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

by Phil Tucker

  Chapter 19

  Acharsis stared up at the sanctum. They were four levels below it, standing on the corner of the ziggurat, anonymous in their priests’ robes and bunched together. Sisu, Kish, and himself. Annara was hidden in a supply room with Ishi, out of harm’s way. No matter her determination, this was no place for a normal human.

  No, the madness that was about to ensue was fit only for godsbloods and demigods.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Kish. “When’s he going to strike?”

  “Has to be now,” Sisu said. “The Chant of Decay is finishing.”

  “Come on, Jarek.” Acharsis was staring so hard at Akkodaisis that the distant figure was almost swimming in his vision. He willed Jarek to rise up behind him. “Come on!”

  The ocean of humanity below was swaying and shaking with the intensity of their faith – a sea of faces to rival even the Khartisian, packed shoulder to shoulder, filling the courtyard, exultant and feverish and hallucinatory after a night filled with prayer, devotion, and ceremony.

  The ziggurat was lit up by a thousand torches. It was a bonfire of stone, the green flames giving everything a hellish cast. Nearly two hundred death watch guards were standing across all the levels, their iron weapons gleaming. Here and there, deathless were drifting through their ranks like bad dreams, their ivory masks gleaming in the torchlight. They were the stuff of nightmares.

  “Come on,” Kish whispered, taking hold of Acharsis’ arm and squeezing it tight. “Come on!”

  He knew she was speaking to Jarek. Willing him to appear, just as he was. But nothing happened.

  The chanting peaked in a final roar, and then the courtyard fell quiet. Above them, Akkodaisis lowered his arms at long last, and the flames rising from the bowls that surrounded him rose higher, each of them now a wavering green tongue a yard tall. Behind him, a nebulous mist was emanating from the sanctum itself, spreading out through the archway and shrouding Akkodaisis.

  “Nekuul is manifesting,” whispered Sisu. “It’s too late.”

  “No,” said Acharsis. He bit his lower lip. Damn this broken leg! Even splinted, even though he had a makeshift crutch anchored beneath his arm, it rendered him as lethal as a drunken lamb.

  Everyone was gazing at the sanctum. Everyone but the deathless, he saw. They were still combing the ranks with their dead eyes.

  Akkodaisis’ voice pealed out like thunder from the heavens. “Hear me, oh Nekuul, and know that I am your most abject and loyal worshiper, your most sincere slave. I reside in the palm of your hand and would give of myself unto you if there was anything of me that was not yours already.”

  “All right,” said Acharsis. “This is going to get messy. You both ready?”

  Sisu tore his eyes away. “What are you doing?”

  “This,” said Acharsis.

  He hobbled forward and took a deep breath. Once, his calls had echoed across whole battlefields, his voice made thunderous Ekillos’ blessings. Once, he had been able to sing all night and the day after, to revel as his companions fell and continue as more joined him and then fell again. His voice had been a thing of beauty, an instrument of the gods, a source of wonder and legend.

  No longer. Those days were gone. But he could still bellow like a dream rhino in heat. “Akkodaisis!”

  His cry split the silence. Akkodaisis, about to launch into his next verse, paused.

  Everyone turned to stare at Acharsis: the twenty guards standing on his level; the ones below, the ones above. Thousands of eyes in the crowd turned to scrutinize him. The deathless. The leeches.

  Akkodaisis, wreathed in Nekuul’s green mist, narrowed his eyes.

  “Akkodaisis!” Acharsis’ mind scrambled for words. “I’ve come with a message for you, from Ekillos himself!”

  There. Yelling the name of a dead god in the midst of Nekuul’s most holy rite should get them going.

  “He told me you’re a bed wetter, a rough and hairy dung beetle, and that your concept of Nekuul is that of a skull you’d stick your cock into if you could only find your shriveled prick with both hands!”

  Nobody moved.

  “Shit,” he heard Sisu say very quietly behind him.

  The deathless were the first to react. Like snakes exposed to the sun after a frosty night, they turned slowly toward him, drawing their blades, taking subtle steps in his direction. They were merely awaiting a command to give vent to their violence.

  “Get ready now,” Acharsis said to his two companions.

  “Ready for what?” Kish moved up beside him, hammer in hand. “To fight over two hundred living and dead soldiers, dozens of deathless, scores of leeches and Nekuul herself?”

  “Yes,” Acharsis replied. “That.”

  Laughter rose in isolated spirals from the audience, and that more than anything spurred Akkodaisis to action. He pointed a long finger at Acharsis. “Seize that fool,” he whispered, a whisper that carried to every corner of the compound. “Seize him and bring him to me.”

  The twenty guards on their tier began to approach, four across, their amazement cooling into flinty determination. Those on the level above moved to the edge and stared down, spears held aloft.

  “All right, Sisu. You’re up.”

  “Me?” Sisu’s voice nearly broke. “What?”

  “The dead. Seize them!”

  “I can’t. Not with so many leeches, with Nekuul here -”

  Acharsis reached back without looking, seized Sisu by the front of his robe, and yanked him forward. “No arguing. This is the moment of truth. Take that terror that’s liquefying your bowels and do something.”

  Sisu shook him off and pressed his thumbs against his eyes. His face had grown pallid, and his whole body was shaking. He pressed harder against his eyes until Acharsis thought he’d rupture them.

  Kish moved forward to stand before the death watch, who paused when she disrobed to reveal a plain-sleeved dress. The men at the front gaped at the beauty that had appeared as if by magic before them, then took a half-step back as Kish raised her hammer overhead and began to whirl it around by the thong, faster and faster, till it blurred in the air.

  But the moment passed. There were too many guards, too many people watching them. Their own lord and goddess were observing their behavior, so they laughed darkly and rushed forward, spears lancing at Kish’s chest as the guards above them hurled their spears down at her.

  Kish didn’t wait. She dove forward into a roll, crashed into the knees of the foremost man, skimmed under his spear point, and knocked him off his feet as she came up behind the first rank.

  A deathless leaped from three levels above them. He sailed out into the night, knees hugged to his chest, and then he fell, arms extended, wickedly curved blade keening through the air, to land lightly in front of Acharsis.

  More were leaping down. Soon, they’d be swamped.

  A spear careened toward Acharsis. He swayed aside only to feel a pang of horror as he heard it cut into Sisu. The youth let out a scream, staggered, then resumed his fevered praying.

  The deathless stalked forward. Behind it, Kish was a vortex of violence, swinging her hammer as she dove amongst the guards, using the lengths of their spears against them.

  “All right, listen,” Acharsis said, backing away from the deathless. “Let’s talk about this. Be reasonable. I can understand if you think I went too far just then.”

  The deathless’ blade snaked out and cut Acharsis’ crutch in half. He nearly fell, but managed to catch himself against the side of the ziggurat. “Bastard. That was uncalled for.”

  Sisu screamed again, and Acharsis glanced behind him to see a death watch guard looming over the youth, his spear sunken into Sisu’s back, driving him to the ground. Another six guards were approaching, their faces dark and murderous.

  “Ekillos?” Acharsis leaned against the side of the ziggurat. “This would be a good time for a miraculous recovery.”

  Kish screamed, and Acharsis saw her go down. Desperate, he looked up to
where Akkodaisis was standing. Come on, Jarek! Now!

  Nothing happened.

  The deathless slipped forward, hand outstretched to seize Acharsis’ robe as it held its blade threateningly overhead.

  Then it froze.

  Sisu’s whispers suddenly bottomed out into a deep and resonating boom. Acharsis felt a wave of power pass through him, an invisible pulse that caused every hair on his body to stand on end. The huge crowd below screamed, and Acharsis tore his eyes away from the deathless to see Sisu rising from the ground. Not standing. Rising, as if he were being lifted by invisible hands. Blood was still pouring from his spear wounds, but it wasn’t soaking into his clothing or spraying across the floor; it was unspooling into the air like ink into water.

  Sisu’s eyes were glowing green. His skin had stretched tight over his skull, his lips were pulled back from his teeth, and his voice continued to resonate in that deep register, primal and terrifying, as if the darkest cavern in the world had suddenly been given voice.

  The guard behind him let out a cry of terror and stabbed up at him with a spear. The blade sank four inches into Sisu’s side, and when the man yanked it free, more blood began to unfurl into the air.

  Sisu kept chanting.

  “What…?” Acharsis pressed back against the ziggurat. Godsblood. Irella’s own son. That was the only explanation.

  The dead had all ceased their approach. Instead, as one, they turned their heads to stare at the death watch guards at their sides.

  Who immediately realized what was going on.

  “No,” said one of the guards. “Wait. Stop.”

  The dead lifted their spears and attacked.

  The ziggurat seemed to convulse. Dead soldiers threw themselves at the death watch, who, caught by surprise, began to fall quickly before the onslaught.

  Acharsis turned to the deathless at his side. The deathless stood frozen, hand outstretched, his bone mask gleaming in the green light of the torches.

  Kish had shaken off her attackers and risen to her feet, blood bright across her cheek. She stared in surprise, and then shook herself and raised her hammer. “Scythia!” Her hammer demolished the shoulder of the man to her left.

  Sisu’s deep chanting continued, seeming to shake the stones. Screams engulfed the ziggurat as, everywhere, men battled the dead.

  Acharsis grinned maniacally. He scanned the levels, scanned the crowd, searching for his demon, looking for her dancing form, but he couldn’t find her.

  Then a different sort of chanting filled the air. Acharsis pushed away from the wall and looked up. The leeches were descending the staircases toward him: a dozen of Irella’s priests, their voices raised in unison, their chants clashing with Sisu’s, dissonant and discordant.

  The dead closest to them stopped attacking the guards.

  “Damn,” said Acharsis. What could he do to help?

  The leeches spread out, moving out across the levels and taking different stairs down, and everywhere they went, the dead were bent to their will. Sisu’s influence was shrinking.

  Guards from above hurled more spears down at the levitating youth. Most missed; some hit. Those either remained embedded in his flesh or fell free, but more and more blood was pouring out into the air, so much of it that Sisu now seemed to be surrounded by crimson serpents.

  “Sisu! The deathless! Send them against Akkodaisis!”

  Sisu raised a hand. A spear slammed through it, passing clear through his palm, leaving a ragged hole that caused his middle fingers to crumple. Sisu seemed not to care. He pointed his ruined palm at the levels above him, and his eyes glowed an incendiary green.

  The deathless at Acharsis’ side crouched and leaped straight up.

  Acharsis craned his head to follow the deathless’ progress and saw the other deathless doing the same: hopping back up the levels, all of them converging on Akkodaisis.

  The leeches screeched, their voices breaking, and as one turned to the deathless, trying to contain them, control them. Some of the deathless stalled and collapsed. The others continued their manic ascent.

  A dozen of them, Acharsis guessed. A dozen of the masked terrors. They leaped up and landed amidst the burning bowls, each rising from his crouch, blades held out to their sides, facing their former lord.

  Silence spread through the vast crowd, and Acharsis saw eyes go wide and hands move to cover mouths. Everybody was watching the spectacle above, the confrontation in front of the sanctum. The guards, the leeches – everyone turned to stare.

  Kish lowered her hammer.

  And, as one, the deathless leaped to attack Akkodaisis.

  Chapter 20

  Jarek was an anvil, and hammers of doubt and despair pounded at his frame. His every fault line was under incredible pressure. It took all his strength to just lift his head, to rouse himself from the abyss into which he was falling and witness the miracle.

  A woman was hovering above the altar.

  Nekuul, empress of the netherworld.

  She was wreathed in green fire, circles of which were rotating around her, fluctuating and overlapping, dappling her with emerald hues. She was clothed in a mourning robe, homespun and rough, which hung lightly from her pale shoulders. She was hooded, but he could make out her face, illuminated by her flames. Her full lips looked like the petals of a venomous flower, and her eyes were half-lidded and gleaming coldly like jewels. Hers was a beauty as remote as the grave - and then he blinked, and in that interstice, that flickering moment of darkness while his eyes were closed, he saw her hovering in the void before him, nothing but a skeleton.

  Jarek gasped. He opened his eyes and saw her human guise, her fair form. His heart thundered. The weight of her presence was crushing, but she ignored him. Her gaze was directed toward the platform outside the sanctum.

  A platform on which Akkodaisis was standing, surrounded by a dozen deathless. His twin guards moved past him to complete the circle, hemming the dead lord in from all sides.

  But Jarek existed now as much in Nekuul’s netherworld as in Rekkidu. The radiance of Nekuul’s flames illuminated cores of bright light within each deathless, spikes of flame that surged and bit but remained tightly bottled within their center. Thin tethers of light extended from those cores to disappear down below.

  Akkodaisis didn’t raise his arms, didn’t fall into a combat stance. Instead, he turned to Nekuul and bowed his head low.

  She lifted one arm. Jarek blinked, and for that brief duration it was bone, her hand a confection of ivory twigs. Then he opened his eyes again and saw her pale flesh once more. She curled her fingers and beckoned, and the tethers snapped. They faded from sight, and the deathless lowered their blades.

  Now.

  Jarek worked the weakened manacles, exerted what little strength the people’s faith in Alok had bestowed upon him, and snapped the chains that bound him. He rose to his feet and swayed.

  His Sky Hammer lay inches beneath Nekuul’s bare feet. All he had to do was reach below her and snatch it up.

  Jarek laughed. To defeat her servants in her presence? He might as well seek to wrestle a mountain into submission.

  Nekuul heard him, and the empress of death turned to regard him with her cold eyes. They were a black so true, they seemed to drink the light. Jarek’s laughter died in his throat.

  Her attention settled upon him, a tangible weight. The world around him - the walls of the sanctum, the archway and Akkodaisis - flickered and faded away. In their place, unimaginably vast vistas opened up around him – an impossible landscape composed of hills of bone and clouds of dark smoke, roiling as if they had been lashed into a fury. Bells tolled from far away, their resonant peals causing his soul to shudder with sorrow.

  The souls of the dead wended their way about the base of the hills, drifting as one great mass toward some unseen destination hidden in the fog. Jarek stared at them in horror. So many. He had not thought death had undone so many. Hollow eyed and still, they moved silently past him like a pale flood.

&n
bsp; He was standing atop a small hill formed of gray dirt like ashes, so fine that it was lifted like mist when a cold wind blew past them. Nekuul hovered before him above her altar, and now a corona of burning bones extended from behind her head, pointing in all directions. With her regard weighing upon him, he could do little else but drop to one knee.

  Son of Alok.

  Jarek dry-swallowed. “Empress Nekuul.”

  She raised her hand, and his very essence surged within him. He gasped, inhaling deeply of the frigid air, and saw light extend from within him. Pale light like the gold seen at dawn emerged from beneath his skin into a complex pattern all around him, like string interwoven between a child’s fingers.

  It was not all gold. Long slashes of gray and green cut through it, swathes where the light dimmed and died. Jarek stared at it all, uncomprehending. The light had emerged from within him and surrounded him now on all sides, as complex as the constellations, ropes of fire extending from his chest, but he couldn’t divine their import.

  Your soul, said Nekuul. The fabric of your passage through time.

  Jarek raised his hand in wonder and touched a brilliant filament. It was like plucking the string of an instrument, but instead of music, he saw a memory: himself at the age of twelve, riding a horse for the first time. He heard that child’s wild laughter, felt again his terror and elation and the saddle slamming against him as he galloped, heard the pounding of the horse’s hooves - and then the memory faded.

  All souls bear my mark, she said. Did she sound almost contemplative? My passage leaves a trace, and where I pass, the light of life dims. The loss of parents, children, lovers, friends, ideas, hopes, dreams and identities. But your soul is marked by an even greater loss.

  Jarek raised his hand, then hesitated. Fear gripped him, squeezed his throat. His fingers hovered barely an inch from a dull, ashen strand. He grimaced, then forced himself to touch it.

  This time, he saw a night outside his mountain home. The stars were brilliant overhead. Frost glittered on the grass, and the trees were harrowed and bare. He was sitting outside, shirtless, welcoming the chill, seeking the numbness, tears freezing in his beard. His whole being ached, was bruised, battered and bereft.