Stealing Sacred Fire

by Constantine, Storm

  Shemyaza took Tiy’s fingers from his arm. ‘Your priest must hold it up to the sky and summon down the lightning.’

  Jazirah expelled a caustic laugh. ‘Do you think I am so stupid?’ he snapped. ‘If I do that, I will be burned!’

  Shemyaza raised his eyebrows. ‘But that is the way to empower the stone, the way it has always been empowered.’

  ‘And was the sacrifice of priests part of that empowerment?’ Jazirah said.

  Shemyaza shook his head. ‘If the right person holds the stone, there is no danger.’

  Jazirah uttered a contemptuous snort. ‘It is a trick, Great King. He plans to see me, your vizier, killed.’

  ‘Silence!’ Nimnezzar snapped. ‘Jazirah, do as Shemyaza tells you.’

  Jazirah stared at the king for a moment, then made an effort to smother his fury. He turned to Shemyaza with a thin smile. ‘Very well. You must tell me the correct incantations and gestures.’

  ‘There are none,’ Shemyaza replied.

  ‘None? How else is the lightning summoned?’

  ‘With your heart, Jazirah.’

  The vizier glared at Shemyaza for a few moments, then stalked to the altar at the centre of the platform. Here, he composed himself, and stood motionless with erect spine, focusing his energy. Shemyaza realised the man had some idea of what he was supposed to do. Jazirah held the key stone up to the sky in both hands. He closed his eyes.

  Everyone was silent, and the only sounds were those of the wind scraping granules of sand across the granite flag-stones and the distant rumbling from the sky. Jazirah’s lips moved, although he uttered no sound. His brow was unfurrowed as he projected his intention towards the clouds.

  A fork of lightning splashed down, and hit the dirt some distance from the city. Jazirah did not flinch.

  One of the other Magians approached the king and murmured softly, ‘We should move your servants and guards down to the next tier for a while.’ Some of the king’s attendants were indeed looking anxious.

  ‘No,’ Nimnezzar replied. ‘They stay where they are.’

  Veins stood out upon Jazirah’s forehead now. He frowned with effort. A web of light spun briefly across the undersides of the clouds and then a mighty crash of thunder split the air. The younger attendants covered their heads and cried out. It sounded as if someone was shaking the sky, banging upon it, breaking it. Jazirah’s head snapped backwards. He gasped. And then the chaos of the elements fell upon Babylon.

  Lightning speared down as if cast by angry gods. It hit nowhere but the temple platform, creating a cage of light around the upper tier of Etemenanki. No-one was struck, but many of the guards and attendants cowered down upon the flag-stones. The Magian priests and their acolytes prudently removed themselves to the steps that led down to next tier, in defiance of the king’s command. Nimnezzar’s eyes were wide with fear as he watched the lightning spit down around him, but not a single fork struck the key stone.

  ‘It is not working,’ Nimnezzar said, his voice shaking. ‘The bolts strike everywhere but where they are summoned.’

  Shemyaza folded his arms and shook his head. ‘It appears the stone is drawing the lightning, but is also repelling it. Unfortunately, it looks as if it will not absorb the power while Jazirah is involved.’

  Nimnezzar gestured. ‘Then you go. You take it.’ His face was unhealthily pale in the blue-white radiance of the lightning.

  Shemyaza looked at him wryly, apparently at ease. ‘Are you sure? Do you trust me?’

  Nimnezzar glanced around at the wild elements. ‘The lightning has been summoned, but it is out of control. Destruction must follow. Empower the stone!’

  ‘Very well.’ Shemyaza unfolded his arms and walked to where Jazirah stood stiffly at the altar. For a moment, he had to wrestle with the vizier to prise the stone from his hands. Jazirah’s fingers had locked upon it. ‘It holds me!’ the vizier cried. ‘I can’t let go.’

  Shemyaza slammed his bunched fists down onto Jazirah’s wrists. The vizier cried out in pain, but his frozen fingers spasmed, so that Shemyaza was able to pluck the stone from his hands. ‘Go back to your master,’ he said. ‘You have done what you can.’

  Jazirah clenched and unclenched his numb fingers. He stared at Shemyaza as if trying to think of something to say. Then, with as much dignity as he could summon, he walked slowly to the side of the king.

  Shemyaza dismissed all other occupants of the temple platform from his attention and tossed the crystal cone idly from hand to hand for a few moments, to get a feel of it. The lightning still stabbed down around him, and in some places the flag-stones had been scored and splintered by its assault. Shemyaza sensed the spirit of the key was glad it was once again in his hands. He held it against his heart, and projected his mind outwards to control the wild elements. The growling in the sky gradually died down and the lightning merely flickered across the undersides of the clouds. It is waiting, Shemyaza thought.

  He held up the stone in his right hand, the fingers of his left hand pointing down to earth. In his mind he called out, ‘Father, I am here! Ormuz, give to me the power of the foundation!’

  For a moment all was still; even the wind died down. Then, with a monstrous cymbal crash of thunder, a brilliant blue trident of lightning snaked down from the clouds and struck the stone in Shemyaza’s hands. He felt its powerful volts course into his body. His back arched, his body lifted onto the balls of his feet.

  Nimnezzar cried out. ‘He is dead!’

  The lightning twisted and coiled as if trying to wrench the stone from Shemyaza’s grip. He could not have released it if he wanted to. The power of the skies poured into the key. Shemyaza waited until he had taken as much as he could bear, then projected his will to shut down the empowerment. At first, the elements resisted and he was afraid his body would be used as a conductor for the power until it was destroyed. His arm had gone beyond the sensation of burning. Now it was numb and cold. Energy poured through him, down into the stones of the temple. ‘Enough!’ he cried in his mind, and visualised a dome of protective insulation around him. Then, it was over. The lightning disappeared instantaneously and the silence left in the wake of the thunder was absolute.

  Shemyaza staggered forward against the altar, his right hand still held high. The stone glowed red in his hold. The Magians came back onto the summit, murmuring together. Those who had cowered down got to their feet.

  Nimnezzar hurried forward. ‘I have never beheld…’

  Shemyaza uttered a snarl that interrupted Nimnezzar’s words. The king halted, uncertain.

  ‘Come no closer,’ Shemyaza said in a cold, calm voice. He felt different now, as if a new personality had come to inhabit his body.

  ‘The crystal…’ Nimnezzar began. Suspicion, then fear, came into his eyes.

  ‘Did no-one ever tell you not to trust a fallen angel?’ Shemyaza said. ‘They tell lies.’

  Nimnezzar’s mouth dropped open. He raised a hand to summon his guards, but before he could complete the gesture, Shemyaza thrust the stone out before him.

  ‘Too little, too late, he said. He knew he did not appear beautiful now, but a sneering demon. He held the key stone out before him and uttered a few words in the ancient tongue. A brilliant gout of energy exploded out from the stone, a blinding radiance that created an immense cage of light around the summit of Etemenanki. Everyone upon the temple platform screamed and fell to their faces, clutching their eyes. Shemyaza laughed at their agony, possessed by the power of the stone, by the bitterness of his father’s spirit.

  After only a few seconds, the radiance faded and the madness left him. He felt an invading presence depart his mind and dropped his arm to his side. The crystal weighed heavily in his hand. He looked around himself. Jazirah lay prostrate some distance away. His turban had fallen from his head and his hands flexed in his hair. Servants hugged one another, whimpering. Guards flailed their arms about, uttering curses, while the Magians sat still, believing themselves to be victims of enchantment. Sala
miel’s words on the journey to the Cave of Treasures whispered in his mind. ‘You will rise up with fire…’ Love seemed far from this place, but then, had he not predicted himself that love could be cruel and stronger than death?

  Nimnezzar sprawled on his back at Shemyaza’s feet, his fingers pressed against his face. Slowly, he lowered his hands and blinked his streaming eyes. Realisation came a moment later. ‘Blind! I am blind!’ he screamed. ‘Guards, seize him!’

  Shemyaza laughed softly. ‘Fool to trust me, little king. I have work to do. You stood in my way. Don’t bother calling for your guards — they are as blind as you are! You are a victim of your own mindless greed. This land will radiate glory, but you will never you look upon it.’

  Only Tiy stood erect beside the altar. She alone was unaffected by the gale of energy, for her eyes were already blind. Shemyaza held out his hand to her. ‘Come, mother.’ She stepped unerringly over the fallen, writhing bodies and came to his side, dainty as a girl.

  ‘Now, my son, you are ready for what I have to tell you next. Soon, you will be meeting someone. I must prepare you with information.’

  Together they descended Etemenanki and went towards the palace.

  Melandra sat in the salon of Queen Amytis, chewing the skin around her finger-nails. Everything had got out of control. She shouldn’t be here. It was dangerous. She’d gone too far. Nathaniel Fox seemed like the figment of a dream. She was alone. Her god turned his face from this whore of cities.

  The oppression of the electric storm outside terrified and enervated her. Shemyaza was here, working his evil magic. She could feel it. But what could she do to stop it? It was all far bigger than Fox, or any of his confederates, had realised.

  Amytis was chatting with her women, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the atmosphere. Then, a mighty explosion of thunder made the windows rattle and all the lights went out. The women uttered cries of surprise; some were frightened, others excited. Melandra got to her feet, her skin crawling. She saw Amytis sashay over to the window, lift aside one of the wafting drapes. It was very dark in the room now, and the light outside looked unnatural; greenish, as if they were underwater.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Melandra went to the queen’s side.

  Amytis shrugged. ‘Something. No matter. Tiy is with the men. She will tell me everything later.’

  If there is a later, Melandra thought.

  ‘There is a glow on the top of Etemenanki,’ Amytis said, pointing.

  ‘We mustn’t look at it,’ Melandra said and pulled the thin curtain fabric from Amytis’ hold, arranging it hurriedly back over the window.

  Amytis looked surprised and amused. ‘You are afraid, American. Why? The ways of men have no power over us.’

  Maybe I am afraid, because I am not a woman like you, Melandra thought. The ways of men do have power over me. She wanted to pray, but lacked the heart for it, aware in a dismal corner of her mind that it would provide no comfort. She had walked into Hell and must deal with its abominations alone.

  ‘Yes, I am afraid,’ she said. ‘I know what Shemyaza is capable of.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He will kill us all!’

  Amytis frowned. ‘He is the king of angels, the martyred one who gave his life that we might have knowledge.’

  ‘It was never our knowledge,’ Melandra said. ‘He stole it and we accepted stolen goods. We are as guilty as he is and our only hope of redemption is through God.’ Melandra reached for the queen’s hands, which Amytis bemusedly let her hold. ‘Shemyaza is the great seducer. That is his dark power. We must fight it, see him for what he is. A demon! A prince of Hell!’

  Amytis laughed uncertainly. ‘You are mad.’

  Melandra let go of her hands and shook her head. ‘No.’ She kept her voice calm. ‘People must be made to see Shemyaza as he really is. I came to the king to warn him.’

  Amytis stared at Melandra in amazement for a few moments, then sneered. ‘Tiy told me of your mission to kill,’ she said. ‘You will not do it. Your gods are false, so you do not have the power to destroy the king of angels.’ She turned away, and went to sit with her women, eyeing Melandra coldly.

  Melandra dropped down onto a silk cushion. Her head was aching. It felt as if all the fibres of her body were being stretched.

  After a while, some of the women, who had been sitting near to the windows, began to chatter and point. It was clear that they could see something outside. Amytis rose languidly to her feet and lifted the drape again, ignoring Melandra’s protest.

  ‘Tiy is coming,’ Amytis said. Quickly, she let the curtain drop back into place. Her eyes were shining in the gloom like black jewels. ‘Come, American, we will go into the garden and greet her.’

  Melandra could not control the terror that gripped her heart. It was almost as if she’d been given a fear-inducing drug. Something more than Tiy was approaching through the twilight. Something terrible. Melandra could sense its fatal footfalls. Once. Twice. Closer. It was slower than the beating of a heart, yet more empowered by blood. She didn’t want to go into the garden with Amytis, but lacked the will to resist.

  The queen of Babylon dragged Melandra through the window. Outside, the cries of peacocks echoed around the garden. Birds ran haphazardly in panic across the manicured lawns, dragging their tails through the marble pools. A flock of doves lifted and fell in alarm, like a curtain of pale light. Amytis cried out in delight and pointed towards the heavens. ‘Look, American! The gods are at work.’

  The heavy clouds that had once carried the storm were beginning to break up. Dense fragments rolled across the sky, amassing substance as they did so, forming themselves into gigantic balls, like wool or snow. A few had already become perfect gaseous spheres and were wheeling away in all directions. Melandra had seen nothing like it, nothing so unnatural. Then her eyes were drawn to more earthly matters.

  Something was shining in the garden, something that had excited the peacocks and the doves. It was a column of light upon the path, and within the column, a shape.

  Melandra sank down to her knees, aghast at what she saw. A man stood on the path, but not a demon. She could see clearly who it was: Jesus, dressed in white.

  ‘My sweet lord,’ she murmured, and clasped her hands before her. Was this possible? Had he come to save her and cleanse this city of whores and idolaters? Jesus walked steadily towards her, holding out his hands. She saw the holy wounds there, dark against the pale palms. He looked exactly like how he’d appeared in all the countless paintings and crucifixes that had supervised her childhood; a pale, thin man with tawny hair and neat beard. Rather than wearing the rather scanty costume of his execution, however, he was chastely robed from neck to ankle.

  Jesus paused before her, and she reached up to take his hands. She pressed them to her lips, and felt the heat of living flesh against her own. ‘Forgive me, my lord’ she said. ‘Save me.’

  ‘Rise,’ he murmured and his voice was the music of flutes and bells.

  Melandra stood. He towered over her, taller than she’d ever imagined Christ to be. She looked at him more closely and realised his hair was golden, not brown at all. Neither did he have a beard, although his skin still appeared honey pale. His face shone with light. He touched her cheek with long fingers. ‘Well, my sister, will you kill me again?’

  Her brow clouded. Kill him? Did he refer to the cross? Did he hate humanity for what they had done to him? ‘No, my lord. I will worship you.’

  He laughed at her, shook his head. ‘See me,’ he said, and brushed his fingers over her eyes.

  She saw then, the long face, the piercing blue eyes, the remembered smile. She uttered a screech and pulled away from him. ‘Demon! Satan!’ He had touched her again, touched her soul with his lies, made her see him as her ultimate god. He was evil incarnate. She must kill him now, but how?

  ‘If you would fight evil,’ he said, ‘cast off the cruelties that were perpetrated upon you as a child.’

  ‘No!’ She put h
er hands over her ears, backed away. Tiy and Amytis were vague presences in the garden; their forms were blurred. All that existed with any clarity was the demon before her.

  A heavy decorative urn filled with flowers stood near to the path. Melandra rushed over to it and tried to lift it in her hands. She would smash him, smash his evil face. Behind her, she heard him laughing, his approach.

  ‘Melandra, you will damage yourself. Calm down.’

  She turned on him, pointing a shaking finger. ‘The Lord shall strike you down!’

  ‘The Lord?’ Shemyaza laughed. ‘He left his heaven a long time ago. I have seen what is left of it, so I know. God does not care enough to strike me down. He, and all those like him, have abandoned their children — me, you, humanity and the Grigori.’

  ‘You’re lying!’

  He shook his head. ‘No. You have been lied to, but not by me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ She could feel her resolve slipping away. Even now, he could seduce her. Her head blazed with pain and tremendous pressure. Blinking her eyes, she whispered beneath her breath, ‘Preserve me, my God, for in thee I do put my trust…’

  ‘Melandra,’ Shemyaza murmured, ‘look at me.’ His voice was so gentle. For all her yearning and prayers, she could think only of the words of the Song of Solomon, ‘His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters… His lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh…’

  ‘No!’ she screamed in her head and spoke aloud, ‘Be not thou far from me, O Lord; Oh my strength, haste thee to help me!’

  ‘Look at me…’

  She was sobbing now. ‘No. I must not. Oh God, deliver my soul from the sword!’

  ‘Scriptures,’ Shemyaza said. ‘Ancient words. They are strange to your tongue now, Melandra. How long since you’ve uttered them? You lost your god here in the flower of Babylon. Why not speak the first lines of that pretty verse: “My God, why hast thou forsaken me?”’

  Melandra gripped the edge of the urn, blinking at the stars of the flowers. They sparkled in her sight, viewed through tears. Something black and terrible gleamed among the petals. She saw it. Metal. A gun; lying there, with a blue serpent sheen upon its muzzle. Her eyes followed the exact and precise lines of its body. ‘For thou hast heard me from the horns of the unicorn…’ she whispered. It was not her gun, something smaller, but a weapon nonetheless. Why was it lying there, waiting for her, if not sent by God, or her beloved Christ?