Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

  She’d left the town quickly, keeping to the darkness of the scrublands until she’d arrived at the foot of the great walled city. She went under cover of darkness when her powers were strongest but quickly discovered the light pillars were everywhere––the city never shut itself in for the night. A steady trickle of travelers and beasts of burden passed beneath its gates at all hours, so it was an easy enough task to secret herself among a weary caravan.

  She wound her way toward the central ziggurat of Kalhu, where her quarry waited. But she wasn’t alone: on that plain of fire-glazed tiles stood ranks of men and beasts, waiting their turn to ascend the broad stone steps to make their obeisance to the King and his court. Dark men from the far south holding the leashes of leopards stood shoulder to shoulder with pale-skinned northerns clutching flasks which smelled of honey, cloves, and liquor. All hoped for a chance to curry favor with the one whose fame was known far and wide.

  Standing among the throng, she realized what radiated from each man like an odor: fear. These men were here not to venerate a beloved king or beneficent god. They were here because they were terrified.

  What kind of man could inspire such dread? The fearful stirrings in the pit of her stomach awoke once more.

  While slithering between the supplicants, her head bowed, she heard a low keening. She feared to look up toward the sound until an incredible crack like the earth splitting sundered the night. She watched through a veil of hair as a lance of light streaked down toward the top of the ziggurat. In the blink of a seared eye, the spear of brilliance arched away from the ziggurat and flew over the city. Somewhere out on the fields beyond the city, something bore the god-like wrath of the bolt with a terrible crash. Daria flinched at the display of power, but those around her seemed to hardly notice, even the beasts. Such was common in Ninurta’s city?

  The line moved forward, but it was still a long way to the foot of the ziggurat. Even further to the top, where she needed to go. Daria felt the will of Lamashtu like the rough tongue of a cat, lapping at the back of her mind. The demon-goddess was impatient.

  Daria slipped out of line and across the plaza toward a sidestreet. None seemed to notice or stir from their frightened stupor except to shuffle silently into the space she’d left. Like souls caught in a nightmare, they could not even consider escaping.

  The streets around the ziggurat were close and cramped, but as her gaze swept around the ornate buildings, she saw no sign of the denizens of Kalhu. Only the Inconquo, children and acolytes of the prolific king could create such wonders in copper, bronze, and iron. The residents were no doubt at the top of the ziggurat.

  Though the empty homes did nothing to quiet the anxious tone of the city, the lack of witnesses served her purposes admirably.

  Reaching inside herself to the place where her soul had once been, Daria called on the attributes of Lamashtu and ascended the stepped pyramid. The black winds of the edimmu drew her up and up until she settled on a veranda just below the top tier.

  Padding across the cold stone floor, she moved into the adjacent chamber, her unnatural eyes adjusting to the darkness. She picked her way between low tables and couches, richly ornamented in precious metals. Shedding her traveler’s cloak and dusty sandals, Daria stalked up the ramp-like hallway and paused at a landing that branched into three other passageways. Two led deeper into the ziggurat while the final led upward––towards dancing light and sounds of feasting.

  After a quick check that her disguise was in place––two parts common fabric, one part subtle magic––she stepped onto the top of the ziggurat, just another one of the servants.

  Illuminating the broad stone platform were braziers crackling with massive cedar logs. Under the fragrant light and before the throne of their king, the court of Ninurta feasted and reveled. The sons and daughters of Kalhu––many of them children of Ninurta through his wives and concubines––were arrayed in exquisite robes of linen, their bodies dripping with metal ornaments and jewelry. Wires of silver and gold wound through their braided hair and plaited beards. As a former priestess, she’d seen her share of wealth, but in one glance, Daria saw more riches on display than anything she’d ever seen in the temple. People laughed and cups raised in sloppy toasts, but there was a strained note in the merriment. As she began to move among the masters of Kalhu, she could feel it like a souring in milk. Something not quite right, something not as it should be.

  Her eyes opened to the false glamour, noting the sharp glances between the ladies of the court and the way the men hid snarls with smiles. She heard the whispers beneath the tides of music, the poisonous words exchanged over untouched cups.

  The house of Ninurta was a house divided.

  And where was their lofty god-king? They feasted before an empty throne.

  Daria moved through the crowd, her gaze roving until she glimpsed something huge moving behind a screen of onlookers. It took but a moment to pass inside their number, but once achieved, she beheld him and had eyes for nothing else.

  Ninurta, Founder of Kalhu, Hunter before the gods, and Warrior without Match, danced near the center of the gathering. One look and anyone would understand why so many attributed divinity to his person. He was immense, head and shoulders taller than the tallest man present. The great bronzed muscles of his chest, stomach, and arms gleamed beneath his open sleeveless robe, yet he was neither ponderous nor clumsy. He moved lightly on gilded feet, with rings about his toes and ankles, his every gesture graceful as he moved to the music.

  Despite herself, Daria became mesmerized by the display of athletic prowess. Womanly longing, something she hardly remembered, called for those powerful arms to embrace her. Daria prowled the circle that ringed the king, telling herself of the need to keep an eye on her quarry, but in her heart, she desired to get closer to this radiant creature. Lamashtu’s cold, clinging whispers pressed at her mind, but in Ninurta’s stirring presence, she found she could endure the demon-goddess’s wagging tongue.

  He spun and danced, braided locks and woven beard glistening with sweet oils and glittering with gold. He took an immense leap and landed almost delicately before her, his chestnut eyes sparkling with desire and cunning. He smelled of frankincense and cypress oil kissed by wood smoke. His features were strong, brutal even, but paired with his knowing gaze made her desire him all the more. She wished to take that elemental visage in her small hands before those fierce lips took her, and she knew nothing but carnal ecstasy.

  He rose from his crouch, looming over her like a magnificent tree of muscle and bone, and those lively eyes considered her. It was a piercing glance, and for a moment, terror gripped her that she’d been discovered. How could she hope to hide anything from this man, this god?

  Daria might have run then, forsaking Lamashtu’s call for her to strike because she knew she could never hurt him. Some reasoning part of her knew that to run now would be to assure her death as surely as striking him, so she simply stood and waited on the king’s pleasure.

  It took her a moment to realize the music had stopped and all eyes were upon her. Those viperish whispers hissed and buzzed. They saw her, knew her somehow. Daria suddenly felt small and naked; she cursed Lamashtu for the command that had brought her here to die.

  An Inconquo who had drawn his silver bracelet into a lethal spike stepped to stand beside his king, an eager child approaching his father. “Lord-Father, let me slay it,” he pleaded, his zealot’s stare fixed on Daria. “The filth has desecrated—”

  “Be still.”

  The command, from a voice as deep as eternity, was absolute, and the man with the spike shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked.

  “She is my guest.” Ninurta’s voice hardly rose but carried across the rooftop. “She is welcome in my home.”

  He reached out and enfolded her hand in his.

  “All are welcome in my home. Play on.”

  As though an enchantment had been broken, the music began with gusto, the drums beating out a lively tattoo to u
nderscore the string and flute. The cliques and covens turned back upon themselves to renew their hollow displays of celebration. Some of their number dared to make forays across the central floor to dance, knowing they were clumsy children aping the prowess seen moments before.

  Ninurta guided Daria toward the steps where the supplicants waited.

  Standing atop the ziggurat and looking down, the true number of gift-bearers was revealed. Their eyes, huge and unblinking, gazed up in fearful beseeching, and Daria saw the tremor in their limbs. Men mounting the stairs to the gallows would have looked more cheerful.

  “What do you see?” His voice was soft in her ear, his breath warm on her neck.

  Daria looked at those stricken faces, at their paltry offerings, and knew her answer though her whole body trembled as she answered.

  “Slaves.”

  She could feel the smile in his voice even if she did not dare to look.

  “Yes,” he crooned. “Nations and nations of slaves. Every race and tongue of mortal that walks this world, all born slaves.”

  She listened, and though she knew many of the supplicants must have been first-sons and princes, she could nearly see the chains about their necks and the rings through their noses.

  “But what has enslaved them? From what are their chains fashioned?” Ninurta asked.

  Daria’s voice failed her. After a few shivering moments, she willed herself to look up into his face, but he had already turned his gaze out over the masses.

  “Fear not,” he intoned slowly, shaking his head. “Even the very wise have failed to answer me truly.”

  His head bowed in a gesture of thoughtful melancholy, and Daria felt as though she would weep at the sight. The sadness passed like a cloud over the noon sun, and a ruthlessly beautiful smile broke out across his face.

  “You see,” he began, his voice nearly a whisper, bonding them in conspiracy. “All of mankind is enslaved by fear.”

  She found herself nodding, though she still did not understand what he meant.

  “Fear of gods and demons, real or imagined. Fear of futures and dreams, possible or impossible. They fear their own death as surely as they fear their own meaningless lives. Fear has branded every man that walks this earth.”

  Daria nodded again, but now out of real understanding. Her experiences bore out every word.

  “Every man except me,” Ninurta pronounced, the statement without pride yet incredibly lonely. Etched into the ageless features, weariness resided, but within the light of his eyes, she could see a will that could not comprehend surrender.

  “And thus I build my kingdom, my home,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “A place where man might be free of his fear. Where man may achieve what has been my birthright from the beginning. Free to climb up into the heavens and lay hold of the very stars.”

  She watched as his sweeping hand rose toward the sky, then curled as if he was gripping one of those stars in his fingers.

  “All are welcome in my home,” he said over the low keening. “All are welcome, but not all will thrive here.”

  The keening grew, and though she feared to, she looked beyond his upraised hand and saw a star streaking toward them. Painfully luminous, it drew nearer with every second.

  “Some cannot bear the weight of the glory I bring,” Ninurta said, his words cutting the air. “They have been weighed down too long by their chains, and freedom will crush them.”

  The star became a plunging lance of light. She wanted to run, but his grip on her hand was as immovable as it was tender. The god-bolt was coming, and she could only watch its approach––too terrified to scream.

  “Yet I am merciful, and would not see them languish in a home where they cannot rest.”

  Daria closed her eyes and cringed as the bolt seemed certain to strike, but through her eyelids, she witnessed the light pass by. Its passage was a whirlwind that threatened to carry her away, but Ninurta’s iron hand anchored her. Morbid curiosity peeled her eyes open just in time to see the lance strike the center of the plaza.

  The same earth-shaking crash sounded, but this time it was not miles away. Her ears surrendered to static, which was just as well, for it spared her the sound of so many men and beasts dying. The force of the blast left a depression at the center of the plaza, a crater of charred tiles and blackened bodies. Waves of energy and fire washed out from the hellish pit, ripping men and animals apart, setting them ablaze.

  All the way to the very steps before their feet the bolt’s fury lapped and Daria felt her skin sweat and prickle with the wave of heat. The furnace blast dried the tears on her cheeks and filled her mouth with the taste of ash.

  A hawkish man in resplendent red robes who had stood patiently waiting for his turn to meet the king staggered up the last few steps toward them. His robe smouldered, and blood ran freely from his hooked nose. Hands outstretched he collapsed before them. Ninurta gingerly pressed the corpse back down the steps, sending it tumbling into the pit.

  Daria looked up in horror at the face she’d adored seconds before and saw something more awful than she could have ever imagined. Not even in the presence of Lamashtu, the drinker of blood and the emptier of cradles, did she behold such utter, boundless evil.

  Ninurta studied her expression, and that sorrowful expression of loneliness crossed his features.

  “Again and again. None seem to understand.” He took her chin and drew her face to behold the carnage below. “What are the lives of a few men when I seek to free Man?”

  1

  I almost didn’t make it in time.

  The oil on the skillet had been hissing at me for long enough, too long really, but I was busy trying to give Jackie instructions concerning the basbousa.

  “You need to let the syrup soak into the cake before putting on the second layer,” I’d been saying before a soft crackle told me I had seconds before scorching another sheet of kisra.

  Turning smartly, I scuttled to the electric griddle and used a small paddle to scrape the edges up before peeling the thin sheet of sorghum flatbread up in one stroke. Mindful of the hot sheen of oil clinging to the surface, I laid it out on the cooling rack. I frowned at the deeper brown colour of the sheet, more than one shade further from the golden hue I was going for, but I couldn’t be too picky. The stack of charred sheets in the rubbish bin was nearly as big as the stack beside the griddle.

  Jackie had followed me into the kitchen, looking over her sinewy shoulder at the living room she’d spent the last hour and a half cleaning and primping.

  “Let it soak and then put on a light layer,” she said with a nod. “Right, but where’d you put the syrup?”

  “It’s on the stovetop.” I ladled out more batter for the next sheet of kisra intending to keep a sharp eye on it. “Slice a diamond pattern across it as soon as it comes out and then put the syrup on. Do it all while it’s warm; otherwise, it won’t soak properly. I put the instructions on the fridge.”

  Jackie, my best friend and roommate for the past year, stuck out her lip in a mock pout as she took the one step required to reach the refrigerator and the recipe I’d scribbled across the memo board there.

  “It’s almost like you don’t trust me, luv.” She crossed her arms. “You think I’ve never baked a cake before?”

  I freed another sheet from the griddle and smiled at its golden finish before turning to Jackie, my expression flat as the kisra.

  “The closest you’ve ever gotten to baking anything is watching The Great British Bake Off.”

  For a second, the pout melted into a quivering expression of utter hurt, and I felt a tug of guilt. But the pained look vanished in a twinkle of milk chocolate eyes, and she grinned with childish mirth.

  “Had you going!” She giggled and danced away as I flicked a dob of batter at her. “Oi! Not on my nice clothes. Wouldn’t want Uncle Iry thinking I’m a slob.”

  Uncle Irshad was finally coming to live with us. Not for the first time this week the thought overwhelmed me with a
giddy kind of shock. I bounced a little on the balls of my feet.

  “As if,” I snorted as I scraped up and ladled out the very last of the batter. “You’ve been called many things, Jackie, some of them by me, but slob isn’t one of them.”

  “Maybe, but my wardrobe is a lot more limited lately,” she huffed, tugging at the front of her blouse. “This is about all that fits me anymore.”

  I spared a second from watching the flatbread cook to give my friend a once over.

  It is amazing how slow and subtle changes can creep up on you. Jackie was still a tall, gorgeous young woman, the type that turns heads yet remains blissfully ignorant of how beautiful she is, but she’d added a stone of weight to her frame. And that stone was nothing but pure, bone-breaking muscle. In the space of a year, she’d gone from party-hopping knockout to amazon queen, and the difference was impressive. Her arms and legs corded with sinew, her shoulders distinct, ridges of muscle rippled down her stomach––she was strong enough to squat the back end of a lorry.

  The transformation was amazing, but I felt a stab of guilt thinking about why it had been necessary.

  “We’ll have to go shopping soon, both of us,” I muttered, trying to keep emotion from thickening my words. I turned back to my kisra as my vision began to blur. Uncle Iry’s impending arrival had me in a bit of an emotional state, but the memories of last year rolled in like a freight train.

  Both our lives had been upended when I discovered that I was part of a bloodline of mystic guardians who traced their heritage all the way back to ancient Sumer. The Inconquo had learned the secrets of shaping and controlling metal with their minds, and for millennia they were humanity’s first line of defense against horrible beings that threatened to wipe civilization off the map. With the discovery of some rings while interning at the British Museum and a whirlwind meeting with a professorial ghost who became my mentor, I became absorbed in this world in a matter of days. Things only got more complicated when I realized that my best friend was in a relationship with a man who wanted to unleash the type of monstrosity that I, as an Inconquo, was duty-bound to stop.