The Venom of Luxur

by J. Steven York

  How had he failed so miserably in his efforts to foil the priest?

  Anok found himself disoriented and overwhelmed by the situation. Things were happening so fast.

  A priest!

  Becoming a priest had never been part of his plan. Of course, the presumed ambition of every acolyte of Set was to become a priest in the cult, to gain access to the power and sorcerous resources that only priests possessed. Yet most never advanced to that rank, and for those that did, it often required years of service to the cult in order for them to be considered for advancement.

  Anok had been with the cult scant months.

  His promotion should not be happening, and as such, he was ill prepared for it. He knew almost nothing about what to expect from the initiation ceremony, or what would happen to him afterward. He had a vague idea that this might only be the first of many ceremonies, but of even that he was not sure.

  A servant stood before him holding a new yoke of Set, trimmed in gold, with a large, bloodred stone set into the front. Another servant, an old, hawk-nosed Stygian who had been supervising Anok’s preparations, grabbed his father’s iron medallion, which hung around Anok’s neck. Anok tried to pull it away from him, but only succeeded in choking himself on the chain.

  There was almost no chance the man would accidentally find the hidden catch that would reveal the Scale of Set hidden inside, but Anok did not like anyone else touching it.

  The servant looked up at him, frowning, a look of disapproval in his eyes. “What is this ugly piece of rubbish? I should take it.”

  Anok finally succeeded in yanking it back. “It is a keepsake, nothing more.”

  The servant raised an eyebrow. “I will keep it for you then. One of your station should not be seen wearing such trash, especially not during such an important ceremony.”

  “No one will see it! The yoke of Set will hide it, and I wish to keep it near me.”

  The man scowled, his dark eyes narrowing. “What is it to be of such importance to you?”

  He stared directly into the man’s eyes. “It contains the dried testicle of the first servant I killed for insolence. I like to keep it near my heart.”

  The servant blinked in surprise and took a small step backward. “Well, yes then. Certainly nobody will see! We will leave it where it is.”

  “That,” said Anok, dryly, “would be good.”

  He suppressed a smile. If he had learned one thing of value from Ramsa Aál, it was that fear was the way a priest of Set maintained the devotion of his lessers. The servants here were used to dealing with spoiled, rich pilgrims from Khemi and Luxur, who in turn expected to be humbled by the keepers of the holy shrine. It was part of the show, part of the pretense of suffering for their god.

  But Anok was no pilgrim to be pushed around. He might not be able to control what Ramsa Aál and the other priests did to him, but there were still many in the cult over whom he could wield his own authority.

  A female servant appeared with a palette of colored pastes and powders. She carefully painted dark outlines around his eyes and applied rouge to his cheeks and lips in the ancient style. Anok had occasionally seen priests made up this way for some of the oldest and most sacred of ceremonies. His finery was finished off as she covered his head with an embroidered black headcloth, trimmed with roping made of gold thread.

  Ramsa Aál appeared, wearing an even more elaborate robe, with a long sash that draped over his neck and extended almost to the floor on either side. It was embroidered to resemble a great snake, with the head hanging down the left side of his body. He also wore a tall headdress with a golden serpent crest. Like Anok, he wore ceremonial face paint, including a squirming serpent, painted in gold across his forehead.

  He glanced down, carefully so as not to unbalance his tall headgear, and brushed a bit of dust off his sash. “The shrines always have the best finery, even better than the Great Temple in Khemi.”

  “Master, I don’t know what is to happen here tonight.” He raised an eyebrow. “You know what you need to know. To place yourself unquestioningly in the hands of the higher powers of the cult, that is part of the trial.” His expression seemed to soften slightly. “Know this acolyte, today you will take an important step on the road to priesthood, though only the first of many.”

  He stepped to a basket in the corner, containing a number of ceremonial scepters and staffs. He extracted a long golden staff with a cobra’s head on top, mouth opened wide exposing silver fangs, and with red rubies for eyes. He examined it for a moment, then, seemingly satisfied, removed it and took it for himself.

  He turned back to Anok. “Let that be your lesson here, one I have learned through trial and experience. Great things are achieved through steps, through building one thing, one action, one piece of knowledge upon another. This, I have learned, is where most great sorcerers fail. They seek one great object of power, one great spell, that will give them all they desire. But from Kaman Awi, I have learned the value of studying how things may be combined. Through a series of steps, studied and planned, anything can be achieved. No power is above the power our cult will soon possess.”

  He smiled at Anok. “You are part of the plan, acolyte, though you do not yet know how. Have faith that you will serve your purpose, and it will be glorious! ”

  4

  DRUMS POUNDED, AND the assembled pilgrims cheered as Anok and Ramsa Aál emerged from the newly opened front door of the tomb. Half a dozen priests in full ceremonial regalia already stood on the wide, columned, portico of the building, along with many servants, also in elaborate ceremonial costumes.

  Anok couldn’t help noticing, though, the dark, wrinkled little man crouched behind one of the pillars, hidden from the assembly, clutching his dangerous-sounding basket. He still wore only his simple kilt, and his eyes glared up at Anok from the shadow that was his face.

  Anok turned his attention to the hundred or so assembled pilgrims looking up at him expectantly. He was uncomfortable being in front of so many people. He had lived most of his life as little more than an anonymous face in a crowded city, and he found this kind of attention disturbing.

  What was he seeing in their faces? Did they view him as some hero to be celebrated, or were they merely looking at him as they would the main course at a banquet? He wasn’t sure.

  Ramsa Aál stepped to the front and center of the portico and stood at the edge of the top step, flanked by a pair of guardians in brightly polished armor holding golden ceremonial spears.

  He lifted his arms, and the crowd swiftly fell silent. “Hear me, followers of Set!” He yelled the words, but with the trained voice of a skilled orator. “You have traveled far to pay your respects to Set at this most sacred shrine. Yet you have been blessed with far more! You have been fortunate enough to arrive here on a great day! A great day indeed!”

  A cheer rose up in response, and he allowed it to continue for a few moments before again signaling for silence.

  He continued. “You have been witness to a great thing. It is your duty to Set to return to your hometowns and temples and spread word of what has happened. On this day, the Lost King has summoned his earthly treasures from his tomb to the Realm Eternal, where he sits at the left hand of Set, as one of his most beloved servants. All now can witness that his temple stands empty, stripped of all its riches and decoration, proof of the reward for all those who serve our master Set! Life, power, and wealth eternal shall be yours!”

  Again cheering, even more energetic this time. Ramsa Aál had some difficulty getting them back under control, finally waving the golden staff he carried in the air to get their attention.

  “Beginning tomorrow, the Tomb of the Lost King will be opened to all pilgrims so that they can see what has transpired here. You who are assembled here shall be the first to see it with your own eyes!”

  Again cheering. Anok couldn’t believe the audacity of it all. They would be shown an empty tomb that had always been empty, and told it was proof of an afterlife that Ramsa
Aál assured him was a sham.

  When finally they quieted again, Ramsa Aál glanced over at Anok. “Yet there is more to this tale. It begins months ago in the Great Temple of Set in Khemi, where a young acolyte was granted a special gift, a brand of power not seen for generations!”

  Two of the local priests stepped up on either side of Anok. One lifted his left arm over his head and pulled back the sleeve so all could see.

  Ramsa Aál glanced back at Anok, then announced, “The Mark of Set!”

  The pilgrims spontaneous began chanting, “Set, Set, Set!”

  “He heard the summons of Set and was drawn here to use the power granted him to open the tomb so the Lost King might reclaim his treasures.”

  The crowd murmured. Someone shouted, “The hand of Set!”

  Ramsa Aál went on. “This was his mission, just as you have been summoned here to make offerings to Set. We are all offerings to Set. Our blood, our flesh, our very lives. Believe in him, serve him, and you shall be rewarded in the Realm Eternal!”

  More chanting. “Set, Set, Set, munificent Set!”

  “Hear me, pilgrims! You are once again blessed with good fortune this night. As reward for his excellent service to Set, this acolyte, Anok Wati, shall begin the trials and ceremonies of ascension to become a priest of Set!”

  There were cheers. Someone again shouted, “The hand of Set! The hand of Set!”

  “Normally, these ceremonies and trials are held in secret, shrouded in mystery from all but the innermost circles of the cult. But today, we wish you to know what we know, that we priests stand above you for a reason. We have earned our titles, through service, sacrifice, and peril. Watch, go forth, and tell what you have seen today. Tell what it means to be a priest of our god!”

  He glanced casually back at Anok, then at the priests on either side. “Seize him,” he said quietly.

  Before Anok could react, each of the priests at his side had grabbed an arm and twisted it behind him so that he could not move. He stared accusingly at Ramsa Aál, but the man’s face was an unreadable mask of detachment. Again, his voice rose for the benefit of the assembled. “Anok Wati, you have been chosen by your god for the rites of ascension, to become his instrument on earth! Your god asks not your pledge of fealty. He has no need of your promises or pledges. He has chosen you, and he will own your soul! Through these trials, you will become one with your god!”

  He walked briskly to where the little man and his basket awaited. He paused for a moment, placing his fist over his heart, where the second Scale of Set, and perhaps even the third, was likely hidden.

  Then the little man removed the lid from the basket and reached inside. A loud hissing commenced from the interior, and Ramsa Aál came up holding a huge, black cobra behind its head.

  He turned and stepped out from behind the pillar, and the pilgrims gasped in both fear and wonder.

  The snake was as long as a man was tall, thick as a woman’s wrist, the shiny black scales iridescent in the torchlight. It did not struggle or attempt to bite the priest, only looked around curiously, its flicking red tongue tasting the air.

  Ramsa Aál walked back to Anok, who tried to draw back from the snake. As he did, the priests twisted his arms, pushing him forward.

  He tried to call on the power of the Mark of Set, but he realized why he was restrained by priests, not guardians. He was also restrained on a mystic level, the two of them united in a binding spell that could, for a time anyway, keep even the power of the Mark of Set impotent.

  The snake turned toward him, eyes shining in the darkness, then suddenly reared up, hissing, flaring its hood.

  The crowd gasped, and even the priests holding him tried to draw back. Only Ramsa Aál remained calm, untouched by fear.

  Anok’s heart pounded. He had but one hope. If Ramsa Aál commanded the snake by using the power of the Scale of Set around his neck, he didn’t know that Anok possessed one as well. Neither would the priest binding him, so their spell would have been cast without consideration of the Scale’s power.

  There was the chance, of course, that he would reveal its existence to Ramsa Aál. But as he watched the poison drip down one of the serpent’s fangs, he decided that was the lesser of his problems.

  He reached out for the amulet with his mind. It was difficult even to sense, hidden within the cold iron of his father’s medallion, even knowing it was there. Even though he had mingled its powers with his own. Months earlier, it wouldn’t have been possible at all, but Anok’s skills in sorcerous matters had grown considerably of late.

  There! He dimly felt the Scale of Set awaken from it slumber.

  “It is time, acolyte of Set, for the essence of our god to flow through your veins! I give you the gift of venom!”

  Anok watched the snake, saw it draw back as though to strike.

  He tried to put aside his fear, focus only on the power of the Scale of Set.

  The snake’s head darted forward.

  Then stopped.

  The hood relaxed ever so slightly. The snake seemed confused.

  Ramsa Aál frowned, his brow knitted in concentration. The cobra’s hood flared wide. It hissed.

  Anok concentrated on the Scale of Set, but something seemed wrong—

  The snake drew back.

  It struck.

  Anok gasped as he felt the needle fangs sink into his neck, felt the hot gush of poison into the wounds.

  Something liquid trickled down his neck. Blood or venom, he could not be sure.

  He gasped for breath, feeling the poison pumping with each surge of his heart, into his chest, into his brain.

  His body seemed to go limp, the priests holding him up as his legs failed him.

  His vision dimmed. His mind seemed to float away into the night air, looking down upon the scene.

  He heard Ramsa Aál’s voice, as though from far away. “By this venom he shall be changed! By this venom he shall be judged! Let him wake an instrument of our god, or let him not wake at all!”

  As the blackness surrounded him, he could still hear the chanting: “Set, Set, Set, munificent Set! Set, Set, Set, munificent Set!”

  TEFERI WATCHED IN horror as the priests seized his friend, and the cobra was lifted before Anok’s face. Fallon reached over, squeezing his wrist until he felt as if the bones would snap.

  Never before had he wished for Anok to use magic, but he wished now.

  He was to be disappointed.

  Nothing happened, no reprieve came. He watched helplessly as the snake plunged its fangs into Anok’s neck, hesitating an eternity that might have been the span of a single heartbeat, before drawing back, folding its hood, and curling calmly around the priest’s arm.

  He watched his friend slump between the two priests, who carried him by either arm, as Ramsa made his speech to the followers assembled in front of the tomb.

  They began to chant and cheer as Anok was dragged back through the arched doorway into the tomb.

  Teferi’s mouth was dry. Tomb. The implications of that were too terrible to consider.

  “Butchers,” said Fallon, her voice a strained whisper. Teferi pulled his wrist from her grasp and rose to his knees. “I have to go to him.”

  “Are you insane? That is one of the cult’s most sacred places. No person without clear Stygian blood will be tolerated there, much less a full-blooded Kushite.”

  “Then,” said Teferi, as he scrambled to his feet and headed back to the camel, “I will not go in the front door.”

  Fallon scrambled up and chased after him. “You can’t do anything. He may already be dead!” She seemed to choke on those words.

  Teferi gathered his weapons. “We can’t know that.”

  She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “Teferi, if I have lost one friend this night, I would not lose two. It is the warrior’s wish to die in glorious battle, but not without cause or profit.” She paused a long moment. “We can still give him vengeance, but only if we seek a time when the odds are mor
e in our favor.”

  He turned and looked at her, her eyes glinting in the starlight. “I must go to my brother, no matter the cost. I must hope that Jangwa, the god of empty places, holds sway here and will stand at my side.” He picked up his bow. “You are wise to stay behind. If I do not return, you can serve vengeance for us both. But if I do return, I will need you to stand ready for our escape.”

  He heard her swallow hard in the darkness. “I will make Fenola ready to travel then, and I will take up your spare bow and wait. I am not half the bowman you are, but perhaps I can shoot well enough to cover your escape if I must.”

  He chuckled grimly. “You will be lucky if you can even pull my bow, but it is as good a plan as any.”

  ANOK STOOD ATOP a tall, wind-sculpted dune and surveyed his surroundings, an endless sea of towering dunes extending to every horizon. A constant wind blew, lifting a fog of sand that softened everything. Yet the fine, blowing granules did not sting his eyes or clog his nose as they should have.

  His surroundings were as bright as noon, but there was no sun, and the sky was pink. He cast no shadow. It was as though the light came from everywhere, and nowhere.

  The air smelled like honeysuckle in bloom.

  He looked down, and realized he was dressed in a simple kilt, sleeveless tunic, and coconut fiber sandals, a type of clothing he had favored during the time he lived in the slums of Odji. His swords were there, too, worn at his belt as had once been his fashion.

  He had no temple robes, no yoke of Set, and even his father’s iron medallion was gone. Remembering what had happened before, he brought his fingers to the place on his neck where the cobra’s fangs had struck. There was no wound, no scar, only a strange heat under the skin.

  “Am I dead?” He asked the desert.