The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  “Oh, no, I completely understand. Why seek out the speaker of an ageless voice in a long-dead city forsaken by gods and man alike when you could admire some graffiti in an alley? On the east side, there’s a lovingly rendered depiction of a cock that you might find interesting.”

  Fuck if it wasn’t annoying, though.

  He resolved not to listen to it. Or to try his best. Rhuul Khaas might have seemed a city badly in need of occupancy but for the knowledge that Sheffu, Shuro, and even Mocca had confirmed. It had once housed people. Now it did not.

  This city was a tomb. And Lenk knew enough to know that when something in a tomb talks, a wise man does not answer.

  “This is what you’ve been doing?”

  But then, wise men were rarely in tombs to begin with.

  Lenk looked up. Shuro stood in the doorway, the afternoon light stark against her and painting her as a shadow. Yet her eyes burned cold as they scowled down at him.

  “Drawing?” She swept toward him, seized his journal from his hands. “You missed our meeting time! I sent you out to find Khoth-Kapira! I thought you had been killed! And instead of either of those, I find you drawing?”

  “I thought it might—”

  He didn’t finish that thought. He was already diving to catch his journal as she hurled it to the ground. When he cradled it to his chest, she was snarling at him.

  “Do you not grasp what we’re doing here?” she demanded, striding up to him. “Do you not understand the importance?”

  Her face was a hairbreadth from his. Her breath was hot and angry upon his cheeks.

  “Khoth-Kapira was the scourge of the ancient world.”

  Something twitched behind Lenk’s ears. The sound of a wooden stick gliding along the rim of a bell. And he heard it.

  “Lie.”

  “He held thrall over thousands, slavishly devoted to him!” Shuro continued.

  And the voice answered.

  “Lie.”

  “He was—no, is—the most dangerous creature in two worlds.”

  A pause.

  “True.”

  “We are here to stop him. We cannot fail at this.”

  A laugh. “Lie.”

  “You and I, we are the only ones who can.”

  “Possible.”

  “So I need you to answer me.” She looked at him, intensity flaring in her eyes. “Are you with me, Lenk?”

  It was only after several breaths had passed that Lenk realized he was waiting for the other voice. But it wasn’t coming. Dumbly he nodded. She relaxed, though not by much, and nodded back to him. Turning sharply, hand on her sword, she swept to the door, pausing there. After a moment she spoke, without looking over her shoulder.

  “You’re very good at that,” she said. “Drawing, I mean.”

  And she was gone.

  And though there were a number of things askew in what had just happened, Lenk had only enough sense for one of them. And, from the faint chuckling just behind his ear, he knew which one.

  “I sense as though I’ve caught your attention, my honored guest.” A low, reverberating hum. “I can hear your pulse quicken, your breath grow shorter. Expected. Though I quite wonder why you didn’t show such reaction earlier.”

  Lenk swallowed hard, quickly replaced his journal in his pack, and hurried to catch up with Shuro. She was walking down one of Rhuul Khaas’s streets—not at all different from dozens of others they had searched through the night and the morning in the hunt for Khoth-Kapira.

  Undeterred, she was already explaining her plan for expanding her search.

  Or so he assumed.

  It wasn’t as if he could hear her at that moment.

  “Or should I wonder at all? You are here, after all, the grave of the God-King. No one finds this place who does not already know where it is. If you are here, you are a man used to poor decisions and frequent laments. Am I right?”

  He didn’t answer. The voice chuckled regardless.

  “A stop in pulse. Your heart’s beat slowed by a fraction. Typical behavior of those who keep secrets. Do not worry, my friend. Even if I were in a position to stop you, I would not.”

  Shuro paused at the center of a great square. Lenk found his gaze drawn inexorably down a darkened alley between two looming buildings.

  “Unless,” the voice said, “you’ve not come to slay Khoth-Kapira?”

  Pulse quickened. As did breath. As did heart. He did not need the voice to tell him that.

  “She is quite correct,” it continued. “He was brilliant, of course. Brilliant, beautiful, and tragic. But above all else, he was dangerous. Yet if you’ve come here with nothing but steel to kill him, you’ll fail.”

  He looked to Shuro. She was pointing to various locations, deciding where to go next. She looked at him for approval, he nodded without understanding. She smiled.

  “Do you wish to fail?”

  His pulse answered.

  “Seek me out.”

  He looked to Shuro. She looked back. There was something sad and warm on her face, a smile that was alien to eyes such as she had—such as they both had. She placed a hand on his shoulder, nodded at him, and turned and departed.

  And something in him dearly wished he had listened when she’d spoken.

  But that something was drowned out by the sound of beating heart and quickening pulse, of desperate breath and trickling sweat. And the voice. Always the voice.

  “Seek me out.”

  He did.

  Shuro had doubtless told him to spread out and search and meet up elsewhere. And when he didn’t show up, she would doubtless come and find him. He was not worried about seeing her again. Lenk and dangerous women had a habit of finding one another inadvertently.

  People in his profession had to spend their worries carefully; there were, after all, an awful lot of things out there deserving of it. And as Lenk went down the street opposite the direction in which Shuro had left, his worries were reserved for something more subtle.

  Such as the inexorable feeling looming over him: an unseen hand reaching out from the dark shadows of an alley and seizing him by the collar of his shirt.

  He did not resist, turning and following it into the alley. He did not resist as it continued to tug on him—weightless, insubstantial, impossible—and he continued to follow it. But as he turned down streets, up stairs, through alleys, and over bridges spanning dried creeks, the sensation turned from that of a draw to that of a pursuit.

  Less and less he felt fingers around his shirt, the tug of a desperate grip. More and more he felt weight upon his shoulders, a cold breath down his neck. And as he walked, that breath grew. It became eyes upon him, teeth around his neck, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

  In the space between the moments when compulsion turned to dread, he knew he should turn back. But by that point turning back meant turning around. And turning around meant seeing what was at his back.

  And that was impossible.

  That sensation chased him through the city of Rhuul Khaas and all its silent ghosts until it brought him to a building.

  A library, perhaps. Maybe a temple. While no building in Rhuul Khaas was specifically lavish, a few, like this one, rose up on small hills that had been carved into stone steps. Some, like this one, had pillars that marched to the left and right of their entrances. And each of a select few had a spiraling tower that rose high into the sky, just like this one.

  But while Lenk had not explored the entirety of Rhuul Khaas, he had not yet seen a building with blood smeared across the door.

  It was tall. It was metal. It wore a large red cross that stretched over its face and onto the bricks of the building’s doorframe.

  Lenk stared at it, considered turning around. And in answer to his thoughts, he felt that unseen presence bearing down on him, as if nudging him forward. He drew a breath, reached out, took the door by its handle.

  “Ah.”

  He paused. The voice spoke in his ear.

  “Gen
tly, please. The door is rarely opened and makes a dreadful racket.”

  If there were a sign he should not open the door, that was it.

  And if he had not heeded any of the thousands of other signs he should not be here, he saw little argument for heeding this one.

  No matter how gently he pulled, the door did not so much groan as scream. The hinges wailed, the metal shed rusted flakes, and the whole thing felt as though it might simply fall off and crush him beneath it. He had to use both hands, he had to dig in his feet and grit his teeth, but the door opened.

  And the echo of its scream was swallowed in the blackness that sprawled before him.

  He stood for a moment, staring into it. And it spoke.

  “Do come in.”

  It spoke from within the darkness. Not next to his ear. Its voice quavered and reverberated like a tolling bell, echoing from within.

  “You’re letting in a draft.”

  And from very close.

  He entered the room. His footsteps echoed in a vast space. There were no windows. There were no other doors. There was no light. Even the sunlight from the door behind him seemed hesitant to follow him in. He could see nothing to either side or dead ahead of him.

  Save one thing.

  There, maybe two hundred paces ahead of him, was something stark in the darkness. Brightly polished copper gleamed, even without light to reflect. At two hundred paces he thought it was a door. At one hundred he thought it was a mirror. But at twenty he could see it was a face.

  And it saw him.

  Its expression was neutral, its features beautiful. It possessed high cheekbones, thin lips, an elegant nose and sculpted brows. But its eyes were black and empty, like a mask’s, and they stared down at Lenk from high off the ground.

  “Ah.” So close, he felt its voice in his bones. Yet this close, it sounded distinctly male. “I am not sure what I was expecting. But I am not surprised that you are one of them.”

  “One of what?” Lenk was suddenly aware how very soft his own voice sounded in the reverberation of this creature’s.

  “There are no true names for you,” he said. “No god would deign to give you one.” Though its metal face was unchanging, Lenk had the distinct feeling that it was smiling at him. “We knew your kind only by your blades and your eyes. In those latter days, that was all we saw of you before everything went dark.”

  Lenk felt his breath go cold at that. He opted not to ask the creature to elaborate.

  “And what do I call you?” he asked instead.

  “Oh, where to start?” The creature gave a deep, weary sigh that sounded like porcelain cracking. “It seems the longer you live, the more names you get. The worshipful call you one thing, the defiant call you another, sooner or later you forget what they called you before you came down to the mud.” He looked up, past the ceiling and into heaven. “When I was up there, I seemed to have no need for one.”

  Lenk blinked as the realization hit him. “Aeon. You’re an Aeon.”

  “That’s not what we called ourselves, certainly,” he said. “But it will serve. I was one of two cast down—” He paused, considering. “Pardon me, sent down. We were summoned and bade to attend to the needs of our master.” His black eyes gazed thoughtfully at Lenk. “The one you have come to slay.”

  “Khoth-Kapira.”

  “We called him something else.”

  “What was that?”

  “It was… not important.” The Aeon shook his head. “Not at first, anyway. Names only started to matter once he wanted everyone to know what he had done. In the beginning, building was what was most important.

  “He began with the fields, teaching them how to farm. He moved on to their homes, teaching them how to build. He learned of their bodies, taught them how to clean their needles and repair themselves. He was obsessed with creation and viewed every invention as something to be infinitely proud of.”

  “I can’t blame him,” Lenk said. “I’ve seen Rhuul Khaas. It’s incredible.”

  “Rhuul Khaas was important to him, yes. But Rhuul Khaas was just a name. In those early days, he was driven simply by the urge to create. And we watched him do it, Kyrael and I.”

  “Kyrael.” Lenk tasted the name, found it sharp and unpleasant in his mouth. “So you did have names.”

  “After a time. We were offered them. Rewards for our faith in him.” There was a lengthy pause, the slow breath of an old man before he slides into darkness. “I remember the day he gave me mine. I remember the honor that came with it. How I loved it.” The Aeon spoke, softer. “As much as I loved him.”

  Lenk stared at the mask. “What did he call you?”

  It happened softly, as softly as his voice. Within the voids of his eyes, two pinpricks of white blossomed.

  “My name… the old tongue…”

  And grew.

  “My name was Oerboros.”

  Until it was bright as the sun.

  “And I was light.”

  Lenk shielded his eyes with his arm, turned away from it. It was no mortal light that burst from Oerboros’s eyes, no merciful sun or shy moon. This was a judging light, a light made for seeking black sins and iron truths. It burned, never enough to be truly painful, but enough for Lenk to know that it went past the skin and saw something deeper within him. When he lowered his arms, he was not sure what he was expecting.

  But there it was.

  Wings. Bright and glittering emerald scales that shimmered beneath Oerboros’s light. Ivory feathers that wafted gently in a breeze that wasn’t there. Neither reptilian nor avian, they were… something Lenk had never seen before. They filled the whole room, each one several times the size of Oerboros’s body, stretching wide to cover the vast walls, forming a shell of green and white that twitched and shuddered at this new light. Majestic. Brilliant. Lenk had no words to describe them.

  Nor did he have words to describe the body they were attached to.

  It had once been beautiful, Lenk could tell: shapely muscle beneath stretched skin the color of polished copper, not quite masculine, not quite feminine, not even androgynous, but something completely its own.

  The ruin of his body was a stark contrast to the glory of his wings. His skin was dull and tarnished with age. His muscles had withered and sagged beneath flaccid flesh. He hung, emaciated and weak, from the wall. Six long spears jutted from his chest, his arms, his legs, his neck, pinning him to the stone.

  “You are staring, mortal.”

  Lenk blinked, looked up. “Well, yeah… I mean, you’re kind of fucked up.”

  He stared at the ragged breaths the creature took, at the wounds that still bled glistening blood, at the skin that could not close around the spear hafts impaling him.

  “I suppose that is my fault,” the Aeon said. “Forgive me. I could not control myself. It has been so long since I have spoken my own name.” His voice turned dark for a moment. “Or his.”

  “What… what happened?”

  “To me?” Oerboros’s chuckle was a harsh thing to hear. “To Kyrael? To him? To Rhuul Khaas?” He shook his head. “They are the same tale. If you are here, perhaps you’ve heard part of it already. We Aeons, shepherds of mortals, were sent to witness, to protect, to guide…”

  “And you grew greedy,” Lenk said, “corrupt, envious of gods and mortals alike. You exploited us, enslaved us, persecuted us…”

  “And you struck back,” Oerboros said. “While I may argue what led to it, the final sentence in that story is that the mortal armies came and overthrew us, cast us down into the darkness below. Most of us, anyway. Some of us they merely left to rot.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Lenk said. “If there were armies, there should have been a battle, shouldn’t there? But I’ve not seen a body here, not so much as a bloodstain until I found you. You expect me to believe they came, did this to you, and nothing else?”

  “Ah, mortals. So obsessed with flesh. You don’t believe anything exists until you destroy it. I am certain t
here would have been more bodies, had Kyrael not intervened. Her love for our master was as deep and devoted as my own. As was that of all his subjects, those citizens of Rhuul Khaas whom she saved.

  “When they had cast down Ulbecetonth, Goraccus, and the others, the mortal armies came for Rhuul Khaas. Our master retreated to his study, to contemplate his defenses. He had expended so much of himself in his creations, his buildings, his legacies, that he would kill thousands before he let a single one of them come to harm.

  “It was that love for his people,” Oerboros said, sadness in his voice, “that desperation to preserve them, that drove Kyrael to do what she did. Acting in his interests, she opened our defenses to the mortal armies, permitted them to evacuate the city. She thought that the sparing of his citizens would earn his affection.”

  Oerboros paused. When he spoke again, his voice shook.

  “Of my many regrets, of all my failures, I wish above all else I could have helped her.”

  “Then what happened?” Lenk asked. “The mortal armies came and it simply… ended? Without a fight?”

  “It was not a fight. No. The master was furious. By the time he had visited punishment upon Kyrael, he had no time but to command me to guard this, his most precious chamber, before he retired to his study with his most trusted Disciples.”

  The demons, Lenk realized. Those snake-things in Cier’Djaal.

  “It was your breed that led them. Your eyes sparkled in the night as they marched upon his study. He could not resist them. His Disciples were killed and packed in salt, thrown into darkness with him. They found me a little later, while they searched for heretical doctrines to burn. They destroyed much of this city, but I held firm to my promise.” He laughed, blackly. “Even when their spears pierced my flesh, I held firm. I did not let them past me. I did exactly as he asked me, and my love for him has given me centuries of unending agony.”

  “Then why tell me this?” Lenk asked.

  Oerboros looked at him. The light from within his eyes dimmed slightly.

  “Love is a curse, mortal,” he said. “It serves no mortal function, aids in no survival. It is the last word of a black joke told by an ill-humored creator. Time is the only truth. And with time I have seen the folly of my love, felt it with every breath I’ve taken.