The Cult of Sutek

by Joshua P. Simon

  She snarled as her free hand came up with a dagger.

  “Wait! I’ll explain myself if you put that thing away. It’s not like you need it to kill me.” He looked around uneasily as the other patrons stopped and stared in their direction.

  She let him go and leaned back. Heads turned away.

  “Talk.”

  “You’re thinking of stealing it, aren’t you?” he asked in a low whisper.

  She said nothing.

  “I think it’s a mistake to do it alone. The jewel is too closely guarded, and there are too many traps. The guardians . . . .”

  “I know the stories. I’ve stolen things before.”

  “Not like this you haven’t. I promise. But, I can help.” He took a chance and raised the sheet of paper he had been writing on. It depicted a crude diagram. “These are just the details of the entrance. I have more in my head.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He tapped his temple. “One of the perks of my travels is that I’ve gained more than a bit of knowledge and picked up a lot of useful skills in exchange for a song or even a night of pleasure. And I’ve got an excellent memory.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “A partnership. You’re a skilled woman. I have knowledge. We’d complement each other well.” He took a sip of ale. “Bashan is quite a distance from here. We could work some small jobs on our way to get a better feel for each other, and use the money to buy things we’ll need to obtain the jewel.”

  Andrasta inclined her head to the side. “Thievery seems quite the change from your former life.”

  Rondel snickered. “Hardly. A minstrel is just a more sophisticated thief. I stole hearts and had them giving me money. At least now I wouldn’t have to wear the ridiculous clothes.”

  Andrasta’s shoulders relaxed. Light from the hearth danced on her face. He had gotten over the long scar and saw that without it, she would have been an attractive woman. Even with the scar, she was far from ugly. He wondered what caused it.

  She picked up her tankard and drank. “You’ve considered where we should test this new partnership?”

  Rondel grinned. “I have a place in mind.”

  Chapter 1

  Fading sunlight bruised the cloudless sky, casting shades of purple and red across the clearing of trampled grass. Large sycamores trees interspersed with the occasional mulberry or lotus surrounded the field. Horses grazed on wild grass while Rondel sparred against Andrasta.

  Flames from a low fire licked the black kettle simmering above it. A whiff of the spicy stew inside made Rondel’s stomach growl.

  Just one bite. Just one bite, and I’ll feel better.

  Andrasta had pushed a hard pace, anxious to reach the next city where they might earn some coin. She would not allow them to stop for a midday meal, and Rondel had to content himself with dried beef and a few nuts in the saddle.

  “Pay attention,” snapped Andrasta.

  Her blade swept in and crashed against Rondel’s short sword. His arm shook from the impact.

  Even my nose hairs are vibrating. He took a haggard step backward before she came at him with another sweep.

  One of the first purchases Andrasta had insisted on was a weapon Rondel could call his own. He had gone to the blacksmith with visions of picking up some hellish, intimidating weapon that might compare to those carried by the legendary warriors he once sung about. Lifestealer, the ax of Fera the Slayer. Harbringer, the great sword of Berac the Unholy.

  Andrasta had laughed at his comparisons and handed him a rusty sword. His dreams deflated.

  “We don’t have the coin for something like that. Even if we did, they’d be a waste on you. Those weapons would require great strength or two hands to yield them. You have neither.”

  “Is this all we can afford?” he had asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It seems so . . . plain.”

  “It’s practical. We can scour the rust off ourselves. A short sword will be easier for you to wield with one hand.”

  “Shouldn’t I also get a shield?”

  “If we get more money,” she had said, bitterly. “Eating is more important right now.”

  An open hand the size of a bear’s paw slapped Rondel’s cheek. It left a dull sting and a watered eye in its wake.

  “By the gods,” he shouted, blinking away his thoughts and bringing a hand to rub at what was sure to be a red mark spanning the entire left side of his face.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t close my fist.” Andrasta glared. “How many times do I have to tell you to focus?”

  “I’m tired. You’ve been beating on me every day for the last three months. We’ve already been at it for over an hour.” Rondel noticed the pinks in the sky had mostly faded, making way for dull gray.

  “When you’re tired is when you need to focus most. Do you think those brothers we ran into would have been half as gentle as I am now?”

  Rondel frowned. “They were pretty upset with us trying to steal their silver, huh?”

  “You calling them ‘apes’ didn’t help.”

  “They started it.” Rondel winced, recalling how they had cackled at him when he drew his sword, saying they’d call in their daughters to handle him. “And don’t tell me you didn’t think the same. I’ve never seen a family so ugly. You could barely see their eyes the way the hair on their heads and beards met.”

  “You’re the one that always wants to stop and think. If you would’ve kept your mouth shut, and done that then, we might have gotten more of the loot. Instead, you had to explain the insult to them.”

  “Sorry. It was too good to let it go to waste. Even you have to admit that.”

  “I don’t have to admit anything,” she snapped.

  She turned her back and started mouthing off in her native tongue. Rondel understood not a word, but based on its tone, none of it sounded pleasant.

  “Look, I’m sorry I—”

  She spun. “Shut up! No more apologizing. I debate with myself every day why I ever agreed to partner with you. Maybe it was pity.”

  “I do have knowledge that—”

  “Yes, you do. And that knowledge is the only reason I haven’t left you behind. You have just enough knowledge to compensate for one foul up after another on these jobs.” She took a step forward, peering down at Rondel like a mother scolding a child. “But I’m running out of patience. I need to see more from you, Rondel. Much more. Am I making myself clear?”

  He swallowed, the saliva hanging up in his damaged throat. It had once housed the most famous voice in all of Untan. “Yes.”

  “Good, because your inability to fight is our greatest liability. Now focus!”

  Andrasta raised her sword, and Rondel did the same. She attacked.

  * * *

  Rondel rubbed a pungent salve into the blisters and sore muscles on his rear and thighs. It warmed his skin immediately. He wiped the last bit of residue on his trousers before yanking them back up around his waist. He picked up the jar and took a step out from behind the tall bushes.

  I thought I’d be used to all this riding and training by now. Too old. Everything is taking so much longer to heal.

  In his youth, the aches and blisters from physical work never seemed to bother him like they did since leaving prison.

  Perhaps that’s because I was always too busy thinking about a recent party I had attended while entertaining nobles. Or the after-party while entertaining their wives and daughters. He smirked. Or the after-after-party when I enjoyed the company of a young servant working late.

  Those were good times.

  He ran his left hand through his graying, brown hair and sighed as his shortened fingers pressed against his scalp. Old song lyrics tickled the back of his mind.

  “The past contains memories,

  both happy and sad.

  It matters little to a man in reflection,

  turning them all into something bad.”

  Better to quit thinking
about the past, Rondel. Just move on.

  Rondel told himself that every day since he and Andrasta had decided to partner in what so far had amounted to a fruitless endeavor.

  “Best to move on,” he muttered, the rough whisper from his damaged throat barely audible.

  He hoped that if he said those words enough he might convince himself that moving on was something he wanted to do, rather than something he had no choice but to do.

  Each day since gaining his freedom, he could not stop himself from thinking of his old life and how he might find a way to return to it.

  Rondel opened and closed his sorry excuse for a left hand.

  I won’t regain that fame by picking up a lute again. That’s for sure.

  He looked off toward the campfire where Andrasta sat with her back to him.

  Months later, she still remained a mystery. He had tried to initiate conversation early on, but it soon became evident there was little common ground between them. The only time they seemed to connect was when they spoke about the next job and how it would lead them to the Jewel of Bashan.

  The jewel was an obsession with Andrasta, and she grew more agitated each day with their lack of progress toward obtaining it.

  She’s my best chance at happiness and I’m throwing it away. How long before she gets tired of me and leaves? Then what? I have no skills. I’m too old to be an apprentice. And I could never attempt this sort of life on my own.

  Get your act together Rondel.

  Limping back to the fire, he took several long strides, stretching out his hips and thighs as Andrasta had shown him. He began twisting his body several steps later to incorporate his lower and middle back. He was sure that anyone who happened upon him doing the bizarre exercises would think him a lunatic. The exercises might look ridiculous, but he couldn’t argue with their results. Already, his limbs and joints began to loosen.

  Andrasta had worked him doubly hard after their brief conversation. The woman even had the audacity to withhold Rondel’s share of stew until he ran several laps around the clearing where they made camp.

  He almost asked if she was joking. Almost.

  Rondel finished his stretches while covering the last bit of ground to the fire. He patted his horse on the way by, slipping a thick leaf from his shirt into its mouth, hoping that the extra moment of care might ingratiate it to be more kind to his aching muscles on the morrow’s ride. Considering the immediate response of his mount was to break wind, he doubted it would be any better.

  He eased down on the log at the opposite end of the crackling fire where Andrasta sat examining a dagger she kept strapped to her boot.

  Despite the way Rondel felt, he was not ready for sleep. He looked up into the bright night sky. A half-moon sat to one side while stars littered the rest of the blackness, blinking. He spotted a few constellations without much effort, recalling a lesson from a female astronomer he slept with some years ago in Yil. She had a thing for making love under the stars while Rondel had a thing for making love to her. Their relationship, like so many of his others, was brief, yet satisfying.

  His thoughts drifted to those wild nights rolling on the grass. He shook his head. The last thing he needed were those memories keeping him up.

  Who would even want me now?

  True, he had the coin for a whore, but that was something he always looked down on. Even after all these years, he refused to lower his standards.

  Steel glided along a whetstone and Rondel’s eyes flickered to where Andrasta sharpened her long sword. He doubted the warrior would care if he visited a whore just once, but her presence made him self-conscious for even considering the matter.

  He fed more wood into the fire, hoping the warmth might ease the soreness in his legs.

  The cadence of the whetstone changed, sliding off in a way that failed to match the pace Andrasta usually kept. Rondel looked up.

  “What’s—” he started to ask.

  Her hand shot up, calling for silence. She stared into the dark woods beyond.

  Rondel did his best to remain still and heard it, the faint sound of wagon wheels bouncing on rocks and branches as it drifted off the road. Voices joined the chorus of sounds unnatural to the forest.

  “Should I douse the flames?” he whispered.

  “No. The water will make too much smoke and the night is too clear to mask it. Spread out the fire so it reduces the light. Let the fire die out on its own.”

  She stood.

  “Are we leaving?”

  “Not yet. They might hear us riding out and follow. Should see if they’re a threat first. Grab your sword.”

  “You want me to come?”

  She frowned for a moment as if considering the wisdom in such a decision. “Better I have you next to me than wonder what you’re doing here.” She started toward the woods. “Just be quiet, or I’ll take you back to those brothers.”

  * * *

  Head covered in a burlap sack smelling of mildew, Dendera bit her lip to stifle a yelp as the wagon she lay in left the bumpy highway for something far worse. Unable to see, she heard and felt the wheels bounce and roll over rocks and trampled bushes. The scraping of low hanging tree limbs against the side of the wagon sent a shiver down her spine.

  Her heart raced in fear. They’re leaving the road.

  Bound in the wagon’s bed, and crammed between piles of junk, she was certain her body was black and blue from the jarring impacts of her travel situation. Of course the bruises on the outside of her body were the least of her worries.

  Only the gods know what they’re going to do to me.

  Broke and destitute in a strange town, she had allowed herself to be conned by an ugly old woman who seemed harmless at the time. She was supposed to help the woman out on the road. In turn, she would gain food and a free ride away from her home in Girga.

  But the old woman’s true self, one just as ugly as her exterior came out shortly after Dendera agreed to her terms. She learned the woman had family—a husband and two sons. Her blood had run cold in fear upon meeting them.

  Despite her discomfort, she did not back out of the agreement. In her mind, she had no options left.

  However, once the group cleared the town, the deranged family made her their captive, gagging her so no one they passed on the road might discover her. She had begged and sobbed to be released, but the family only laughed in return.

  She dried her tears quickly then, and had refused to shed another tear since, no matter how hopeless or painful her situation.

  I say that now, but can I really do it? She bit her lip again, unsure what the family’s ultimate intentions were for her. Dark thoughts drifted into her mind. She put them away quickly before they took root.

  “I think this looks like a good place, Ma,” said one of the sons.

  The wagon came to a lurching stop. “As good a place as any. Start making camp.”

  She thought of her brother who she had selfishly left behind with her father. She’d give anything to see his smiling face one more time.

  I’ll never see either of them again.

  The tears she refused to shed were ready to burst from her welling eyes.

  * * *

  Rondel let Andrasta lead the way through the woodsy gloom. He focused on stepping where she stepped and not running into the back of her when she paused to gather her bearings.

  He caught a faint, yellow glow flickering through the sycamores just as Andrasta gestured to a small rise in the land next to a huge lotus tree. She set off, and he followed, realizing the purpose of the approach as they slithered on their stomachs near the peak of a grassy hilltop overlooking the camp.

  Four roguish figures of what Rondel considered the lowliest sort, sat or stood near a poorly constructed campfire with embers spilling out of a narrow circle of stones. An open, weathered wagon and two thin horses rested near a bare mulberry tree.

  Two men sat at the fire, trying to spit a recently skinned hare. Between them, they shared one suit o
f armor. One had shin guards, gorget, and helm while the other wore breast plate and vambraces.

  Watching them struggle with the spit, a task even Rondel could handle, he wondered if the two shared a mind as well. They argued and picked at each other like children.

  One of the other figures who had been fumbling in a sack near the wagon turned. Dirty, gray hair hid the old woman’s face. Based on the grating voice that came forth, Rondel wanted no part in seeing what lay beneath the hair.

  “You boys better get that rabbit cooking, or I swear I’m going to put you both over my knee. Don’t think you’re too old for it.”

  The fourth person, an old, but hard, bald man who had been digging in another sack next to the woman, stood with a handful of sickly-looking vegetables. “Better listen to your ma, boys. She’s in one of her moods.”

  The woman elbowed the old man. “What do you know about my moods?”

  The couple went at each other’s throats, making enough racket to wake the dead. The two at the campfire chuckled, probably thankful that they were no longer the focus of their mother’s ire.

  Rondel leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “Seems like they would have set someone up here to keep a lookout.”

  Andrasta gestured. “That’s giving them too much credit. They shouldn’t have camped here to begin with. Look at the wagon’s wheels.”

  Their wagon rested in a rain puddle from the night before. The back wheels already sat lower than the front in the wet earth. They would have a terrible time moving it in the morning.

  “Nothing to worry about then, I’d say.”

  Andrasta nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The old man’s voice rose above the shouts of the angry woman. “I thought you’d be in a good mood on account of us being rich once we get to Aor.”

  “Don’t put your cart before the horse. We gotta sell our prize first. Besides, you been hearing all those rumors about the Cult of Sutek. We have to be careful. I don’t want to mess with any of that.”

  “Just a bunch of stories to scare foreigners. They ain’t no cult no more.”

  “I hope not.” She sighed. “You boys better go get our prize. She’ll be getting hungry.”