Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  “No, father, it isn’t true.”

  “Listen to me, Sekhemar. There is an amulet around my neck. Other than you, it is the only thing of value I can lay claim to. Take it. Care for it.” He gasped, and coughed. Blood spattered around his lips. “Find your sister. She will know what to do with it.”

  He parted his father’s robe and found a thick, base-metal medallion hanging there from a simple chain of iron. Sekhemar knew the medallion well, for his father had always worn it, as long as he could remember. But it was a plain and worthless-looking thing, and he had never understood its value. He still did not.

  He looked back at his father’s face. Could he be delirious? “This is nothing of value, father, and I have no sister.”

  His father’s eyes glared at him, serious and alert. “I know of what I speak, Sekhemar. I sired her by another mother, before you were born. Find her—”

  “But father, how will I find her?”

  He looked back into his father’s eyes, just in time to see the light fading from them.

  He was gone.

  A single sob shook Sekhemar’s body, and he looked up at the room. The heat seared his bare skin, and his father’s hair was beginning to smolder. “This will be your funeral pyre, father. It is all I can give you.”

  He gently lowered his father’s head to the floor, then crawled back to the hidden door.

  Inside the passage, he was momentarily shielded from the worst of the heat, but that would not last. Feeling his way through the darkness, he found another opening and pulled open the wooden lid sealing it.

  A powerful stench emerged from the downward passage, its walls lined with still-cool stone. Iron rungs projected from the stone, forming a ladder down into the inky darkness. Sekhemar found them by touch and climbed down into the limitless darkness, into the safety of the sewers.

  He had never taken this path, but his father had described it to him, and he was sure he could find the way. He would follow the sewers, under the compound wall, out into the city that he had thus far seen only from a distance.

  Now he would have to find a way to survive there, on its streets, in its slums. He had nothing but his swords, the medallion, and the clothing on his back. Not a single coin of silver or crumb of bread.

  But somehow he would survive.

  He would find his unknown half sister and give her the medallion.

  Then he would find those responsible for his father’s death and make them all pay.

  But first he had to survive, and that would start with the next rise of the sun . . .

  1

  The Port of Khemi, Stygia—six years later

  THE MAN NOW known only as Anok Wati stood on the roof of the Paradise brothel, looking out across the great waterfront slum of Odji, which he called home. From here he could see the vast sweep of low buildings, most walled with mud and brick, many roofed only with awnings of hide, woven straw, or, for those who could afford it, colorful silks.

  The streets were crowded with people as well as many animals: horses, goats, pigs, camels, dogs. Everywhere there were cats, perched on windowsills, walking the tops of walls, prowling the garbage-strewn alleys among the feasting pigs. They protected the city’s granaries from rats and vermin.

  In one place, a broad boulevard down the hill, he could see the crowds part and the animals turn aside, moving warily around a spot as though parted by some hidden force.

  He knew there in the street, hidden from his view, lay one of the great constrictor snakes, warming itself on the sun-drenched cobblestone. The great serpents were sacred to the followers of Set, and it was forbidden, under penalty of death, to harm them. They roamed unmolested in the streets, feeding on whatever livestock or unwary humans fell within the grasp of their crushing coils. Fortunately, the number of the largest ones was small, and they were rarely ravenous enough to attack an adult human. Mainly their hunger was sated with goats, pigs, dogs, and the occasional sleeping child.

  Beyond all this lay the dark, towering skyline of the inner city, surrounded by a huge wall of ancient stone turned black as coal by some unknown growth. Ornate spikes and carvings covered the parapets, and great guard towers, topped with statuary of demons and long-forgotten gods, stood to warn away attackers.

  The walls were dwarfed by the towers within, great palaces and temples that rose up to meet the cloudless sky. They were tall only for the sake of intimidation and pride, some decorated with gold and carved marble, others hung with silks printed in magical and religious signs, and still others black as a kraken’s ink even in the full light of day. Tallest of all, was the Great Temple of Set, whose central tower rose black and perfect above the entire city, topped with a carved head, half-snake, half-human, its golden eyes terrible to behold.

  The city was a dark and fearful place, where only those of Stygian blood remained after dark, and during the day only servants and those on business were allowed. Guards checked all who entered, and only Stygians of noble blood were allowed to carry weapons.

  Beyond the slums, nestled at the base of the walls of the inner city, he could see the much lower, white-marble walls of Akhet, the enclave of foreigners. Within those walls, merchants, diplomats, and other welcomed foreigners of status lived. Within the enclave he could see the houses, small palaces, and rooming houses where short-term visitors of wealth stayed.

  The very sight of the place stung him, a persistent pain, like sand in his eye. Except on business, he had been back there only once in the last six years, to stand before the burned-out hulk of his former home. It still stood empty, its stone walls crumbling and bleached by the sun, its gardens turned to sand, its empty windows staring out like the eyes of a skull.

  Yet that day, years earlier, only he had dared look on the ruined compound. Everyone else averted their eyes from the place as though, on that night six years before, it had simply ceased to exist.

  Perhaps it had, just as Sekhemar, son of Brocas the trader, had ceased to exist that night.

  He shifted his stance on the roof so he could look down at the entrance to the brothel. A group of sailors, loud, drunk, and probably fresh from the boat, were strolling in the front door, beckoned from within its walls. He could see only the arms waving at the men from every window, slender and graceful, skin of every color from ivory to deepest black, long nails painted, decorated with bracelets and rings.

  Though he could not see them, he knew the women in the windows were brazenly naked, as was the custom among the whores of Stygia. He had bedded a few of them, but that was not the reason he knew them all by name. He was protector to this place, for which service he was given humble quarters in the building’s basement, a place he and his friends called “the Nest.”

  Time, he thought, is like the shifting desert sands. Nothing can resist it, and it changes everything. That which it cannot wear away it simply covers. It had once swallowed up Sekhemar and Brocas. Now it threatened to swallow Anok Wati.

  “Anok, it’s been too long.” The voice that addressed him was sweet as bells, but no longer the voice of the boyish girl who had found him living on the streets and brought him to this place. It was the full-blooded voice of a woman. As he watched her step off the ladder to join him on the roof, there was no longer any question of boyishness.

  “It’s barely been a cycle of the moon, Sheriti, but even that is too long without seeing your beauty.”

  Indeed, she was beautiful, and it was hard to imagine there was a time he hadn’t noticed. Had she changed so much, or had he? He took her in, as though for the first time. Sheriti’s hair was the color of honey and sunshine, her fair skin lightly browned by the unrelenting Stygian sun. Her movements were supple, graceful, her body lean but curved in the right places, curves accentuated by the colorful silks tied around her body. As she looked at him and smiled, her sapphire blue eyes twinkled with mischief. He knew that any of the sailors in the brothel below would have given a full voyage’s pay for one night in this exotic flower’s bed. And he knew, by her
mother’s oath, that such a thing would never happen.

  She stepped up and put her hands softly on his shoulders. “How have you been, brother Raven?” Then, unable to restrain herself, she embraced him tightly.

  He could smell the spicy, complex scent of galbanum in her hair, so different from the flowery fragrances preferred by the whores downstairs—and her mother.

  She held the embrace for a moment, and he returned it, reluctant to show too much enthusiasm lest it be taken the wrong way. Or so he told himself. Her embrace was more sisterly than passionate, but there were times Anok wished it was more. She’s meant for better things than the likes of street trash like me.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek and stepped back to regard him. “Every time I see you, Anok, I wonder if it will be the last. Times are changing, and I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

  His skin burned where her lips had touched, and he was glad the dark complexion he had inherited from his Stygian mother would hide his blush.

  “Step away, defiler! Lay not another hand on that innocent flesh!” The voice boomed, as a tall, dark figure vaulted the edge of the roof, sandaled feet landing heavily. He was a gaunt giant of a man, no bigger in girth than Anok but two heads taller, his skin nearly dark as charcoal. In his hand, he carried a mighty bow of Stygian design, and a leather quiver of arrows was slug across his naked back. He wore only a loincloth and a klaft—headcloth—over his long, black, curls.

  Anok reached down, putting a hand on the hilt of each of his two swords. His eyes narrowed, and he growled, “What business is it of yours, Kushite?”

  The man’s dangerous scowl dissolved into laughter. “I was talking to her, not you, fool!”

  Anok returned his grin. “I’m glad you came, Teferi, old friend. I need you like I need my right arm.”

  He chuckled, and it rumbled like thunder. “Half as much as other men, you mean, ‘two-bladed devil’?”

  “It’s just a saying, Teferi.” He patted the hilts of his twin swords, “Coined by lesser fighters than me.”

  Teferi only laughed.

  Sheriti stretched up to put a hand on Teferi’s shoulder and pulled him down to place a kiss on his cheek. “Welcome, brother Raven. I was afraid you would already be gone.”

  Teferi frowned at her words. “I would be, if I could secure passage north from this cursed land, but all my efforts have failed me. The lords of Stygia frown upon us of low birth leaving this place for better lands. They know that if one could do it, all would, and who would tend their fields, clean their houses, and fight their wars? But on my father’s tribe, I will find a way to leave here and see the world.”

  Anok nodded sympathetically. “Your misfortune is our gain, old friend.”

  Teferi’s smile returned as he looked down at Sheriti. “What of you, sister? How is the Temple of Scribes treating you?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard. Anok taught me so much, and without it I would never have been accepted as an apprentice. But at the temple, I feel like a simpleton.”

  Anok laughed. “I warned you, Sheriti. You were a fine student, but I’m a poor teacher. Though I have read and studied much on my own since, I never completed my education, and I was never meant to learn the skills of a scribe.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I was blessed to have any teacher at all in this place, Anok, much less one as good and patient as you. My mother always wished I would be able to leave this place for something better, but only you could make that hope real.”

  He smiled sadly. Sheriti’s success was both his triumph and his heartbreak. Stygia was a land tightly bound by matters of class and blood. There were few ways that a commoner, much less one from Odji, could cross into the upper classes. But scribes were highly valued in Stygian society, and a scribe’s skills were valued over any concerns about birth or upbringing.

  Anok had passed to her all his skills in reading, writing, and numbers, and it had been enough for her to be accepted as an apprentice scribe. But it also took her away from the Ravens, and put her on a path that would hopefully leave them and Odji behind.

  “Each time I call the Ravens,” said Anok, “I fear it will be the last. The day you two fail to return is the day I know the time of the Ravens is truly done.”

  An uncomfortable moment of silence passed between them. Finally, it was Sheriti who spoke. “Have you heard from Dejal?”

  Anok looked away, at the dark towers of the inner city. “Word was sent, but I’ve heard nothing. I haven’t seen him since before the last time the Styx flooded its banks. I fear he’s lost to his father’s cursed cult, one more loss for which Set owes me.”

  “Be careful, Anok,” said Teferi, his deep voice lowered nearly to a whisper, “in Stygia, even serpents have ears, and they’re everywhere.”

  “I don’t care who hears me, Teferi. If I have abandoned my thirst for revenge against the cult as suicidal foolishness, then I can at least speak my mind. Let them do to me what they will.”

  They both looked at him silently, and he knew the question they wished to ask. But they knew, from long experience, he would not tell them why he hated the cult so, or why he wanted vengeance. He’d never told any of them, even Sheriti, his true name, or how he’d found himself orphaned and lost on the streets of Odji.

  At first, he had withheld it for their safety. They had both helped him, saved his life really, in those early days, and he couldn’t be sure whether those who killed his father were still looking for him. If they were, they might well kill him and anyone who knew him.

  Later, when those concerns had passed, it seemed just as well to let the name of Sekhemar stay buried. His grief had never left him, and his anger against the Cult of Set remained eternal, but it no longer flowed as hot in his blood as it once had. Any plan for revenge would be suicide, and he kept telling himself that wasn’t what his father would have wanted.

  So why did it still trouble him so? Why did it still haunt his dreams and turn his stomach to knots every time he saw one of the robed priests of Set?

  Sheriti reached out and brushed his forearm softly with her fingers. “Poor Anok. Is your anger at the cult, or at Dejal?”

  “He’s chosen his path, and it’s no longer with us, Sheriti. Yes, I’m angry at him. The day he told us he was joining his father’s cult was the day the Ravens began to wither.”

  “You speak of me as though I’m dead, brother.”

  Shocked, Anok turned to see Dejal climbing the ladder.

  Beneath the hood of Dejal’s bloodred cult robes, his face was a white as chalk, the mark of a full-blooded white Stygian, and his eyes were black as onyx. He threw back the hood, revealing that his head was shaved, but for a black, braided ponytail that started at the crown of his head and hung to his thick neck. He stood on the edge of the roof and spread his hands. “As you can see, I’m right here.”

  Anok blinked. “Dejal” was all he could manage to say.

  Dejal smiled, but the warmth there seemed false. “Here we are, brothers—and sister—the last of the true Ravens, together again, for one last time. All others are but pretenders and hangers-on, and once we are gone, there will be none.”

  Sheriti broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. She smiled, stepped forward, took his hands, and looked him over. “These robes look strange on you, brother. Still, it’s good to see you.”

  But Anok’s voice was still chilly as he spoke. “You speak of the Ravens as though they’re already dead, Dejal. If that’s so, why did you come?”

  “For no other reason than to see old friends before my duties at the temple leave me no time.” He stepped closer to Anok and stood before him, arms crossed. “The Ravens are part of our past now, Anok. Accept it. We’re not children stealing on the streets anymore. Sheriti and Teferi have turned onto their own paths not because of me but because we’ve outgrown such pursuits.”

  “I never approved of stealing, Dejal, except to survive.”

  He laughed. “Nobel Anok. If not for your scru
ples, the Ravens would all be a good deal richer now, and perhaps we could be something more than a gang of street children whose small days of glory are past them. But to follow that path to adulthood we would have to learn to steal without hesitation, act without conscience, and kill without mercy, something you could never do.”

  “Leave then, Dejal. We don’t need you.”

  Dejal tilted his head and raised his open palms toward Anok. “You misunderstand me, brother. I come only out of concern, for you most of all. The rest of us have found some pursuit in life beyond the Ravens. You must as well, Anok.” He extended his right hand. “Until then, let us share one last adventure together, like old times.”

  Anok stared at the hand and considered. Dejal had saved his life, too. Not once, but many times. Though their relationship was often troubled, there had been a time when they were as close as any two real brothers could be. He finally took Dejal’s hand in his own and shook it. “For old times, then.”

  He turned to Teferi. “Did you speak with Rami?”

  Dejal wrinkled his nose. “You asked that cowardly little weasel to help? Recall what I said about hangers-on.”

  Anok frowned at him. “Rami has his talents. He may not be dependable, but he’s occasionally useful, and his face is less well known on the streets of Odji than any of ours. I thought it might be useful to send him ahead as a scout.”

  Teferi nodded. “He should already be at the Great Marketplace, looking for our pirates.”

  Sheriti frowned at Anok. “Pirates? Then we have a job? As it’s Festival night, I’d thought you’d invited us back to party the night through, for old times.”

  Anok considered the sun’s position in the sky; “There’s still time for both, sister. We’ve been hired to meet with a crew of pirates just landed and negotiate the purchase of an ancient artifact, some object of supposed mystic power, which I doubt.”