Crimson Sword Stalker (Demon Lord Book 10)

by Morgan Blayde

  I smiled back with insincerity. “Awfully kind of you.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it. I am not cruel in victory. You gave me more trouble than I expected, but that was my fault. I underestimating you.”

  “People do that—a lot. I hope we’re not going far. I’m holding on, but I expected a total collapse soon. If I wasn’t half-dragon, I’d be dead already.”

  “Not far, no.” I drifted at his side, my own shadow magic doing most of the supporting. He gazed back. Toward the mysterious person I couldn’t see?

  “You have lovely wings. It will be a shame to clip them, but caged birds have no use for such extravagant possessions.”

  I made no comment, focusing on pouring all my dragon magic into a frenzy of healing. I needed to bring myself back to full function fast enough to catch him off guard. Once, I would have taken a great deal of pride in hiding all pain. Now, pain and weakness were masks, weapons to exploit.

  We stepped to the threshold, a slab of black marble inset with gold hieroglyphics. The sides of the entrance indicated walls three-feet thick. My black mist obscured the writing underfoot as we entered. I felt my power drop to dregs. I choked on a gasp of pain, nearly blinded by its vicious surge. The black mist that had supported me vanished. The severed edges of my spine scraped as my shadow magic collapsed to that one spot, trying to keep me intact.

  Anubis gripped me harder, not letting me fall. His smile looked happier now. “I’ve got you, my friend. Just a little more, and you can rest, I promise.” He carried me in and to the side of the entrance. “And here we are.” He lowered me to a handwoven brown rug covered with two-dimensional, stylized, upright jackals walking in stiff angular poses. I saw a pillow and a glazed ceramic bowl.

  “You should thank me for the honor,” Anubis said. “Not just anybody gets to sit and beg for food in the Great Hall of Anubis. Yes, I realize I could set you at my table and serve you wine and rare delicacies, but I wouldn’t want to take away your pride in earning a living. Cripples need their self-respect, after all.”

  I’d have told him to go fuck his ear with a fireplace poker but the relocation and the draining away of my power barely allowed me to cling to consciousness. This seemed to annoy Anubis. He tapped a clawed sandal-wearing foot. I struggled to see. It appeared that crossing into the temple had changed him. The business suit had morphed into white linen drapings. A collar of gold glinted at his neck. Gold cuffs adorned his wrists.

  He beckoned to someone. Soft steps approached. The feet of a girl. She wore an ancient Egyptian tunic. Awkwardly, I stared up at her face, bracing myself on my forearms. I knew her. Zahra. My little Egyptian seer. She was supposed to be off with Young Colt and Julia.

  “Ah, you recognize the child! She who bares the eyes of Bastet. Now you know how I knew where and when to take you prisoner.”

  I glared at her. “Zahra, why? I was good to you.”

  Anubis sighed, a happy sound from him. “A lot of men have been good to her. She is from a timeline you destroyed. I saved her from being destroyed by bringing her to this World of Death. She made her living on her back as a cum bucket, yes, that is the term you perverts use. She serves my temple now. And you, too. She will be providing water for your use. This much, I can do for you.” His foot swept the floor. He toed the empty bowl. “Zahra, my little Blue Lotus, you’ve let his bowl run dry. You must fill this at once.”

  She said something in Egyptian I didn’t get at first until some magic in the temple echoed her words in English: “My apologies, Lord Anubis. I will fetch water at once.”

  “No need to fetch it. You are here, after all.”

  Anubis moved to her and placed his hands on her frail shoulders. She stared up into his face, fear darkening her eyes, making her tremble. He pulled her closer to me, pressed her down so she squatted over the bowl, and gave her one word of command: “Pee!”

  “I don’t know…if I can, my Lord.”

  His savage smile widened. “You can, for it is the will of your god. I am absolute in this place. My word is reality.”

  That’s right. He’d called this a World of Death. He meant that exactly: a Shinigami dimension, a place where death rules supreme as the ultimate—maybe the only—power. And this temple is more him than anywhere else. It explains why my power has deserted me.

  Zahra’s face blushed with embarrassment. She stared at the floor, but not at me. And I heard the tinkle of piss hitting the bowl. With my heightened dragon sense of smell, I noticed the ammonia scent.

  Anger surged up in me.

  This is all about humiliation as he demonstrates his power. The bastard thinks I’m going to drink her pee.

  Zahra finished and straightened, moving away from the bowl and piss splatters on the floor. Anubis petted her on the head. “That’s a good kitty.” His tone reminded me of one you’d use with a favorite pet. “Don’t forget, now, once a day I want that bowl filled. We mustn’t let our royal beggar suffer from neglect.”

  Still blushing, she said, “Yes, Master.”

  “You may go for now,” he said. “Later, I will need you to attend me in the royal baths.”

  She scurried away across the black marble floor. The air felt cold. I heard distant voices, and had an impression of people in the distance, and a green-lit fire pit, but my eyes weren’t working as well as I’d have liked, burning with sweat trickling down my face.

  “Aren’t you going to drink?” Anubis asked.

  I reached out, grabbed the bowl by the top edge, and flung the piss at his feet.

  Startled, he hopped backwards.

  I dropped the bowl and groaned out something I hoped was a laugh. “Go lick your ass, little doggie? We’ll play fetch later, if you’re a good boy.”

  His clenched fists were shadows in nimbuses of bile-green light, not quite bright enough to dazzle. Little, slow-motion curves of current snaked up his arms. His eyes now glowed the same color. He swung his fists toward me, opening them like poisonous flowers blooming in darkness.

  And here’s where he kills me.

  He stopped. The light-play dimmed and went away. “It’s not going to work. You can’t provoke me into giving you the blessed relief of death, not when I don’t know if unnatural laws will let me keep your freed soul. Heaven and Hell won’t have you, but you have ties to Fairy and to whatever gods the dragons worship. I’m not going to make it easy on you. Speaking of which; here, you’ll need this.”

  He made a tossing gesture. A tin cup materialized in thin air. It fell and clattered to a stop, bouncing onto my rug. A tin cup for a beggar. Anubis walked away, steps echoing.

  I sagged to the floor. Pain came in greater waves. It washed me away.

  I woke up being manhandled by servants, women in white linen with doggie heads. They were less than gentle as they used daggers to cut off buttons and slashed away my belt, stripped away my clothes. They removed the bandaging Anubis had put over my torn clothing. The external wounds had closed, and with luck, the internal bleeding had stopped.

  Though less than focused, I had enough presence of mind to take all my shadow tatts under my skin so they looked like simple bruises.

  The women backed away, eyes wary. They reached down and picked up wooden buckets with rope handles. The buckets were rocked in my direction. Pitched water splashed over me. I caught some in my open mouth and swallowed to dent my thirst. It was damn cold, like it had been drawn from a deep well, but my tough skin blunted the shock.

  One of the women said, “It is forbidden to stink in the presence of Anubis.”

  The other one flung a piece of sackcloth at me—traditional apparel of the lowly beggar. “Cover your shame, miserable worm. It is forbidden to offend the eyes of your god”

  I held up a middle finger. “Your god, not mine.”

  Bearing savage teeth, they retreated into the gloom.

  This may have been a temple and throne room but no one wasted money on lighting. Now that I’d slept off some of my pain and my magic had started mendin
g my spine, I could focus better. The far walls were lost in darkness, but out in the middle of the space, a fire pit lit the area with slow-motion fire, more of that bile-green serpentine stuff that Anubis like to throw around. In the sick light, a throne with a twelve-foot back of obsidian waited for use. Off to the side were cushions where the last of the party animals were collapsed in a drunken stupor. Little lap trays were scattered, a few knocked on their sides. Servants wandered, collecting empty dishes, hauling them toward the kitchen.

  How much time have I lost? Better question, does this temple shield me from Selene’s perceptions? Should I count on rescue at all?

  I turned my head toward the entrance, more a gap than a doorway. It showed Anubis had no expectation of attack. One change I noticed; a gray-green, pre-dawn light falling across the threshold and the marble floor. I wondered if the sun itself would be some muted, lichen color.

  My power was low, but not gone. Golden dragon magic clung to my spine, speeding regeneration. I could have dredged up some shadow, maybe enough for a thin dagger. I’d save that for extreme need. Also, my dragon wings were still attached. I wouldn’t get far, but I could always flap outside and make a run for it; but I had better use for the calcium of the wing struts. I concentrated on absorbing the bone to rebuild my spine, pulling in blood, letting the muscles and leathery skin wither and crumble to dust. This would speed up my recovery.

  I’d deprived Anubis of torturing me by cutting my wings off as he’d threatened. That was one of the reasons I’d risked death by provoking him with the thrown piss. In anger, he’d stormed off and forgotten he’d planned to clip me.

  One tiny victory at a time and I’ll win this campaign! Meanwhile, I’ll play along with him.

  I picked up the sackcloth and studied it as my wings sloughed away. What I held looked a lot like an oversized potato sack that someone had taken a knife to, cutting slits for my head and arms to poke out. It took a long time to get it on since moving my back made the pain a sharp stab instead of a constant throb.

  It was good I’d spent years using the wrong kind of dragon blood in my tattoos to invoke magic. The old, incredible pain this had caused desensitized me to my present suffering, otherwise, I’d have been banging my head into the floor to get relief.

  Funny how even my mistakes come back to aid me.

  There were two saving graces in my current situation: one; no fleas lived on the rug to gnaw on me. And two; none of Kain’s little ghost cameras were capturing this for posterity. I hoped. I stared around for flashes, listening for clicks. Nothing.

  I relaxed, and sat with pain for company, and watched the patch of light on the floor strengthen as dawn broke. The air warmed a degree or two. The intruding sunlight looked weak, watery, a moldy greenish-white. I had no idea where I was. This might be Osiris’ underworld beyond the Western Gate, or some dead reality claimed by Anubis who’d brought his servants here. I leaned toward this being a private world. If Anubis shared it with other gods, they’d have their monuments around, too. And their divinity would have weakened his sovereignty. This arrangement felt like a stepping stone to even more power. Anubis fed on death. He was death. If I were him, I’d plot to become the only god or goddess of death anywhere.

  To the victor go the spoils. And the all the souls.

  In a burst of insight, I saw why he didn’t want me to save the multiverse from the Flawless. After they passed, killing everything, such appalling death would make him whatever it was gods became when they leveled-up to something higher. Anubis wanted to be a mega-god. I stood in the way. That thought cheered me—for a time.

  TWENTY

  “Never underestimate what a real

  man can do with a bowl of piss.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  Carrying spiral ram-horn trumpets, two dog-headed servants in white loincloths passed me without a glance. They went out to the front courtyard where I couldn’t see. I could hear a sea-like sound, the murmur of many voices growing excited.

  The servants blew a series of shrill, flatulent notes.

  The voices died.

  The trumpeters returned, once more passing me without regard. Nothing interesting happened for a long while. Then visitors trickled in, most of them hurrying up toward the open expanse in front of the throne. There were armed guards there that formed them into ranks. I assumed, when the crowd grew big enough, Anubis would put in an appearance, issue a few orders, and hand out minor blessings.

  Three big bruisers that looked like ancient Nigerians showed up wearing leopard-skin loincloths and necklaces of crocodile teeth. They stopped just inside the door to study me like I was some rare beast. Their skin was oiled. Out on a thin limb, I assumed they were at least part-time wrestlers and maybe professional hunters as well. Their heads were shaved and glossy. Their eyes were as mean as their thick-lipped sneers. Their only purpose in entering the temple seemed to be to laugh at my weakness.

  Timid as a mouse, Zahra stole out of the temple gloom. She had the look of a movie heroine that expected vampires to pounce at any time. Another female servant of Anubis accompanied her. This dog-headed bitch watched Zahra’s every move.

  Losing their smiles, the three visitors bowed respectfully to the priestess.

  The bitch waved Zahra on. She wasn’t the girl I knew, but a ghost from a parallel time-line. By rescuing Zahra from the Old West, I’d destroyed her future, preventing it from happening. It had taken a god to step into that fading reality and not only pull Zahra out, but stabilize her in a universe where time forever hungered to unmake her. Off of this dead world, Zahra could unravel like bad knitting. Anubis had probably explained this to her because hopelessness deadened her eyes.

  That sight would have made Colt mad if he’d seen it but this Zahra had never met Colt. Or me before yesterday. We could mean nothing to her. Her loyalty would be with Anubis—without much choice. Appealing to her wouldn’t help. She’d betray me to stay alive. It was just that simple.

  And escaping to the outside world would do me no good if I left her behind; she had the eyes of Bastet, seer eyes. She’d lead Anubis straight to me, and he’d sip an iced lemonade from the back of a chariot, watching me crawl back over burning sand as his people poked me along with spears.

  Speaking of yellow beverages…

  The priestess pointed at my water bowl. “Go on, slave.”

  Zahra raised her eyes in appeal. “In front of…them?”

  The bitch thought a moment. “You have a point. Anubis has commanded that any may come to laugh at the fallen one, but more than that requires an offering.” She gestured at the tin cup. “Pick it up, child, and take your position.”

  Zahra paused a moment, as if wanting to argue. A last spark of defiance not quite crushed out in her. I think she realized this would be a steady thing, and she could do it, or get beaten first and still do it. The problem with theocracies is that few gods are worth serving.

  Zahra picked up the tin cup and held it out by its handle. She squatted over the water bowl, holding it in her hand, thrusting it under her linen tunic.

  One of the men frowned at Zahra, then the priestess. “Not much to see, the way she’s doing that.”

  “True.” The bitch-priestess walked behind Zahra, pulled her tunic up to the waist, and knotted the loose material to keep it from falling back. Zahra now squatted naked from the waist down, gone commando for all to see. “Any more objections?”

  The men grinned and shook their heads no. They gathered a few coins between them and dropped them into the tin cup where they clattered.

  Zahra blushed with shame.

  Anubis had said Zahra had been a child prostitute in the Old West. I didn’t buy that, knowing the Old West wasn’t as lawless, violent, and depraved as Hollywood liberals would have people believe. I think Anubis, too, had been projecting his personal standards onto others. That’s what gods and liberals do. Armed societies are always portrayed as uncivilized and unsafe when the truth is; such Golden Ages are man’s fre
est, noblest achievements in history. When guns are forcibly put away, societies enter an age of dangerous decay.

  In the Old West, an orphan child might be put in domestic service at a saloon or cat house but would not be pressed into prostitution until a woman. Even if the story Anubis told was true, Zahra would have had a private room. Public nudity would be a new depth in degradation for her.

  Several entering families paused to eye the scene, probably wondering what the hell they were seeing.

  The priestess glowered at them. “Pay for the show or go about your business.”

  They hurried on.

  Over analyzing the situation kept me from venting my anger at such abuse. I couldn’t let myself react; if this bothered me, Anubis would see that it happened more often than once a day.

  A god of death is as predictable as death.

  I guessed he’d done something godly to her bladder because she had no trouble pissing at will. She tinkled until the bowl was nearly full, then set it on the floor near my rug. Zahra turned to her keeper. “May I cover myself now?”

  A long pause followed as the bitch-priestess savored her power. “For now, but we shall want another show later, so don’t go far.”

  Had I given something away? Or had the doggy-headed bitch simply seen an opportunity to make some off-the-books cash?

  Zahra tugged her garment down and hurried away, sandaled feet slapping the stone floor. The priestess stopped her just long enough to take the tin cup and empty it of coins. She tossed the cup back to the floor, near my rug.

  One of the oiled idiots pointed at me. “The show isn’t over. He’s supposed to drink the girl’s nectar, right?”

  When will they learn?

  With a sigh, I reached out, picked up the bowl by the top rim, and brought it close to my lips. I gave them a dramatic pause. And tossed out the piss. The bitch wasn’t as nimble as Anubis had been; the pee splashed her linen tunic and feet. She gasped in outrage, jumping back way too late for it to help.