Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

  “Of course, master. I never would have proposed this brazen scheme otherwise. I humbly take great risks in your service, master.”

  Thoth-Amon waved his hand in annoyance. “Lies! You seek power, as I do. You are too weak to do this thing alone; otherwise, you would take everything for yourself and kill me in my sleep.”

  He held up his left hand, fingers wide, showing a heavy ring of dark metal and polished obsidian, decorated with black diamonds. “Remember that whatever happens, you are ever bound to me. With but a twist of the Black Ring I could stop your beating heart in your chest, and there is no place in the world you can hide from that power!”

  Ramsa Aál looked pained, an act that did not fool even Anok. “I would never betray my master!”

  “That is right. You never will!”

  He turned his attention to Anok and took a step closer, looking him up and down. “So this is your new pet?” He reached out suddenly, his fingers, powerful and clawlike, grabbing Anok’s left arm and pulling back the sleeve to examine the mark around his wrist.

  “So it is true. The Mark of Set!” He looked up into Anok’s face and scowled at what he saw. “I am mystified why the Mark of Set would choose this one. He is weak, small, and tainted by foreign blood.” The pointed nails of the High Priest’s right hand dug into Anok’s wrist, as his open left hand waved before Anok’s face. “He has not even embraced the power of the mark! This one fears corruption!” He nearly spat the last word.

  Then something made him hesitate. He waved his hand over Anok’s chest, then grabbed the golden yoke around his neck, lifted it, and pulled open Anok’s robe to expose his chest.

  He grabbed the medallion there, then pulled his hand back as though burned.

  “Cold iron!” His face slowly formed a smile. Then he laughed. “Cold iron! You think this will protect you from corruption?”

  He leaned back, brushing his hands as though he had fouled them.

  As he straightened his robe and yoke, Anok realized with a small sense of triumph that he had, at least in this, fooled the master sorcerer.

  Thoth-Amon had not sensed the Scale of Set within the medallion, nor did he seem to sense its magic, temporarily housed in Anok’s body.

  Thoth-Amon leaned close to Anok’s face. His breath smelled of cloves and garlic. “Let me tell you something, acolyte. I can tell that you fear me, and you should, for I am powerful and ruthless. I could crush you with my magics and give it no more thought than eating a grape at breakfast.

  “But I have not always been such. A sorcerer’s power is inconstant at best, his fate uncertain, his enemies legion. In my long life I have been pauper and king, High Priest and, more recently than you would imagine, slave.”

  He held up his left hand for Anok to see. “But I was nothing until I found the Black Ring and made it mine. It called to me, and I answered.

  “You have been chosen by a mark of power, and unlike mine, it can never be taken from you! You cannot imagine how jealous that makes me! If it were possible, I would take it for myself, but I cannot, so I must help you use it in my stead.”

  His tone became one of sympathy, almost pity, and the hairs suddenly rose on the back of Anok’s neck.

  “Understand, then, that there is no malice in what I do now. It is simply what must be done, and I do it with no more anger than a man feels when he swats a gnat.”

  Then Thoth-Amon turned, as though taking his leave, and began to walk away. After only a few steps, he spun, his eyes wide, his hands held high, and instinctively Anok knew what was coming.

  He reacted just as instinctively, his hands raised, palms flat, visualizing in his mind an ancient glyph of protection.

  An instant later, the attack slammed into him like a powerful wave. The air around him crackled with lightning, and though he was braced, his feet slid several paces back along the smooth floor.

  Then it was past, and he felt a sudden sense of relief.

  He had braced for the attack, and weathered it well.

  Was this the best the Lord of the Black Ring could offer?

  But Thoth-Amon only smiled when he saw that Anok was unharmed. “Your reflexes are good, acolyte, as is your mastery of the basic spells. Now, prepare yourself for the real test!”

  Again Thoth-Amon raised his hands.

  Again Anok responded, but this time he had a moment to think about it, and remembered the techniques of the Jade Spider cult. If Thoth-Amon hoped to goad him into tapping the power of the Mark of Set, perhaps there was a way he could avoid that, using not power, but cleverness.

  If the attack was like a wave, then his response must be like something that can cut through a wave. Again, he imagined the glyph of protection, but doubled, and in his mind placed them side by side to form a point, like the prow of a ship.

  The attack came, twice as powerful as the last, yet Anok’s pointed defense halved it again, and deflected it to either side.

  Part of it splashed away and caught Ramsa Aál off guard. He was thrown back against the railing before he could raise a defense.

  Thoth-Amon glanced at Ramsa Aál. “I would say, my servant, that you should stand clear. You could be injured.”

  Ramsa Aál’s eyes were wide, as he backed away against the far southern railing of the balcony and crouched.

  Thoth-Amon turned back to Anok and frowned, his black eyes narrowing. “You think yourself clever, acolyte? Perhaps you are, but that will not save you here!”

  Again, he lashed out.

  Anok tried his defensive trick again, but this attack was much stronger. He staggered back, rattled to his bones.

  He tasted blood in his mouth.

  Thoth-Amon’s head tilted as he looked at Anok. “Did that hurt?”

  He held up his hand. “No. Let me imagine it.” He straightened his head.

  “My next attack may destroy you. I do not fear corruption. I do not fear at all. Who knows what my limits may be?

  “If you wish to survive, I would suggest that you strike me first.”

  Anok’s eyes widened. Was this a trick? Was he being goaded into justifying his own murder? Perhaps Thoth-Amon had never been fooled by his ruse. Perhaps they would simply kill him and take the Scale of Set.

  And yet, if that were so, why would Thoth-Amon need an excuse? He had made it clear he would kill without hesitation if it served his ends, and here, in Stygia, in the heart of his own stronghold, who would dare question him?

  No, this was a test, nothing more. Yet even as Thoth-Amon tested him, he was tested against himself. He knew the consequences if he drew on the Mark of Set. He had resisted it so long, but its hold on him was growing constantly.

  Now that he had mingled it with the power of the Scale of Set, who knew what could happen? Perhaps he even had enough power to crush the dark lord of Set.

  Perhaps he could cut off the serpent’s head, and at last have his revenge against Set, for his father, for Sheriti!

  You have the power! Destroy him!

  Anok’s eyes went wide. The words had come from inside his head, but they were not his. I deny you! I deny your power!

  No, he would strike back, but without the power of Set, without the dark spells the Mark of Set had compelled him to gain knowledge of. He had learned many other things in his studies at the temple. They would have to be enough.

  He did not say the words aloud, lest he give Thoth-Amon warning, only thought them.

  In the name of Lord Opp, the ancient, I summon forces of chaos, order from nothingness, and will my enemy—shatter!

  A bolt of power leapt from his hands and swept toward Thoth-Amon like a swarm of angry bees. It enveloped him, pink fire dancing around his body. His wrinkled fists clenched, his arms strained, elbows flexing out, and the energy was broken, pieces of it fluttering away and sputtering out of existence.

  Thoth-Amon drew himself to his full height. “If that is the best you can do, acolyte, then you must not want to live very badly.”

  Again he lashed back at A
nok, the effort seeming almost trivial, and yet Anok was nearly blown off his feet, his defenses shredding like papyrus from an old tomb.

  He felt his body ripple, bones creaking, his very skull trying to change shape. The agony was blinding, yet he did not fall.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  He looked up through eyelids that fluttered with the effort of staying open. “I—yield—to my master’s superior skill.”

  Thoth-Amon seemed almost surprised. “You don’t understand, acolyte. This is not a contest! This is a duel between sorcerers. This is kill or be killed! There is no yielding save death!

  “Now, strike me, or you will yield—by default!”

  Anok realized he had no choice. He had to call on the Mark of Set, and perhaps even the power of the Scale. If crushing Thoth-Amon was the only way out, then that was what he would have to do!

  He tensed his body, summoning up the powers that waited—no—begged for release! Thoth-Amon had lived by the power of Set. Now let him die by it!

  Lightning seemed to fire from his left fist, lightning and fire. Around the room, mirrors shattered, furniture was tossed against the wall, and everything that was breakable was broken.

  Thoth-Amon seemed to sag, as though he might collapse, but then he pushed himself back up. Now there was pain in his face.

  Pain, and anger.

  He lashed back, catching Anok unaware. In a way it was no more than a magical slap in the face, but shielded as he was, Anok took the full brunt of it. He dropped to his knees, clutching his gut, feeling his insides twist and tear like rotted rags.

  Far below the balcony, he could hear shouts of alarm.

  Thoth-Amon stepped toward him. “That was impressive acolyte, but not what I was looking for. You have pained me for nothing, and for that you will surely die!”

  Anok knew that the Lord of the Dark Ring was a man of his word. He knew the death blow was coming.

  But he still had the Mark of Set, the power of the Scale.

  And he had more.

  Ancient spells, dark and forbidden, from before the time of man.

  Give them to us! Channel them through us! Let us multiply their power a dozenfold! Let us shatter the Black Ring! Let us make its holder bleed!

  The words came to his lips, in a language lost since before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. “Idnyc-ahk ozark lisab du sandrab et!”

  It was as though his body had been struck by lightning, his limbs thrown akimbo by the force of its passage through him. It left him as a translucent ball, rolling like a boulder down a hillside.

  It swept over Thoth-Amon and tossed him like a dry leaf. The priest flew five paces through the air before landing on his knees and crumpling facedown.

  But Anok was in no condition to gloat. He staggered and dropped to his knees. Inside, he could feel the Mark of Set healing him, feel it knitting his torn insides back together, but he was anything but well.

  He trembled and shuddered, his whole body spasming. He wanted to vomit, but even the muscles of his stomach failed to work properly. He had used the great magic of old, and now he was paying the price.

  Without relief, his body would tear itself apart no matter what the Mark of Set did to restore it. At best, it would only prolong his agonies.

  Yet through this, a sound attracted his attention.

  He looked up, to see Thoth-Amon rising to his feet. The Lord of the Black Ring seemed to pause for a moment to compose himself, then strode purposefully toward Anok.

  As he drew closer, he reached beneath his robe and smoothly extracted an ornate sacrificial dagger.

  All Anok could do was watch.

  Thoth-Amon grabbed his hair, yanked his head back to expose his throat, and he felt the razor sting as the sharp edge of it just sliced into his skin.

  He leaned very close to Anok, so that all Anok could see were those inky black eyes. “Let me share with you, acolyte, a lesson I have learned through pain and hard experience.

  “No matter how great the sorcerer, his magic will eventually be depleted. And then—” He smiled an acid smile. “And then, a sorcerer can fall to the sharp edge of steel like any other mortal!”

  Anok waited for the quick jerk of the blade, the hot rush of his own blood.

  It did not come.

  Instead, Thoth-Amon dropped his head, stood, and walked away.

  Running footsteps approached, and a half dozen guardians and household servants charged up the stairs. They stopped and surveyed the destruction. “Master,” said the eldest of the servants, “we heard noises and came at once. May I be of assistance?”

  Thoth-Amon smiled. “Yes,” he said, “yes, you may!”

  He stepped toward the servant, glancing back at Anok as he did. “You see, you see, acolyte, your power is spent. As is mine, but—”

  Thoth-Amon moved so quickly the servant never suspected until it was too late. In an instant the bigger man was behind him, had yanked his head back, and drawn the blade hard across his throat.

  The servant made a gurgling sound, clutched his throat, and fell, his eyes wide as he watched torrents of crimson spray between his fingers. His lifeblood ebbed away in time with his fading pulse.

  The other servants drew back, but were too frightened even to run.

  A spatter of blood crossed Thoth-Amon’s chest. He dipped two fingers in, and delicately raised them to his mouth. When they were sucked clean, he turned again to Anok. “You are spent, and you see that my power is easily restored by the sacrifice of blood. That is because I am not afraid.”

  Anok groaned in agony and tumbled to his side on the cold marble floor.

  Thoth-Amon walked over to Anok, and knelt beside him. “Now,” he said, “you must pay the price, one way or the other. Corruption, madness, or death. Choose!”

  Anok said nothing, but in his heart, he had chosen.

  Thoth-Amon studied him for a moment, then a look of contempt crossed his face. “You have chosen poorly!”

  He stood abruptly and walked away.

  Ramsa Aál finally dared step away from his hiding place. “Master, what shall I do with him?”

  Thoth-Amon did not look back as he disappeared through one of the side doors. “Dump him at his residence. He may yet one day be of use to me. If he lives. And if he is ever sane again.”

  Anok heard the words, even though he could barely understand them. His whole attention was focused on a rivulet of the servant’s blood, that was slowly was snaking its way across the floor toward him, closer, tantalizingly closer.

  He reached out a trembling hand, and could almost touch it, when strong hands grabbed his ankles and began to drag him away.

  23

  ANOK LAY ON a couch in the front room of his villa. Teferi and Fallon were there, too, but he did not look at them. His eyes were fixed on the solid carpet of scorpions climbing slowly up the far wall.

  “He was like this when I found him,” said Teferi, “dumped by the guardians at our front gate.”

  “He does not move. Is he injured?”

  Fallon leaned in front of his face, and he shifted to one side, so he could look around her and watch the scorpions, which had now nearly reached the juncture of wall and ceiling, shiny black bodies packed together like cows in a herd.

  “There are signs of injuries, but they are already healed. He burns as though with a fever, but I do not think he is ill. This is very bad magic.”

  Fallon drew back, then caught herself and tried to look nonplused. “This is beyond the ken of such as you and me, Teferi.”

  “I’ve sent a boy to fetch Sabé,” he said grimly. “Until then, may Jangwa guard his mind, wherever it has gone.”

  The scorpions were on the ceiling above them now, their ranks dividing and twisting, forming ancient glyphs of power whose meaning Anok could only guess. They made him laugh.

  “Oh, Anok,” said Teferi, “this is my fault!”

  “It is not his fault, it is yours! He’s a better friend than you deserve!”
r />   The voice, so familiar, so long unheard. He turned to see him sitting next to the couch, hunched forward, his fingers intermeshed, a look of anger wrinkling his brow. Anok’s eyes went wide. “Father?”

  His father shook his head sadly. “What have you done to yourself? Did I teach you nothing? You cannot live among snakes without growing scales!”

  “I’m sorry, father.”

  “Who is he talking to?” asked Fallon.

  Teferi shushed her.

  “I am dead, and nothing will undo that! This mission of revenge is folly. I gave you one simple task, and in that you have failed utterly!”

  “If indeed I have a sister, father, I cannot find her. This medallion, it is so heavy.”

  “Better it be lost than delivered into the hands of our enemies.”

  “I have kept it safe!”

  “You have brought it to our enemies’ doorstep, and the day is still young! Set is patient, as are we. You are but a thread in a tapestry that runs back fifty generations. If it runs fifty more, so be it, but it must not be ripped asunder!”

  “I only tried to serve you, father!”

  He looked away. “You would have served me better by throwing the medallion into the sand, finding a wife, and giving me fat grandchildren. Your sister would have found you in time. Now you have doomed yourself and my legacy as well. How will a madman protect the Scale of Set?”

  “I am not mad!”

  “Yes you are,” said Fallon.

  Teferi glared at her. “Shut up!”

  “She is not a bad woman,” said Sheriti. “She speaks what is in her mind. If she is lacking in grace, she is also lacking in deception. She lies only to herself.”

  Anok smiled to see her fair face again, her golden hair radiant in the light from the window. “Oh, beautiful one! You’ve come back to me!”

  Fallon looked shocked. “Is he talking to me?”

  Sheriti reached out and caressed his cheek.

  “You should be talking to her. She has a strong spirit, stronger than she knows. You need her as badly as she needs you. You are two broken people who could help each other. Did you ever hear the joke about the one-legged man who fell in love with a one-legged woman?”