Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  Captain Danyo gestured him away from the door. “There are other taverns.”

  Anok nodded. “There are some open all night, but you’ll have a hard time finding one that will open the door this late on Festival night.”

  Danyo snorted. “Festival! The barkeep tried to spook us with his wild stories of Festival. Old woman’s tales! We’re not afraid.”

  Teferi stepped in close behind Anok’s right shoulder, bow in hand. “You should be. How can you be pirates on this coast and not know?”

  Danyo laughed. “Giant snakes. Sacrificial altars. By morning, they say, the sewers run red with blood, and the plume of scarlet can be seen well out into the open sea. Foolishness!”

  “Nobody stays on the streets at night and lives, friend,” Anok jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Dejal’s red robes, “except for his lot.”

  Dejal flashed an evil-looking grin, and Anok had to hide his amusement. For a moment, it was as though his mischievous childhood companion were back.

  “Once we’ve made this transaction, we’ll help you find a safe place to wait out the night. No additional charge.”

  The captain looked skeptical. “You said something about rubies.”

  “You said something about an item.” Anok hadn’t been told what the item was, only that it was small, mystical, and of great value, but only to one who knew what it was and how to use it.

  The captain reached under his chest plate and brought out a folded piece of oilcloth about the size of his spread hand. He unwrapped it, and Anok saw the glitter of gold. The object was flat and inscribed with ornate designs, but Anok couldn’t see it well from where he was.

  He reached under his tunic and pulled out the bag of gems. It was considerably less full than when they’d begun their journey. While they’d been walking, he’d transferred many of the gems to several hidden pockets inside his clothing, giving him more room to negotiate the price. He rattled the bag. “Twenty blood rubies, each perfect and big as the one you saw. Each worth a hundred gold pieces.”

  The pirate captain’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his beard. “Lost two good men in gaining this trinket.” He pretended to consider for a minute, but Anok knew he already had a figure in mind. “I couldn’t take less than fifty.”

  Men died getting this small thing? Anok didn’t like the sound of that, or what it said about who else might be looking for it. The sooner he handed it over to their mysterious employer, the better. But to do that, he’d have to close the deal.

  Anok studied the captain’s face carefully in the gloom. He was about to take a calculated chance that could well cause offense. But there was always a great deal of turnover in pirate crews, and often enough hands were conveniently “lost” when they had overstayed their welcome. “A high price, even for two men, captain. Well then, the question is, did you like them—and did they eat much?”

  The captain’s bushy eyebrows went up, and his expression was grave. Then his belly convulsed, and a chuckled escaped his lips, turning into laughter. “Well, I suppose you have me there, Anok of the Ravens. I don’t miss them that much. But I will have to seek replacements before leaving port. Cost of doing business, eh?”

  “Twenty-five,” he returned.

  “I’ve come a long way just to be insulted. Forty, and don’t test me farther than that.”

  “Thirty, and that’s my final offer. That’s all I’ve got in fact.” It was a lie of course, but the negotiating was eating all his profit. He reached into two of the hidden pockets, removing five gems from each, and dropped them into the bag with the others. Two other pockets were untouched.

  “I don’t know why I’m even considering this, but thirty-five.”

  Anok’s eyes narrowed, and he tightened his jaw. “I said, thirty.”

  The tension in the air was thick as the fog. Around Anok, friend and foe slowly reached for their weapons.

  “Thirty,” said the captain. It wasn’t a reply. It was like he was hefting the word to test its weight. “Thirty.” He growled softly, then sighed. “Then it be—”

  His words were cut off by a sound from behind Anok, a deep note played on the strings, melding into an angry-hornet buzz that ripped past his ear and ended in a wet thok as the arrowhead passed completely through the captain’s throat and emerged through the back of his spine. He flailed, eyes wide, gasped once, and dropped like a broken toy onto the dusty street, twitching in a growing pool of black blood.

  Everyone was too surprised to act immediately. It took a moment for Anok to look behind him to see who had taken the shot. That day, he and Sheriti were the only ones who had not brought their bows, but as he turned back, the other three all had theirs slung over their shoulders. Had someone moved quickly to hide their actions, or had the shot come from elsewhere behind them? He was suddenly alert for ambush.

  A tall Zingaran, whom Anok had pegged as the first mate, finally stepped forward and pulled his cutlass, the curved blade glinting blue against the fog. “Treachery! Kill them all!”

  Anok pulled his right sword and engaged the Zingaran. The arming swords he carried didn’t have either the reach or power of a pirate’s cutlass, but he had confidence in his skill and speed, as well as the power of his right arm. He’d hold the second sword in reserve until he’d seen what the pirates were made of.

  Past the first mate’s shoulder, he noticed that one of the most formidable pirates had taken Sheriti prisoner, a fact that caused him little alarm. She squealed and kicked her feet in the air as he held his arm around her throat, but he saw her right hand slip into the slit at the side of her skirt.

  Anok was quickly on the defensive, as the pirate proved to be a powerful, if not swift, foe. As he fended off blow after pounding blow, he allowed himself to be maneuvered in with his right arm close to the wall of the tavern, a position that should have put him at a disadvantage.

  Anok made a momentary show of looking weak, then tossed his sword from his right hand to his left and went on the offensive.

  The pirate was taken by surprise. Off-balance and uncertain how to respond, he stepped back. Anok followed, pressing in close so his shorter sword worked to his advantage. Then he reached across with his right hand and drew the other sword, underhand, from its scabbard.

  The heavy bronze pommel smashed into the pirate’s sword hand. He heard bones crack, and the cutlass went flying.

  He plunged the left sword forward, feeling the meaty crunch as it plunged deep into the pirate’s belly. The man’s eyes went wide with shock, then wider as Anok jerked the blade upward to finish the kill.

  Anok kicked the man backward off his sword before it could become entangled in the dead mate’s fall.

  He looked up in time to see Sheriti, still held by the same pirate, swing her body wide to her left side, depending on the grip around her neck to support her weight. The stiletto held in her right fist plunged down behind her to bury itself nearly to the hilt in the unfortunate man’s groin.

  He dropped her and staggered back, wailing, but Sheriti spun and pulled a second stiletto from the hidden scabbard strapped to her left hip under her skirt. She dashed forward, plunged it deep through the pirate’s left eye, into his brain, and pulled it back just as quickly. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

  She dashed back in to recover the first weapon, and stood, a bloody blade in each hand, a streak of blood across the front of her silk dress, a snarl of defiance on her red lips.

  He saw Teferi fighting off two of the pirates, and was going to help, when arrows began to sprout from the men’s shoulders. He glanced over to see Rami firing from atop a nearby fountain; a dead pirate slumped headfirst into the pool at his feet, slowly turning the water dark with his blood.

  Nearby, Dejal was more than holding his own against another pirate.

  Five down.

  He heard a noise behind him and spun, bringing up both swords as he stepped inside a clumsy swing by a pirate who had hoped to surprise him.

  The move was lightnin
g fast and instinctive as he pushed the twin swords, crossed at the hilt, against the pirate’s throat.

  With an animal roar, Anok yanked them apart in a powerful slashing motion, slicing through muscle, tendon, and finally slipping between neck bones to slice the head off cleanly.

  The head spun in the air for a moment, and hot blood splattered Anok like summer rain.

  Another movement behind him.

  Heart pounding from the fresh kill, he spun, right arm raised, barely in time to deflect the cutlass flashing for his head.

  The barbarian woman bore down on him fearlessly, a look of grim determination on her angular features.

  She was fast, and nearly as strong of arm as the first mate had been. Even with two blades for defense, he found himself stepping back, again and again. Her blade slashed through the air, never striking from the same angle twice. Anok had fought better, but not many.

  Then, to his surprise, she began to talk. “The arrow—was that your plan all along?”

  “I neither want nor beg favor, barbarian!”

  Blades flashed, and the ringing of steel was constant.

  “Nor do I offer, townsman!” Her Stygian came with a strong accent. “If you have honor, say it!”

  Still he was pushed back, her attacks had not let up at all. Steel clashed angrily against steel, like temple chimes in a gale wind. “I came to buy a thing—at a fair price.” Another step back, but not so far this time. “That’s all.”

  Her advance stopped. She seemed to make a decision.

  He responded to her hesitation with a counterattack, but she ducked under his sword, which plunged into the chest of a surprised pirate who charged in behind her. The pirate gasped, managing a flailing swing of his cutlass.

  Anok easily struck it aside with his remaining sword, and seeing that the wound was not immediately fatal, slit the man’s throat with his counterstroke, yanked the embedded sword free, and quickly disarmed him as a precaution.

  Unnecessary, as it turned out. The man fell, and Anok looked for the barbarian woman. It took him a moment, as his eye was drawn to those still fighting.

  She was kneeling next to the captain’s corpse, not out of concern. She clutched the scrap of oilcloth containing the artifact. As she did, the oilcloth fell away, revealing its contents: a simple, iron medallion that bore an outline of a crescent moon and two stars.

  Anok gasped as he recognized the thing, his hand swinging up to clutch at his chest. He had seen such a medallion before—he owned it—and he knew that he could not let this twin escape his grasp.

  The barbarian met his eyes for a moment and, grinning, shoved the parcel between her ample bosoms. A wave of her sword, and she was gone, heading across the market at a fast trot.

  It was, he noticed suddenly, very dark.

  Then he heard the horns, from every tower of the inner city, the deep and eerie notes that sounded the beginning of Festival.

  “Get to safety,” he yelled to the others. “I’m going after the woman! I’ll find you, by morning if I must!”

  Then he was after her, running swiftly into the darkness.

  3

  HE MOVED QUICKLY across the empty marketplace, barely able to see the walls of the nearest buildings. Though he didn’t see which way the woman had gone, he had seen her general direction, and though she probably didn’t know it, that direction offered few outlets. He had a good chance of finding her.

  The sound of echoing footsteps and voices caused him to turn. Down a street to his right, he saw moving torches, and in their light, a group of robed and hooded figures.

  Acolytes of Set!

  He quickly moved past the street, so that he could no longer see the acolytes, and with luck, they had not seen him. Still, there would be many more on the streets, and they could lie in wait around any turn. He wondered if the woman had any more understanding of the current danger than her captain had.

  Festival was a night of sacrifice to Set, when the cult offered blood to their evil serpent god. That blood could come from any source: slaves, imprisoned criminals, convicted heretics, prisoners of war, the rare virgin (and there were naturally precious few of those in Stygia), and anyone ignorant enough, foolish enough, or unfortunate enough to be caught on the streets after dark.

  The locals knew to lock and shutter themselves away, to drink and sing and party, and to deny the horrors going on outside. But foreign visitors sometimes didn’t know, or didn’t believe the warnings they were given, and made ripe pickings for the acolytes.

  The woman was a strong fighter, true, but the acolytes would simply overwhelm her with numbers, or stand off at a distance and disable her with a well-placed arrow.

  When he had last seen the barbarian woman, she had been moving fast, but she might not be expecting pursuit this far into her flight. Doubtless she was several streets ahead, well lost in the thickening fog and gloom.

  But she didn’t know the streets like Anok did. Even in the fog, he knew every turn, doorway, and alley, and though the path ahead of her seemed open, all the streets for some distance either dead-ended, or fed back into this one. He could count on her getting lost and doubling back at least once, so he might be able to catch up with her at his leisure. The trick was not to miss her entirely in the fog and not run headlong into a band of bloodthirsty acolytes.

  He slowed. He could barely see now, but for those that knew where to find them, hidden but distinct markings were carved in the stones at the corner of each building. Years before, a blind beggar had shown him the secret in return for two pieces of silver, perhaps the best coins he’d ever spent.

  His soft sandals allowed him to move along the bricks and cobbles in near silence, but the barbarian woman was wearing worn boots of heavy leather. He paused periodically, straining his ears into the darkness, rather than his eyes.

  There!

  At the third major turn, he heard a few muffled footsteps. The street was home to bakers, and he could smell the lingering yeast, flour, and woodsmoke of the day’s work. It was also a dead end.

  He stepped back into a doorway, looked into the gloom to his left, waiting for some sound or sight of her inevitable passage.

  When the sound came, it was to his right, not one set of footsteps, but many.

  Then the light of torches.

  Followers of Set!

  He was no coward, but only a fool would fight such numbers unnecessarily. He stepped as far back into the shadows of the doorway as he could, sliding down into a tight crouch to hide even his shape.

  The fog seemed to brighten, then glow with flickering light.

  He saw the torches, the dark, rippling shapes of their robes, right in front of him, at least half a dozen large men. They passed so close in front of his hiding place that he could smell the temple incense on their clothing, the perfumed ceremonial oils in their hair. If one so much as turned a head in his direction, he was doomed.

  But none did. He listened as their footsteps became more distant.

  Then the shouts.

  The feminine cry of defiance.

  The echoing clash of blades in the narrow street.

  They had found her.

  He took a deep, long-delayed, breath. I should leave her to her fate.

  She fought well, that one, but against so many, she wouldn’t last long.

  Without help.

  She has our prize. I can’t let it fall to the temple.

  With an annoyed grunt, he sprang from his hiding place, running toward the sounds of battle. When had the thing become worth dying for?

  It was a foolish question. The moment he recognized the artifact, he would have given any price to have it.

  As he saw the light of the torches, he pulled his swords and plunged into the fray.

  The acolytes had divided their forces, half hanging back to hold the torches and prevent her escape, the others moving in to engage her directly.

  One of them had already fallen, though he wasn’t dead. He screamed and flailed on the
ground, his robes flopping around like a rag with mouse trapped inside.

  The woman stood in the middle of them, fierce and defiant, blood—whose he couldn’t tell—splattered across her face and body. She held her sword at the ready for the next acolyte to step within range.

  But seeing their fallen fellow, the others were in no hurry. They could wait for weakness or inattention. Perhaps they would even wait for reinforcements to be attracted by the noise. With a little patience, they probably could have killed her easily enough, but they wanted to take her alive.

  They wanted a living sacrifice.

  Then Anok struck, and everything changed in a second.

  They weren’t expecting an attack from behind. He stepped in behind one of the torchbearers, slitting his throat, then shoving him forward into the shocked swordsmen.

  Seeing an opening, the woman stabbed her sword into the back of one of the distracted men, then jumped back out of range of a counterattack by another.

  In fear and confusion, the acolytes’ organized circle dissolved. Torches were dropped as priests struggled to draw swords from under their robes, and Anok saw a large opening in the line behind the woman.

  He feigned a charging attack on the men, but slipped through their ranks while barely touching blades with them. He slipped one sword back into its scabbard and grabbed the woman’s arm. They were both running before he had time to speak. “Come with me, and we both may live out the night!”

  She grunted in agreement, and he released her arm, trusting her to keep up with him on her own. Confusion had bought them precious seconds but not much more. In a matter of yards, the light of the torches began to fade into the fog behind them, and soon they were gone.

  Looking back, he could barely see the woman, but he’d heard tales that some of the barbarian northmen had unusually keen senses. Perhaps she could see better, but if not, she would simply have to follow him by sound as much as sight.

  He rounded a corner into an alley, then stopped, his back against the cool brick of the wall. His fingers brushed the glyphs pressed into the clay of one brick just below waist level, the crane, the scarab, and the ankh. They were leaving the street of bakers, and headed for the district favored by smiths, potters, and brickmakers. Like the bakers, they depended on large ovens and kilns and drew on the same scarce supply of burnable fuel.