by Phil Tucker
Alok. He said the name over and over in his mind. His father, his maker, his center, his cause for being. Alok was dead.
Jarek snatched his hand back with a hiss. His grief that night had been raw and overwhelming; it was a memory of the first months after his escape.
He scanned the filaments of his soul and saw that more than half of them were muted. Ruined.
Her gaze was still fixed upon him. If you wish it, you may remain here, son of Alok. I shall guide you to your dead father. You may lie down beside him and rest for all eternity.
Jarek took a shuddering breath. This was what he had wanted. Oblivion, a return that promised an end to his pain. But there was something he had to do. Something that remained undone.
With his gaze enhanced by Nekuul, he explored the architecture of his soul. All the brilliance belonged to his early years. He moved past that and studied his ruined years. There, he found the glimmer of light that marked the first time he met Alassa and their two years of tender joy. Then he saw the sharp slash of darkness that had cut through his soul when she’d died.
On to the far reaches, the most recent memories. They were flickers of light. He touched one such bead of gold and saw Acharsis’ face lined with age, his eyes alive with devilry. He pulled his hand back and saw a greater glow, something bright and alive against the drabness.
With Nekuul watching, he touched it, and his ears were filled with moans. He felt Kish’s thighs sliding against his hips and saw her head thrown back as pleasure rushed through her, a climatic release that caused her whole frame to buck. Then he heard her laugh with delight and gasp with something akin to surprise and joy.
Jarek closed his hand into a fist, and the memory faded. Did the brilliance of the threads reflect happiness? Love? No; they couldn’t. He didn’t love Kish, not as he had loved Alassa. Then - life? Those precious hours in her dark room – he’d not felt that alive in years.
Jarek swallowed again. He thought then of Annara, of Elu. Of their goal, their mission. He recalled Akkodaisis, and the deathless coming to heel.
“I yearn to see the face of my father.” His throat was dry, his voice a rasp. “But not yet. I would return to the world of the living.”
To what end? You are to be sacrificed on my altar.
“Even so. I would die fighting Akkodaisis.”
A gesture?
Jarek hesitated, trying to put his emotions into words. “More than that. I want to die fighting.”
Fighting for what?
“For my friends. For Alok. For myself. I know I can’t win against him, but it’s important that I try. I’ve wasted most of my life. I’ll not waste my death.”
Her lips curved into a smile. He blinked and saw yellowed canines in a bare skull; then her face returned. You wish to enter my land with your head held high. Very well. I shall give you that chance.
“Thank you.”
Nekuul waved her hand and a curlicue of smoke formed at her side, whorling and gathering as it grew into the shape of an ebon panther.
It was huge. Almost as large as an ox. Its head was broad, regal, its maw open to reveal milk white fangs, each of which was easily the length of one of Jarek’s fingers. Emerald eyes were fixed on him, and despite himself Jarek took a single step back.
“Soul panther,” he said, throat suddenly tight.
Just one, said Nekuul. Defeat it and you shall ascend to the realm of the living once more. Let your need be your weapon. Your desire be your motivation.
“All right,” said Jarek, fighting to keep the skepticism from his voice. There wasn’t much ground on which to fight: the slopes of the small hill grew sharp only a few yards away in every direction, the very fineness of the dust no doubt making it incredibly slippery.
“May I have a weapon?” He took another step back as the soul panther began to circle slowly to the left. Its eyes glowed in the gloom, and the very indolence of its movements somehow hinting at the explosive violence it was holding back.
Nekuul didn’t answer.
Jarek circled to the right, moving quickly so that the altar was between them, Nekuul a vertical spoke of divine horror above it. The panther didn’t seem bothered. It continued to pace, massive paws leaving no mark in the dust.
Strangle it? Poke its eyes out? How was he supposed to fight the panther bare handed? Was Nekuul mocking him? No, her face was inscrutable, and taunting wasn’t her style.
The panther burst forward. With one bound it was over the altar and falling upon him, its snarl horrifying, claws protruding from its paws.
Jarek threw himself desperately to the side, hitting the ground with his shoulder and coming up running. The panther was right behind him. With a cry Jarek threw himself against the base of the pillar, pressed his back to the carved stone, then rolled aside once more as the panther swiped at where he’d stood.
Slivers and shards of stone flew from where its claws scored the altar.
Jarek came to his feet, backed away panting, hands opening and closing as he yearned desperately for something to wield. A fragment of the altar? Trick the panther into breaking free a large, wickedly sharp shard? Impossible.
The panther leaped up easily onto the altar and crouched, Nekuul hovering above it. Jarek froze. Its next leap would spell his death. There was nowhere to run. Nothing to hide behind. He whipped a furious glance up at Nekuul. Her face was impassive.
“Damn you,” he cried. “Make this a fair fight!”
The panther’s tail had been twitching from side to side, but suddenly it stilled.
“All right,” said Jarek, seeking to calm himself. He had no idea. No tactic in mind. A thousand pounds of soul panther was about to launch itself at him. He lowered himself into a crouch. No weapons. No terrain to take advantage of - no, that wasn’t quite true.
The soul panther leaped. Almost in slow motion Jarek saw the muscles of its haunches grow tense, then it sprang forward, both paws widening slightly to envelope him, mouth opening wide, its snarl terrifying.
Jarek didn’t hesitate. He fell backward, over the hill’s edge. Hit the steep slope and tumbled back, the panther passing through where he’d been standing.
He rolled down in a plume of dust. The panther snarled in anger as it sought to steady its own descent, sliding down beyond him. Down they went, the netherworld spinning, and then they fell amidst the souls.
Pale legs. Threadbare robes. Torn sandals on ash smeared feet. Jarek rolled to a stop within the crowd, the panther’s snarls sounding close by. He had moments in which to act. Hide? No, it would scent him out. Flee? He couldn’t outrun it.
A hand reached down, and something tore within Jarek’s soul. He knew that hand. Had kissed its palm, let it cup his cheek, had held it, cherished it. He knew the slender fingers, its shape and texture.
Alassa. She was looking down at him, and in the depths of her dark eyes he saw stars shining. Jarek reached up and took her hand, and with fluid strength she pulled him to his feet.
He wanted the world to still. Time to stop. He wanted to take Alassa in his arms, to hold her close, to bury his face in her faded dark hair. To drown in her, to lose himself in his sorrow and joy.
But there was no time.
“Let your need be your weapon,” said Alassa.
“My -?” He shook his head. “I need you.”
“No, my love.” She smiled sadly. “Not any more.”
The souls behind her were being knocked aside as the panther charged. Seconds, fleeting precious moments - what did he need? To return. To live. To fight.
Alassa took his hand and guided it into her chest. His hand entered her body and closed around a haft. Golden light spilled out from within her as he withdrew the Sky Hammer, shaped in aureate light, the spiritual counterpart to his earthly weapon.
Alassa stepped aside just as the soul panther leaped, a bolt of black lightning from the depths of the crowd.
Jarek screamed his denial. Grabbed the hammer with both hands and swung it from over his shou
lder, his body twisting at the waist, all his strength behind the blow, his rage and love and pain powering his hammer as he hurled it.
The Sky Hammer spun through the air and collided with the panther in mid-leap. Punched through its chest, reducing it in an instant to swirls of living shadow which were blown away by the cold wind.
The crowd of souls closed ranks once more, their expressions blank. The panther was gone. Heaving for breath, Jarek whirled around but Alassa was gone. Panic seized him. He shoved aside those closest to him, pushing past them as he craned his neck and peered over their heads, searching, looking for her familiar face -
You have proven your need, Jarek. Go.
The netherworld fell away. The far reaches of fog and gloom, the endless tide of souls, the hills of bone and ash, to be replaced by the walls of the sanctum. The roar of the crowd was abrasive after the silence of the dead. He moved forward and closed his hand around the haft of the Sky Hammer. Lifting it, he turned to where Akkodaisis was still standing. Apparently, no time had passed during his visit to the netherworld.
Akkodaisis looked as if he was about to give a command to the deathless, arms raised high once more, when he caught sight of Jarek. He glanced up at Nekuul, confused, and then laughed. The sound was cruel. “Disarm him,” he said to the deathless, “and bring him to me.”
Jarek tightened his grip on his hammer. There was no way he could defeat a dozen deathless, but wasn’t this what he’d come for? A chance to die fighting?
But the deathless didn’t move. They stood to the sides, watching, their masks gleaming in the virulent light.
Akkodaisis scowled. “Need I repeat myself? Disarm him!”
They remained still.
Akkodaisis looked up at Nekuul, his eyes narrowing. “My empress? Why do you withdraw your favor? Tell me how I have offended, and I shall make redress!”
Nekuul had grown more insubstantial, her green flames wreathing and hiding her. She made no response.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, little brother,” Jarek said.
As he walked forward, the archway loomed large in front of him. If he stepped through it, he would be in full view of the vast crowd below. His stomach clenched and his breath caught, but he growled and forced himself to stride ahead. He forced himself to leave his shame and doubt behind and emerged into the dawn.
Akkodaisis backed away from him, thrown off and unsure. Jarek stepped out onto the platform and moved to its far edge. Wary of his brother, he chanced a look below. The guards and the dead gazed back at him from the slopes of the ziggurat, and from beyond them, the people of Rekkidu. He was so high up, he could barely make out individual faces. Seized by impulse, he thrust the Sky Hammer aloft just as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon.
The Sky Hammer seemed to catch it. Its interior, that latticework of amber gems caught in black stone, seemed to smolder with an inner fire. He thought he heard a thousand throats draw breath.
“The son of Alok has returned!” The voice broke the silence below, hoarse but powerful, and Jarek saw Acharsis hobble into view. “The son of Alok returns for justice! Praise him, for our hour of vengeance is at hand!”
The light within the Sky Hammer seemed to flicker a little brighter. Jarek felt his weariness fall away from him, felt his head clear. The bands of iron that had been cinched around his chest loosened, and strength flowed into his limbs.
Instinct tore his attention away from the burning depths of his hammer, and he threw himself aside. Akkodaisis had taken up his executioner’s ax, a huge monstrosity of black iron, and swung it through where Jarek had been standing. No human could have wielded that ax or recovered so quickly from its swing. Though Nekuul might have withdrawn her favor and forced her deathless to remain neutral, clearly her might and Irella’s own blessing were still coursing through Akkodaisis’ limbs.
“In a way, I am pleased that this has come to pass,” Akkodaisis said, not at all winded by the effort of swinging the blade. “A chance to prove publicly that I am your better. To settle all doubts once and for all.”
“Is that so, little brother?”
The platform was barely wide enough for them to circle. Jarek forced himself to ignore the great crowd below, the deathless looking on, and the godsbloods kneeling to one side, and stared at the wizened face of his enemy.
“Has that been eating you up all these years?”
“Twenty years, I’ve ruled this city,” Akkodaisis said, the great ax held lightly before him. “Twice as long as you did. I’ve proven myself twice over to be the better ruler. And your death will cement that.”
“Too bad Nekuul told me she favored Irella,” Jarek said, and he immediately lunged forward, bringing his hammer down with both hands. It smote at Akkodaisis’ blade with a resounding clash, driving his brother back. Where it struck, it warped the metal.
“Lies,” Akkodaisis said, forcing himself away from the platform’s edge. “I feel her favor even now. This is her temple, and I am her appointed servant. We fight in her presence, and you will die!”
Jarek barely saw him coming. Akkodaisis leaped up, swung his ax overhead and brought it screaming down at Jarek’s head. Rather than block it, Jarek threw himself aside and heard rock shatter as the ax head crunched deep into the clay bricks.
He didn’t have time to recover. His brother tore the ax free and swung it laterally around, nearly taking Jarek’s head off.
Jarek dove forward, rolled, came up to his feet and nearly fell off the edge of the platform.
Akkodaisis was upon him. The executioner’s ax rained heavy blows down on him. Its iron edge was notched and battered, but Akkodaisis’ strength was such that it didn’t matter. Jarek grunted, fending off the blows with his hammer’s head, then backed away, giving ground.
Another flurry of blows, and Jarek was forced to retreat again. He wasn’t going to win like this. He couldn’t go toe to toe with his brother; he’d be hacked apart before he could land a blow.
He began to move more slowly. He barely blocked the attacks in time. He pretended that his strength was giving out and let one of the blows drive him down to one knee, his hammer knocked aside.
“There. A quick defeat, as is fitting.” Akkodaisis loomed over him. “Goodbye, Jarek.”
With a grunt, putting all his strength behind his swing and torquing from the hips, Jarek brought his Sky Hammer whistling around and up so he could pound it through his brother’s chest.
But he found his hammer stopped cold as Akkodaisis knocked it aside with his ax.
“An obvious ploy. Did you think me so stupid? You’re too old, brother. Too slow. You cannot win.”
A cry rent the air, and somebody crashed into Akkodaisis from behind. A deathless? No, a young man, barely more than a boy. One of the godsbloods! The boy careened off Akkodaisis, but his blow caused the lord to stumble.
Jarek roared and came to his feet, wrenching his hammer up. His brother backhanded the boy and sent him flying onto his back, and then barely parried Jarek’s blow moments before it would have smashed into his skull.
Faint screams and shouts filtered up from below. Jarek rose to the balls of his feet and put all his strength behind his hammer, its haft locked against the ax’s shaft. Akkodaisis growled, using both arms to hold the hammer away, but they were in plain sight of the crowd below. Jarek could vaguely hear Acharsis haranguing the people.
With each passing moment, the hammer glowed brighter.
“You cannot win,” Akkodaisis insisted. “Rekkidu is surrounded by the dead. Thousands of them. I’m calling them to me even now.”
“I don’t care,” Jarek replied. The might of the mountains was beginning to coil through his shoulders, to bolster the strength of his arms.
Akkodaisis was starting to sag beneath his assault. “All of your friends will die. Give in, and I will show them mercy.”
The roar from the crowd was building. The Sky Hammer was pulsing now with its inner flame, and Akkodaisis was forced to turn hi
s face away.
“My empress!” The dead lord’s voice was riven with fear. “Help me! Help me now, and I promise you a river of unending deaths that will enrich your realm.”
“Fool,” Jarek grunted. “That’s not what she wants.”
“Shrines across the land, bones piled high -”
“It’s life that gives death meaning,” Jarek said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nekuul fading away into the green mist.
“No!” Akkodaisis’ body seemed to shrivel. “Ten thousand souls I will send you, and more each day!”
Jarek reared back, pulling his hammer free. Akkodaisis, off-balance, reached down to catch himself. His horrific features were distorted with panic as he stared at the abandoned altar.
“I won’t bother explaining it you,” Jarek said. “Your empress can tell you herself.”
Then he swung his hammer into the side of Akkodaisis’ head. His brother’s skull burst into a hundred fragments, and a green flame streaked up to sear the air and then fade away.
The crowd’s chanting was immediately silenced.
Jarek snatched down and clasped his brother’s robes with one hand. He lifted the corpse high overhead and turned to face Rekkidu.
“I am Jarek, son of Alok! Once your king, and now returned! The age of Irella and Akkodaisis has ended! The dead gods are stirring and once more will walk the land! See me, my people, and know that a new age is at hand! Cast down your false lords and worship Alok as your ancestors always have!”
And with that cry, he threw Akkodaisis up into the air, grasped his hammer with both hands, and pounded it into the corpse’s chest. Akkodaisis burst into fragments of bone and torn cloth, and golden flames enveloped them as they sailed out and dropped onto the levels below.
The stunned silence stretched out, and then Acharsis lifted his fist. “Jarek, son of Alok!”
A thousand throats took up his cry. “Jarek, son of Alok!”
Again and again, they chanted his name, and in the depths of his soul, Jarek felt a god stir.
