The Empire of the Dead (The Godsblood Trilogy Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  “Yes,” said Acharsis. “I don’t know how powerful we can make you in two weeks, but, by Ekillos, we’re going to do what we can.”

  Kish hesitated. “Could the old you have fought your way up to the top?”

  “The old me?” Jarek bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Oh, yes. The old me wouldn’t have had much trouble at all.”

  “Well, we won’t get the old you,” said Ishi. “That would require Alok returning to life. But we could get close.”

  “Close is good,” said Jarek.

  He thought of the old sanctum. Of the setting sun’s light as it used to pour through the columns. Alok’s presence humming in the air, his voice aching in Jarek’s bones. That old rapture, that certainty, that sense of beatification that had been his very cause for living.

  “Yes,” he said, and, despite the pain that speared in his temples and the bands that were tightening in his chest, he smiled. “Close would be very good indeed.”

  Chapter 12

  The sounds of the pickax were rhythmic. Sharp cracks over and over again, shattering rocks, causing shards to clatter to the ground, driven with a smoldering fury, driven with the kind of punishing intensity that would cause normal men to collapse, gasping, retching, and dizzy.

  Acharsis was standing inside the tunnel, a dozen yards behind where Jarek was working. The demigod’s progress was lit by a ring of lanterns placed on the ground behind him. He’d doffed his shirt and was working bare-chested, his muscles writhing like great water snakes beneath his skin. The latest pick was already warped by his brutal use.

  Three of the dead were crawling around his feet, hauling the broken rocks away into baskets. Their eyes were ghostly in the gloom; their mouths were open as if they were in a stupor as they heaved at the chunks of stone. The baskets were filled quickly, then slowly dragged away by another group, down the tunnel and into the darkness.

  Each day, Jarek worked at the tunnel for a good four hours before he reeled away, exhausted and shaking, leaving the dead to step into his place and work at their patient and unflagging pace. In four hours, he’d accomplish what it took them to do in twenty. Among them all, they were making excellent progress.

  “Jarek,” Acharsis called.

  The other man didn’t hear. He drew the pick back and brought it savagely down on the pitted rock face in front of him. Sparks flew. Fragments of rock exploded outward, and then a chunk the size of his head fell out and rolled on the gravelly surface of the floor. A dead woman crawled forward, laced her fingers around it, and began to haul it away with mute but obvious effort.

  “Jarek!”

  This time, the demigod heard. He checked himself, turned, and then lowered the pick. His chest was rising and falling like a bellows. Even at forty, he looked powerful. His muscles were no longer as taut and smooth as they had once been, but their old strength was still there in the breadth of his shoulders, the depth of his chest, his corded sinews and mighty forearms.

  Acharsis tried hard not to think about his own scrawny body. “It’s time.”

  “Time?” Jarek looked at the pick as if he was seeing it for the first time, then handed it off to a dead man, who took it and turned to the tunnel wall. “Already?”

  “Everything’s lined up. Come on.”

  Jarek picked up his shirt and used it to mop his brow, then slung it over a shoulder. “I thought we were still working on the banner.”

  “We were. Kish and Annara finished it last night. It’s glorious.” Acharsis fell in beside Jarek, walking down the ragged throat of the tunnel back toward Sisu’s court. “Well, not glorious. A makeshift rag twenty yards long. But I can’t wait for you to see what Annara did.”

  “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Yes,” Acharsis said, and then stopped. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  Jarek took a few more steps before he stopped, hands on his hips, looking down at the tunnel floor. He was still breathing deeply. “Ready?”

  “Yes. To step up. For that attention. For what’s to come.”

  Jarek laughed huskily. “I don’t know. I’m ready to fight and die, yes. That’s almost the easy part. But to represent Alok once more? To raise people’s hopes without cause? I feel like I’m lying to them.”

  “I can see that,” Acharsis admitted. It had been a long week. “But that’s only one way to look at it.”

  “Let me guess,” said Jarek. “You’ve got another point of view on the matter.”

  “Of course. What good would I be if I was as dour as you?” Acharsis stepped up beside the other man. “You’ve been cooped up down here, so it’s no wonder you haven’t felt the change. The tension in the streets. Things are coming to a head up there, old friend. Yes, I know we’re not friends. But the streets are truly simmering. It’s an amazing feeling to walk amongst the people right now.”

  “Because of your tricks.”

  “Not tricks,” Acharsis said, trying not to be offended. “Stratagems, maybe. And they’re not hollow - they’re working. Babati has proven to be worth his weight in barley. He told me last night that he’s seeing new graffiti of Alok’s name springing up across the city in places he and his friends haven’t worked. People are noticing the signs, and some are painting them themselves.”

  “Graffiti,” grunted Jarek.

  “Don’t dismiss it so easily. Painting Alok’s symbol is punishable by death. And they’re appearing everywhere, even close to the ziggurat. And Kish – that woman is a demon with her hammer. I don’t know how she did it, but two nights ago, she scaled Irella’s statue in Death’s Square and defaced it. Three blows, she said. How she climbed up there and smashed it to pieces, then got away, I don’t know.”

  “Vandalism,” said Jarek.

  “Yes, vandalism. But people are taking note. That’s the seventh statue of Irella that’s been defaced. And Babati said that another statue - a small one, granted - in a courtyard by the docks was defaced this week as well. That wasn’t us.”

  “All right, all right,” said Jarek. “Fine. We’re making good progress. But I don’t feel any different.”

  “You’re blasting a tunnel through solid rock at the speed of ten men,” said Acharsis. “Could you have done that before?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Today, we’re going to take all that simmering energy, that mass discontent, those swirling rumors and half-baked hopes and give them a focal point. Today, we’re setting that kindling afire, my friend. We’re going to set this city ablaze.”

  Jarek grunted. “If you say so.”

  “Yes, I say so. And, thank Ekillos, I don’t need you to be enthusiastic about this or even believe in it for it to work. Just you wait and see. You may not feel any change right now, but within a few hours?” Acharsis grinned. “You’ll be a new man.”

  “Fine. And after I’m dead? After you and the others have fled the city and left these people behind?” Jarek searched Acharsis’ face. “What then? What happens to these people we’re giving hope to? They’ll be caught and killed. Irella will levy mass punishments. Curfews, whippings, hangings. We’re stirring up a hornets’ nest, knowing that it’s to be dropped into the fire regardless of how loud the buzzing gets.”

  “That’s true,” Acharsis said. “But think about this. The situation here in Rekkidu is already bleak. I’ve spent a week now walking the streets, listening to conversations in taverns, on street corners, outside the warehouses, by the docks. I’ve heard nothing but grim complaints that turn to wary silence when the death watch passes by. Life has become bloody tough since you left, Jarek. People are starving. The number of the dead working in the fields continues to rise even as the food production drops. And not just here. I’ve heard it said that this is true up and down the length of the Leonis.”

  Jarek said nothing.

  “People are whispering that a great punishment is being levied on the empire for the deaths of the gods. That the crops are failing due to Naban’s death. Of course: kill the god of agricult
ure, and what happens? What we’re doing here is shaping this anger, giving it a focus. Showing everyone that resistance is possible. Yes, we’ll be leaving right after we grab Elu, but our message will remain. We’re starting a movement here, Jarek. We might very well be starting a revolution.”

  Jarek laid a hand on Acharsis’ shoulder. It was heavy, like a sack of grain. “That sounds nice. But we both know there’s no chance of revolting against Irella, not as long as she has the kingship in her sanctum at Uros and commands the thousands upon thousands of the dead. Not as long as our dead brothers and sisters rule in their cities. These people can deface a few statues, scrawl Alok’s name on some walls, but it’s not going to change a damned thing.”

  Acharsis shrugged off Jarek’s hand. “You want to make it to Alok’s sanctum? You want to kill Akkodaisis?”

  “You know I do.”

  Acharsis shoved at Jarek with his open palm, knocking him back a step. “Then, enough. Enough with your complaints and pessimism. You’ve got a better plan? Let’s hear it. Otherwise, quit pissing around like a kid who’s been denied his chance to go to the fair.”

  They stared at each other in the gloom of the tunnel. Finally, Jarek nodded. “I just don’t relish raising my people’s hopes only to abandon them for a second time. But you’re right. Lead on. Let’s get this done.”

  “You’re damned right, I’m right.”

  Acharsis strode off down the tunnel.

  Was there a better way to accomplish their goals? he wondered. He’d spent hours each night wracking his brain, trying to divine a better plan. Looking at the situation from all angles, tormenting himself with the thought that there was something he was missing, something crucial, a vital element that would make all the difference.

  But this was the best he’d managed to come up with. Once, when Ekillos had been a rushing force within his sanctum back in Acharsis’ home city of Narabtum, when all he had had to do was reach out and be filled with divine inspiration from the god of knowledge, then, perhaps, he might have devised something wicked and subtle and brilliant.

  Now? This was it.

  They emerged into Sisu’s court. Gone were the endless folds of banners, the pots of paint, the dozens of lanterns by which Annara, Ishi and Kish had worked. Sisu’s throne was sitting empty. No dead were standing in their niches.

  “Everyone’s already in place,” said Acharsis. “Come. We’ve got to hurry.”

  They rushed up to the covered market and then slipped out into the streets, moving quickly through the throngs, heading toward Death’s Square.

  Acharsis kept a wary eye on the sun. It was already dipping close to the horizon. The day was nearly over. Artisans were closing their shops, and the thousands who oversaw the dead or worked the irrigation channels were returning through Rekkidu’s many gates to their homes. Carts were leaving the markets, stalls were being furled, and the tantalizing smell of cooking food was rising from innumerable fires.

  “Hurry,” said Acharsis. “We’re going to be late.”

  He began to jog, thrusting his way through the crowd until at last he broke out into the huge square. It was one of the few open spaces in the city, one of the rare areas where he could see a swathe of the sky and not feel trapped within the warren of buildings.

  The massive triumphal arch rose over where the Way of Stone speared through the center of the square, its facade covered with reliefs depicting the netherworld, with Nekuul herself enthroned in grim splendor in her undying court across the tympanum. Built of black basalt, it gleamed wetly as if it were drenched in blood in the light of the setting sun. A huge statue of Irella stood before it, one arm raised in victory. Her face had been reduced to shattered rock.

  Acharsis pulled a mask out from under his cloak and handed it to Jarek. “Here. Put this on before you step up onto the stage.”

  Jarek eyed the mask. It was covered in a thin patina of gold and would only cover the upper half of his face. “This looks like something Piamat would have worn.”

  “Yes, well, the gold will catch the light. Now, to the base of the arch. Babati should be waiting for us there.”

  A disturbance had erupted at the far end of the square, where the Way of Stone led in from the fields beyond the city. Acharsis ignored it. He pushed through to the foot of the towering arch, and Babati stepped into view and gave him a nervous nod. What looked like a folded stall was set against the one of the arch’s great legs.

  “All ready,” the boy said.

  “Good,” said Acharsis.

  Excitement had his heart beating quickly. Nearby, death watch guards were shoving their way toward the far side of the square, calling out curt commands for people to step aside.

  Good, good.

  “Tell Kish to get up there,” he told Babati, who nodded and disappeared around the back of the arch.

  Acharsis looked up at the arch. A massive roll of cloth was barely visible, laid across the top. He muttered a quick prayer to Ekillos. Please let all the details be seen to. Don’t let the damned banner drop to the ground because Kish forgot to fix it to the top.

  Then, feeling conflicted, he pulled out Ninsaba’s amulet and kissed its cool surface.

  “Here we go,” Jarek said as the crowd finally peeled away to reveal the advancing dead.

  They came forward in their hundreds. Dead oxen were pulling carts laden with the harvest, large sheaves of barley cut that day from the fields. The dead marched forward in a column ten wide; in their arms, they were carrying sacks of flour.

  “Sisu’s good,” said Acharsis. “He came through.”

  “You doubted him?”

  “I - yes. Just a little. When he said he had hundreds of laborers under his command, I thought he meant more like twelve.”

  “Well, now we know he’s committed,” said Jarek. “There’ll be no going back to his black-market merchant dealing after this.”

  “No,” Acharsis said distractedly, looking up at the top of the arch. “All right, Kish. Whenever you’re ready.”

  The death watch gave way before the dead, confounded. On they came, marching down the length of the square, and when they reached the space in front of the archway, they began to dump their sacks of flour and unload the wagons into a growing pile.

  The crowd around them began to murmur excitedly.

  “All right, Kish. Now would be exceedingly, superlatively good,” Acharsis said again under his breath.

  Babati stepped closer. “Shall I set up the stage?”

  “Not just yet.”

  Acharsis thought he saw movement at the top of the arch. A rope fell, fluttered down through the air and hit the beaten dirt of the square. Behind it unfurled a massive banner. It was fucking glorious, Acharsis though with a grin. Six yards wide and ten high, it rolled down with an audible whumph and then swayed back and forth down the center of the arch, obscuring Nekuul: a brilliantly white cloth on whose front was painted the sigil of Alok.

  The crowd stilled. The death watch turned and stared. Everyone gaped.

  “Now,” said Acharsis. “Now, Babati!”

  Jarek helped, and together they unfolded the lashed beams so that they rose and formed a small stand some six feet high, stable enough for Jarek to climb up onto a narrow final step.

  “Loud,” said Acharsis. “And quick! Go!”

  Jarek pulled on the golden mask and climbed to the top. He emerged into view over the crowd, and immediately a cry went up, voices raised in question and alarm as their owners pointed at the banner.

  The dead had continued to disgorge that day’s harvests into a pile that now stood as tall as Acharsis’ chest. Once that was done, they peeled away, making room for those behind them, and then fell to their knees and bowed down, pressing their foreheads to the dirt.

  As if they were praying to Jarek. As if they were supplicating themselves before the sign of Alok.

  “Nicely done, Sisu,” Acharsis whispered with an approving smile. “Nicely done.”

  “People of Rekk
idu!”

  Jarek’s roar took Acharsis aback. The words rolled out over the square, and with Jarek’s arms upraised and his face gleaming blood-gold in the light of the setting sun, even Acharsis felt his heart stir.

  “People of Rekkidu! A time of great change is at hand! Alok, slumbering these past years, stirs! His mighty form turns, his eyes open, and he looks once more toward his favored city, toward his favored people!”

  Murmurs sprang up anew. The death watch were so confounded that they just stood with their spears in hand, staring.

  “People of Rekkidu, Alok sees what has befallen his favored city, and he is not pleased! Famine! Oppression! Death! This is not his way. This is not how he would see his sons and daughters treated! His anger is like the shaking of the earth, a trembling that can topple ziggurats and even the empire itself! He has sent me to your aid – his own son, his flesh and blood, child of his spirit, child of his might!”

  This time, the murmurs became a roar of disbelief and shock, and now the death watch began to move forward, elbowing their way through the crowd that was growing with each passing moment.

  “I am Jarek, son of Alok! I have returned! And, as proof of Alok’s supremacy over Nekuul, I have commanded the dead to bring you barley and flour for you to take as you will! No longer will you starve under Irella’s reign! No longer will your children go hungry! Alok stirs! The earth trembles! The old ways shall return!”

  Acharsis was grinning like a fool. He’d seen Jarek lead Rekkidu’s army into battle numerous times against the Athites, and it was clear that Jarek lost none of his authority, his ability to move the masses, to command and be obeyed. The people let out a roar that reminded Acharsis of the Khartisian Ocean when it was whipped by a storm, and as one, they surged forward to surround the grain, hauling up sacks, grabbing bundled sheaves, handing the produce back over their heads, devouring the pile with eager hands.

  The death watch fought this tide. They lashed out with fist and club, but the press of bodies trapped them.

  “Time to go!” Acharsis clapped Jarek on the leg. “Get down!”