Warriors of Poseidon 03 - Atlantis Unleashed

Kill them all.
    “Kill them now .”

Chapter 5
    October 1776,
    the former British colonies in North America
    Justice stood, silently watching, until the trail of dust kicked up by the horse‟s hooves had long since settled back onto the rocky ground. The last rays of the setting sun shimmered over the faint path like a benediction, Nature herself approving of the rider‟s news.
    Independence.
    Since early July, evidently, when these foolhardy and insanely courageous humans had declared themselves free from British rule. Free from the oppressions of a distant monarchy.
    Free to wrestle their existence from a land filled with both known and unknown dangers. Of course, then they‟d go too far and try to conquer those who had resided in these lands long before the newcomers had landed from distant shores.
    The pattern never changed. Battle and conquest. Triumph or surrender. Peace an illusory fantasy dreamed by a madman.
    “We knew it was coming,” Ven said, walking up beside him. “Damned if I don‟t like these colonists. All guts and grit. But the locals may have a word or two to say. Especially the Illini chief. He‟s a good man, a temperate man, but he won‟t be backed into a corner without a fight.”
    Justice sighed. “You‟re not wrong. I wish it could be different.” Then he turned to confront the unlikely sight of a prince of Atlantis wearing a coonskin hat. “Guts and grits?”
    Ven snorted. “Grit, not grits. Try to keep up.” He liked to fit in with the local populace; now he was masquerading as a fur trapper. Justice grinned, remembering Ven‟s disappointment that nobody in Rome wore togas these days.
    “Grit: another word for courage. Many of these men would make good warriors, should they decide to oppose the shifters and vampires.”
    “Grit or no, a gun and a bellyful of beans won‟t help them in a fight with that nest of vamps,”
    Justice replied. “And no, I still won‟t wear a hat made out of a dead animal, so don‟t ask again.”
    “Fine, continue on with your tragically dull existence. You look more like a native than a French trapper, anyway.”
    It was true. The waist-length braid branded him as a native or—worse, to some bigoted minds—a half-breed. This had been kindly pointed out to him by the reactions of many of the more . . . aromatic denizens of the few villages they‟d bothered to stop by on this mission.
    One or two of the bolder ones had ventured a comment along those lines. Then they‟d caught sight of the well-worn hilt of the sword sheathed diagonally across his back. Or maybe they‟d simply seen the promise of an unmourned death in his eyes.
    Either way, not one of them had ever dared a second comment.
    Justice understood the inherent hypocrisy in his naming another a predator. But, then again, self-awareness was simply a more enlightened kind of freedom. If freedom could be claimed by one promised—sword, sweat, and soul—to the sea god.
    “Imagine Poseidon‟s reaction if Atlanteans signed a Declaration of Independence,” he said dryly.
    Ven‟s mouth dropped open, and then he threw back his head and let loose with a belly laugh so loud and long that it made the horses restless.
    “Why horses, again? When we can travel by mist with far less struggle?” Justice deliberately stepped a few paces away. “Not to mention with far less stench.”
    “Vamps don‟t expect much resistance from a group of fur trappers,” Ven said. “Be a lot different if a group of supes materialize in their midst.”
    “At least we‟d have the element of surprise,” Justice said, again. Knew he‟d lose the argument. Again.
    “Oh, they‟ll be surprised. Anybody would be surprised to find out a pretty boy like you actually knows how to use that sword.” Parting shot delivered, Ven walked, still chuckling, back toward the campfire to join the others.
    Justice couldn‟t help the smile twitching the corners of his lips. Ven was everything an older brother should be. Too bad they‟d all be rotting in the lowest of the nine hells before anybody would learn he really was Justice‟s brother.
    His smile died before it had had a chance to form. Much like any hope he might have harbored that he‟d ever have a family.
     
    Dinner caught, cooked, and mostly eaten, except for Bastien and his sixth or seventh helping, Justice settled in next to the fire to await full dark. Not knowing where the vamps nested, the best recourse was to wait for them to rise and go on the