She frowned at him, met his eyes with her own and looked deep into his soul. “You must do nothing! The only chains that bind you are of spirit and mind.”
“Those are the chains broken with the most difficulty.”
“Come with me! Barid can take us to the camel station. We can be on Fenola, riding far into the desert by nightfall. Barid could take word to Teferi and Sabé, tell them where we have gone.”
“Where would we go, Fallon?”
“Back to Khemi. We could find a ship. Across the border to Kush. Or east, past the Mountains of Fire, into Shem and the lands beyond. We could take a ship across the Southern Sea, around the horn of Vendhya, to Kambuja, or Khitai. It matters not where we go! Just that we go!”
“But that I could. I have come too far, seen too much. I sense today is important, though I know not why. I cannot leave when the answers I seek may be so close.”
She took his face in her hands. “You are being a fool, Anok!”
He glanced nervously at the gate guards. “We are being watched,” he said.
“Then let them watch this!” She kissed him hard and deep upon the lips, arms around his neck like tender serpents, whose coils he might never wish to escape.
But I must.
Gently, he pushed her away, the perfume in her hair still lingering. “I must go. I must.”
He stepped out of the carriage, nearly stumbling as he did so. He walked with grim determination, not looking back, lest it destroy him.
The guards grinned at him. One slid closer, leering. “The Cimmerian whore—is she good? I could go for a taste of wild game if the price is right!”
Anger flared in Anok. He glared at the guard, and made the slightest gesture with his left hand.
The guard’s eyes went wide. He grabbed his throat, opened his mouth so that his tongue was visible, as it blackened and crumbled into dry dust that cascaded down his anguished lips. He made a strangled cry and fell to his knees as Anok walked away.
He clenched his fists, all his accumulated rage welling up in his heart. He could turn the man to fire, fill his living skin with carnivorous ants, make his blood boil in his veins. But only if he turned back.
Keep walking. Keep walking.
He reached down and twisted the little silver ring on his right hand, the one Sheriti had bought him in the Great Market at Khemi, so long ago. He looked at the engraving, the little two-faced demon, Jani. The merchant who had sold it to her had told him that Jani was good luck for those in peril because he could see in any direction, but because of that ability he traveled only in circles.
“He can never leave the wilderness,” Anok said to himself, “nor can I.” He rubbed the ring. “Oh, Sheriti, what would you think of me now?”
He walked into the temple, knowing all the while that all he need do was turn and walk the other way.
He wandered like a sleepwalker through the halls and chambers of the temple. Many turned to look as he passed. Many offered greetings that were not returned.
He was well-known at the temple now, respected, even feared (and doubtless would be more so, after word of his encounter with the guard got around). He saw the eagerness in the faces of the young acolytes. They wished to stay close to him, to be his friend, or his follower, so that some small portion of his power and reputation would rub off on them.
This is how it begins, how a priest gains followers to do his bidding. Without trying, I am already the perfect priest of Set, gathering toadies on whose stooped shoulders I may stand.
His self-loathing seemed to know no bounds. He hardly noticed as he wandered into Ramsa Aál’s chambers, and the priest looked up from his desk, where he had been writing with a reed pen on papyrus. Next to him, a tattered and faded map lay unrolled.
“Acolyte. Are you unwell? Your face is ashen.”
Anok blinked, as though awakening from a dream. “I am still not fully recovered from the last ritual of venom, master. It will pass, I am sure.”
Ramsa Aál washed the tip of the pen in a bowl of water and wiped it on a rag before placing it in a cup at one end of the desk. “No candidate for priesthood has ever gone through the trials of venom as rapidly as you, Anok Wati.”
Anok could not hide his surprise.
“Normally,” continued the priest, “they might be spread over a year or more. Sometimes two in those more frail. But matters progress too rapidly. I cannot wait for you to stand at my right hand as a full priest.”
Anok looked inward at his own heart. What is that? Pride? Stop it! You are a heretic, not a priest!
But it was hard. Part of him was proud of his own strength, his own perseverance. Never had he asked for quarter, never had he begged for mercy. Always he had taken what had come his way, and always he had returned ready for more.
Ramsa Aál gestured him over. “Today we ride east to meet an army of three hundred men. We will take with us enough acolytes to serve us in those matters where magic will better serve than force of arms. We ride to claim a second Scale of Set and to strike at Set’s enemy, Ibis.”
He tried not to show his concern at the mention of the ancient Moon god. “Ibis? Master, Ibis was driven from Stygia in the ancient times.”
“So you have been told. But long has the priesthood known there were pockets of Ibis worshipers in Stygia. Always when we could find them, they have been captured and tortured to death in sacrifice to Set. But there are always more, and we have long believed Ibis somehow retained a stronghold in Stygia. But never could we find it—until now.”
Ramsa Aál reached down and spread the map flat so that Anok could see it better. “This was taken from an Ibis spy many years ago. It purportedly shows the location of the stronghold in some secret form, but never were the priests in Khemi able to reveal its meaning.”
Anok examined the map. Though it was obviously not the work of a professional mapmaker, it was carefully done, obviously by one with the skills of a fine scribe. He could make out the Western Sea, the River Styx, Khemi, Kheshatta, Luxur, and the other major cities. The writing was Aquilonian, and something about the hand was strangely familiar—
Anok’s blood suddenly ran cold in his veins.
My father’s hand!
This was his father’s map! A spy for Ibis? Is that what Ramsa Aál believed? Anok tried to parse it out. He was beginning to suspect that Ramsa Aál was acting in some way as Parath’s agent. Yet if both his father and Ramsa Aál served Parath, why would he believe him to be a spy?
It may well be that Ramsa Aál only pretends to serve Parath, even as he pretends to serve Set. If he could lie to one god, why not two? Yet he serves only himself, and his own lust for power!
The priest reached inside the neck of his robe, grasping the golden chain there, and lifted the Scale of Set over his head.
Just one, not two as Anok had believed. But if, as he claimed, he had found the key to finding the second one, then he needed only the hidden one that Anok carried to complete his plans.
Ramsa Aál laid the Scale casually on the map, then put the fingers of his left hand on top of it. “It was Kaman Awi who solved the riddle. His cleverness can be an annoyance at times, but he has his uses. The Scale of Set was the key.”
He slid the golden scale across the map, then rotated it, until the rounded point at the bottom fit precisely into the northern border of Stygia, nestled in a crook in the banks of the great River Styx.
The engraving on the face of the Scale was identical to the one Anok possessed, a flaming sword, two curved serpents facing inward toward the blade. Ramsa Aál tapped the sword with his finger. “The sword points the way.” He traced a line away from the point of the sword, angling south toward Kheshatta. “There is no town, no settlement, no habitation along this line, save one. A small desert oasis, Nafri, far from the main caravan routes, far from anything of value or interest.” He looked up knowingly. “It is a wonder that anyone would live there at all.”
Just then, a young acolyte entered, looked nervous
ly at Anok, walked widely around him, and whispered something in Ramsa Aál’s ear. The priest’s eyebrows went up, and he glanced at Anok, his expression otherwise unreadable.
The acolyte hastily scuttled out of the room.
“Anok,” said Ramsa Aál quietly, in the tone one might use for scolding an ill-behaved child, “you are about to set out into battle with three hundred heavily armed guardians at your back. Let us hope none of them are friends with the guard whose tongue you just turned to ashes.”
15
THEY RODE OUT of Keshatta on horseback to meet a contingent of mounted guardian soldiers at the East Garrison. Anok learned the foot soldiers had been dispatched, in secret and under cover of darkness, days earlier to begin their march to Nafri.
Preparations had begun weeks earlier, with caches of food, water, and animal feed hidden along the way. With no need to carry, or wait for the delivery of, large quantities of supplies, the march would be a rapid one.
Anok did not consider himself an expert horseman. There had been little enough opportunity to practice the skill growing up in the city, and since coming to Kheshatta, there had been little cause to ride anything but camels, with which he now considered himself quite proficient.
So it was that he found the journey especially difficult.
For the sake of speed, they rode Kushite warhorses. Lean and nearly tireless, they were also skittish and ill-tempered. His mount, a black stallion whose ribs and hipbones poked out as though he were half-starved, seemed especially difficult, throwing him twice on the first day, to the great amusement of the guardians riding with them.
That night, he found himself aching and saddle-sore to an extent that he was forced to use the healing abilities of the Mark of Set. He did so reluctantly. He felt that his resistance against the magical corruption was very fragile, and the sudden trip had taken him far from the help of his friends.
He sat alone and bone tired in front of the fire, an uneaten ration of bread and dried meat in his hand. They had traveled east most of the day, along the lake, and into lands where some fraction of Kheshatta’s rain occasionally reached. By midafternoon they had turned north, climbing though a low pass in the mountains and into the desert. They had brought no tents, and each man had little more than a blanket.
Anok wrapped his food in a cloth and stuffed it in his bag for later, then wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. He watched the sparks from the fire curling into the air through heavy eyelids, and wished that he were home.
“Brother,” said Teferi, “I am with you still.”
Anok looked over to see Teferi crouched by the fire, his Kotabanzi in his hands. “I must be dreaming,” he said.
Teferi looked around. “You are in the desert. There are many soldiers around us, many horses. To where do you ride?”
“To an oasis, a secret enclave of Ibis, to find another Scale of Set.”
“I will tell Sabé. Perhaps he will know something.” He stood, and without moving his feet, drifted away from the fire. “I will find you in your dreams.”
Anok jerked awake, finding that the fire had burned down to embers. He found a soft spot on the ground, wrapped the blanket around him, and went back to sleep.
TEFERI LOOKED UP from the fire, suddenly aware that Fallon was standing next to him. “How long have you been there?”
“Hours,” she said. “Someone should watch over you when you go on your dream journeys.”
“He is safe and well,” said Teferi. “Ramsa Aál has taken him on another one of his quests, this time to an oasis in the north.”
“We should be there to watch over him.”
“He has an army with him, the guardians you saw training, and more still from other places. I expect he has little need of our swords.” He looked at the Kotabanzi. “This is what he needs now.”
“Then again,” she said wistfully, “I am useless.”
Teferi smiled at her. “As you said, I need someone to watch over me while I search the dreamworld. Even on the best of nights, Kheshatta is not safe. It would be foolish to die on the tip of some bandit’s dagger in our own garden.”
“Then I will be your faithful protector,” she said.
“I can trust that you will not fall prey to drink and leave me defenseless?”
She frowned, but to Teferi’s surprise, held her anger. “I have sworn off strong drink since—”
She did not complete the sentence, and the troubled look on her face told him not to question her further.
Finally, she said, “This is no time for weakness, for carelessness. We must ever be at our guard.” Then she rubbed her eyes. “But I will be better at my guard after some rest.” She looked at Teferi curiously as they walked together back to the villa. “Do you ever sleep?”
He grinned. “While I dream-walk, I am sleeping. Truly, it can be quite refreshing, when the dreams are not too fearful.”
But she did not smile back. She seemed lost in her own troubled thoughts.
“Do the cravings for drink trouble you?”
She glanced up at him, surprised. Then she looked away. “At times, yes.”
“Perhaps I could help,” he said. “Perhaps you should invite me into your dreams.”
Then, finally, she did laugh. “You only wish that it could be so!”
IT TOOK ANOK and Ramsa Aál two days by fast horse to reach the hills above Nafri. They found a vantage point, among a cluster of jagged boulders, where they could observe the place unseen.
To Anok’s eyes, it did not appear to be a stronghold of Ibis, or anything else for that matter. Rather, it appeared to be the sort of place that was barely holding on to itself, a cluster of huts, barns, and small, simple buildings of mud-brick and stone. Even from here, he could smell the woodsmoke of cooking fires, the odor of roasting meat, and of penned animals.
Except for the smoke curling from the chimneys, the movement of palm trees in the wind, and the milling of goats, ducks, and other animals, the place was strangely quiet. There were a few men and fewer women visible, clothed like nomads, sitting in doorways, or in the town square near the well, but none of the morning activity one would expect in a small village.
“This does not seem right to me,” he said to Ramsa Aál. “Where are the children? Where are the old people?”
The priest scowled as he looked down on the oasis. “Curse Ibis; somehow they have anticipated our coming.”
“Are you sure we have not been misled? I see no temple of Ibis here. No temple of anything. Could we have been led to a trap?”
Ramsa Aál held up his hand as though feeling the air. “I sense no spells of cloaking or deception. Nothing is hidden here. What we see is what we see. And yet I am sure what we seek is here. The map is too old, its meaning too obliquely hidden, for it to be a deception. They may have moved the Scale of Set, but the temple is here. I know it!”
Ramsa turned and walked away from the ridge, back toward his horse. “If this is a trap, then they will find us well prepared for their treachery. Come.”
They rode down to where perhaps a third of their forces were gathered, along with several dozen acolytes who would doubtless serve as Ramsa Aál’s mystical soldiers. “The rest of our forces are gathered to the north and west of the oasis,” he explained. “We will enter the town on three fronts.”
He rode his horse in front of the assembled troops, finally approaching their commanding officer. He removed a crystal ball from a bag hung on his saddle.
Anok assumed it was a crystal of speech and vision, and that its companion crystals were in possession of the officers leading the rest of the forces.
“Move our forces into the city on my command,” he said. “Be at the ready, but do not attack. We will let them show themselves first. At the first show of aggression, return it with all your fury. Kill anything that moves, man, woman, or child, but with one exception. Anyone who wears priestly robes is to be kept alive. Report anything that might be a temple, shrine, or of mystic importance. Is tha
t understood?”
The commander nodded, and the others spoke their affirmation through their crystals.
“Into the town,” he ordered. Keeping close ranks, they began their march down the hillside.
As they descended, Anok could see two other columns of troops approaching as well, one from the far side of town, one from their left. As they rode in among the simple buildings and through the narrow dirt streets, there was no resistance, little sign of notice at all.
Anok scanned the surrounding rooftops, acutely aware of the danger from archers.
Ramsa Aál leaned closer to him and whispered, “Worry not. The acolytes protect us with a spell of deflection. I would hardly offer myself as such a tempting target otherwise. It is a shame the spell is only powerful enough to protect us of the temple, but the guardians are expendable.”
The locals, if that was what they were, watched them with unfriendly stares as they rode past. As he studied their sunbaked and unwashed faces, Anok noticed something else. “None of these people have a drop of Stygian blood in them,” he whispered to Ramsa Aál. “I see Shemites, Kushites, Hyborians, but no Stygians. They are a rough-looking lot, and many carry scars.”
Ramsa Aál nodded. “Foreign mercenaries, most likely, with no loyalty to Stygia and not enough fear of Set. Well, I wager we will teach them that fear.”
The logic of the priest’s plan escaped Anok. He placed their troops at great disadvantage, vulnerable to almost certain ambush. Then the truth of it dawned on him. Ramsa Aál cared not even a little for the lives of his men. His only concern was in finding the Scale of Set, and he hoped that if the defenders were overconfident, they might feel less urgency to spirit it away into hiding.
Ramsa Aál looked back over his shoulder at the column of troops following them. “All our men will be within the borders of the town by now.” He looked around expectantly. “It will happen soon.”
Then, as if he spoke from prophecy, Anok saw a dozen archers appear over the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Arrows rained in on them from every direction. There were cries of agony as soldiers began to fall, but true to the priest’s word, the arrows were deflected away from their horses.
The Venom of Luxur Page 15
