Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  The sun was high in the sky, offering no firm clue as to the direction back toward the sea. He was lost. But if he waited here, the sun would start to sink. He had only to follow it out of the desert, back toward the sea.

  He started to sit when a movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention.

  By the time he looked, it was gone.

  He did not sit.

  He waited, and watched.

  Then he saw them, a ragged line of low shapes, moving across the top of a dune.

  Pack spiders. They were hunting him.

  He couldn’t wait for the sun. He had to keep moving. It was his only hope.

  He turned to run, and in his fatigue, his sandal caught in the sand, one foot hooked over the other.

  He tripped.

  The spear flew out of his hand and from where he stood, there was nowhere to go but down.

  He rolled overhead first, a human wheel on a runaway chariot to oblivion. Faster, each revolution of his body throwing him higher into the air, each landing pounding him like a mallet.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

  But his body could react. Instinct twisted his hips, spread his feet apart. One foot caught in the sand, twisting it painfully, and he was tossed spinning through the air. He landed roughly on one shoulder, rolling sideways.

  He pushed out his arms and legs, flattened himself on his stomach, stopping his roll. Still, he slid down the huge dune, headfirst, accompanied by a river of sand. There was nothing to do but close his eyes, hold his position, and wait.

  He hit the bottom of the dune so fast that the sand felt like solid rock, slamming into the side of his face so hard that he saw stars. He stopped, but the sand kept coming, warm and soft. It covered him up to the small of his back, pinning his legs.

  Desperate for air, he coughed, hacking plugs of packed sand from his mouth and nose.

  He looked at the world sideways, a panorama of sand starting literally right under his nose.

  He was beaten.

  He couldn’t move. Too tired to go on.

  Let the spiders have him.

  Then something moved at the corner of his vision. Something big scuttling across the sand on many legs.

  That was fast.

  It took several moments for his befuddled mind to figure out his mistake. Not big. Close.

  A scorpion: fat, black, its shell iridescent in the sun.

  It scuttled across the sand on business of its own, uninterested in this huge interloper in its little world.

  At least it will live.

  He was struck by the injustice of it. A useless scorpion would live, and he would die. How was that fair?

  Before he knew it, his hand was moving, his arm, flailing, uncoordinated. His hand flopped down over the suddenly alarmed creature. He felt its needle-sharp stinger jab into the ball of his thumb, the hot rush of poison, so familiar that it was almost like an old friend.

  A guttural roar came from Anok’s throat, whether from pain or simply as a reminder that he still lived, he wasn’t sure.

  The scorpion struggled under his hand, claws nipping his flesh as it tried to dig its way free.

  His fingers tightened around it, and he dragged his hand back toward him. With agonizing deliberation, he reached out with his other hand, and pinched off the thing’s stinger, tossing it away.

  Still it struggled. He was like the spiders in that way. He couldn’t just wait for it to die.

  He pulled off the tail, brought the end of it to his cracked lips, and sucked out the juicy meat inside.

  It was tough and bitter as he chewed, but the precious few drops of moisture made it worthwhile. He turned his attention to the rest of the thing, ripping the still-squirming body in two, sucking out every drop of its body contents. It made him retch, but he managed to swallow it all.

  He tossed the shell, legs still twitching, aside and turned his attention to digging his own legs out. He could feel the scorpion venom burning its way up his arm, but that only helped him to clear his head. “Sweet poison,” he said. “Save me.”

  At last he was free of the sand. He struggled to his feet with new resolve and looked around. Several yards away, he could see the end of his spear sticking out of the dune, and went to recover it. It took all his strength to pull the half-buried shaft from the sand, but he did it.

  He stood.

  He was alive.

  He had a weapon.

  There was a noise, a skittering, so soft that he might have imagined it.

  But it was probably the spiders.

  He sneered and let a hissing breath out through his teeth. “You may take me,” he said, “but I won’t go easy!”

  7

  SHERITI STOOD IN the back corridor of the Paradise brothel, the crossroads of its three worlds. Behind her were the kitchens and private quarters of the servants and whores, where Sheriti had lived most of her young life. As would be expected of a place where only women dwelled, it was a place of practical comfort and decoration. Screens of cooling vines grew down to cover the large windows, colorful pottery from distant lands lined nooks in the walls, and the spicy scent of incense permeated the air.

  The decorations were simple, tasteful, and understated, almost austere in comparison to public parts of the building, as though the people living there wished to distance themselves as much as possible from that other life.

  In front of her was a heavy door made of imported oak, from beyond which could be heard music, boisterous voices, laughter, and the occasional moan of passion. Beyond it was the part of the brothel that the public saw, and where Sheriti was never allowed to venture during business hours. Even through the door, one could smell the perfume, imagine the unrestrained flash of the furnishings and decorations, every sight and smell calculated to intoxicate the senses and entice the customers to hand over their purses.

  It was this strange, forbidden place where her mother lived that had provided a livelihood for both of them all these years, in a world that usually did not value a good woman quite as much as a good horse or camel. It was the world that would always stand between them, for though Sheriti had never doubted her mother’s love, Kifi had always held her daughter at arm’s length.

  More so, since Sheriti had entered into womanhood. She had long ago extracted from Sheriti a vow of chastity so that she would never fall into the life in which her mother seemed trapped. What is this thing, mother, that you will not leave it, and cannot bear the idea of my entering it?

  Yet Kifi wished another life, any other life, for her daughter. She knew only a little of Sheriti’s adventures with the Ravens, but it was enough that she often expressed her fear. Still, she had never forbidden it or even spoken against it. “Better to die on the point of a sword than live as a whore,” was all she would say. And that was that.

  Sheriti could never understand, could never escape the feeling that without the burden of a daughter, her mother might long ago have found some other, better, life for herself. She’d longed for the day she could leave her mother’s care and cease to be a burden.

  And thus the third world of the Paradise brothel, the world to which she had escaped every chance she got. The Nest.

  She walked to the side of the hallway where the thick trapdoor waited, secured by iron latches yet equipped with a clever counterweight so that it could be raised with only a single finger. She opened the latches and lifted the door, looking down the narrow stair, its steps worn from years of constant use.

  It was dark and quiet below, so she went back to the kitchen and lit a candle to take with her. She stepped down into the familiar gloom.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced around at the cast-off furnishings, thinking of the many good times they’d all shared there over the years: the long talks, the Festival parties, the long sessions planning some adventure or another, the countless hours Anok had spent teaching her to read and write.

  She placed the candle on the table in the center of the room. It al
l seemed so empty, so lifeless, that part of her wanted to mourn.

  A tiny noise made her turn. She glanced over at the sleeping cubicle, and her heart skipped a beat as she noticed that the curtain over Anok’s corner cubicle was drawn. Had it been closed the last time she’d seen it? She couldn’t remember.

  Breathless, she stepped over and put her hand on the edge of the curtain, feeling the worn silk caress her hand. She hesitated, praying to her mother’s goddesses that she would find him sleeping inside. Then she pulled back the curtain.

  Her heart sank. His bed was rumpled and empty, but for a half-read scroll written in Aquilonian. A mouse nibbled at a crust of dry bread left on the table near his bed, oblivious to a stalking house snake slithering its way up the table leg. Sheriti waved her arms threateningly, and the mouse scampered away to safely, leaving the frustrated serpent to find its meal elsewhere.

  Sheriti sighed, leaning against the archway, watching the confused snake, searching deliberately for its long-gone prey. Then the outside door rattled.

  Somebody knocked.

  Could Anok, in anticipation of a prolonged absence, have pulled the hidden latch cord inside before leaving? She rushed to the door and threw it open without even checking the peephole.

  As soon as she released the latch, the door was shoved inward, making her stumble back in surprise. A matched pair of giants, swords drawn, pushed through the door, alert for danger. They found only Sheriti.

  A third, much smaller, figure followed them into the room. It was Wosret, lord of the White Scorpions. He looked around the room until he was satisfied that no one was hidden there. He turned his attention back to Sheriti.

  “I come looking for Anok Wati, harlot. Where is he?”

  “I’m no harlot, Lord Wosret, though there are worse things I could be.”

  His smile was cruel. “You Ravens always had spirit. As children, it was endearing. Now, it grows—tiresome.” The smile was instantly gone. “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  “Then when will he be back?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps never.”

  Wosret made a tiny gesture, hardly more than the movement of a finger. Instantly, one of his bodyguards swung his sword, so that its point hovered in the air, only a hand’s width from her throat.

  Wosret sneered. “Don’t trifle with me, girl. I made Anok a business proposition, and I expect an answer.”

  “I told you, he’s gone. Three days ago he walked into the desert without water or weapons.” She choked on what she tried to say next. She tried to tell herself it was only a deception, a ruse to get rid of Wosret, but it gave voice to the unspoken terror that had haunted her since dawn. “I think—he’s dead.”

  Wosret saw her emotion, and his response was to laugh. “Touching.” He laughed again, seeming to consider the idea. “Anok Wati, righteous son of Odji, the two-bladed devil—dead?” He turned and paced the room. “Not what I’d planned”—he chuckled—“but it would serve my purposes almost as well. I was looking forward to taming him, though I had little hope of success. Dead now, and with far less trouble for me, that would indeed serve.” He held his hand over the heat of the candle flame, watching the smoke curl through his spread fingers.

  Then he looked back to Sheriti. “But I won’t believe it, until I see his body with my own eyes. No more of this foolishness! I would leave him a message. Perhaps he’ll see it, if I have Kyky-aa and Kyky-nedjes here carve it into your flesh.”

  “Let her be,” a deep voice boomed from the open door. Teferi stepped inside, his sword casually drawn, as though it was more a statement than a threat. “The Paradise pays a fat tribute to you each month for its safety. You do nothing else to earn that tribute, so you could at least leave this place alone.”

  A look of mock surprise appeared on Wosret’s face. “I am paid tribute, indeed, for the safety of the whores of Paradise.” He made a show of looking Teferi up and down. “If you are a whore, you are indeed an ugly one.” He reached for his belt. “But perhaps I should try you anyway.”

  The huge brothers laughed, Sheriti forgotten, their swords no longer pointed in her direction, but instead at the new threat.

  Sheriti slipped closer to Wosret, and her hand casually slipped behind her back.

  “Leave him be!”

  Wosret glanced at her, and laughed. “And what would you do, little harlot? I hear you leave Odji to become a scribe. Match a pen against a sword. Which do you think would triumph?

  Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of the scribe’s dagger tucked into her belt. Honed to a razor’s edge, it was made to sharpen quill and reed pens, but it had other uses as well.

  Wosret gasped, eyes wide, as the point of the knife pressed against his groin.

  The twin bodyguards were slow to recognize the threat, and while they were still figuring it out she made her position clear.

  “Tell them not to move, lord, or before they can act, I will take from you your greatest treasure.” It was her turn to laugh. “And whatever happens, you will not be able to take it back!”

  Wosret looked desperately at Teferi. “You let this woman fight your battles for you?”

  He smiled. “Are we fighting here? I’m not fighting. Sheriti is simply showing you her new blade. If I am to understand, you came to deliver a message. It is delivered. Trust that if we ever see Anok Wati again, he will quickly hear of this.” His smile vanished, his face cold. “And we will see what happens then.”

  Furious, but outwitted, Wosret signaled the bodyguards, who sheathed their swords and marched outside under Teferi’s intense scrutiny.

  Teferi glanced back at Wosret. “To be clear, we Ravens do not fight each other’s battles. We all fight the same battle. That is what makes us strong. You would be wise to remember it.”

  Sheriti withdrew her knife, holding the blade up for Wosret to see, slowly turning it so that the glint of the polished steel shone in his eyes.

  He turned away with a growl and stomped toward the door. “I let you live to deliver my message. But know, this matter is not finished. We will speak again, at a time and place of my choosing, and you will not like it.”

  Teferi only laughed.

  Then Wosret was gone.

  Teferi closed the door, making sure it was not only latched, but also bolted. Then he turned to Sheriti.

  She reached up to put her arms around his neck, and he bent to accommodate her embrace. Then she stepped back and frowned at him. “You shouldn’t have angered him so.”

  Teferi smiled, just a little. “Me? You were the one who took a knife to his manhood.”

  She was not amused. “You know what I mean, Teferi. He’s a powerful man. He can crush us if it suits him.”

  “It won’t. In truth, the brothel’s tribute is too important to him. In any case, he won’t dare touch you in the Temple of Scribes, and I”—he grinned—“had the courage of one-who-is-about-to-be-gone.”

  Her eyes widened. “You found passage?”

  “I’m a hand on a merchantman bound for Argos and points beyond. Though in truth, I suspect they hired me more for my sword arm than my nonexistent sailing skills. There are many pirates between here and the Tybor.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “They sail with the rising tide, a few hours hence.”

  Her heart strained with conflicting emotions. So long had her bother Teferi dreamed of leaving this cursed land behind, but why did it have to be now? And she was expected back at the Temple by nightfall. What if Anok returned, and they weren’t here?

  What if he didn’t return?

  Sheriti sat heavily on a worn bench covered with scarlet silk. She looked at the door and thought again of Wosret’s threats. “This,” she said sadly, “is the fate to which we abandon our brother. If he lies dead in the desert, it is because we have driven him there.”

  Teferi tried, not entirely successfully, to hide his own concern. “He’s fine, Sheriti. He is on Usafiri to find his purpose. It’s a poor lif
e’s journey that can be done in a single day.”

  “It’s been three days. No weapons, no water. I fear the worst. How can I not?”

  “He is Anok Wati. He is my brother. I must trust that Jangwa will answer my prayers and provide what he needs for his journey.”

  “Nobody,” she said sadly, as though telling some sad truth to a child, “believes in your Kushite gods, brother. Least of all Anok.”

  Teferi looked pained. He sat on the bench next to her, his hands clasped together tightly. He was silent for a time. “I believe,” he said finally. “That will have to be enough.”

  They were quiet for a time.

  Finally, Sheriti spoke. “What if he does return from the desert? What then? We won’t even be here. Who will be left for him? Rami? Rami is a friend of convenience, not a true Raven. It seems wrong that he should be the last of our lot. What will Anok do?”

  “He is Anok Wati. He will survive.”

  “He is our brother, and his battle is not done. Why are we not fighting it with him? Were your words to Wosret as empty as his heart?”

  Teferi had no answer to that. He looked away, as though ashamed. Then he said, “We go to do what Anok has always wanted for us. We go because it is what he wants us to do. He has always looked out for our interests. He wishes to save us from Odji, from foul Stygia itself.”

  “Then who will save him, Teferi? Who will save him? He says that Dejal has betrayed him, but are we any better?” She considered. “Did Anok ever tell you how we met?”

  “He says you saved his life. You found him in the Great Market and brought him here. You gave him a place to live, and a purpose.”

  She laughed. “I know he always says that. But he saved me. My mother and I were in the Great Market, true, but we became separated, and I found myself alone in an alley with two bandits. I might never have left that alley, if Anok hadn’t charged from the shadows, roaring like an angry bull.” She laughed at the memory, but her eyes grew misty.

  “They had swords, and he had nothing. Two sticks, found on the ground somewhere, one in each hand. Two sticks against two men with swords.”

  Teferi smiled. “The odds were even, then?”