The Tides of Nemesis (The Windows of Heaven Book 4)

by K. G. Powderly Jr.

  Nu had pleaded with him, “I asked E’Yahavah’s Word-speaker specifically if Floodhaven was safe. He said ‘no,’ as I told you the day after it happened…” A’Nu-Ahki’s last words cut. “If you think I’d lie about such a thing, you can’t think I’m the true Comforter, Nestrigati, so stop pretending. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Nestrigati balled his fists and screamed, “I spoke E’Yahavah’s words over everything! I studied the skies and the tablets of the seers! I’ve always affirmed that A’Nu-Ahki is the Comforter of A’Nu! Now Farguti and others seem ready to mutiny if the least thing goes wrong! It’s not fair! I’ve proven my leadership—even in battle! Some of those men owe me their lives!”

  Nevertheless, no matter how long he paced, ranted, and prayed, or how many of “E’Yahavah’s words” he spoke into his resolve, Nestrigati could not shake the growing apprehension. His confidence sank with the bloody sun over the landscape below, as evening and morning ended the second day.

  The festival at Grove Hollow that night seemed gloomy to Farsa. The dancers and musicians had retired. She found herself sitting alone with her brother’s wife, of all people, sharing a skin of dragonfire. Tsulia’s dark brown curls bunched over one side of her head in a blue tie. Her over-painted eyes stared off into the trees, past the stream, as she sipped. Moon-chaser frolicked in the waterfall pool with one of the younger new girls.

  “You don’t care that Moon’s fooling around, do you?” Farsa finally said to Tsulia, who seemed not to notice the white behemoth in the glade.

  Tsulia said, “He’s not serious about them. He’s just being friendly.”

  Farsa snickered. “No wonder you’re spending more time at the Wisdom Tree these days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were making a move to become a Speaker to the Helpers, like Sariya.”

  Tsulia’s dark, glassy eyes glared at her.

  “What’s wrong? I hit a sore spot?”

  “This is serious business, Farsa. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe not, but I know a power play when I see one. So does Varkun. He sees through your thinly veiled Orthy fervor. Do you think we’ll all just follow you like a bunch of blemished lambs back to the old religion, behind the ‘Children’s Archon’?”

  “Get mossed, Farsa! At least I care about what’s going on!”

  “What is going on?” Moon-chaser’s sister asked.

  “More than you can possibly imagine!” Tsulia snatched the drinking skin, smirked, and then got up to walk away.

  The interior of the small stone sanctuary was crowded, but quiet. Its leader stood behind a crude podium facing the people—his people.

  Henumil son of Karmis, of the Sub-Clan Urugim, had more titles than a man of princely rank usually boasted. Chief Priest, Sub-Tacticon of Dragon-slayers, Keeper of the Empty Shrine—the only title he had forgotten was that of “father” to a small dusky ‘tween-aged girl named Tiva. He remembered it now only because she had joined the enemy to humiliate him.

  Henumil led his troop of Dragon-slayers, and their families, in a long vigil of fasting and prayer against the tangible demons summoned by this arch-foe that had swallowed his daughter like some malevolent Watcher sex predator. Cowardly wurm kin; he won her over like a child-stealer with soft lies that had left her too weak to deal with hard truths!

  The “Shrine Sect” gathered inside the sanctuary attached to Henumil’s home for the third afternoon in a row, all sallow-faced and weary, to bend the will of heaven their way. The wind and rain had returned that morning, with the sky discoloration. Only this time, stone-sized ice-balls had smashed ripening fruit on the trees, and pelted those unable to get indoors. Morale plummeted, and people had even murmured about going out to the ship to see if A’Nu-Ahki might accept them as servants to care for his beasts.

  Henumil had put a stop to such talk fast. “Do you think that just because this valley is protected from World-end, that we shall see none of its signs? What real threat have the storms been, bruised fruit? We must expect some hardship, people! The true Work of Q’Enukki has never been easy!”

  The Priest had re-energized his people for another evening at least.

  “Hear us, O Father Atum-Ra, and carry our cries to E’Yahavah A’Nu!” Henumil roared with arms outstretched. “We are the true followers of Seti and Q’Enukki! We beg you to defeat the sorceries of the apostates! Guide Yargat and me, as we join the archonic priest in asking the Archon’s intervention! Drive away these beasts and evil omens!”

  An immediate answer came by way of a mocking crash that tore open the back of the sanctuary, and brought part of the building down behind his podium. Henumil turned and dove for the floor at the noise.

  Peering in at them through the crumbled masonry were big clumsy eyes. A long-necked behemoth had accidentally stumbled into the building as it tried to squeeze through town.

  Henumil screeched, “Be gone, demon of Under-world!”

  The creature cocked its head at the funny little men-things inside their cozy stone and wood box.

  Henumil cursed his choice not to have the vigil at the Dragon-slayer lodge, where it would have been lawful for the men to carry their weapons. He scrambled to his feet, picked up a dusty piece of broken roof timber, and walloped the great beast across its lowered snout.

  The behemoth jerked back, taking the rest of the roof up with it in one piece. The stone walls crumbled outward harmlessly.

  Henumil screamed, as Yargat and some of his men had to restrain him from leaping at the giant quasi-reptile to do battle with his bare fists.

  The behemoth swung its body around in a fluid motion, slamming its tree-trunk-like tail into Henumil’s home. Alongside the creature bobbed three calves. They all lumbered off toward A’Nu-Ahki’s shipyard.

  Henumil stripped himself of his ceremonial outer garments, and threw them down. “This is intolerable! I’m getting those archonist priests together, and we’re going down to the new army camp now!”

  Yargat asked, “Do you really think it will do any good, Father?”

  “Don’t you start going soft on me, too!”

  “Forgiveness please—I only meant that people have tried twice to burn that thing, and many times to get legal injunctions against further construction. First we are stripped of our Holy Relics, and now of our sanctuary, and your house!”

  “Are you suggesting that the Basilisk is stronger than the power of E’Yahavah El-N’Lil?” Henumil demanded; his dark fists balled.

  “No, my Father, of course not, but we have to stop and think. We know that Wet Nu can’t be under E’Yahavah’s protection. And we know the Basilisk cannot stand against the power conferred by A’Nu, through our fathers Seti and Q’Enukki, upon you as a priest and Dragon-slayer…”

  Henumil said, “Your thinking is not shedding any light!”

  “You’re right, as always. Let’s go to the Crossroads. Maybe E’Yahavah can give the Archon wisdom…”

  “Shut up, Yargat!”

  Psydonu always enjoyed riding with the troops, especially on real maneuvers with his Naval Expeditionary Corps—they always had the latest Temple toys. The force’s automated anti-astra cannons and Firefly rockets had proven themselves at downing nearly all Lumekkorim aerial scouts sent against them. This column had made it along the Inland Highway to a point only one day’s motor ride south of Farguti Crossroads—the gateway to the Valley of Akh’Uzan. Vast grasslands rolled to the west, while patchy eaves of mountain rainforest banked down to the east side of the kapar-paved road.

  The Titan basked in all the pastoral scenery.

  “Uzaaz’El has let his Guild get slack, m’Lord” said the Firefly Operator, from the armored chariot’s forward turret. “All this funny weather must be a good omen for us.”

  Psydonu grinned. “As should be, as should be. Intelligence told us to expect heavy countermeasures. From what we’ve seen so far, I doubt Lumekkor even has well-developed Firefly techno-sorcery.”

  “I’ve got sprites on my orb!
” the Operator said. “Make that four! They just launched from the Crossroads… now taking a recon formation.”

  “Ready flies one through four,” said the chariot’s captain, who had tumors mushrooming on his face. “Rotary cannons lock in your targets and track.”

  Psydonu could barely hear Uggu’s scout astras when the Operator released his Firefly missiles. The tiny rockets screeched into the red late-afternoon skies to hunt for the heat sources they would instinctively follow until they either proximity-detonated, or ran out of fuel.

  Two of the “flies” vectored in on one astra, as it screamed into sight, and blew it from the sky. A third flew off into the lowering sun when its target banked west and dove. The final rocket tagged the exhaust manifold of another airship, and brought it down somewhere off in the eastern foothills.

  The scout astra that had evaded its Firefly dove into a buzzing wall of rotary cannon shot from one of the rear teams, which chewed the sky chariot into fiery shreds over the immense western grasslands. A herd of spade-backed spike-tail dragons scattered to avoid the falling debris. A single drone escaped, and attempted to return to its base to warn its army.

  Normally the pilot would have simply used his oracle set to get a message through. But Psydonu’s mage acolytes had bound the spirits on that particular astral plane with a special wand-dish designed by the priests for such contingencies. The forward rotary cannons opened up on the final craft when it arced around above the team’s lead chariot.

  The astra’s control surfaces took a shattering hail that thwarted the pilot’s struggles—first to maintain altitude, then to land his vehicle up the highway to escape back to Farguti on foot. The fully fueled scout craft fell cartwheeling to earth in a ball of flame brighter than the dying sun.

  Psydonu dismounted the self-propelled armored chariot, and led his men in a spontaneous ballad to celebrate the victory. His ever-present scribes quickly jotted down the lyrics with quills on naval-issue papyrex scrolls.

  None of the soldiers that cheered with their titan showed any doubt that victory had all but arrived. They sang with unwavering faith that soon, when their Promised Seed led them to the gates of Aeden, the disfigured loved ones under the Great Quarantines at home would find healing. Psydonu’s manic joy would carry him past the divine gates in mere days.

  Yet, no matter how strong the hopes, how sure the faith, how brave the hearts, how great the need, and how fervent the affection for those that remained behind—evening and morning still marked the third day.

  The Archon felt queasy, and wished he had brought “Luwinna” to talk to. No I don’t! How can she be trusted?

  Tarbet watched Avarnon-Set gaze at the immense sun that bathed the wide western plains in sinister purples. The waning light seemed to leave no reflection in the Giant’s dull black eyes—as if they sucked whatever they saw into a prison of dense hot darkness.

  Emperor Uggu also stood by, a bronzed colossus, both of them outside the command tent at the Farguti Crossroads army airfleet outpost. The Archon did not like how Avarnon-Set had been behaving since their discussion by the sun chariot. A chaotic heaviness hovered in the air.

  “It’s another evil omen,” muttered the wolf-headed Titan.

  “The deeper hues?”

  “Weren’t those scout wings due back this morning?” Uggu asked, ignoring Tarbet’s question.

  “Yes,” Avarnon-Set said. “But they had extra spirit receptacles in case they had to divert to another base.”

  “In which case, they should have communed with us by oracle!”

  “If we can hold out three more weeks, new ampoules of the Fire of the Gods will arrive.”

  “If,” Uggu said.

  Arch-straticon Ahgni rushed toward the command tent from the gate, and signaled for both Uggu and Avarnon-Set’s attention.

  “What is it?” The Emperor returned Ahgni’s cross-armed salute.

  “Some local priests are making noise at the gate, Lord. It’s attracting a crowd that blocks the traffic of incoming troops and supplies.”

  “So order them away with a few warning shots—do I need to manage incidents of simple crowd control?”

  “Wait,” Avarnon-Set said. “Did they say what they want?”

  Ahgni mumbled, “They wish an audience with the Archon about that ship matter.” His lumpy face blanched.

  “What’s that? Speak up!”

  “Just a foolish local matter, m’Lord; that big ship—you remember—the one some lunatic built up at the head of the valley. I mentioned it by oracle last week. It’s nothing important.”

  “You seemed rather concerned about its effect on morale before.”

  Ahgni hung his head. “Perhaps I over-reacted, Lord.”

  Avarnon-Set chewed a pensive claw, and looked to Tarbet. “Then again, Ahgni, perhaps you didn’t. Tell the priests that we’ll see them now.”

  Uggu said, “Brother, do we really have time for this?”

  “Indulge me,” Avarnon answered. “If we continue to send out scout craft that never return, we may find ourselves forming a line up into that valley. It will serve well as both a flanking fortress, and a base for further astra operations. We may lose the Crossroads before we can deploy more Fire of the Gods. It might be a good idea to humor the locals for now.”

  Uggu shrugged, and gave his assent before absenting himself.

  Henumil did not expect the cordial reception he received from both the Archon and the accursed titan inside the administrative tent. The looming form of Avarnon-Set disturbed him so badly that he had to fight to keep from running out. It would have been better had the wolf-headed perversion not been so accommodating, handing each of Henumil’s party a flagon of water as they entered the tent. The Dragon-slayer Chief drank only out of courtesy, fearful that some taint from the revolting beast-man fouled the cup. Queasiness almost overcame him when he saw Avarnon hand Yargat his drink, and noticed that the creature’s dirty claw rubbed on the vessel’s rim.

  Henumil had dreaded his first meeting with Tarbet, given the Seer Clan’s political opposition to the Archon’s policies. Yet after withering under the unreadable black eyes of the Titan, he found Tarbet’s too-youngish face a smiling reprieve that set him at ease.

  “How may we help you?” the Archon asked, after accepting Henumil’s bows and greeting chant.

  Henumil addressed him in Low Archaic. “O Father of Men, vested with the wisdom of ancients, I am your loyal son, the Chief Priest and Dragon-slayer of the pilgrims of Q’Enukki that dwell in this valley. Our villages have been plagued by a sorcerer—A’Nu-Ahki the Apostate—who has summoned demonic beasts from the Haunted Lands to trample our fields, and attack our children! He defaces our land with his demented ship, and calls Leviathan from Under-world to wage war against my community—against the altar of a righteous people, who live by Seti’s Code!”

  “My father speaks truth!” Yargat added. “Yesterday we were nearly killed when Behemoth attacked our sanctuary! If my father had not fought bare-handed, we would have all been trampled by the beast’s unclean feet!”

  Tarbet looked to the archonic priest that had accompanied Henumil and his son. “What say you?”

  “I am from your Alliance Orthodox gathering in the Immigrant’s Quarter of Henumil’s village. I don’t know about sorcery, but the recent beast attacks are real. Devil-cats, gryndel, wyverna, and other wurms have killed people, not to mention the hazards of wool elephants, and other large trampling beasts. Reliable eyewitnesses have seen these creatures forage out from that ship. I join the Seer Clan’s humble request for your intervention.”

  The Archon turned back to Henumil. “You call A’Nu-Ahki an apostate—and I do not doubt your word. But what say you about his sire, Muhet’Usalaq, the firstborn of Q’Enukki? Does he still live?”

  Henumil felt as if Tarbet had hacked his legs out from under him. He hesitated before answering, “Father of Fathers, I can give no sure word. But I heard rumor yesterday that he has passed on to his ancestors
.”

  Tarbet seemed to blanch for a second, though it might have been a trick of the odd light filtering in from outside the tent flap. “And you’ve not confirmed this? Does this not trouble you? Or am I mistaken in taking you to be a believer in a literal World-end?”

  Henumil sputtered at a loss for words.

  Fortunately, Yargat answered, “I am a mere lad, Holiness, but am an eyewitness to everything. My father was in the midst of verifying the death of the Prime Zaqen when Behemoth attacked. We decided to place the safety of our families first, and come plead our case before you.”

  Tarbet’s eyes still seemed wary. “But if the death of Muhet’Usalaq marks the end of the world, then wouldn’t that be a greater threat to your families than these beast attacks—bad as they must be?”

  Henumil fought to regain his composure. “We are convinced that E’Yahavah shall spare the Valley of Akh’Uzan from his wrath. Farguti Crossroads is the outer limit of safety. Thus we reason well to come here rather than check on Muhet’Usalaq.”

  Tarbet nodded. “Very well, I see your thoughts, and find them rational within your understanding. I have inquiries to make of this A’Nu-Ahki myself.” He looked to Avarnon-Set for confirmation.

  Avarnon-Set stepped behind the Archon, and for a flash in Henumil’s mind, seemed like a demonic puppet-master.

  The Titan said, “I have charges to levy against this man also, for purchasing Guild hardware that might be used for seditious military purposes, and misuse of imperial family funds allotted to his wife. When we can detach from current responsibilities, we shall visit his ship, and take this A’Nu-Ahki into custody.”

  “How long do you suppose that will take?” Tarbet asked. He somehow seemed to read the same question in Henumil’s eye.

  Am I that transparent? Henumil wondered.

  Avarnon-Set said, “Probably the day after tomorrow. We can all go together in my sun chariot. I trust we all will be discreet until then?”