Tears of the Sun

Chapter One.

Truly, the Gods must have grown jealous of the island nation that had blossomed from the heart of the ocean to shine as brightly as the sun itself. Sailors watched in horror as a star fell from the skies like a burning mountain, turning the night blood red. It painted a line of fire pointed directly at the gleaming marble spires. As if in greeting, a great glowing translucent dome shimmered into existence above the city and shot upwards like a bronze discus thrown by a mighty warrior.

With a roar louder than thunder, the star and the shield met in the sky. Amazingly, the plummeting star slowed in its flight and for an instant, seemed to hesitate as if it would bounce from the mystical shield and return to the heavens from whence it came. However, this bolt of the Gods proved too powerful for even the mystical might of Atlantis. In the blink of an eye, the glowing shield was gone and doom fell unimpeded once more towards the city.

Even then, the mages of Atlantis were not truly defeated. The dome shimmered into existence again, but this time, behind the screaming thunderbolt. It settled over the island, covering it like a child would cover a pebble with a bowl, an instant before the flaming mass struck the very heart of the city.

From the point of impact, a blinding white light shone forth, as if the sun had chosen to rise from the middle of the ocean. Those who were looking in that direction were rendered instantly blind. A mighty vibration shook the seas and the surrounding shores. The people near enough to witness this spectacle prepared to die, for surely such a blow to the bosom of the Earth would spread destruction to the farthest reaches of the world.

Yet even in death, Atlantis gave one last gift to the world. With the final shards of their power, the Atlanteans had sealed the fury of the falling star inside their mystical dome, turning the mighty explosion in upon itself. Such was the power unleashed upon the island that every trace of Atlantis and its inhabitants vanished; vaporised like a snowflake landing in a smith's forge. Terrible waves crashed against the shores of all the world's seas and oceans, battering the infant coastal nations of mankind mercilessly. Uncounted thousands died, smashed and drowned by the unstoppable rage of the waters.

But even such terror must end. The storms and waves faded and sun shone again. People rebuilt their lives, telling their children of the awful flood sent by the Gods to punish an arrogant world. In fearful whispers, they spoke of vanished Atlantis, careful not to attract the wrath of their Gods, who had chosen to exterminate the first great civilisation of mankind.

Chapter Two.

Foxblood paused in front of the East Gate of High Kritias, largest and most powerful city state to be found between the Middle Sea and the mountains. This was not the first time that he had seen the shining bronze gates of the city, but they still aroused awe and wonder in his heart. The two great valves were the height of ten men and each leaf as wide as six warriors lying head to toe. Their thickness was greater than the width of Foxblood's outstretched arms. No human artisan could have forged such mighty constructs or lifted them into place. Only the wizardry of lost Atlantis had made them possible. The feeling of a wooden staff prodding him in the back brought his thoughts back to the matters at hand.

'Business first, sightseeing later' muttered Janna, fidgeting impatiently under the load of their packs which she carried slung over one shoulder. Naked except for the red loincloth wrapped around her hips which marked her as a body slave, Janna's torso glistened with sweat, except for where it was dulled by the dust of the road. An impudent fly landed on her breast attracted by the salt, only to meet an untimely end as Janna snatched it from her chest, crushing it between her fingers before the insect was able to take flight.

Shaking his head at Janna's lack of artistic appreciation, Foxblood headed towards the queue of people waiting to be passed into the city by the City Guard. As he prepared to state his name and business, Foxblood gave thanks once again to the Fates that his father had returned home on the day of his birth with the dripping carcass of a fox and not that of a duck. Somehow 'Duckblood' did not seem to fit the image of a tough, merciless warrior-for-hire.

'Name?' asked the Guardsman.

'Foxblood. I come at the request of the First Lord.'

Naturally, neither the Guardsman nor Foxblood mentioned the woman who silently followed the warrior. Slaves were property. Just like a pony or an oxen, slaves had no identities other than as the chattel of their master.

'Yes Warrior Foxblood. We were told to expect your arrival. My men will guide you to your quarters, where you may refresh yourself before your audience with the First Lord.'

Two Guardsman wearing the blue cloaks of the Household Guard guided Foxblood and Janna through the envious crowd at the gate and on into the city. The presence of the Guardsmen allowed the little party to make good time through the streets and soon the packed earth beneath their feet gave way to neatly laid paving stones as they neared the Main Hall. Just like all the other official buildings of the City, the Main Hall was built of white stone with tall pointed spires and arched doorways based on Atlantean architectural styles. Combining the functions of official residence and administrative centre, the Main Hall was usually a very busy place. It was therefore immediately obvious that there was something awry. All the entrances were flanked by grim faced Guardsmen and there was little traffic entering or leaving the building.

Foxblood and Janna were escorted through a maze of lamp lit corridors into the depths of the massive edifice. Finally, they entered a corridor lined with wooden doors, each bearing a numbered plaque. The Guardsmen stopped in front of a door marked with the number thirty-five.

'This room has been assigned to you, Warrior,' said one of them in a formal tone. 'When you have refreshed yourself, please make your way to the Place of Meeting. There are Guardsmen at the end of each main corridor who can give you directions should you need them.' With a bow, the two men departed, leaving Foxblood and Janna to their own devices. Foxblood pushed open the door with a fingertip and led the way into the guest room. A sturdy wooden bar was mounted on the inside of the door so as to provide for the occupant's privacy. Janna locked the door by dropping the bar, set down her load and sighed with relief.

'That pack grows heavier each time that I see it,' she grumbled, rubbing her sore shoulders.

'We could always throw it away,' responded Foxblood, grinning.

'Oh that is most generous of you my Master' said Janna 'Especially since most of the contents belong to me'.

'Cease your grumbling slave. See what our generous hosts have provided!' said Foxblood, pointing across the room to the large wooden tub of hot water.

With a squeal of pleasure Janna ran for the tub, discarding her loincloth on the way. Like a bronzed seal, she plunged into the water. Wriggling with pleasure, she watched as Foxblood unlaced his armor, shed his leather garments and finally jumped into the large tub with a mighty splash.

Foxblood felt a slippery hand reach out to fasten on his tool.

'I see that you have not abandoned all of your weapons,' said Janna, her fingers rapidly bringing his manhood to attention.

'I need my trusty club in order to beat my disrespectful wife into submission!' cried Foxblood as he pounced on the giggling woman.

Chapter Three.

It had been three years ago back in the village of his birth that Foxblood had announced his intention to leave the village and seek a living as a mercenary warrior. His friends had not been surprised. Foxblood's father had been a famous warrior who had retired to the village after meeting and falling in love with the daughter of the blacksmith. Foxblood had grown up listening to his father's tales of war and adventure. His father had also placed a sword in his hand as soon as he was strong enough to hold the tiny blade that he had specially forged for him. Warrior skills, gathered over a hard and dangerous lifetime were lovingly passed on to Foxblood by his proud father the way a great lord would pass on his lands. By the age of fifteen there were few men alive who could face Foxblood's blade and remain living.

His mother had died of a sudden and mysterious illness when he was seventeen and his father had followed her barely a year later. For a while, Foxblood had laboured over his father's forge, the heat and back breaking work adding huge sinews and muscles to the young man's growing frame. During that time, he had met Janna.

Janna was an orphan who had been raised by the combined efforts of the village women, although she lived mostly with the Wise Woman. No one was sure of Janna's origin or even her exact race. She had wandered into the village one night when she was around three years of age, dirty and hungry with her dark red hair matted and full of twigs. The villagers had wanted to turn her away. Life was harsh and charity to outsiders was not a common trait. It was the village Wise Woman who had unexpectedly spoken out on the little girl's behalf. She had given no reasons but merely rasped 'She stays' in her harsh raven voice.

Janna had grown up tall and muscular, partly from the hard labour that was her daily routine, but also from an inborn strength and hardiness that set her apart from the people of the village as much as did her flaming red hair.

Foxblood had known of Janna for most of his life, but his parents had discouraged him from associating with the strange girl who was almost a bondslave. Later, he had been too often away from home, earning a living as a caravan guard for the regular shipments of produce and craft wares that the village sold at the Great Markets.

It was only after he had taken over his father's smithy that he had gotten to know the young woman that Janna had become. She would walk past the smithy many times a day on the way to the river and return each time bearing a large clay vessel filled with water. The two of them had much in common. They were both without family, both had at least one parent from outside of the village and both were fiercely determined to rise above their present station in life. Smiles and greetings gradually grew into chats and shared jokes. One day Foxblood offered to share his mid day meal with her. Janna had accepted. Soon she was eating with him on most days except where her errands demanded that she be elsewhere. They were a handsome couple, both taller than average, with skins that were lighter in colour than was usual. Foxblood's hair was deep black, while Janna's shone like polished copper in the sunlight. It seemed only natural when Janna started sharing Foxblood's bed.

The Wise Woman watched from the darkness within her hut, her long nimble fingers casting the bones over and over. She laughed softly, her voice surprisingly rich and sensual. 'So it begins' she murmured.

Chapter Four.

It had been two months since Janna had started sharing Foxblood's bed. They were cuddled together under the furs, enjoying the warmth of each other's bodies and the silence of the night. Foxblood noticed that Janna had been uncommonly quiet during mealtime, although she did not seem unhappy. He reached out and playfully tapped the end of her nose. 'Have you tired of my company already woman?' he asked with a smile.

Janna gave him a smile in return and shook her head, her eyes still serious.

'What then?' prompted Foxblood.

'I must tell you something about me' replied Janna softly, 'but I fear that you will think me ... strange.'

'We have grown up together and though I did not know you well during those years, I have not seen or heard anything that would make me think ill of you,' said Foxblood.

'It is what is within me that is different,' said Janna, her eyes downcast. 'From my earliest years, I have had the need in me to feel pain.'

Foxblood propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at Janna in puzzlement. 'Pain? How so?'

'I am not sure that I can explain,' replied Janna, her fingers twisting the blankets nervously. 'It is not as if I want people to kick me like they would a stray cur, nor do I enjoy being mistreated or humiliated.' She shook her head in frustration.

Foxblood reached out to stroke her hair, soothing her as he would a wild horse. Kissing her on the forehead, he said 'Softly dear Janna, softly. Do not worry yourself about the reasons if they are not clear to you, but tell me of your feelings. When do you feel this way?'

Janna sighed and lay back on her pillow, closing her eyes. 'It is when I am doing something that is important to me. It can be when I am attempting a difficult task or when we are embracing. I feel this need, this ache within me.'

'So you would not like it if I just slapped you on the head each time we met?' asked Foxblood, smiling to show that he was joking.

Janna grinned back and jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

Foxblood grunted in mock agony and said 'I thought that you wanted to feel pain, not inflict it!' He kissed her lips and cheek, then whispered 'Show me'. His let his kisses become more ardent, moving down to the hollow of her throat and back up to her lips, where their tongues met in a moist, slippery duel.

Foxblood felt Janna's body press against his as she straddled his leg, pressing her crotch against the hard muscles of his thigh.

Janna reached out and drew his hand to her breast, bringing the tip of her nipple into contact with his palm. Guiding his hand, she moved it slowly in small circles over her nipple. Foxblood could feel the tip of her breast stiffen and rise under his hand. She began to rhythmically grind her cunt against his leg, her curly pubic hair rasping over his skin.

Suddenly Foxblood became aware that Janna was pressing his hand harder against her breast. She placed her hand over his and began to squeeze. Following her lead, he applied a little pressure with his fingers. Janna's hand stroked the back of his in approval and then urged him on again. He squeezed harder, taking a firm grip on the soft flesh of her breast. She tapped his hand again. More pressure. Soon he knew that he was applying enough force for his grip to be painful.

The movements of Janna's hips became more urgent and Foxblood could feel a slippery moistness spreading over his thigh, changing the grinding of her intimate flesh against him into a smooth back and forth glide. She moved his hand once again so that his fingertips surrounded her nipple. Gingerly, he grasped the pink nub of flesh and began squeeze. Janna's hand stroked his forearm as if she was masturbating a giant penis, feeling the hard corded muscles writhe under his skin. Foxblood let his fingers close and relax in time with Janna's stroking and he could feel her hips adopt the same rhythm. Her whole body rocked with the force of the sensations that radiated from the tip of her breast and the steady stropping of her sex against Foxblood's iron hard thigh. Orchestrated by Janna's stroking hand, the pace grew faster and faster, their bodies rocking and bumping at a frantic rate, until finally Janna cried out in triumph. Her thighs closed with crushing force around Foxblood's leg, squeezing her cunt hard against his flesh as if she would meld their bodies together at that point of intimate contact.

Foxblood was amazed at the passion and strength that Janna had demonstrated, which was a total change from her usual gentle and almost timid style of lovemaking. He wrapped his arms around the panting woman, stroking her sweat-slick back and kissing her forehead. They lay together like that for a while, both of them savouring the intensity of what had just happened.

Janna giggled and tilted her head up to look at her lover. 'It seems that it was not merely an idle fantasy then. I have never felt like that before,' she exclaimed.

'Indeed' said Foxblood. 'Like a racehorse, you need a touch of the crop to bring your blood to a boil.'

Janna giggled again. 'At the moment I am feeling the touch of something else!' she said, glancing down between their bodies. Foxblood's shaft stood rigid and proud, thrusting firmly, as Janna had noted, towards her belly.

With a sigh of happiness Janna nimbly impaled herself on his staff. 'What was that about horses and crops?' she said, wriggling her bum.

'Ho!' cried Foxblood, smacking her buttocks with his palm.

Chapter Five

The next year brought disaster to the village. A blight struck the crops, turning the farmer's fields into barren wasteland. The summer was hotter than living man could remember, baking the land into useless dust and shrinking the river down to a stream. The villagers left, seeking a living in the cities. With nothing to trade, the remaining villagers had no need for horseshoes, sickles or tools. Foxblood's smithy grew cold with disuse. With a sigh of regret he went into the bedroom. He reached under the bed and pulled out the large wooden chest that had lain undisturbed there ever since his father had died. Brushing off the dust, he unfastened the fastenings of straps that held it closed. The thick leather hinges creaked stiffly as he opened the lid. A coarse red horse blanket shielded the contents from dirt. Foxblood lifted the blanket out of the chest with a large callused hand, dropping the faded fabric onto the floor. With both hands he reached into the depths of the chest and heaved out the bundle that lay at the bottom. Grunting with effort he placed the bundle on the bed. It settled heavily on the mattress with the sound of metal moving against metal. He undid the laces and spread the contents out over the bed. On the top lay a scabbarded sword of unusual design. The hilt was long enough to fit a two-handed grip, ending in a brass pommel in the shape of a shark's head. The grip was wrapped in a grey mottled leather that a fisherman might have recognised as sharkskin and the guard was a flattened brass oval that bore a pattern like the waves on a stormy sea. When Foxblood drew the blade out of the scabbard this too showed an unorthodox pattern. It was as long as his arm and therefore almost twice as long as a common short sword. It was double edged from the tip to about half way down. From there it was single edged with the back edge square and flat. What made it obviously different was the lightness and pale colour of the steel. The sword was a gift from his father who had found it buried in the side of a mountain.

Foxblood's father has often gone on expeditions into the hills with his secret 'tool' in order to find iron for his forge. The 'tool' consisted of a lump of strange reddish rock attached to a long piece of leather. His father had sworn that the rock magically moved whenever it was near to large pieces of iron in the ground. On one such outing his father had found what promised to be a goodly sized lump of iron. To his amazement, when he dug into the ground he had found a jagged piece of polished marble which further digging revealed to be part of a wall. Attached to it was a bronze cabinet, now much corroded. It was when his father had broken open this cabinet that the true treasure was revealed. Wrapped in what used to be soft leather was a sword. Despite the fact that it must have been lain in the ground for years, no trace of rust or corrosion marred its surface and its edge was as keen as a newly ground razor. From memories of fireside tales and legends Foxblood's father had realised that this was a relic of Atlantis, which meant that the blade was at least a hundred years old. The edges of the mighty blast that had destroyed the island nation had hurled huge chunks of stone hundreds of miles inland. The best smiths in the known world had puzzled in vain over the fragments of Atlantean metals that had survived over the long dark years after the island's destruction. No one had been able to discover the secret of their manufacture or even what the exact metals were. Atlantis had always jealously guarded the secret of these marvellous metals and no Atlantean who knew the details of their production ever left the island.