After the morning feast, there was no noon meal at all, only tables of food set up in various locations around the temple, designed to be taken in hand and eaten while doing other tasks.
Anok found himself wishing he had his swords for the night’s trial, but despite repeated searches since arriving at the temple, he had never determined where they had been taken, or if they were even still there. With that alternative out, he decided it was time to improvise.
He wandered over to the table where the sacrificial knives were being prepared. Already, a line of the polished blades stretched across the front of the table. Two acolytes worked busily at the other end of the table, sharpening blades with a hand stone until they could cut a hair. So intent were they on their task, it required little effort for Anok to pick up one of the blades and secrete it under his robe.
He walked hurriedly back to his cell, certain that at any moment he would be stopped and challenged, but it never happened. Once behind closed doors, he removed the blade and examined it. It was sheathed in ornately carved leather, and the handle was made of something like black ivory or horn. The pommel was heavy silver, formed in the shape of a viper’s head. The blade was curved and as long as his forearm.
As he drew it, he saw that the steel was very fine, marbled in the fashion of the finest swords he had ever seen. The blade itself was ornately engraved as well, with the image of a nude maiden, arms overhead, eyes downcast, as though waiting calmly to be sacrificed. Both edges of the wide blade were sharpened, and it tapered like a serpent’s tooth to a fine point.
It wasn’t a sword, and it was better suited to slicing than stabbing, but it was far better than no weapon at all. He removed the leather ties from a spare set of sandals and tied the sheath around his middle, so that it hung, invisibly he hoped, along his spine. Once in the maze, he could take it out and strap it properly around his waist.
He spent the rest of the afternoon studying the scrolls and left his cell only when the sounding of the temple gong told him it was dusk. He encountered Ramsa Aál as he climbed the stairs to the main level of the temple. The priest was accompanied by four muscular guardians armed with swords.
Did he think Anok would try to escape? That he would refuse the trial? That had never been Anok’s intention, but now he saw that it was not even a possibility.
The priest smiled to see him though. “You seem almost fervent to begin your trial, acolyte.” He continued down the stairs, and Anok walked with him. The four guardians marched along close behind.
“I want to prove myself, master, if that is truly the intent.”
“What other intent would there be, acolyte?”
“Dejal told me that the Maze of Set is where failed acolytes are taken for . . . disposal.”
The priest smiled slightly. “Acolyte Dejal is correct.” His statement hung in the air, and Anok waited for clarification. It did not come.
Anok heard running water ahead and smelled the stench of sewage. They emerged into a large chamber with a stone channel in the floor. A sluggish flow of clean water ran through the channel, and a stone bridge passed over the channel to a door on the far side of the room.
The priest stopped to watch two men working near where the water disappeared into an opening in the wall. Anok realized that they were the two dark-skinned servants he had seen earlier. The men worked near a stack of black pottery jars, each the size of a man’s torso, tightly sealed with cork and red wax. As they watched, the men used knives to pierce the wax on one of the jars and pry the cork out of the wide mouth. As they did, a dark fluid sloshed out on the man’s hands, and dripped to the floor already stained—with blood.
Anok’s eyes widened. Ramsa Aál glanced at him and smiled in amusement.
Anok watched as the servants slowly poured the contents of the jar into the running water. The fluid quickly mixed with the clear water, turning it immediately to the dark red color of blood. He glanced at the priest questioningly.
Ramsa Aál motioned for the guardians to give him and Anok some space, and the four feel farther behind. Then the priest leaned in and spoke lowly to Anok, his words for no one else’s ears.
“It isn’t blood, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a special dye, potent, extracted from the crushed bodies of a beetle found only on an island far across the Southern Sea. One jar would turn a small pond to blood. It is brought here in great secrecy and at great expense. It can only be handled by those with dark skin, as it would turn such as you or I red as blood, and that might give away our deception. As it is, we try to keep our friends here within the walls of the temple.”
“The blood that runs into the sea.”
He laughed. “Now you see. Much real blood will be spilled here tonight in Set’s name, yes, but there is not enough blood in all of Stygia to account for that legendary outflow. The dye is mixed with water here, then collected in a cistern beyond this wall. Later, just before dawn, a floodgate will be lifted, and it will spill into the sewers for all to see.”
“But why?”
He laughed. “Power is often best gained by the terror of lesser men. Blood is spilled, not merely to serve Set. Because of it, our enemies fear us. Our slaves fear us. Our servants fear us. Our followers fear us.” He watched the bloodred water flowing into the wall, then proceeded across the bridge and out the door on the other side. Anok walked with him.
The priest continued, “Lesser men, Anok Wati. It would seem that I send you to your doom. But as you have seen, things here are not always what they seem. Terrible death is the inevitable fate of lesser men who enter the maze. It need not be yours.”
“How is my trial different then?”
“It isn’t. You are different, or so I hope.”
“And what will I find in the maze? What am I to do there?”
The priest said nothing but quickened his pace. They turned away from the acolytes’ cells down another corridor, one that Anok had never seen before. They traveled some distance until they reached a point where the corridor continued, but the illuminated torches did not.
The guardians each took torches from an alcove in the wall, and lit them from the nearest lamp. Then they continued their journey into darkness. The floor slanted downward, and the walls changed as well. The way was narrower, and the damp walls seemed to be carved from solid stone.
Anok could not tell how far they had traveled, though he was sure they were no longer under the temple or even the plaza that surrounded it. Finally, after another series of twists and turns, they reached a chamber with two large doors set into the wall. The doors were made of heavy oak and iron, and locked with heavy iron bars.
“This,” announced Ramsa Aál, “is the Maze of Set. This door”—he pointed to the one on the left—“is the way in. This other door”—he pointed to the one on the right—“is the only passage out. All you need do is find your way from one door to the other. Knock, and these men will open the door to allow you to escape. I warn you that it will not be as easy as it seems. Remember, too, that as an acolyte, there are certain rules that must be followed, even within the maze.”
Despite the last, cryptic, comment, it seemed somehow too simple. “Is that all?”
The priest smiled slightly. “Perhaps not. The Maze of Set is used for the safekeeping of many objects of mystic power. These are not the trinkets of so-called ‘fool’s magic.’ These are objects so ancient and powerful that they choose who may wield them. They are scattered deep in the maze. You may not recognize them for what they are, but if you are worthy, one of those objects will show itself to you. You will be allowed to take it from the maze if you escape. If you fail, the object will be returned to its hiding place to await the next seeker. Reward, or death. Those are your choices.”
Anok stared at the door, heart pounding, trying to imagine what dangers might await him there.
Ramsa Aál reached inside his robe and removed an object. Round, shiny, it fit in the palm of his hand like a duck egg. He held it out for Anok to
see. “To aid you in your task, I offer you one additional boon. It is only a small thing, but survive, and you may keep it as well. It is called a Jewel of the Moon.” He handed it to Anok.
Anok looked at the jewel, rolling it between his fingers. It was oval, flattened, translucent, and polished to a high shine. It looked like nothing more than an especially nice river rock. “What is it?”
The priest only chuckled. “It is useful, if you can learn its secret.” He gestured at one of the guardians, removed the bolt from the entrance door. “Now,” said Ramsa Aál, holding out his hand, “give me the knife.”
Anok feigned ignorance, but it clearly wasn’t working. Reluctantly, he reached under his robes, untied the leather straps, and pulled out the sheathed knife. “How did you know?”
“The blade is sacred, blessed, and touched by the power that is blood. A sorcerer can sense such objects. You will learn that.”
Anok handed the knife to Ramsa Aál, who drew the blade and made a show of examining it. “A fine blade,” he said, swinging the knife through an arc that nicked the palm of Anok’s right hand. “Oh,” he said, “sorry.”
Cursing, Anok shook his wounded hand. The cut was not deep, hardly more than a scratch really, but it stung, and he could feel the warm, sticky blood welling up freely.
The priest slid the knife back into its sheath. “You seek weapons, Anok, yet you already have everything you need.” Then he stepped aside to allow Anok through the door.
Inside was only darkness. He had a sense that he was entering a much larger chamber. He stopped inside the door and turned, expecting one of the guardians would hand him a torch. Instead, he saw the door slam shut, forming a perfect seal that let not even a sliver of light through. Standing in complete darkness, he heard the bolt being placed, then silence.
No, not silence. First he heard dripping water, echoing as though through a vast cave. Then something else, a sliding noise, like leather against stone.
Then a hiss. Snake!
Something touched his foot, just a brushing contact, but he sensed something moving past him on the floor. Another sound, farther away. And another. Not one snake. Many.
They were all around him, but how many, how large, he couldn’t be sure. If only he could see!
Another hiss.
Loud. Close. Threatening.
The jewel felt cold against his sweaty palm. Jewel of the Moon? What he wouldn’t do for some moonlight right then. Wait! Could that be it?
He held the jewel up closer to his face. He wished he could see it, examine it for some clue. He rubbed it between his fingers, realizing for the first time the characteristic tingle of magical power.
“Light!”
Nothing happened.
“Illuminate!”
Again nothing.
“Summon moonlight!”
Nothing still.
Yet all around him he could hear things. Sense movement.
The cut on his right hand stung from the sweat of fear, and the blood ran down his fingers, making them sticky.
Why, he wondered, had Ramsa Aál cut his hand? There could be no doubt the act was intentional, but the wound was too small to disable or especially hinder him. The threat here seemed to be snakes, and snakes weren’t drawn to blood.
Yet it was a night of blood sacrifice, and blood was power.
Blood was power.
He took the jewel, and pressed it into his bloody palm. As he did, he heard the familiar ringing of magic. The jewel began to glow with a cool blue light that seemed to spread strangely through the air as the red dye had through water, until it illuminated the entire room as though by a full moon.
He was in a cave.
A cave full of snakes. Hundreds of snakes.
Around him, columns of stone hung from the ceiling over his head, and more still rose from the floor around him. Water collected in shallow pools in the stone.
And everywhere snakes.
They were sons of Set, sacred snakes, the smallest as big around as his wrist, others, the greater sons of Set, as large as any he’d seen on the streets of Odji. Yet even those snakes generally took smaller prey, they were generally too languid, too well fed, to endanger a wary adult. The snakes around him were active, crawling rapidly across the floor, swimming in the pools,
They seemed hungry.
A moderate-sized snake, its middle as thick as his thigh, its head as large as a coconut, suddenly surged toward him, head held high, mouth open to strike.
He instinctively held up his hand. “Stop!” He felt the familiar power surge through him, and the snake slowed, then stopped. It contemplated him, seemingly confused, tongue tasting the air.
“Back!”
There was a hesitation. Then the snake turned and crawled away.
Anok walked farther into the cave. As he did, he was alarmed to see snakes following him. They watched him with their slitted eyes as he passed, then they joined the parade.
He stopped and turned, holding up his hands as he had in the air shafts. “Back!”
And back the small ones went. But the larger ones, ones as large at the snake that had first tried to attack him, did not. They waited until he had continued down the tunnel a ways. Then they began to follow again.
His power over serpents was obviously very limited. He could command the larger snakes barely, and the greater sons of Set not at all.
With the light of the jewel to guide him, he quickly advanced into the caverns, hoping to outpace the snakes. It wasn’t working. It took time to pick his way around the many stone columns that sprouted from the floor—and the seemingly bottomless pits that sometimes split the floor—but the snakes were relentless. More, ever more, joined the growing throng.
If only I had my swords! Yet there were too many. He might have killed a few, but he would quickly be overrun. And one more thing. The greater sons of Set were sacred to the temple. To kill or harm them was forbidden, under penalty of death. Ramsa Aál had warned him the rules must be followed, even in the maze. Which meant that he couldn’t harm the snakes no matter what.
On he went. The passages branched again and again, and he could only guess which way to go. There was no time to ponder, no time to look for clues to the way out. Instinct was all he had. He felt hopelessly lost, and after a while, he was sure he was passing a spot he’d passed before.
Ramsa Aál had told him a sorcerer could sense mystic objects, and there were mystic objects in the center of the maze. Certainly he would have to locate the center before finding his way back out of the maze.
Pausing, with a wary glance back at the rapidly approaching wave of snakes, he held up his left hand as he had seen Ramsa Aál do, turning it slowly, trying to feel for the tingle of magic.
There!
Keeping just ahead of the snakes, he took a wide passage to the left, on a ways, then down the center of three passages. The tingling was stronger.
He was closer, but there were more snakes there, many of which blocked his path in such a way that he had warily to go around. The followers had drawn closer.
He emerged into a wide chamber that went on as far as he could see. It was full of huge and spectacular formations, columns frosted with crystalline needles, frozen rock waterfalls, delicate sheets of pink stone that grew from the wall like leaves on a tree. Every turn revealed some new wonder. Yet there was no time to admire their beauty. Ahead was something unlike anything else he’d seen since entering the door, an object made by man. An altar. Surely that was it, the place he would find the promised object of power. And may it be a weapon I can use against the Cult of Set itself!
So focused was he on his goal that he stopped focusing on the ground ahead. He stepped over a stone and put his foot down right next to the head of one of the great con strictors.
It struck, the needle-sharp teeth digging into his ankle, the powerful jaws clamping down relentlessly.
He staggered and fell, landing in a shallow puddle of water. Still holding on to his ankle, the
snake began to swing its coils over his body, winding itself around him, again and again, from knees to chest. He struggled to push them away, but the great snake was far too powerful to resist.
“Back,” he said desperately. “Release me!”
But the snake was too large, too intelligent, to succumb to his feeble sorcery. It shifted, and he felt the coils tighten around him, pinning his arms. He struggled to hold on to the gem, lest he be plunged into darkness as well.
By then, the rest of the snakes had arrived, but they did not join in the feast. Instead they gathered around him on all sides, to watch their brother crush the life out of him.
Tighter! The bones of his arms seemed to creak with the strain. He struggled to breathe. Yet with each exhalation the coils pulled tighter, and each intake of air in turn became smaller.
He felt his rib cage bending, threatening to crack like an eggshell.
Around him, hundreds of cold, merciless, eyes watched.
Then something loomed over him. Something huge.
A great black tongue flicked out, just touching his cheek. Great copper-colored eyes contemplated him from above.
Tighter! His head throbbed as though it would explode. The room grew dark, but he knew it wasn’t the jewel that was failing, it was his eyes.
Still the great snake looked down. Familiar.
It was the same great snake he’d seen in the air shaft.
The snake that had spared him.
“Agent of Set,” he said to the snake, struggling to find the air to gasp out the words. “You spared me . . . once before . . . Spare me again . . . that I may serve . . . in Set’s . . . plan. I beg . . .”
Tighter. No more words. No more air. The jewel slid from his numb fingers, its light dimming as it sank into the shallow water and clicked against the stone floor.
Blackness swallowed him like a snake.
HIS EYES OPENED. He gasped for air, and it came freely. His bones, his body ached, but the constrictor that had been killing him was gone. They were all gone.
Save one. In the dim light, he could see the greatest of the great sons of Set coiled but a few yards away, neck rising up in a graceful arch, head held high.
Scion of the Serpent: Anok, Heretic of Stygia Volume I Page 23
