Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

  Barid laughed.

  Anok scowled at him. “Not you, too.”

  “He will not see you.” He laughed at his own unintentional joke. “He sees no one, of course, he is blind. But he will not give you audience.”

  “He does not care for Set. So I have heard. So what if I simply do not tell him? He’s blind. How will he know?”

  “I have heard his senses are keen. He knows the cloth of Set’s robes, the incense burned at his temples. He will smell Set upon you.”

  “Then I won’t lie to him. I will persuade him.”

  Barid laughed again.

  Anok was annoyed. “Do you know where he lives, or not?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then take me there.”

  Barid shrugged and urged his team onward.

  They didn’t have far to go. They traveled north a short distance up a wide and busy avenue, then turned west onto a narrower street lined with a mix of businesses, small houses, and a few larger buildings that were probably libraries or museums.

  “There!” Teferi pointed right, at a small, two-story, flat-topped masonry building surrounded by a low wall. “That’s our villa!” He looked curiously at Barid. “I thought we were going to see this scholar, Sabé?”

  Barid grinned. “We are. He lives very close. I told you it was a good area for your purposes.”

  They continued a block or so past the villa, turned right, then left in rapid succession and pulled up in front of a building set back from the street that looked somewhat run-down.

  A man-high wall surrounded the building, but the gate was open, and a narrow flagstone path led up the door.

  “This is it,” said Barid, “But he will not talk to you.”

  “Wait here,” said Anok. He climbed out of the carriage and walked up to the gate. It was open, but he hesitated, holding up his hand and slowly moving it across the opening. He could feel something magical there, not across the gate, but just within.

  Carefully he stepped through and repeated the process. The narrow path was clear, but immediately to either side, he felt something invisible and dangerous. So, this place is not so run-down and unprotected as it seems.

  He sensed that the small forecourt, the wall, the small windows in the front of the building, all were protected with powerful magical traps. He was certain that if a nonsorcerer stepped off that path, they would immediately be killed by some unspeakable magic.

  Even great sorcerers would find themselves battling for their life. Perhaps a great sorcerer would have stepped off, just to test his abilities, but not Anok. He knew the one safe place was on the path, and he stayed there, wondering what to do next.

  During his training at the temple in Khemi, there had been an exercise where the acolytes had been placed in a darkened room with an unknown threat, forced to use a sorcerer’s innate sensitivity to magic to learn its nature. Perhaps he could do the same here.

  He closed his eyes, trying to divine the nature of the unseen dangers.

  Almost to his surprise, he was able to sense the size and shape of the nearest trap, a circle perhaps the width of his arm spread. He focused on that space and had a sense of a demon, but only a sense.

  This is no complete spell, only the potential for one. He quickly realized that anyone entering the trap would complete the spell, summoning a demon, who would likely be ordered to attack them. The real brilliance of the scheme, he realized, was that it would be the intruder springing the trap, not the sorcerer who set it, who suffered the corruption and potential insanity that resulted from such a summoning. If the demon didn’t kill them, they might end up insane anyway.

  As he slowly made his way down the path, he continued to sense invisible danger all around. There were dozens of invisible traps, all different, summonings of demons, elementals, and beasts, spells that would enlarge and animate the common garden plants to attack an invader, curses of cold and fire, madness and fevers.

  In a sense, this invisible garden of death was a sort of library itself, an amazing exhibit of dark knowledge, for those with the ability to appreciate it.

  But the path itself was clear, and the door had no obvious protections. There was a kind of logic to it. An honest man approaching the front door was in no danger. Yet a thief, a prowler, a spy, would instantly suffer peril.

  Finally, he reached the door. It was stout oak, with no window or peephole. An iron hammer hung from a leather cord, forming a knocker. He lifted the round head of the hammer and pounded it repeatedly against the door.

  He waited.

  Nothing. Again he tried pounding, longer and harder, but again there was no result.

  He leaned forward and listened to the door. He heard nothing, and started to wonder if Sabé was even home. Yet some sense told him that the infamous scholar was there, simply avoiding him.

  He pounded again. He yelled, “Sabé, are you there? I have need of a scholar.” He listened again. Nothing. “I have gold. Price is no object!”

  Again nothing. He had great confidence in his powers of persuasion, but they would do him no good unless he could talk with the man. He looked at the door. There was a metal lock of the type that opened with a key.

  His intuition told him that any attempt to open it through magical means would trigger another of the deadly traps, but through his association with the little thief, Rami, Anok had picked up many useful skills. Though he lacked any special tools, he suspected he could open the lock with nothing more than the point of his dagger. In a city of sorcerers, would Sabé be expecting such a simple method of entry?

  He ran his fingers over the cool metal. Anok was hoping that Sabé had overlooked the obvious, but was it possible that he was missing something obvious as well?

  He grasped the handle, pushed the latch lever. There was a click, and the door opened.

  Unlocked.

  He swung the door open and stepped inside.

  The interior of the house was dark. The windows were small, and all were curtained or shuttered. He saw a few candles, and there were lamp stanchions in the walls, but none was lit, and there was no smell to suggest that any of them had been lit in some time. Most of what he could see was illuminated by the light streaming through the open door.

  There was no entry hall. The door opened directly into a large, central room that seemed to occupy a good portion of the building’s floor space. There were desks and tables, all covered with scrolls and books, though he was uncertain how a blind man could read them. Also visible were hundreds of clay and stone tablets, stacked on stout wooden tables that seemed to have been made specifically to support their weight.

  He glanced at one of them, finding it covered with unreadable symbols, both ancient and arcane. He ran his fingers over the clay, clearly feeling the impressions. It was at least clear how a blind scholar could read these ancient texts.

  “It is Thurian,” said an unseen voice, deep and resonant. “Or perhaps of an even more ancient race. Though the language is similar, the symbols themselves are unique and resemble the standard Thurian alphabet only slightly.”

  Out of the shadows stepped an old man, dressed in a tattered gray robe that seemed even more ancient than its wearer. A black cloth tie belted it at the waist, and the man wore no visible weapons. His face was narrow and angular, his nose thin and relatively flat. A fringe of unkempt gray hair surrounded the bald top of his head, but his silvery beard was neatly trimmed to a point. The most striking thing about him, however, was the band of gray cloth tied around his head, covering his eyes.

  “Sabé! I’m sorry,” said Anok. “The door was unlocked.”

  “Indeed it was. A locked door is a sure barrier against an honest man. You, sir, have given away your true nature.”

  Anok tensed as the man made a sudden gesture with his hands. There was a flash of light, as if someone had thrown open all the curtains at once. Anok had a brief sense of falling, as though a trapdoor beneath his feet had given way, but dropped him only a few inches.

/>   He blinked. Suddenly he was somewhere else. It was light, and though he had a sense of being in a contained space, it was vast. He could see great pyramids and temples in the distance, peaked mountains that belched smoke and fire, and great beasts stranger even than the curiosities he’d seen brought back from the plains of Kush and the jungles of the Black Kingdoms.

  He was standing on a plain, or perhaps a vast floor, as it was made of polished marble. The air was cool, and scented with banana and wildflowers. He was suddenly aware that he was not alone.

  Sabé stood a dozen paces away, holding a polished wooden staff. The old man’s clothing had changed, his robes were white and ornately trimmed in a style unknown to Anok, but similar in some ways to the Khitans he had seen that morning. The man himself was different as well. His face was still old, though perhaps not so deeply lined, but now he carried himself with the strength and assurance of a young warrior.

  His eyes were still covered, but by a band of hammered iron rather than of cloth. He seemed to be watching Anok, as though his vision was not impeded at all.

  Anok was startled to discover that his own clothing had changed as well. He wore the simple leather sandals, silk kilt, and tunic that he had often worn in his days in Odji. His twin swords hung from his belt, rather than crossed over his back as he had taken to wearing since joining the Cult of Set.

  He looked at Sabé, who seemed to be smiling at his confusion. “Where are we?”

  “A place of memories and knowledge, intruder, where truths can be revealed and true strengths tested.” He pulled apart the staff, revealing a long, curved sword hidden inside. “Enjoy its sights, as you will not be leaving alive!” He tossed aside the half of the staff that had formed the sheath and advanced with the blade held high.

  Anok smoothly moved to a fighting stance and drew his own two blades. Even as he prepared for battle, his mind raced. He thought he knew what this was.

  A war of souls!

  He had seen several references to it in some of the ancient texts he had studied. It was the ultimate battle between two sorcerers, carried out on the plain of the mind rather than in the physical world. It was a direct test of mystic power, arcane knowledge, courage, and force of will.

  He and Sabé circled each other warily.

  “I did not come here to fight you.”

  “Of course not. You hoped I would be out, so that you could raid my stores of knowledge.”

  “I came to buy your knowledge, not to steal it.”

  “My knowledge is not for sale to Set, not at any price!” He swung the sword, and Anok blocked the blow with his own crossed swords. “You don’t look like much of a wizard to me. Perhaps only a thief with aspirations to power, or acting in service of some hidden master.”

  “I serve no master but myself.” But even as he said it, he thought of Parath, and wondered if that was a lie.

  “I sense untruth. I know you serve Set! I smell his foul temple on you, hear the metal yoke of his service clanking around your neck! You are his puppet, come to torment me. Well, it will not stand!”

  He spun, bringing the sword down on Anok with furious power.

  Using both of his swords, Anok was able to deflect the blow, but the old man’s sword was now changing, the narrow blade becoming a mighty greatsword, nearly as long as Anok was tall, its tapered blade cloaked in ghostly blue flame.

  He wielded the mighty weapon with effortless ease, and it came down in a slashing blow.

  Anok dived to one side, rolling quickly to his feet as the sword struck behind him, the ground shaking with the force of the blow, the gray marble split deeply by the blade.

  He could not best this foe by force alone. Think!

  “Where are those robes now? If I truly serve Set, then why do I not wear his colors in your arena of truth?”

  Sabé seemed to hesitate a moment. “I do not know. Yet it matters little whom you serve. Your actions have made your intentions clear!” He cast aside the sword, picking up the rest of the staff, which, as he did, transformed into a spiked mace of iron.

  The air whistled as he swung it over his head, and again Anok dived aside just in time. Even so, the force of the impact seemed to toss him like a rag, and he slid on his face across the floor. Stopping, he struggled to stand. He glanced over, seeing Sabé advancing on him, mace held high, its iron beginning to smolder and glow red-hot.

  The old scholar had called this a place of memory and knowledge, and clearly everything he saw around him was taken from the old scholar’s mind. His knowledge and experience must be vast, certainly far beyond young Anok’s. How could he hope to survive, much less prevail?

  Still on all fours, he scrambled aside just as the huge mace fell, the heat of it searing the hairs on body, stinging fragments of hot marble pelting his skin as the blast tossed him away.

  Yet there had to be something Anok could bring to the battle from his own mind. But what? There is no spell he does not know, no weapon he cannot best. What can I do?

  Call me!

  The hissing voice startled him, seeming to come, as it did, from within his own head.

  Call me and I will destroy him for you! Set my power free to smite our enemies! Call on me and I shall answer tenfold!

  The Mark of Set! That was his only advantage! He could not match the old scholar for knowledge, and his will and courage had been the only things keeping him alive this far. But he could not win without power!

  Let me crush him! Let me split his flesh and grind his bones! Set me free!

  He raised his left hand and was startled to see his wrist, brown and bare of the mark. He blinked, hesitated. Though he could hear it, sense its power, knew that he could call that power to destroy Sabé, he hesitated. I don’t want to destroy him! I want his service, his friendship if it can be had!

  He closed his hand, clenched his fingers, curled the wrist back toward his body, struggling to control the power and push it back into its hiding place.

  A wave of pain washed over him, deep, bone-cracking pain, which traveled up his left arm to his head, then back down to his feet. He gasped in agony, almost didn’t see the mace swinging toward his belly.

  He jumped, diving across the top of the weapon, but the force of it seemed to hit him like a wave and tossed him in a high arc through the air.

  He landed on his feet, but his legs immediately gave way, and he rolled, head over heels, again and again and again, his vision fading, his ears ringing. He staggered to his feet and swayed like a drunk.

  Still Sabé came at him

  Free me! The voice was small and distant as though from the bottom of a well.

  Anok tried not to listen, but it was so hard.

  He turned to face Sabé, standing ground against his advance. “I do not wish to fight you, but I must survive. Thus I summon up that which has never failed me in the past.”

  Sabé laughed. “Bring on your foul power then, call up your demons and monsters. I know things that will make them all tremble!”

  Then Sabé howled in pain, his eyes wide with shock, as a bloody arrow point sprouted from his shoulder like a spring blossom. He reached up, and with a roar pulled the arrow completely through his body. Still holding it in his hand, he turned to face his attacker.

  Teferi stood, feet wide, wearing the lion-skin loincloth, feather headdress, and white war paint of his warrior ancestors, his mighty Stygian bow drawn and aimed at Sabé’s heart.

  “What am I doing here, Anok?”

  Anok laughed. “I don’t know if you are here, my old friend, but your memory lives in this place as if you were!”

  Sabé tossed aside the arrow, and his robes changed shape into armor.

  Teferi’s arrow was loosed, too late, and clanked against the thick metal of Sabé’s chest plate.

  “This is not what I expected. I know not what Kushite demons you serve, but they will not stand before me!” He advanced toward Teferi.

  Anok suddenly was aware of a bow in his own hands, an arrow with a f
laming tip, nocked and ready. He aimed for the back of Sabé’s neck, the join between armor and helmet, pulled smoothly, and let fly.

  The arrow flew true, the tip splattering as it struck, spreading flame across Sabé’s back.

  He cried out in pain, then spun back toward Anok. “You strike me with fire, when I know that dragons once walked the earth?”

  As he advanced, Sabé seemed to get bigger, his hands turning to claws, his armor to shining scales trimmed with feathers, the ground shaking with each step of taloned feet. He roared like thunder, and mighty jaws in a head as big as a pony opened to swallow Anok whole.

  Then something thundered between them, a flash of white and a glint of steel, and the dragon jerked back, a bloody slash across his face.

  There was a whoop of triumph, as Fallon stood atop her galloping white camel, her sword held in both hands, turning for another attack.

  Anok nocked another arrow, the point on this one heavy and barbed. His arms strained as he pulled the heavy bow and released. The string sang, and the arrow plunged into the dragon’s neck.

  Then a spear, its shaft carved with ornate Kushite symbols flew from Teferi’s hand and plunged between the dragon’s ribs.

  An Aquilonian knight on horseback thudded by, his lance grazing across the Sabé-dragon’s back. The knight turned and raised his visor, smiling at Anok.

  His knees nearly gave way when he recognized his father’s face. His father lowered the visor and turned for another charge.

  Bring forth then! That was what he had. Family, friends, and allies. Far and near. Old and new. Living—and dead.

  More camels came, Havilah and his three brave sons. Asrad, friend and Raven, who had been crushed by a wagon wheel on his sixteenth birthday. Rami appeared just long enough to throw his dagger at the dragon, turn, and run away in fear.

  A tall, dark Stygian woman appeared holding a sword too large for her. She stood her ground before the beast. It turned to face another attacker, and she struck its tail, drawing blood before the tail swung and struck her down.

  She turned into mist even as she fell, and only then did Anok realize who she was. A memory he didn’t know he had.