Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  “A little better than that. Before they knew what was happening, he had dashed past their swords, and poked one’s eye out. He smashed the other’s sword hand with his stick, so hard that his fingers shattered. They dropped their weapons and fled. Anok picked up their fallen weapons and took them as his own. In that moment, the two-bladed devil was born.

  “He escorted me back to my mother. She wanted to pay him, but I could see that he had no place to live. I begged her to let him stay in the old stables under the brothel. She agreed that he could stay, for one night only. But he made himself useful, and a day passed without his being asked to leave. And another. And another. Until one day, all thought of his leaving was forgotten.”

  “Until now,” said Teferi, looking around at the empty Nest.

  “Until now.” She nodded. “What of you, Teferi? Anok always said you saved him.”

  “Like you, sister, I remember it another way. We fought together that night down on the docks, and who can say who saved whom? But in offering me his friendship and the shelter of this place, it was Anok who truly saved me. I left my family, my many brothers and sisters, and fled to this city, because I knew I was one mouth too many to feed. As the oldest, it was my duty, but I left thinking that I would likely die on these cruel streets.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Preventing death and saving life, they are two different things. Anok may have prevented my death, and perhaps I also prevented his. But I left behind all I held dear. Without family, for me, there is no life. Anok gave me a new family. He gave me my life.” He looked away, deep in thought.

  “The tide will be in soon,” she said.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “I’m expected back at the temple by nightfall. It’s a long journey.”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  Neither of them moved.

  Together, they waited.

  8

  THE HUGE SPIDER approached its motionless prey, fangs dripping in anticipation of a long-overdue meal, but still cautious. It was impossible to know if it was thinking about its pack mates that this interloper on their desert, this soft, two-legged thing-with-a-stick had already killed, or if it even possessed the capacity to remember them. But some instinct told it that this helpless-looking creature, lying facedown in the sand, might still be a danger. On the other side of the fallen prey, the only other survivor of the pack watched warily, ready to leap in should the seemingly dead creature move. They were very careful.

  Sometimes instinct is wise.

  This time, not wise enough.

  Anok sensed their approach by sound rather than sight. His left arm was extended in front of him, half-buried, and his left hand gripped the shaft of the spear, just hidden beneath the surface of the sand. Closer. Closer.

  He heard the thing, so near, the rustling of the hairs on its legs, the clicking of its eager jaws, the soft hissing of its passage over the sand. Closer.

  Close enough!

  He scrambled into furious motion, rising to his feet and bringing the point of the spear up through the sand in an arch that intersected the soft middle of the vast spider’s belly. It plunged deep, and the monster loosed its death scream, as hot juices ran down to coat Anok’s hands. But still he charged forward, on his feet now, both hands on the shaft of the spear, lifting with all his strength.

  Behind him, the second spider charged after him, but that was part of Anok’s plan.

  Still he lifted the spear, the impaled spider, over his head, turning his body as he did. The spider passed zenith, then crashed down, hard, on the other side of him. The skewered spider slammed down on top of its surviving companion like the head of a hammer, smashing his armored body open like an egg.

  Anok let go of the spear and staggered backward, watching the twitching mass of legs and gore that had seconds ago nearly killed him. He fell back on the sand, still cool from the night’s chill, arms outspread, looking at the sky—ice—blue, swept with feathery clouds—and contemplating this miracle.

  These two pack spiders were the last. For three days the eight-legged demons had stalked him, and one by one, he had killed them. For three days he had lived on spider flesh, spider blood, and the occasional scorpion or cactus fruit that he had stumbled across. Every day, he thought he would surely die.

  And yet, each day, he lived. The pack grew weaker, and he grew—well, if not stronger, then more resolute, more determined to make their hunt as long and costly for them as possible.

  At last the business was done, and somehow, unexpectedly, he had lived to see it through.

  Which left him with a problem. He had never expected to live and, therefore, hadn’t thought about what he would do next. He was still hopelessly lost in the desert, still in danger of dying of exposure, or thirst, or starvation.

  What now?

  For the moment, he just had to live. Using the point of his spear, and being cautious of the spines, he sliced the spiders open, choking down what he could of their foul insides, sucking the bitter, thick juice from their hollow bodies. It wasn’t much, but it might sustain life a little longer.

  If their poison didn’t kill him first.

  The wind picked up, blowing sand into his face. If he continued to lie there, the sand would quickly swallow him alive. Whatever happened, he had to get up, had to move. He struggled to his feet, tying the end of his headcloth over his face to keep out the sand. He squinted and looked out across the desert. Already it was hard to see.

  He considered how quickly the sand could bury something.

  He’d come to this empty place for a reason. He had a mission that was still not complete. That much, at least, he could still do. His hand went to the medallion around his neck. He’d originally intended to toss it just a little ways into the shifting sand. How far into that sea of dunes had he come? Far enough. No matter what, this Scale of Set would never be seen by the eyes of man again. Even if he died out here, that would be some consolation.

  He pulled the medallion from around his neck. But as he did so, he was aware of a strange, ringing sound, a sound he’d last heard near the Black Pyramid! Could he have traveled three days in the desert, only to come full circle? It seemed entirely possible. He laughed at the irony and held the medallion tightly in his hand. He could follow the sound to find the Black Pyramid, even in the blowing wind. He was saved!

  The wind was howling now, and through his slitted eyelids, he could barely see through the whirling sand. But as the medallion hummed in his hand, he knew he wouldn’t have to. He began to walk, letting his ears be his guide.

  Occasionally the sound would grow weaker, and he would turn until it again increased in intensity. He staggered along for some time. With each step he felt his injuries, his fatigue, his sunburn, and his thirst all the more. Each time he topped a rise, he expected to find himself back on solid ground, to see the Black Pyramid looming out of the sand ahead.

  But it didn’t happen, and he began to wonder if he’d been wrong. The Scale had responded to the Black Pyramid when it was relatively close, far less than the distance he was sure he’d already walked. Was it responding to something else, perhaps some even greater magic? If so, he could be following its song to his doom.

  Yet he maintained hope. Perhaps it was leading him to some other refuge, some oasis, or some lost temple where he could at least find shelter.

  Onward he struggled, up one dune and down the next, not daring to take a longer route for fear of losing the invisible mystic trail he followed. He walked though the day. He couldn’t see the sky, or the sun, but the light grew dimmer, suggesting that it was nearly dusk.

  His throat was parched and felt lined with gravel. With each step, every muscle in his body screamed, but still he pressed on.

  Then something happened.

  He didn’t remember falling, didn’t remember passing out. He simply became aware that he lay facedown in the sand, with no idea of how he’d gotten there. He lifted his head, spit sand from his cracked lips
, and found himself looking straight into the razor-fanged face of a giant snake, its jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole without even trying.

  He recoiled before realizing that the huge eye sockets were empty, the polished white bone of the skull exposed, the terrifying teeth and fangs dry and harmless. This was indeed a huge snake, but it had been dead a very, very long time; skin and flesh gone, even the bones petrified.

  The vast skeleton lay on a shelf of rock jutting out of the sand, and though the rock appeared natural, it had been carved by human hands. A circle of inset hieroglyphs, ancient, and in writing completely unknown to Anok, surrounded the skeleton, as though meant, by some mystic means, to keep something out. Or perhaps, to keep the snake in.

  Though the wind still howled, it seemed to swirl around the rock, and no sand settled on its ancient, polished, surface. Whatever it was, the rock offered a shelter of sorts from the sandstorm, and slowly, painfully, he crawled forward, over the lip. If necessary, he would gladly curl up inside the coils of the skeleton and wait for the storm to pass.

  As he crawled onto the rock, his hand touched one of the hieroglyphs, a symbol that seemed to be the head of a man with a face on each side looking in different directions. As he did, his, fingers tingled. The glyph seemed to glow like an ember, and he felt an electric jolt flow up his arm, making his body convulse.

  He nearly fell, but caught himself, careful not to touch the ancient writing again. He lifted his head and caught sight of the snake’s skull. The eyes were on fire!

  Well, not on fire precisely. In each socket floated a swirling ball of glowing green flame. He felt a strange mix of fear and fascination at the sight, but he did not withdraw.

  “Sekhemar, son of Brocas!” The booming voice seemed to come from the snake, though it did not move. “Long have I waited for you to come!”

  Anok tried to talk, but at first, all that came out was a dry croak. Finally, he found his voice. “I—am Anok Wati.”

  “You are both, young warrior, and neither. You are the traveler who walks the narrow, middle path. You are the bridge between places and things. You are many, and yet you are only one.”

  He coughed weakly. “Is the last thing I’m to hear before I die: a snake spouting riddles?”

  The snake laughed a hissing laugh. “You have spirit. You know fear, but you do not let it control you. You will serve me well!”

  “I serve no one. I am Anok Wati of the Ravens, and I bow to no master, answer to no lord. Whoever you are, I will not serve you.”

  “Abandon your false pride. You will serve me. It is your duty by blood! Your father served me, and his father before him, and his father before him, so on, back to a time unrecorded but in my memory.”

  “Things change.”

  “Indeed, they do. You misunderstand, young warrior. I do not demand that you serve me. You will wish to serve me. You came to this wasteland for a purpose, did you not?”

  “I came to be rid of my father’s curse. I came to seek my own destiny.”

  “Your father’s legacy, not his curse. You carry with you one of the three Scales of Set, forged before the age of man to give Set dominion over all the serpents of the world.”

  Anok was alarmed. He had sought to be rid of the evil thing, not to give it to this unknown power. “I carry nothing.”

  “You lie. I cannot see it, but I sense it. It calls to me.”

  He clutched at the front of his tunic, his fingers wrapped around the medallion beneath. Even in its iron prison, it rang clearly. There was no sense in denying it.

  “It was given to be by my father. You will not have it. I will die first.”

  The snake chuckled. “You would die to protect what you so desperately sought to be rid of? I don’t want the Scale, but you must not cast it into the desert. It is your burden, as it was your father’s. Your destiny is already written. You have only to embrace it.”

  Is this an illusion? Has heat and thirst driven me mad? Anok hung his head and closed his eyes. He was too tired to argue, too tired to resist. Perhaps he would simply humor the voice for a while, and learn what he could. “If I am to serve you, what shall I call my master?”

  “I am called Parath, the lost God of Stygia, forgotten by all but a few, such as your father, and now yourself, born into my cult. Hear my tale.

  “Once, in the distant time before men, there were many gods in the world. I was friend to Set, and to Ibis. But Set and Ibis were jealous of each other, and each coveted to hold dominion over the green and fertile land of Stygia.

  “I tried to make a peace, to divide this land equally between them. But for my trouble, both turned on me. I was trapped in the body of one of Set’s great serpents, and Ibis, fooled by Set’s trickery, led me into the desert, stripped my bones of flesh, and exiled me here until the end of time. What happened next, I do not know. I slept for a thousand years, and when I awoke, the green land of Stygia was but a memory. Ibis had been driven from this land, and only the Cult of Set remained.

  “We are alike in that way. Set, or his cult, have wounded us both most terribly. Like you, I thirst for revenge. But neither of us can achieve it alone. I am weak from my long exile. My followers are few and scattered. I need your eyes and your hands. I need you to be my agent against the Cult of Set.”

  “Then find another. I want no part of magic or intrigue. I only want a simple life for myself.”

  Again the snake laughed. “There is nothing simple about your life, Anok Wati. Does a simple man need to keep two names in his heart? Does a simple man need to keep secrets locked away, like a dragon’s treasure? Does a simple man hide from his true nature? No matter what you do, the life you seek will never be yours. You will know only misfortune and discontent. The road I put ahead of you is hard, but know that all others are much worse.”

  “So you say, dead god, if that’s what you are. Why should I believe you?”

  “Look into your own heart and imagine yourself, an old man on your deathbed. Imagine never knowing who killed your father or the secrets he died to protect. Imagine knowing his death went unavenged and without meaning, that you wasted your life in denial. Will you die in peace, or will your spirit sit here on this rock with me until then end of time, wondering what might have been?”

  For just a moment a gust of wind cut across the rock, and the sand seemed to outline the unseen forms of countless men, some in dress strange and ancient, all looking at him. Anok’s eyes widened, as he desperately looked for someone familiar among those spectral faces.

  “No, Sekhemar, your father is not there. He died, his task incomplete, but knowing he had done his best and that he left his son to carry on that work. His spirit rests—if your failure does not drag him back from the great beyond.

  “What is your decision, Anok Wati? You see, I have waited a very long time for one such as you, ages beyond human reckoning, and I can wait a little more. If you are not my champion, then leave me to sleep and go die in the desert.”

  Anok sagged under the weight of his emotions. He thought back to the terrible moment when he’d looked for his father’s face among the lost spirits and knew what he had to do.

  “Then tell me, what must I do? I am only one man, and the Cult of Set rules all of Stygia.”

  “To defeat the serpent, you must use its own ways against it. The snake may kill with power, but it hunts by stealth. You must join the Cult of Set. Do whatever you must to gain their trust, learn their secrets, and strike at them from within.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You must. Only this way can you find the other Scales of Set. Oh yes, the cult seeks them as well. Only when all three are joined together is their true power manifest. Set had them made to give him dominion over serpents, but when he had that power, he carelessly cast them aside, thinking them useless. He did not know that, through that power, he had bound himself to the scales for all time. It is written that when the three are joined, they will not only give dominion over all the serpents of the Ea
rth, but over all Set’s followers as well.”

  “Then if I had the Scales—”

  “You could be a mighty king, Anok Wati. More than that, a god, with an army of followers willing to die in your name. You could take the Cult of Set, the power of Set, and make it your own. But if the cult should gain the Scales, then their power over this land will be absolute. They will crush any that will not join them, then march across the world in Set’s name until his coils wrap around all the oceans and engulf the land of man forever.”

  “I don’t want power.”

  “Fool. All want power, if only to deny it to others. Embrace your destiny, or let all you love fall to Set, if that is your wish.”

  His head pounded, and he felt the world swirling around him. Something, death or unconsciousness, threatened to engulf him. He barely cared which.

  “I—deny Set. If I live, I will do as you say.”

  “If you live. That is the question, and I cannot answer it.”

  “I will not beg for help.”

  “And I would not grant it if I could. You must be strong if you are to serve me. The ways of Set are seductive, and must be resisted at any cost. I will help you then, if I can, but if you do not live that long, then you would have failed anyway. Go, and if you are worthy, we will meet again.”

  Anok groaned. He could barely move. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  A gust of wind slapped him in the face with sand, blinding him momentarily. Darkness swirled around him, and he fought it with all his strength. Then it passed, but when he looked, the rock, the snake, were gone. There was nothing before him but swirling sand.

  He had no idea which way safety lay. He only knew it was not here. With agonizing slowness, he began to crawl.

  For a thousand years he crawled, until his limbs were made of fire, and his body was as dry as the sand beneath his palms. Then, the year after that, he fell, and let the shifting sands cradle him like a blanket.

  I tried.

  9

  “HE’S ALIVE.”

  The voice was very far away.