Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

  Anok glanced at the priest, raising an eyebrow. There was something he had long wanted to know and yet not dared to ask. “Master, why do we speak openly of Thoth-Amon’s defeats? Why are they recorded and spoken of often in the temple?”

  Ramsa Aál’s smile grew. “You have asked an important question, and I will tell you the answer. We record them because a great sorcerer is defined by his enemies. One cannot become a great sorcerer without great enemies, and Conan has proven worthy of our master in many encounters.

  “Through each defeat, our master was challenged to expand his powers, to engage in even more ambitious schemes of conquest, to seek out more followers and proxies to use against his enemies. Our master has become greater, and in challenging him, Conan has become greater as well. Now he sits on the throne of a mighty nation, with vast armies at his command. And still he will one day fall to our master, and he will seek out an even more worthy foe. Do you see what that means for you?”

  Anok blinked in surprise and confusion. Did Ramsa Aál’s words have some double meaning. Could Anok, in his wildest dreams, be the “more worthy foe” that Thoth-Amon would one day need? It was prideful madness, and yet, with the powers he might yet command—Stop. Assume he knows nothing, until otherwise proven. This is only the power, trying to free itself, trying to corrupt my soul.

  Anok tried to look innocent. “How can such important matters be the concern of a humble acolyte, master?”

  “In great mountains, the form of anthills can be seen. Where is the adversary worthy of your power, Anok Wati? Where is your Conan? I sense that you have had enemies, yes, but none truly worthy of you. You thought this gang lord Wosret was such an enemy, but though it was not without cost, you destroyed him with little more than gesture, with no more than a fraction of that which is yours to command. That is, as much as anything, why your power fails you. You have no target worthy of its release. What say you to this?”

  “I don’t know, master. I have destroyed all my enemies, and none stand to replace them.” That was a lie. He stood not against a Conan. It was as though he stood against an army of barbarian kings. He had the murdering betrayer, Dejal. He had Ramsa Aál himself. He had the entire Cult of Set. And thus by definition, he had Thoth-Amon himself. Enough great enemies for a dozen lifetimes.

  “That is part of why I send you to Kheshatta. It is a place of great mystical learning, true. But it is also a lawless place, where the Cult of Set holds only nominal power. Many gods and demons are openly worshiped there, and their followers move in open opposition to our cult. But in Kheshatta, knowledge is more precious than gold, and the greatest power at any moment resides with the greatest and most learned sorcerer in the city. When our master is in Kheshatta, it is he who fills this role, but when he is elsewhere, many powerful sorcerers struggle for dominance. There, perhaps, you will find an adversary worthy of your talents. Khemi is too tame, too controlled by Set. You will never find your adversary here.”

  That isn’t true, but my enemies live in Kheshatta as well. They live throughout Stygia, in every city, town, and empty place. Here, Set is all, and Set is my enemy. “Then I will go and seek my adversary, master, if you think it for the best.”

  Ramsa Aál laughed. “You do not find your adversary, Anok Wati. He will find you!”

  LATER THAT DAY, Anok went to the acolytes’ dining hall, an austere room located behind the temple kitchens. There were oak tables and chairs enough to seat over two dozen, and when Anok had first arrived at the temple, it was generally near full at mealtimes. Now less than a dozen remained of his group.

  Some had apparently been killed, or simply vanished, during trials, though the priests were never forthcoming with details when things like this happened. Some had been expelled, or left the temple of their own accord.

  Others, who Anok suspected were the sons of the very rich, the very powerful, or even the priests themselves, had been given the yoke of a full acolyte and sent home early. For them, becoming clerics of Set was a matter of appearances, a stepping-stone to power and respect for those who could afford it. It was an elite status that apparently even Dejal’s father’s wealth was not sufficient to buy, or that, perhaps, he was not generous enough to bestow on his only son.

  The food was spread out on a long table near the kitchen door. There were steaming bowls of spiced beef, baked sole, smoked clams, boiled yams, and grape leaves stuffed with crab. Beyond this were platters of flatbreads, olives, fresh and dried fruit, sweet cakes dripping with honey, and small jugs of wine.

  His stomach rumbling, Anok grabbed a heavy earthenware plate and heaped it with food. Grabbing a jug of wine, he headed for one of the many empty tables. At first the other acolytes had shunned him because of his late entry into the group, because of his favored status with Ramsa Aál, and because of his mixed Stygian blood and poor upbringing.

  Now they still shunned him, but he suspected it was more out of fear. They had all heard rumors of his destruction of the White Scorpions, and of the other, fearful, warlords arriving at the temple with carts of tribute for the temple. They had seen the mark upon his wrist and at least heard rumors as to its significance.

  Though most of those remaining were said to be competent sorcerers, none besides Anok had distinguished themselves in that regard. One, a tall, angular young man with exceptionally dark skin, even for a full-blooded Stygian, now wore a jewel on his forehead (Anok had heard whispers that it was embedded in his skull) that was a mark of exceptional second sight, but it carried with it no other special power of sorcery.

  And though Dejal aspired to great power, his success had been only moderate in that regard. Of the other acolytes in Anok’s group, he was doubtless a bit more powerful than the rest. But though he threw himself into great magics with reckless abandon, his ambition always seemed to exceed his talent. The great spells eluded him, and with each failure, his anger and resentment grew.

  Anok sat at the bench, skillfully uncorked the bottle with his dagger, and threw some meat and yams onto the flat-bread, which he folded and bit into hungrily. He washed it down with a deep draw from the bottle. He knew that his eating manners seemed crude to the eyes of his more refined company, and the thought that he might be offending them gave him a bit of secret pleasure.

  He shoved a grape leaf into his mouth, letting the juice roll down his chin before wiping it with his sleeve. He glanced up to see three acolytes at a nearby table staring. Good.

  Then someone stepped up behind him, put his plate down on the table, and sat down in the chair next to him. He glanced over. Dejal.

  Anok’s appetite immediately faded. Still, he couldn’t let his displeasure show. He forced himself to continue eating. The meat had lost all flavor, the bread gone dry and crumbly in his mouth as he chewed slowly.

  “Greetings, Anok.” Dejal stabbed a boiled yam with his knife and lifted it to his mouth.

  Anok’s eyes were drawn to his meaty fingers wrapped around the knife, his neatly trimmed nails, a golden ring with the crest of his father’s house on his middle finger. He watched the muscles in his hand flex, imagined them tightening around the knife handle as they drew the blade across Sheriti’s throat—

  He realized he was no longer chewing, and swallowed. It felt as though he were swallowing gravel. He focused on his plate and saw the pink juices from the meat pooling there. On his left wrist, the Mark of Set burned his flesh, seemed actually to writhe beneath his skin.

  Stop it! He cursed his own anger. Very soon he could leave the temple, wouldn’t have to see Dejal every day, wouldn’t have to lie awake every night with a dagger in his hand, thinking of Dejal sleeping in his bed only a wall away.

  Dejal glanced at him curiously. “You seem distracted, brother.”

  He composed himself, pushed the anger away, pulled over it the curtain of false calm and civility that had become so familiar. “I was only thinking of my impending journey to Kheshatta. It’s an honor to be trusted on such a solitary quest for knowledge.”


  Dejal smiled slightly. He spoke quietly, so the others wouldn’t hear. “You will have Teferi with you, a brilliant deception to avoid being monitored too closely by the priests. I hear the whores of Kheshatta engage in depravity that the whores of the Paradise could scarcely dream of, that there are exotic blood sports from the East, intoxicants from every far outpost of the caravan trade, and from the famed prisoners of Kheshatta themselves.”

  “You wish you were going in my stead.”

  “I am envious, yes, but to gain power, one must keep the company of the powerful. While you are exploring distant fleshpots and the dusty scrolls of scholarship, I shall be at Ramsa Aál’s right hand.”

  Dejal dropped the yam, knife still embedded in it, on his plate. “He is a rising power in the temple, and it is said he could be High Priest of the Temple if he only wished it. But his ambitions run far higher than that. I have seen letters arrive for him from Thoth-Amon himself, and I suspect they are planning some great spell involving the very Scale of Set that I delivered to him. He is sending me into the desert in search of—I should not say. But know that I will play an important role in this thing, and as Ramsa Aál rises in power, so shall I.

  “Am I supposed to be jealous?”

  Dejal chuckled. “You were ever lacking in ambition, brother. Dusty scrolls and ancient books, and perhaps a whore or two. That is a better life for you. I wish you the joy of it.”

  Having heard enough, Anok pushed back his chair and picked up his plate. “I have preparations to make. Ramsa Aál has given me permission to hire my own caravan. Best I get to it.”

  He scraped his uneaten food into the slop bucket and tossed the plate on the table just inside the kitchen door. He really did have things to do, and the sooner he could arrange to leave this place, the better.

  7

  IT WAS WELL before dawn when Anok and Teferi pulled their little cart through the empty streets of Odji, headed for the camel barns near the southeast corner of the inner city’s walls. A torch lashed to the front of the cart lit their way, and each of them carried another.

  Teferi had spent the evening engaged in serious drinking and making farewells to several female friends. He looked groggy, and Anok suspected he was nursing a hangover. He was quiet, and that suited Anok, who was in no mood for conversation.

  What, Anok wondered, had he been expecting? He’d told Ramsa Aál yesterday that he’d secured passage on a caravan leaving two days earlier than his original departure, meaning that he would miss the ceremony graduating the novices to full-acolyte status.

  Most likely, he’d expected that Ramsa Aál would refuse him, insist that he remain for the ceremony. That didn’t happen. Once again, the priest seemed pleased with his eagerness and initiative.

  Failing that, perhaps Anok had expected some private ceremony, some ritual, or even one last trial. Instead, Ramsa Aál had simply unlocked a chest, removed the golden yoke of a full acolyte, and placed it around Anok’s neck. Then he’d gone immediately back to the scroll he’d been studying when Anok arrived. When, a few minutes later, he’d noticed Anok was still standing there, he’d actually seemed slightly annoyed.

  Anok remembered his words: “This is no grand passage, no great accomplishment. The difference between a novice and an acolyte is simply a small bit of trust and that small symbol of respect. The rich patrons who send their sons to study here expect something more ostentatious, and we give it to them, but you do not need it. You know just enough to know how little you really know, have learned just enough to know how much you have yet to learn. Go, get on with it. We will meet again soon.”

  Anok shifted his grip on the little cart’s shaft so that he could reach up and examine the yoke with his fingers. It was a band of gold, made of overlapping plates crafted to look like Scales. A finger’s length wide, it draped loosely around his neck and shoulders. Hanging from the front, a round medallion was deeply engraved with the writhing serpent that was the symbol of Set. The medallion, he noted, hung directly over his father’s medallion, which Teferi had returned to him this morning, and which he now wore under his robes.

  The camel barns were built around a small plaza in an unusually neat and orderly neighborhood of Odji. The nomads who dwelled there were a careful and frugal people. They did not waste, and they did not spoil what they considered to be their own territory, even if most of them actually lived here only for days or weeks at a time.

  Anok’s dealings with them had mostly been occasional and brief. They kept to themselves, and only dealt with city dwellers on matters of business. He knew a few of the camel drivers who traveled with the caravans by name, but they were not true Stygian nomads, merely hired drivers of other races and creeds. He was looking forward to at last having a chance to learn about these mysterious people.

  They reached the barns just as the eastern sky was beginning to pinken and found a caravan already assembling in the plaza. Anok left the cart with Teferi and walked over to greet the man who seemed to be in charge.

  The man was old but moved with the spring of a much younger man. He was loading a camel, and he hefted heavy bundles with seeming ease. His skin was dark and leathery, his nose long and hooked, even for his people, and his eyes were intense and fearsome-looking. His pointed, curly beard was mostly white, but a few of the blue-black hairs common to men of his race still showed here and there. He wore loose white robes, and the circlet holding his headcloth was ornately embroidered with threads of colored silk, silver, and gold.

  Anok bowed in respectful greeting, as he had seen nomads do on occasion. “Pardon, but are you Havilah? I spoke with Havilah’s son Moahavilah about securing passage on this caravan for my companion and me.”

  The man’s eyes zeroed in on the medallion around Anok’s neck. He glared at it for a moment, then turned his head and spat upon the sand. “Moahavilah is my youngest son and has no right to speak for me. There will be no passage for you.” He turned and went back to his camel.

  “Pardon, but I gave your son fifty pieces of silver as a deposit.”

  Havilah did not look back at him. “Then I will give it back to you.”

  Anok had heard that among the nomads, a man’s word was a matter of some importance. “Pardon, Havilah, but promises were made to me in your name. If Moahavilah is your youngest son, he is still of your blood, and I now see him across the plaza watering your camels. I hold you to your word and beg passage as it was originally promised.”

  Havilah turned back and glared at him. “You Set worshipers are all the same. You think you own Stygia, but you do not own the sands where we dwell. Beyond the bounds of this city, your cult is weak, and the gods of the desert are strong. I have seen your kind die of thirst or in a storm of quicksand just like any other man.”

  “Pardon, honorable Havilah, but I ask for nothing more than any other man, safe passage at a fair price. I was told by a woman at the Great Marketplace, I believe her name was Setarah, that you were an honest and honorable man and that I should seek you out. I have been promised passage in your name, and I only ask that the promise be kept.”

  The old man looked back at him over his shoulder, his narrow lips twisted into a scowl. “I do not like snake worshipers. It would not be a pleasant trip.”

  “Perhaps you would find me different than other snake worshipers.”

  “Perhaps the sun will rise from the Western Ocean this morning.” He considered a moment. “Setarah was wife to my older brother until he was killed by bandits almost ten years ago now. She has great wisdom and perception for a woman. If she sent you here, she must see something in you that I do not.” He sighed. “Have you ridden a camel before?”

  Anok smiled a bit, knowing he had won. “No, honorable Havilah. I have rarely traveled beyond the city, and then only on foot, or by boat.”

  The old man shook his head sadly. “You will take those two camels over there.” He pointed to a pair of camels just behind his own. “They are well trained and hardly need driving. Find Moahavilah and
have him show you how to mount the camel and stay in the saddle. You are his doing, I will make you his responsibility. Now go, I have things to do, and we leave when the sun is full.”

  Anok bowed again. “Thank you, great Havilah. You are a man of your word.”

  Anok heard a rude snorting sound, but he wasn’t sure if it came from the man or the camel.

  HAVILAH SEEMED SURPRISED when Anok and Teferi briefly disappeared into the barn and returned dressed in nomadic dress. As they passed him, he glanced up and grunted in a way that Anok suspected passed for grudging approval.

  Anok had removed every sign of the Cult of Set and packed them away, even his new acolyte’s yoke, and he was surprised how much it lifted his spirits. He felt almost—clean.

  But there was one reminder of his association with the cult that he could not remove. He pulled back the loose sleeve of his long shirt to see the mark there. The nagging redness had faded, as though his flesh had finally accepted the invader, but it remained warm to the touch. At times, he swore that he could feel it moving, though he hoped that was only an illusion.

  More disturbing was the twitch he had developed in his hand. Sometimes the fingers seemed to wiggle of their own volition or would inexplicably clench into a fist until his nails cut into his palm. It didn’t happen often, but it always disturbed him when it did. He suspected it was only the beginning of his troubles with the Mark of Set.

  Often he found himself rubbing the little silver ring Sheriti had bought for him. He wore it constantly now, and it gave him comfort, especially when the mark troubled him. The memory of her pure heart and fierce spirit helped keep him centered.

  Anok and Teferi found Moahavilah loading their camels when they returned, hanging their sacks and bundles from the corners of the tall, curious-looking saddle. He was the runt of the family, his characteristic blue beard little more than a scraggly patch on his chin. But his ready smile and his eyes, with much of his father’s fire and none of the malice, made him a difficult man not to like. Anok hoped that his decision to book passage for him and Teferi didn’t cause conflict with his father.