Scion of the Serpent

by J. Steven York

  “Just as well, Anok. Your blood is too hot for a life of pens and parchment.” She took a step closer and reached out to touch him, her fingertips gliding down the hairs on his arm, making his skin tingle.

  Teferi stood back, watching the scene from a safe distance.

  Sheriti seemed more bemused than angry. “What does she mean by that, Anok?”

  Fallon ignored her. “I have a business proposition. Leave this stinking city with me.”

  Anok felt more trapped than he would have if he’d been surrounded by a dozen warriors. “You’re leaving?” He tried to sound neither too interested nor too grateful.

  “I’ve learned of certain goods, compact and easily transported, that can be obtained cheaply at the source and sold at a huge profit in the lands to the north.”

  Anok was surprised. “Trade?”

  Fallon crossed her arms over her ample chest and frowned. “I’m a proud Cimmerian. You think that, simply because I am a barbarian, I can find no better way to treasure than cutting throats and cracking heads?”

  Anok blinked. “Well—yes, that is pretty much what I . . .”

  “From what I’ve seen, cutting throats, usually from behind, and merely as a shortcut to riches—that’s more the way of so-called civilized men. Take what you can and kill when you must is my code.” She patted the hilt of her sword for emphasis. “I propose a trading expedition, true. But one more filled with peril than toil, for I have a thirst for the former and a distaste for the latter.” She grinned.

  “Trade,” he repeated carefully, struggling to hide his skepticism.

  “Dangerous trade,” she insisted.

  “Trade in what?”

  The question seemed to stop her. She stared. Blinked. Stared once more. Finally, she said, “You’re a man. I doubt you would understand.”

  Sheriti couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh.

  “What do you mean I wouldn’t understand? You expect me to go with you on some expedition I can’t even understand?” The day wasn’t going at all as planned.

  Fallon considered. “Well,” she said, forming her word carefully, as though speaking with a child, “the poisoners here offer a potion, which when taken, will keep a woman from becoming great with child, no matter how many times she lies with a man.”

  Sheriti was laughing even harder.

  Fallon shot her an annoyed glance but said nothing.

  Even Anok had to smile. “I’ve lived half my life under a brothel, Fallon. I understand far more of ‘women’s business’ than you’d think. I know the potion well. The Paradise buys it by the jugful.”

  Sheriti stepped past her into the poisoner’s stall, placed a gold coin on the table, and pointed. The poisoner handed her a small, round bottle with a narrow neck. The stopper was sealed with red wax. She returned and showed the bottle to Fallon. “This is what you want.” Then her voice turned mocking. “Oh, yes,” she said, “the peril.”

  Fallon looked mightily annoyed. “I am a barbarian. Do not think me stupid. I have thought my plan through. You paid gold for that little bottle. The price here is too high. I have learned that this potion requires certain plants that grow along the borders of Darfar and Kush, and that it is distilled and mixed in Kheshatta.”

  “The city of wizards,” said Teferi, edging a little closer. “A bad place.”

  It was Fallon’s turn to laugh. “And this isn’t?”

  Anok nodded. “Yes, but Kheshatta is the center of much of the poisoners’ trade. Many evil brews and extracts are made there in great secrecy and shipped all over Stygia and beyond.”

  “So it is said,” continued Fallon. “In any case, I don’t plan to stay long in this ‘bad place.’ The plant is distilled into a powerful poison, then mixed with extracts of lotus and other secret ingredients. Then it is diluted with a special tea, one part to a thousand. That bottle contains no more than a drop of the pure extract.”

  “How,” said Teferi, incredulous, “do you know all this?”

  She grinned. “There are many poisoners in Odji. It was not difficult to find one curious and eager to spend an hour alone with a barbarian woman. Eager enough to share certain information.”

  Sheriti smirked. “And you call me a whore.”

  Fallon did not flinch. “I said an hour. I didn’t say what I did during that hour. He may have expected more than he received. What is it they say here? ‘When a man with a goat on a rope offers you a deal, be sure he is selling the goat and not the rope.’ ”

  Anok grinned, despite himself. “You learn the local ways quickly.”

  “I’ve heard most of this before,” said Sheriti. “The potion is diluted before it leaves Kheshatta, and jealously guarded until then. Every brothel in the city has tried to buy directly from the source at one time or another, but it isn’t possible. The secret of its manufacture is too closely kept, and the poisoners of Kheshatta always demand their due.”

  “And this is Stygia,” said Teferi. “The guardians of Set tax poisons and frown on smugglers.”

  “Well,” said Fallon, “the poisoners must be persuaded personally, and for the guardians, there are always bribes, should it come to that.” She shrugged. “I did say there would be peril. If it were easy, it would already be done.”

  Teferi nodded. “Suicide. This is what you call peril?”

  Fallon glared at him. “I did not ask you to join me, Kushite. I had considered doing so, yes, but now I must reconsider.” She turned back to Anok. “So, what of you? Will you join me on my journey?”

  Why not indeed? Some part of him found it appealing, yet Kheshatta might not be far enough to escape the White Scorpions, and they would almost undoubtedly have to return through Khemi on their way north. That he might strike out on his own, in such a profitable enterprise, was exactly what Wosret most feared he would do. Such an enterprise, if it were even possible, might fund Anok’s establishing another rival gang in Odji, and Wosret would never allow that to happen.

  “Going somewhere, Anok?”

  The voice he least wanted to hear in all the world right now. Lord Wosret’s!

  But of course it was Wosret. Anok had known he would be about the market today, and he and Teferi had planned for an eventual encounter. That had been the strategy, to confront Wosret and present just enough provocation so he would issue an ultimatum to join his gang. Then Anok could credibly announce his plans to become an acolyte of Set.

  Later he would claim to Sheriti that he had thought of Dejal’s earlier offer, and it had simply slipped out. Even the White Scorpions would not dare to challenge the Cult of Set, but having said it, he would have to go through the motions—for a while. He hoped it would be enough to get her back to the Temple of Scribes. By the time she realized his true intentions, it would be too late.

  That had been the plan.

  Had been.

  He turned to face Lord Wosret, accompanied not only by his ever-present twin bodyguards, but also by two large Ophirean mercenaries wearing leather armor and broadswords.

  Wosret stepped up to him, a little too close. “You have something you want to share with me, Anok? A profitable enterprise of some kind?”

  “There’s nothing, Lord Wosret. I don’t know what you thought you heard, but—”

  Wosret cut him off angrily. “I heard just enough to know you’re plotting behind my back, Anok. I’ve been far too patient with you because I’ve known you since you were a boy. But I killed my own sons when they tried to cross me. I don’t see why I should hesitate to kill you now.” Wosret drew his sword. “Perhaps it would have been better for us all if you had died in the desert.”

  The older man stood far too close to Anok, but he didn’t dare show fear or weakness in front of his men. Still, Anok knew the sword would be mainly for defense. Wosret would let his thugs do the bloody work.

  He heard a sword slide out of its sheath, and someone stepped in at Anok’s side. To his surprise, it was neither Sheriti nor Teferi, who was too far back to step in w
ithout causing alarm. It was Fallon.

  “Hear me! Who would seek to take the blood of Anok of Wati, also faces Fallon, a Cimmerian of Clan Murrogh countryman of Conan, warrior-king of Aquilonia!”

  The twins began to chuckle.

  Fallon smiled a wolf’s smile. “You think to yourself, ‘no Conan is she,’ and it is true. But come forward if you dare and learn how our hard land has made each of us—woman and child—swift, brutal, and dangerous! Come forward, and let it be your last lesson!”

  The Ophireans, perhaps having previously encountered Cimmerians in their northern homeland, seemed to take the threat more seriously. They shuffled their feet nervously.

  Wosret seemed to weigh both extremes of reaction, then snorted. “This isn’t your concern, barbarian woman. Leave now, and no harm will befall you.”

  “A Cimmerian never backs down from battle, city-man!”

  Anok glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, not letting his attention stray too far from Wosret’s sword. You aren’t making things better, woman! Yet he wasn’t sure how it could get worse. The situation had gotten out of hand.

  Now Wosret planned to fight, not talk, and he didn’t intend to lose.

  12

  THE TWO GROUPS stood facing each other in the narrow market walkway, all swords drawn, sizing each other up. The Ravens seemed solidly outmatched, five men against two men and a barbarian woman. Sheriti had drawn her small scribe’s dagger; but without the element of surprise, it was essentially useless in such a fight.

  Anok briefly considered tossing her one of his blades. No. This was all to protect her. I will fight for both of us, if it comes to that.

  Had it come to that? His mind raced, trying to think of a way to talk his way out of the situation. Wasn’t that, after all, what the Ravens were famous for, not just as fighters, but as negotiators, ambassadors—talkers. On the street, since he was hardly more than a boy, everyone knew Anok was the one who could cool hot tempers, find middle ground where none was apparent, create compromise that benefited both sides of a dispute.

  He knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear.

  He knew how to make a bad situation better.

  He was the one who could be trusted.

  Even now, Sheriti and Teferi stood, weapons ready, but watching him, waiting for him to find another way.

  Not today.

  Talking was how he’d gotten here. Anok the trusted had become Anok the liar, Anok the deceiver.

  To his best friend.

  Making his other best friend his coconspirator.

  Was that how Dejal had fallen?

  At the thought of his lost friend, the glowing ember of rage that always seemed to be in his heart lately flared into flame.

  Wosret, that oily vermin, wasn’t deserving even of his lies! How long had he dogged Anok? Now to make demands—threats. How dare he!

  “You seek the blood of Anok Wati? You seek the blades of Anok Wati? To have the former, you must first taste the latter!”

  With that, he swung his right sword underhanded, up toward Wosret’s heart.

  With surprising speed, the older man swatted the blade up and away with his larger weapon.

  But that was what Anok had been expecting.

  His left blade stabbed, not for a mortal blow, or even a disabling one, but for Wosret’s vulnerable legs, slicing a cut across his upper thigh like someone carving a roast. His goal was neither to kill nor disable.

  He wanted pain. He wanted blood.

  Wosret howled, staggering back, blood pouring down his left leg.

  Anok might have been expected to follow up on the attack. Instead he stood back and assessed the situation around him. He knew that Wosret, the old coward, would withdraw and leave the fighting to stronger men.

  Now it’s four against three!

  Sheriti stood behind Teferi, who faced off against the two mercenaries, while the twins, leering grins on their faces, surrounded Fallen. He considered helping his two friends, but though the mercenaries appeared formidable, they were being cautious, and Teferi could take care of himself.

  Fallon, on the other hand, faced two skilled and enthusiastic fighters, each almost twice her weight and clearly out for sport.

  Anok charged toward them, swords high, coming up on the nearer twin’s blind side. He roared a challenge as he swung both swords together at the giant’s neck.

  The big man turned, parried, easily deflecting the swords with his broadsword.

  Anok used the energy of that deflection, riding it like a swimmer riding a wave, leaping into the air and spinning past to land a step behind Fallon, his back to hers.

  The barbarian took advantage of the other twin’s distraction to attack. Her broadsword clanged against her opponent’s steel, and Anok heard him grunt in surprise. He’d clearly underestimated his opponent.

  Good!

  A whistling of air from above caused Anok to raise his crossed swords above his head. He caught the blow of the descending sword with his flexed elbows, his muscles shrieking with the force of the impact.

  The huge blade stopped less than a handbreadth from his nose, and his arms shuddered with the strain of holding it there.

  For an eternity, it hovered. Then Anok screamed with effort, throwing the broadsword backward, stepping under the giant, left sword up for defense, while the right stabbed across to find the ribs exposed just past the edge of the giant’s leather chest plate. He roared and staggered back, but Anok’s aching arms warned him not to press the attack. Instead he put his back against Fallon, just to let her know where he was.

  “This is familiar,” she said, grunting as Anok heard the point of her sword deflecting off leather armor. “We’ve done this dance before.”

  “It’s a broadsword,” he said. “Swing it, don’t stab with it.”

  “The man with eyes in the back of his head tries to tell me how to fight?”

  “A sword piercing your heart right now might scratch my back.”

  “I could say the same. Let’s finish these beasts.”

  “Aye. When you’re ready.”

  He felt the muscles in her shoulders and back tense, and that was all the signal he needed. They sprang away from each other, furiously attacking their opponents.

  Anok charged the wounded twin, ducking under his slicing broadsword, stepping to the giant’s right, stabbing his sword deep into his exposed flank. Just as quickly Anok yanked the sword out, sweeping past him, using his superior speed to keep ahead of the giant’s turn.

  The weight of the broadsword was a momentary disadvantage that Anok used to full benefit. He stabbed the giant in the back of his lower calf, missing the tendon, but still drawing blood, then spun and sliced his forehead with the other sword. Neither wound was critical, but he had reduced his opponent’s abilities to move and see.

  The big man threw back his head and bellowed, swinging his broadsword wildly at the air, but already blood was beginning to flow down into his eyes. By showing his throat, he had displayed a weakness in his armor.

  Anok had planned to try for a critical strike between his ribs, but now he had a new target. He moved in, crouched low, seemingly leaving himself open.

  The twin swung his sword low, as though cutting grain, but Anok was ready. He sprang into the air, knees high, the blade passing harmlessly just under his feet, and as he did, he bought the pummel of his left sword up, smashing it into the other man’s chin. His head went back, and the right sword plunged deep, striking bone at the back of the neck.

  The twin fell backward, making a gurgling, inhuman cry of distress, blood spurting from his neck in a warm fountain.

  A few yards away, the other twin turned in response.

  Fallon’s sword flashed down, slicing his sword hand off at the wrist.

  He screamed.

  She spun, her sword neatly slicing his throat. He gurgled and fell in a puddle of his own blood.

  “Anok!”

  It was Sheriti’s voice. He turned to
see Teferi finishing off one of the mercenaries, who was already down on one bleeding knee. His momentary distraction had let the other mercenary slip past him, to where Sheriti held up her dagger in vain defense.

  The attacking mercenary was looking away from him, vulnerable, but there was no time to reach him. But somewhere in the fight, the man had lost or discarded his helmet. Anok swung his left sword over his shoulder with all his might, releasing it at just the right point in its arc.

  The blade flashed through the air, spinning once.

  There was a wet, cracking noise, as though someone had split the egg of an enormous bird, and the point of the blade buried itself in the back of the mercenary’s skull.

  He staggered backward off-balance, mouth open, his own sword falling as he tried to grab Anok’s blade, now protruding from his head.

  Sheriti dashed forward, the tiny knife in her hand a blur as she plunged it up into the roof of the mercenary’s mouth. His brain twice-pierced, he fell and lay twitching on the ground just as Anok reached them.

  He put his foot against the fallen man’s neck and yanked his sword free with some effort. His intent had been to protect Sheriti, but she had already taken up the man’s curved scimitar from where it lay on the street.

  Besides, there was only one enemy left.

  Wosret cowered against the back of a potter’s stall a dozen steps away, his sword raised, his face pale.

  Anok stepped toward him.

  “Killing me will do you no good, Anok!” the old man spat. “The White Scorpions will hunt you down and have vengeance. There will be no escape for you!”

  Anok stepped closer still, bloody swords raised in display, enjoying the old man’s fear. “Shall we find out?”

  “Anok!” It was Teferi. “No!”

  Part of him wanted to slice the old man up, slowly, make him suffer the way he’d made so many others suffer through the years. So what if he was one gang leader among many? So what if another would simply replace him? So what if the White Scorpions would come to kill him. (Let them try!) It would still be . . . satisfying.

  “Anok.” It was Teferi again. Anok was about to become annoyed, but then he recognized the tone of warning in the voice.