Khai of Khem

by Brian Lumley

  And it was further rumored that Imthod had sometimes shared in this unholy bargaining of flesh . . . but that in itself was not what worried Adhan.

  He was more worried about his sister—about where she was recently accustomed to going, secretly in the dead of night, through the streets of Asorbes. About her destination, yes, and about what she was doing when she got there.

  And with whom?

  On the evening before the Royal Procession, a messenger came with word from the pyramid, from the Pharaoh himself. Harsin Ben Ibizin was to ensure that his entire family without exception accompanied him to the Royal Procession, and thereafter that they appeared before Khasathut atop the now greatly reduced summit of the east face. The Pharaoh greatly desired to see—indeed he especially looked forward to seeing—the Ibizin family in its entirety. . . .

  VI

  THE PHARAOH’S WRATH

  The day seemed little different from that of any other Royal Procession, and up to a point it proceeded in a like fashion. There were differences, however, one of which lay in the ever-increasing height of the east-facing plateau, which was now such that the litter-bearing slaves were obliged to elevate their human charges in relays. Three months previously, after the last Royal Procession, a Nubian slave had actually collapsed while carrying a litter. Only the quick reactions of his co-bearer had avoided certain disaster, when the litter and its occupant—an important Arabban ambassador—might well have gone plunging down the great flight of steps, taking other nobles, litters and bearers with it.

  The offending slave, already dying of a burst heart, had been put to the sword there and then on the steps and his carcass tossed over the side. The broken, sandpapered thing which eventually thumped to a halt at the foot of the great ramp had been unrecognizable as a human being, and the city’s stray dogs had made very short work of it indeed. The unfortunate black’s quick-thinking colleague, a Khemish thief half-way through a three-year sentence, was then congratulated, set free and sent home, rejoicing, to Peh-il.

  With the memory of so recent a tragedy still fresh in her mind, Merayet’s apprehension—as she was borne up in her litter to the now reduced but still vast area of the lofty plateau—was considerable; but it could not compare to the fear she had lived with for the last four years, which only recently had been relieved by Imthod Haphenid’s revelations as retold to her by her husband, Harsin Ben. As for last night’s peculiar summons: doubtless, this was to enable Khasathut himself to outline his altered plans, which in their original form would certainly have affected the whole family. And so as the hour of the audience approached, Harsin Ben and his family took their places among the other dignitaries on the plateau high over Asorbes and awaited the Pharaoh’s pleasure.

  Khai’s father had already noted the presence of an extraordinary number of governors and high officials from the many towns and villages up and down the river, and he had not failed to take note of the rather perplexed and occasionally apprehensive glances which passed amongst them. On chatting with several acquaintances of old, he discovered that they had all been called to attend the procession and its subsequent ceremonies at extremely short notice, almost as if on an afterthought, and that they believed Pharaoh must have something of great importance to say to them.

  The general consensus of opinion was that he wished them to give their active support to his military recruiting—greatly stepped-up in recent months on account of recurrent Kushite raids across the western border, which Khasathut had sworn to put down—by forming still more regiments from their own towns and provinces. While Harsin Ben had accepted this explanation readily enough, still he was uneasy. Certainly the number of troops taking part in the procession had been greatly reduced, as a result of Khasathut sending thousands of his warriors west of the river and to north and south, but since when did Pharaoh require the compliance of his governors before issuing his commands? Waiting with the rest of them for Khasathut to appear, the old architect found his mind darting in all sorts of gloomy and doom-fraught directions; but he was not to be kept in suspense for very much longer. . . .

  As the last of the dignitaries were brought up to the plateau’s summit, so eight huge black guardsmen appeared from the hollow, half-completed peak of the pyramid bearing a litter containing a throne with the massive, ornately-garbed figure of Pharaoh himself seated upon it. They lowered the litter to the stone surface of the plateau and prostrated themselves, then retired on all fours, crawling backward away from the spot where Pharaoh sat. When complete silence had settled over the high place, then the figure on the throne signaled that the ceremony of the bride-choosing should commence.

  Khai was aware of his sister’s trembling where she stood close to him as the twenty girls were paraded one at a time before the Pharaoh, and as he chose his three new brides she shuddered anew and tried to make herself just a fraction smaller. But when the choosing was over and the brides-to-be had been led away into the pyramid, then events began to take a much less orthodox turn.

  First of all, the Black Guard turned out in its entirety to line the three precipitous rims of the plateau, all of them facing inward and forming a black wall to enclose the drama about to be enacted high over Asorbes. When they were in position, then Khasathut called for his Vizier, Anulep, to go to him. And here once again the assembled nobles were witnesses to an occurrence of extraordinary rarity, when Pharaoh impatiently cut short Anulep’s usual obsequious approach and drew him close to whisper in his ear. Such a thing was hitherto unknown and could only be portent of even stranger things to come.

  Now, as a ripple of speculation passed through the assembled personages, Anulep approached them and passed among them, seeking someone out. Straight to Harsin Ben Ibizin he came, and ignoring all others—governors, high officials and ambassadors alike—he ordered the aged architect to bring his family before the Pharaoh. Harsin Ben heard Anulep’s command as in an echoing tunnel, a dream, a nightmare. Some dreadful premonition told him that all was not well, far from it. In some sort of dreadful slow-motion he led out his family before Pharaoh and prostrated himself with them, then stood up to hear the God-king’s word; which came with its customary whoosh and roar:

  “Harsin Ben Ibizin—Grand Architect of the Pyramid—have you any idea why you before all others assembled here have been called before me?”

  Harsin Ben tried to speak but could not find his voice. In the end, he merely shook his head.

  “Ah! Perhaps you do know after all,” Pharaoh continued, “and the knowledge has dried up your throat. Very well, let me tell you. I am going to make an example of you.”

  “An . . . an example, Omnipotent One? I—”

  “An example, yes. To all others who might foolishly think to use their positions of trust and power against me. You are a traitor, Harsin Ben Ibizin. I, Pharaoh, accuse you!”

  Following immediately on his words, the Black Guard uttered a single concerted “Waugh!” and as one man took a pace forward.

  “You . . . you accuse, Lord?” Harsin Ben staggered as his family clung to him in terror. “But—”

  “Not only you, architect,” came the whoosh of Khasathut’s voice, “but also them that stand with you. Traitors all—with the sole exception of the boy, Khai. Only he has kept my ordinances faithfully.” The great jewelled head turned slowly to gaze upon the Vizier. “Anulep, bring out the architect’s drawings.”

  Harsin Ben gasped as he recognized his plans and saw them laid out on a table set before the Pharaoh. He took a pace forward, reaching out his nowpalsied hands.

  “Stay, Harsin Ben, and listen,” Khasathut commanded. “For these plans of yours are at fault, and as such they clearly show your treachery!”

  “At fault?” Harsin Ben gasped. “Omnipotent—”

  “If my tomb was finished according to these drawings,” Pharaoh whooshed and roared, “then it would not be capable of performing its final function: to channel sand down into the lower regions and bury that nethermost chamber where my immortal rema
ins will lie until the return of my fathers from the sky. And if that entombment were not utterly complete, how then might I expect to survive the centuries which may yet elapse before the second coming?”

  “Most High Lord, I—” the old man started to say, only to be cut short once again.

  “And if this mortal form which houses my immortal ka were not preserved, why, then the gods themselves might not have the power to bring about my resurrection! You know these things well enough, Harsin Ben, and yet you deliberately planned to sabotage my plans for immortality!”

  “Waugh!” came that awful cry from the throats of the Black Guard as they took a second pace forward.

  “No, Descended from the Sky, it’s a lie!” the old architect cried, breaking free of his fearful family and staggering forward. Anulep quickly placed himself between the Pharaoh and the old man, and the latter went down on his knees before him and clutched at his feet. “Vizier,” he cried, “tell the Pharaoh he is mistaken! Why, my plans were checked by my own son, Adhan, and he is a master of measurements and numbers!”

  “Silence!” roared Pharaoh. “You merely condemn yourself with your stuttered denials. Mistaken, am I? And your son Adhan the mathematician checked your plans, did he? Well then, come forward, Adhan, and gaze upon your father’s plans. Come, I command you.”

  Visibly trembling in every limb and white as chalk, Adhan went forward as ordered and stared at the plans on the small table. His eyes, at first puzzled and frightened, gradually grew disbelieving, then angry. Color came back to his cheeks as he gazed up into Khasathut’s mask-hidden eyes. “Pharaoh, I see the error—but it is not of my father’s doing—nor yet mine. These plans have been tampered with, and by an expert!”

  “Tampered with? And your father did not notice this . . . this forgery? And you, the great mathematician, you did not see it? Where have you both been, if not at work on my pyramid?”

  “The work was well known to us, Omnipotent One,” cried Adhan, “and we rarely needed to consult the plans. Be certain we would soon have discovered—”

  “Be silent!” Pharaoh whooshed. “You both lie . . . you and your father both. The plans were tampered with, indeed! Well, they are not alone in that, it appears. Can you deny that your sister, too, has been ‘tampered’ with?” His great jeweled arm rose up slowly until his hand pointed at Namisha where she hugged her mother and sobbed. “You girl, come forward.”

  Namisha took two paces forward, then crumpled in a faint.

  “See!” Pharaoh roared. “Her guilt is plain to see. Because of it, she cannot face me. She is defiled, Harsin Ben Ibizin, and I know the name of her defiler. It is Adhan!”

  Adhan’s mouth fell open where he stood at the table. He staggered and almost overturned the table at Khasathut’s feet. His mouth opened and closed like that of a landed fish. “Pharaoh,” he finally croaked, “these are lies—filthy lies!”

  “Is Pharaoh then a liar?” the great voice blared out.

  “Waugh!” roared the Black Guard, closing their ranks as they took a third step forward.

  “Not you, Pharaoh, no!” cried Harsin Ben, his voice stronger now and thick with fury. “Your informants are the liars. All of these accusations—they are all cruel and false. Who is it?” he cried, wheeling about to stare at the crowded dignitaries, at their death-white faces, the caverns of their gaping mouths. “Who is it that falsely discredits and destroys me?” He turned back to Pharaoh, struggled past Anulep and stood beside Adhan at the table. “Can you really believe, Pharaoh, that my son would seduce his own sister?”

  “I can believe—I do believe!” Pharaoh roared. “Yes, he has had incestuous relations with her, I have proof. There was a witness. I can produce him. The gods may mate with their own flesh, Harsin Ben, to keep the blood pure—but it is not for ordinary men to defile flesh which Pharaoh has named his own. I would have considered her for my bride, but now . . . ? You may be sure I would not accept any but the most damning evidence. Aye, and I have that evidence! I know the names of others who have had her, men I occasionally employ to test the eligibility of the women I chose for my brides. When these men approached your daughter, do you know what she did? She gave herself to them!”

  “Waugh!” came another roar from the Black Guard, and yet again the shuffle and stamp of their sandaled feet.

  Merayet, throwing herself down on the ground and slapping at her unconscious daughter’s face, cried, “Namisha, daughter, tell the Pharaoh he wrongs you. Tell him you are a good girl and pure. Say it is so!”

  “Corrupt!” Pharaoh cried, his voice a throbbing whistle of rage. “The whole family—all in this together.” He lifted his hands up high. “You have been tried, Harsin Ben, and you are found wanting. Let your punishment stand as an example to others who would practice treachery and deceit upon the Pharaoh!”

  “Waugh!” howled the Black Guard, and they swept across the plateau to engulf the Ibizins in a merciless crush of ebony bodies.

  VII

  HORROR ON HIGH

  As eight of the huge blacks moved directly to Pharaoh’s litter-throne and lifted it shoulder high, four more drew curving swords and took up positions about the elevated throne, facing outward and watching the remainder of their colleagues as they commenced to mete out preordained “punishments” to the Ibizin family.

  While Harsin Ben, Adhan and Khai were grabbed and held immobile—forced to look on in helpless horror as they squirmed in the grip of members of the Black Guard—so the rest of the huge Nubians pounced upon Merayet where she sprawled beside Namisha. They dragged her away from the girl and stripped both of them, tossing torn fragments of fine linens all about.

  When the women were completely naked, four of the blacks lifted Khai’s mother up horizontally and held her with her arms and legs outstretched, forming a human cross. Namisha was lifted into the same position; and without more ado, coldly and apparently without lust, the Black Guard commenced to rape both mother and daughter—one awake and screaming, the other oblivious of her body’s torment—relieving themselves into their spreadeagled bodies one after the other and from the standing position.

  The whole hideous process was remarkably quick and efficient, with each man working for mere seconds before withdrawing to be replaced by the next in line. Semen quickly formed small pools where it dripped from the suspended bodies of the brutalized women; and as the fifteenth or sixteenth massive black took his turn with Merayet, so she gave one final shriek and lost consciousness. At that, the four who held her sat her up in mid-air, their hands supporting her beneath knees and armpits, until her naked body formed the shape of a chair.

  They ran with her in that position to the east-facing rim of the plateau. There, at intervals along the rim, bronze measuring rods stuck up vertically from locating holes in the outer blocks of stone. Two of these had been filed needle sharp; and upon one of them, without pause, the blacks placed Merayet’s body, ramming her down onto the rod until she sat on the very lip of the plateau with her legs dangling over the side. The rod came out, red and glistening, from a position near the top of her spine.

  Namisha, too, was hurried over to the rim beside her mother, but as she was being lifted up above the second of the two sharpened rods, so she regained consciousness. One scream only she uttered, high and bubbling, as she was driven down onto that long, slender bronze fang. Her limbs flailed spastically for a split second as the rod’s point slid out above her left breast, and then she was still.

  Through all of this, the three male Ibizins had howled, wept and struggled like madmen in the grip of the huge Nubians. But now, summoning a crazed strength from some hitherto unsuspected well, Adhan threw off the men who held him and turning, drove a sandaled foot into the groin of one of them that held his father. As the guardsman doubled up in agonized amazement, Harsin Ben somehow struggled free of the other man and hurled himself toward Pharaoh.

  Adhan, snatching a spear from an astonished guardsman, went in the opposite direction. He rushed at the crowd of
terrified dignitaries, their wives and families, howling: “Where are you, traitor, fiend? Oh, I know you now. You, Imthod Haphenid, you and no other—you have done this thing! In order to advance your own lofty ambitions, you have destroyed us! Where are you, sickly slug of a man? For as heavenly Re is my witness—I’ll yet eat your rotten brain!”

  The officials, to this moment horrified spectators only and in no way personally involved, now found themselves trapped between a frothing maniac and the northern rim of the plateau. They scattered to left and right as Adhan drove through them, until Imthod was revealed where he had hidden behind them. Drained white and trembling, the former apprentice cringed on the very rim of eternity as Adhan aimed his spear.

  “Seduced my own sister, did I?” Adhan screamed. “ ‘Defiled’ her, did I? I did not. But I now know who did!” He drew back his spear arm to make his throw, but then—

  The spear was wrenched out of his hand from behind and a great black arm locked about his throat. He was dragged backward and hurled down onto the plateau’s roof. A crowd of furious Nubians poised their spears and swords over him.

  “No!” came the whoosh and roar of Pharaoh’s voice. “Spare him—but see that he never fathers children. The Ibizin line is forever cursed and must not be perpetuated!”

  Pinned down, Adhan could only shriek and froth at the mouth as his clothes were torn from him and one of the blacks took out a sharp, curved dagger. In another moment, his screams soared up the scale . . . then fragmented into sobbing and insane babbling as his captors, done with their grisly work, released him. On all fours, leaving a trail of blood, he crawled for the plateau’s rim.

  “No!” Pharaoh whooshed again. “He may not kill himself. Take him to the foot of the ramp and release him. Let him live . . . as a reminder.”

  As Adhan’s mutilated body was dragged away toward the ramp, Pharaoh turned his attention to Harsin Ben. The old architect had actually managed to fight his way to the cordon of Nubian guardsmen around Khasathut’s throne. There they had stopped him, gutting him as he vainly tried to overbalance the royal litter. Holding his entrails where they threatened to spill through his fingers, he now lay where he had fallen; and knowing that he was already a dead man, Harsin Ben gave vent to all his rage, agony and horror as he cursed Pharaoh with an unending stream of fevered maledictions.