And I," her voice dropped, a resonant hum that vibrated in the chest, carrying the weight of ancient battles, "am Antiope, Queen of the Amazons."
The other’s laugh was a dry, rasping sound, like stones grinding together. "Husband? A *man*… as husband? Such blasphemy is unheard of in the blood-soaked annals of the Amazonia."
Antiope's gaze locked, a challenge igniting within her, the very air around her thrumming with a fierce, protective glow. "We carry his seed," she declared, her words a thunderclap, a promise forged in fire and future.
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