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

by Phil Tucker

  “Who are you?” That sounded like Sillush.

  “Empress Irella sent me,” Sisu said smoothly. “She wants to know which of you stole her undergarments.”

  “I - what?”

  “Now, Kish!” Acharsis said, and she drew her hammer and rushed into the room.

  Acharsis poked his head in through the doorway. It was hard to make out the fight; there were too many bodies moving in too confined a space. Everyone was dressed in black, and that confusion served their side well, as all Sisu and Kish had to avoid doing was striking each other.

  Green fire flashed, then again, and the deathless’ robes erupted in flame. He moved with terrible grace, cutting down one seeker, then a second.

  Kish rushed forward with a cry of defiance. Sillush backed away, threw up a hand, and hurled a glowing skull at her, only for Sisu’s dead to intercept it, four of them collapsing into a jumble of bones when they were hit.

  Jarek was chained in the center of the room. Acharsis lowered himself to one knee and crawled forward, dragging his wounded leg. He heard a bellow, then the sound of flesh being cut. The deathless collapsed across Acharsis’ leg, acrid smoke rising from his torched body. Acharsis let out a scream and rolled onto his back, reaching down to push the deathless off, only to find him surprisingly light. His mask had cracked in two and fell apart as he shoved it away, revealing a horrific visage: sockets plugged with tar, lips torn off, green smoke rising from the deathless’ open mouth.

  “Acharsis!” Jarek called.

  “Hold on, hold on. My leg’s broken.”

  He resumed crawling. He heard Kish let out a cry, but not of pain - it was one of anger unleashed. Another seeker collapsed to the floor, his forehead stoved in like the side of a barrel.

  Acharsis reached Jarek’s side. A wicked burn had engulfed his shoulder – in the shape of a hand - but otherwise, he was unhurt.

  “Akkodaisis has the keys,” Jarek said, giving one of the chains a frustrated tug. “Damn.” Acharsis examined the iron links. They were thick, crude, and bolted to the floor. The lock was a wondrous and bulky object as big as his fist, with a keyhole wide enough for him to stick his finger inside. Acharsis did so and wiggled his finger around, feeling a simple mechanism.

  “Hold!” cried Sillush. He had backed into a corner, Kish standing before him with her hammer raised. “Wait!”

  Kish didn’t look away. “Acharsis?”

  “Can you open this lock?”

  “No.” Sillush spoke with obvious reluctance. “I could perhaps melt it with Nekuul’s flame, but –”

  Acharsis gave Kish a nod, and she lunged forward, bringing her hammer down on Sillush’s upraised arms. He cried out and clutched the head of the hammer, somehow stopping it mid-descent. Flames wreathed his hands, and the bronze hammer head began to glow as if it had been plunged into a furnace, and then it ran, large dollops of liquid metal dropping to the floor.

  Sillush stiffened with a gasp; a knife had appeared in his chest. He let out a dry croak and released Kish’s hammer, then touched the dagger with fingers encased in cooling bronze.

  They all turned to look at where Annara was standing just inside the doorway, expressionless, one arm still outstretched from hurling the knife.

  “My empress,” Sillush whispered, and collapsed to the floor.

  “Get Ishi and close the door,” Acharsis said to Annara.

  “Not all the way,” said Sisu. “Leave it cracked. Closing the door will complete the wards, draining all of you of your strength.”

  “Yes,” said Acharsis. “What he said. And, damn. What a throw!”

  Annara laughed, a panicked sound, as she dragged Ishi inside and then pulled the door closed till there was barely a hairline crack. “I was aiming for his head.”

  “Jarek,” Kish said, moving to his side. She reached out to his wounded shoulder, then drew her hand back. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” Jarek said, looking from one of them to the next. “Ishi?”

  “Not well,” Annara said, touching her fingers to the old woman’s neck. “She’s fading fast.”

  “Everybody, breathe,” said Acharsis. “This may not look like it, but we’re in the safest place in all of this damned ziggurat.” He sank to the floor. “I need a beer.”

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Sisu said. He was staring down at the deathless.

  “What’s the plan, Acharsis?” asked Jarek.

  “Why does everybody keep saying that to me?” Acharsis closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain that was seeking to engulf his thoughts.

  “He wants to turn you into a god,” Kish said. “He wants to destroy Akkodaisis and take control of Rekkidu.”

  “There’s a fair amount of improvisation going on here,” Acharsis admitted, eyes still closed, riding the waves of pain. “I’m trying to stay one step ahead of complete disaster, and thus far? It’s working.”

  He could almost feel Jarek nodding thoughtfully. Just having the man back in their group was a huge relief. His calming presence, his authority, were truly a godsend. “Where do we go from here, then?”

  “We’ve accomplished the impossible already.” Acharsis opened his eyes and regarded the others. “We’ve made it into this room. We’ve killed the seekers. We’ve evaded capture. But, as much as I hate to say it, that was the easy part.”

  The others groaned, and he held up a hand. “But, think. My demon has already struck. Her doom laid us low in Akkodaisis’ throne room. We’re free of her malign influence now, free to forge our own fate from here on out. That’s good.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jarek. “Now, explain your plan.”

  “Very well. Gather close, children.” Acharsis wrestled down the pain, the nausea, the fear, the doubt, the panic, and smiled, if only for their benefit. “This is what we’re going to do next.”

  Chapter 18

  Jarek fought the storm of emotions roiling inside his chest. He had to stay calm and focused. He had to reserve his strength and energy for when it would count, but he was being battered by alternating waves of hope and despair, incredulity and certainty. One moment, he could all but envision Akkodaisis falling before him; the next, he wanted to groan and cover his face.

  And yet, was it not better to have some hope? Some chance at success, no matter how slim?

  He inhaled deeply and thought of the depths of rock beneath the ziggurat, striving to meld his mind with the vast stillness of the earth, to become one with Alok’s realm. This meditative practice had been easy once, when he was guided by Alok’s wisdom. Now?

  His breathing slowed. He was alone in the warded chamber. The baleful runes glowed their sickly radiance, leaching him of his strength, his impossible vitality. He tried his best to ignore them, allowing his thoughts to run through him, like dust slipping between his fingers, not seeking to hold on to them, but letting them go till they were spent of their own accord.

  Kish’s lips had felt full and soft against his own when she’d said goodbye, the last of their group to leave the chamber. He’d yearned to reach up and cup her face, hold her tight, but she’d slipped away. The memory of her lips lingered, and then he let it go.

  Then he thought of the cries and yells that had followed the discovery of the seekers’ bodies in the hall outside. Thought of how Sisu had demanded reinforcements and then hidden, allowing the death watch and the leeches who had come running to draw their own conclusions. Jarek had heard it all. The presence of the deathless’ corpse had brought home to them all how terrible the fight had been. The seekers’ corpses had been thrown down the corpse chute, and guards had been placed outside the door.

  Leaving Jarek alone.

  Which was exactly what Acharsis had hoped for: solitude, with nobody inspecting his chains and manacles, looking too closely to see if they were of a sound state or not.

  Again, Jarek inhaled and let his thoughts drift away. The last hours of the night had drifted by, the silence within the ziggurat so profound th
at it ached. Only the dead were guarding him now. They could guard him for eternity.

  Was it dawn yet? The crowds would be gathering in the great courtyard, filling it from wall to wall – an ocean of humanity, faces raised toward the high sanctum where Akkodaisis would stand, far above them all. Thousands upon thousands of people, the faithful and the heretical, the curious and the devout. All of Rekkidu’s people, from the greatest noble to the lowest beggar. Waiting, watching, listening to the sermons but thinking only of the sacrifices to come.

  The spilling of blood and the consequent transference of power.

  Soon, now. He couldn’t hear anything, but he thought he felt a dull thrumming through the rock itself. His imagination, assuredly. Not even the cries of ten thousand people could move this stone. Still, he felt it – the softest of shivers, as if Alok was breathing once more in the depths of the ziggurat.

  The door opened, and two leeches stepped forward. One was an elderly man with receding hair, a weak chin and a conciliatory smile; the other was stern and aloof, with a face as cold and uncompromising as a hand ax.

  “Dawn is upon us,” said the stern man. “Son of Alok, your appointed hour is here.”

  “Good,” said Jarek. “My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  The older man laughed. “A trivial concern, I’d imagine, compared with what faces you? Or are you putting up a bold front, determined to appear brave despite the knocking of your knees?”

  “I would like to explore this topic further,” said Jarek. “Unchain me so we can converse at our ease.”

  The older man chuckled. “As you command! Shall we release him, Rexashas?”

  “Stop playing the fool, Yesu,” said his companion. “We are here to cleanse you and escort you to your death. Do you plan to prove difficult?”

  “No,” said Jarek.

  “Very well,” said Rexashas.

  He began the ritual, praying and drawing a circle around Jarek. It took half an hour, and when he was done, he snapped his fingers. Two deathless stepped into the room and moved to Jarek’s side. They drew their blades and pressed the edges to Jarek’s throat as death watch guards entered and unbolted his chains from the floor.

  “Now, we’re going to climb to the sanctum,” said Rexashas. “I imagine you know the way well.”

  “Up,” said Yesu.

  Jarek rose to his feet, moving carefully so as not to jostle the blades at his neck. The guards took his chains and pulled him forward, and the eaters moved to stand behind him.

  “It’s been twenty years,” said Rexashas. “But the time has come for you to meet with divinity once more.”

  They led him up. Jarek made no attempt to resist. He stared straight ahead, ignoring the stares and whispers that trailed in his wake. The guards were as curious as scribes, all of them stopping to watch a demigod being led to his death.

  Each staircase brought him closer to the outside of the ziggurat as it sloped toward the center, and each new level raised the volume of the chanting from outside. Thousands of people. Tens of thousands, even, one of the greatest crowds ever assembled on the face of this wicked earth. Uros’ rituals would dwarf it, and perhaps the greatest gatherings in Magan, but this was a testament to Irella’s might, her planning, her control. The gathering of every human in the area to witness the anointing of one of her lords.

  They reached the final staircase, the highest level. Braziers were burning, filling the air with incense. Flames leaped and set the figures depicted in the mosaics to dancing. The chanting outside was a constant and muted roar. Guards were watching him from every side, hands on the hilts of their weapons, ready for his final act of defiance.

  Jarek ignored them and turned to the broad steps. They rose to the peak of the ziggurat and then into the sanctum.

  His skin crawled. Above him, the world of man melted into the world of spirit. He could sense it – the fraying of the fabric of reality. The incursion of magic.

  Nekuul was awaiting him, and he would not be brought to her stumbling and prodded. Before anybody could speak, he began to climb, breathing deeply, eyes locked on the top of the steps. His whole body was thrumming with tension and fear, determination and focus.

  It was time to meet the goddess.

  Jarek walked up into the sanctum, where the air swirled with green vapors and felt gelid and slick against his skin. He was as much in the netherworld here as he was in the empire, and it felt eerily like being underwater. Even the flames burning in the braziers that lined the walls appeared muted and fey, undulating with oily slickness instead of flickering freely.

  The sanctum was small, little more than a high-ceilinged room, its walls adorned with countless carvings that writhed as if they were alive. He saw skeletons moving across the walls, piles of bones climbing higher and then toppling, demons cavorting, an endless lines of souls waiting to be admitted to Nekuul’s realm. Countless depictions of the netherworld carved into the walls and moving as if they were alive.

  Eyes wide, Jarek gazed at the altar. It was bone white and glistened like cartilage. Implements and objects of worship were scattered across its surface - including his Sky Hammer - but his gaze was torn up to the form that was swirling and eddying above it. It hovered in mid-air, coalescing and dissipating, smoldering green smoke shot through with lineaments of gold.

  Nekuul.

  The goddess.

  He fell to his knees. His devotion to Alok, his bitter enmity with Irella, his planned resistance – none of it mattered. This was Nekuul, empress of the netherworld, mistress of the dead, lady of the final rest, the ultimate arbiter of all quarrels and home of all hopes. No matter what plots and ploys were orchestrated in her name, she was above them, her majesty untouched by the foulness of her minions, and he could do no more than pay obeisance to her divinity.

  The swirling above was only a fragment of her totality, quiescent for now, held in potential above the altar. Her focus was not yet fully on this sanctum. A way had been opened, but the goddess had yet to manifest fully.

  Even so, he felt his soul shudder within its fleshy sleeve. Felt the pull of death. The gates to the netherworld had been thrown wide open, and the moorings and tethers that held his spirit to the world of the living had grown weak. Minor wounds could kill, sicknesses blossom and overwhelm. Suicidal urges could be coaxed into lethal fullness.

  It was only with effort that he could turn his head toward the great archway that led out to the exterior of the sanctum, to the platform on which Akkodaisis was standing, arms raised as he basked in the adulation of the masses below. Green fires were burning in bowls set along the edges of the platform, illuminating him in hellish hues, and he seemed to be an avatar of Nekuul come to usher the world into damnation.

  To one side knelt the godsbloods. One of them was Elu, but Jarek couldn’t tell which. There were four of them, hands bound behind their backs, their eyes glazed. None of them harbored any hope of salvation at this late hour, and Jarek couldn’t blame them.

  The chanting reached a crescendo. Priests led the masses from the lower levels, calling out the holy phrases for them to roar back at the ziggurats the liturgy neared its finale. The rhythm was quicker now, coming like the aftershocks of an earthquake in quick succession, pounding at the ziggurat like great winds.

  And through it all, Akkodaisis remained still, with his arms raised. Drinking it in. Glorying in the moment.

  Jarek stared at the creature that had been his younger brother. When should he strike? His Sky Hammer was lying across the altar. He’d have to shed his chains, take five steps to reach it, snatch it up and attack Akkodaisis from behind, all before the deathless at his back could react.

  Damn. The simplicity of the plan had seemed an asset until now. How was he supposed to move without having his head shorn from his shoulders?

  He looked behind him and up. The ivory masks of his twin guards were glowing luridly, reflecting the energies of the goddess. Would they be empowered by her presence? Undoubtedly, Jarek de
cided. Yesu and Rexashas had moved to stand on either side of the archway, hands clasped together, heads bowed as they joined in with the chanting.

  Memories swamped him again: memories of Alok, of his devotions, of his boundless confidence in his golden future.

  Jarek felt bands of tightness begin to squeeze around his chest as the chanting to Nekuul continued to rise in fervor. The volume was squeezing the air out of his lungs.

  Calm down, he told himself. Focus.

  But he couldn’t. This was the very nexus of his every failing, the graveyard of his god. Where Nekuul now hovered in her imperial viridian glory, Alok had once manifested, golden and crimson and umber.

  But he was dead now. Jarek had failed his god, had fled Irella’s ambush like a coward. And now he was to die inside his very own sanctum.

  Jarek squeezed his eyes shut as pain began to smolder behind his eyes. His body shook. He wanted to rock, to break his stillness, but he knew that even a slight move might draw the ire of the deathless.

  He had to do something. He had to act. But what should he do? Nothing was obvious. Lurch forward for his hammer? Break his bonds and throw himself at the deathless? Scream at Akkodaisis, get his attention?

  That was all pointless.

  Jarek’s breath was coming in sharp gasps. He was too old for this. He’d waited too long. He’d spent his life hiding in the mountains, wasting all those years, losing his edge. What little power Alok’s faithful granted him paled before what was required of him. Any moment now, he’d be pulled forward and slaughtered. His blood would soak the stones, and his spirit would be consumed by his younger brother in his bid for ascendancy.

  He was a failure.

  Jarek couldn’t even lift his head. The pain was splitting him in two, and he wanted more than anything to fall onto his side and curl into a ball.

  This was the moment of truth, and there was nothing he could do.