Author: Phil Tucker
Date: 2018-05-08 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: Against all odds, Jarek and Acharsis have succeeded in their mission, and now they reap the whirlwind. With countless assassins and guards on their heels, they have but one hope: make common cause with their ancient enemy, the empire of Magan, before Irella can launch her invasion. But that hope lies hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, over the Great Chasm, across the eternal Golden Steppe, and past the Demon's Teeth. And even if they survive the journey, they'll then have to face their most lethal challenge yet: to convince the immortal lamassu gods of Magan to rise and face the greatest ar

Contents

Trial of Kings

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Book 3

Glossary

The Path of Flames

Copyright

Trial of Kings

Book 2 of the

GODSBLOOD TRILOGY

By Phil Tucker

© 2018 Phil Tucker

Cover art by Andreas Zafeiratos

All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The plinth shuddered beneath Jarek’s feet.

It rumbled and roared as it tore through the wilderness, leaving a great trench of raw earth behind them, losing coherency as he lost his godhood. Fragments of rock shook loose to fall away behind them, and each loss lowered them ever closer to the ground. Desperate, Jarek reached out for Alok’s blessing, for that feverish power that had allowed him to tear the column free of the ziggurat’s side and make their escape from Rekkidu, but it was like trying to grab hold of mist.

“They’re gaining on us,” called Acharsis. “Two dozen of them.”

Jarek crouched on the forward lip of the column, one hand pressed to the rock. He clenched his jaw and willed the column to go faster. Instead, a massive boulder tore itself free and fell to the ground with an audible whoomp. The whole column shuddered and swayed, and the others cried out in alarm.

“We’re not going to last much longer,” he said, grinding the words out with extreme reluctance. He rose and turned to stare past his friends at the riders. “Another minute, then the whole column’s going to go.”

“What do we do?” Sisu sat hugging his knees in the very center of the column, his voice taut with alarm and exhaustion. “What’s the plan?”

“Simple,” said Kish. She rode the rumbling column with grace, knees bent, hammer held easily in one hand. “We find our ground and fight.”

“Two dozen riders,” said Acharsis, his voice almost swallowed by the column’s rumbling advance. “Probably Piamat’s finest. Tough odds.”

Frustration took Jarek by the throat. Just a few hours ago he’d been a demigod, suffused with the faith of thousands. The Sky Hammer had blazed with divine light and nothing had been impossible. Now? He could barely keep them moving in the right direction.

A savage desire for violence filled him. “I’m going to stop the column. When I do, get off.”

“Off?” asked Sisu. “You mean—”

Jarek exerted what little control he had left and the column shivered to a halt. Groans emerged from its depths as rocks ground against each other, and the whole of it swayed like a saltpan cobra. “Now!”

Acharsis gripped Annara’s hands and lowered her over the side. Her son, Elu, was next. Kish gave Jarek a concerned glance, and then grabbed Sisu around the waist and leaped fearlessly to the ground below.

“You got a plan?” asked Acharsis.

“Yes,” said Jarek. He could hear the pounding of the approaching horses' hooves. “Hurry.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” said Acharsis, and then he was gone.

Oh Alok, father of stone and earth, grant me your favor one last time.

Jarek inhaled deeply and willed the column to move toward the approaching riders.

Nothing.

The swaying grew more pronounced.

“Move, damn you,” he said, lowering to one knee so that he could place his hand flat on the rock. “Move!”

Desperation gave him strength. Jarek seized what last vestiges of faith had trailed him out here into the wilderness and breathed it in deep. He felt the looseness of the column beneath him, the pressure of the rocks as they yearned to collapse to the ground, and bound them to his will. The riders were but a hundred yards away now, the gold that edged their pale yellow robes glimmering in the morning light. They drew their bronze blades, each one a flashing sliver of the sun as they were raised overhead.

The column tightened, rose a few yards higher into the air, and then leaned out toward the riders. Just before it toppled altogether, Jarek gave it a final shove; it began to churn forward, back through the trench it had just dug, rumbling and roaring as it picked up speed.

The riders split before him, intending to circle around his clumsy approach. Jarek grinned as he stood. He pulled the Sky Hammer from his belt. Its massive head was dull and dark but for the faintest of glimmers in its heart. Would it be enough?

Jarek channeled his anger, his loss, his pain and desperation into a single cry and raised the hammer over his head. For a moment it flared to life, golden light bursting forth from the crystals encased within the metal, and then he brought it down with all his strength upon the stone at his feet.

The column exploded.

The faith that held it together burst outward, sending flaming boulders keening through the air. The rocks beneath his feet disintegrated and Jarek was falling, down through dust and chaos. He heard screams, horrific sounds of flesh being torn, and then the ground slammed up into him like the fist of a god. The world spun.

Jarek rolled, came up to his feet and fell over again. His head was ringing and he couldn’t breathe. Sheer obstinacy caused him to stand once more, Sky Hammer still in hand, reeling like a drunkard and rubbing at his eyes as he sought to clear his vision.

The rumbling died away. The dust fled before the wind, and he was surrounded by carnage. The rocks had punched clear through horses, dismembered riders, left the charge shattered on blood-soaked grass. The last of the boulders was rolling to a standstill some forty yards away.

Reflexively, he reached for Alok’s power, but it was gone. Completely used up. He felt his humanity weigh heavily upon him, aches and pains impinging upon his awareness and reminding him just how mortal he was once more.

A few horses struggled to rise, kicking their legs and contorting as they rose up, riderless. Men were also fighting to their feet, some wounded, others miraculously untouched by the explosion. Jarek inhaled deeply and hefted the Sky Hammer. The fight wasn’t over.

“Desist!” yelled Acharsis as he jogged toward them. “Don’t tempt Jarek’s wrath any further!”

Piamat’s warriors looked shaken, and Jarek thought the fight might have been blown clear out of them. But then one of them pulled his yellow scarf away from his face and spat. He was an older man, his face seamed with pale scars, one-eyed, and with an incredible hook of a nose that could have been stolen from a vulture.

“Black piss,” he said. “You think we rode this far just to give up now?”

Acharsis slowed to a walk, the others just behind him. “Interesting. I’ve never heard a man measure the value of his life by how far he’d ridden a horse.”

The one-eyed man spat again then stood up straight. “How many are we? Ten? Jathis, can you swing a sword?”

Jathis was cradling his right arm to his chest. “I can wave it around with my left, Samos.”

“Good enough.” Samos tongued the inside of his cheek and then spat out a tooth. “Golden Piamat’s going to get heads out of this no matter what. I’d rather they weren’t ours. So if you’re going to do something magic with your rocks, now’d be the time. Else we’re going to cut you down.”

“I tire of blood,” said Jarek. “Ride away. If you don’t return to Piamat, he can’t take your heads.”

The one-eyed man hesitated. “A good point. But that furrow you left will guide others here. They’ll see our tracks riding away from yours. Piamat will have us chased by the dead, and the dead don’t sleep. They’ll find us wherever we hide, and they'll cut our throats.”

“Ride south to Namtar,” said Acharsis. “Ride like the wind, then lose yourselves in the crowd. Wait a week, then work your way down to Zakir. From there, you can catch a boat anywhere.”

Samos turned to regard his men. Half of them were wounded. All of them were shifting their weight uneasily.

“Or you could fight me,” said Jarek, “and I will ask Alok to open the ground beneath your feet. And just as he did at the Battle of Hungry Rocks, he’ll suck your legs into the earth, slowly swallowing you. Every bone in your body will be broken. Your screams will only be silenced when your heads are finally pulled under.”

Nobody spoke. A wounded horse was trying to stand and failing, whickering and screaming as it did so.

Samos licked his lips. “You can do that?”

Acharsis gave him a friendly smile. “Want to find out?”

“Not particularly,” said Samos. “But.”

“But?” asked Acharsis.

“But I think you’re bluffing.”

“Samos!” hissed one of his men.

Samas raised a hand. “That, and I’m cursed with a rigid sense of loyalty that won’t let me betray my lord. It’s inconvenient, but what can you do? So, like I said: if you’re going to swallow me into the earth, now’s the time to do it.”

Acharsis looked sidelong at him. “Can… can you swallow them into the ground?”

Jarek sighed. Half an hour ago, his answer would have been different. “No.”

Acharsis nodded glumly. “Ah, well. It was worth a try. We’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“Or,” said Samos, “you could surrender. Two against ten? We’d butcher you. Surrender, and we’ll take you back to Piamat. Perhaps you can somehow trick him into letting you go.”

“You know, I like the way you think,” said Acharsis. “But you’re wrong on one important detail.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not two of us. Kishtar here is a godsblood of Scythia.”

“Oh,” said Samos.

“And Annara was a priestess of Scythia too.”

Annara stepped up alongside him, spear held lightly in her hands.

“Sisuthros there is a godsblood of Nekuul. Sisu, can you still draw on Nekuul’s power?”

“It’s faint,” said Sisu, “but yes. Enough.”

“And I am Acharsis, son of Ekillos - who, as you may remember, was the god of knowledge and male fertility. And while I’m not about to seduce you to death, I am still quite adept with this sword.

"Now. Want to reconsider escaping to Namtar?”

Sisu hissed loudly as he exhaled, and a handful of the dead riders began to stir, rising woodenly from where they lay sprawled. The living riders clustered together, turning around so as to keep the risen dead within sight.

“Samos,” said one of them. “Perhaps…?”

Samos shook his head with obvious reluctance. “That’s the thing about unconditional loyalty. You three, keep Jarek busy. Stay out of his reach, but keep him pinned. You two, push Acharsis back. Kethos, you take the Scythian. The rest of you, help me kill the Nekuulite. That’ll drop the dead. Ready?”

Annara took a step forward and hurled her spear. It flew across the intervening space slammed into Samos’ left eye, knocking his head back with such violence that he lifted off his feet and crashed to the dirt. He thrashed for a moment and then lay still.

The riders stared at their fallen leader.

Jarek lowered his hammer. He’d no idea Annara was so lethal. “Damn. Good throw.”

“That’s right,” said Acharsis, overcoming his surprise. “That’s exactly right. Who else wants to lead a charge against us? Nobody? Good. Take five horses and ride. Now.”

The remaining riders drew back from Samos’ corpse, edged away from Sisu’s converging dead, then hurried to the milling horses. They climbed up, two men per mount, then dug in their heels and galloped away.

“Thank Nekuul,” said Sisu with a gasp. The dead dropped where they stood. “I could barely make them stand, much less fight.”

“What a throw!” Elu’s eyes were bright with pride and amazement. “Mother!”

“Yes, well.” Annara gave him a shaky smile. “I was aiming for his chest.”

“Poor man,” said Acharsis, crouching beside Samos. “I was starting to like him. Sisu, will you give them their rites? I don’t want a pack of vengeful ghosts following us across the steppe.”

“We’d best keep moving,” said Jarek. “Samos was right. More soldiers will be arriving soon. We should be long gone by the time they do.”

“Elu, want to help me round up these horses?” Acharsis stood, knees popping. “Approach them slowly, and try not to think about how painful it is to ride them.”

“Shouldn’t we be cleansed?” asked Elu hesitantly. “We’ve taken lives. Our souls have been polluted.”

“We probably should,” said Acharsis. “But after all we’ve been through, I don’t think any of us are capable of washing away the taint that we carry. Perhaps at the Waystation we’ll find an apsu with enough power to do so.”

“And you’re not worried?” Elu looked from Acharsis to Jarek to Annara. “What about evil spirits? They’ll be drawn to us. We’ll be sleeping outside. How will—”

“Elu,” said Acharsis. “Believe me. I was once the most highly ranked apsu in the River Cities. I know of the dangers. But right now? There’s not much we can do. Come. Let’s gather the horses.”

Kish stepped in close. Jarek could see the concern in her gaze, and wanted none of it. “Are you all right?”

“All right?” He looked down at the Sky Hammer, then dropped its haft in the loop in his belt. “All right?” He gave a husky laugh. “Yes. I’m fine.”

She reached out to touch his arm, then drew her hand back. “Why don’t I believe you?”

Anger curdled within him. Unreasoning, irrational anger. Kish’s concern only highlighted his own pain. Swallowing his fury, he looked away. “Kish. Now’s not the time.”

“I’ll wait, then.”

He could feel her hesitating, unsure how to comfort him. Loss made him want to lash out. He wanted nothing more than solitude, and silence. Time in which to grieve for Alok; to accept his own loss of divinity all over again; to berate himself for thinking that he could wield that formidable power once more. Instead, he reached out and took Kish's hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you.”

She squeezed back and smiled, relieved. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” She pulled him after her. “Come on! It looks fun!”

CHAPTER TWO

Acharsis' love for riding horses had not grown since last he’d let one torture him into submission.

The beast between his legs heaved and pounded away at the ground as if seeking to split the world apart. Acharsis' legs bounced off its rotund flanks and his arse bones slammed into the saddle until he wanted to cry for mercy. He’d seen Athite nomads riding these beasts with enviable ease, looking as graceful and coordinated as a flock of birds, but for the life of him Acharsis couldn’t imagine subjecting himself to this misery long enough to gain even a fraction of that skill.

Still, he was nominally the leader of their mad dash away from the exploded column. With an eye on the clouds looming over the distant Golden Steppe to the west, he led them away from the enemy at a breakneck pace. The Aloros mountains glittered to the east, and he knew that somewhere north lay Eruk; yet for now he was content to avoid all civilized outposts and fight for anonymity.

No sense in making the innocent suffer by drawing too close.

They rode over weathered hills and along the occasional goat path, their hooves stirring up traitorous clouds of dust that hung in the air for far too long. The ground was tan and speckled with wiry bushes and gorse, the occasional stunted tree rising like an arid exhalation of faded green. Occasionally they tore through abandoned farmsteads, the remnants of stone walls marking out ancient fields. They took shelter at midday in a small group of empty hovels, their roofs open to the sky, and were grateful for the rations they discovered in the saddlebags.

Annara and Elu stepped away while the others ate, entering an adjacent hovel, and after a quiet conversation the rest of them stilled as Elu’s wail rose in grief and denial. Everyone looked to him, and Acharsis could only stare at the dried strips of meat in his dusty hands and shake his head. “His father,” he said quietly. “He didn’t know that his father died trying to protect him.”

Elu’s cries died down quickly, but neither mother nor son returned to eat with them. They remained alone in the shadowed hovel, and even after the meal, nobody felt like interrupting their grief.

Restless, feeling like a caged coyote, Acharsis paced back and forth before finally stepping outside into the punishing sun to hoist himself up to where Sisu kept watch on the remnants of the roof. The Nekuulite had fashioned a hat of sorts from dried palm fronds, yet even so he looked miserable; his pale skin had already burned cherry red, and he sat with his shoulders slumped, as if he were about to expire altogether.

“Anything out there?” Acharsis squatted carefully next to him and gazed out over their tracks. Nothing stirred, though given the violence of the heat shimmers it was impossible to tell if anyone was out there.

“Nothing,” said Sisu. “Water?”

Acharsis handed over his waterskin. “I know it’s a stupid question, and I can guess the answer, but are you doing all right?”

“No,” croaked Sisu. He raised the skin to his lips and drank greedily, water running down his chin. When he'd finished, he splashed some across his face. Acharsis bit back his recriminations and contented himself with a grimace.

Finally, Sisu handed the skin back, replaced his hat, and looked out toward distant Rekkidu. “I’m wondering about Bubati,” he said. “He’s been in my employ for over two years now. I provided him shelter, food. I was an inspiring role model, an example of a wise and discerning man of business. But now that I’m gone, what’s he going to do? I doubt he can even spend the coin I left him without it being taken from him.”

“Bubati is an intelligent, creative young man,” said Acharsis. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I wish I was as confident of our own future,” said Sisu.

Acharsis wanted to reassure him, to spin a web of comforting lies and paint a glorious picture of the success to come - but that would be a future gilded, not golden. A false vision. Instead, he bit his lower lip, considered the distant, wavering horizon once more, then sighed and stood up. “Time we headed out. You coming?”

Sisu didn’t answer.

“Sisu?” Acharsis stepped to the edge of the roof. “You with us?”

“No,” said Sisu, hunching his shoulders and resting his chin on his crossed forearms.

Acharsis waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “You're going back to Rekkidu? To find Bubati?”

“Don’t condescend to me, Acharsis,” said Sisu, still staring straight ahead. “I know I can’t go back. Not to Rekkidu, at any rate.”

“Then…?”

“Then… I don’t know. If I go that way, back into the empire, I’ll regain my strength.”

“Nekuul’s power.”

“My power. With each step I take toward the Golden Steppe I feel it draining out of me. Leaving me…” Sisu shook his head in disgust. “Feeling wretchedly normal. Weak. Pathetic.”

Acharsis thought of all the different arguments he could make. He could leverage Sisu’s pride against him. Ishi’s death. The dangers that would find him if he stayed. A dozen different ways to force the youth to keep following them. In the end, however, he simply shrugged. “All right. Best of luck to you, Sisu.”

He began to climb down.

“Wait! ‘Best of luck to you’?” Sisu turned toward him at last. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“You’re going to need it,” said Acharsis, lowering himself so that his stomach rested against the edge, seeking blindly with his toes against the wall below for a foothold. “But you already knew that.”

“You’re not going to convince me to stay?” Sisu sounded offended. “You just use me for my Nekuulite powers, then discard me?”

Acharsis found the notch he was looking for and pushed away from the edge, ready to drop down below. He met Sisu’s eyes. “You’re the one choosing to leave, Sisuthros. Own that decision.”

And with that, he dropped to the dusty courtyard below. Jarek emerged from the shadowed doorway, looking as cheerful and approachable as a scalded bull. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Acharsis. “Annara? Elu?”

“Still in there. You want me to get them?”

“Ah, no. I’ll try. There’s a slim chance I’ll have a little more tact.” Acharsis stepped around his friend and up to the dark doorway of the second hovel. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, he saw the pair of them seated against the far wall, Annara holding Elu tightly in her arms.

“It’s time,” he said.

Elu pulled away stiffly from his mother’s arms. “I’m—I’m ready.”

Acharsis wanted to step into the room, feeling a rough and confused desire to help Elu, to reassure him, to support him through this crisis. He’s my son, he thought. But the words felt surreal. Annara watched him, as coiled and dangerous as a copperhead, just waiting for him to try some foolishness along those very lines.

Stepping backward carefully, as if the ground were as treacherous as the roof above, Acharsis returned to the sunlight. Sweat prickled the roots of his hair, and he felt the group spinning out of his control. He had to hold them together, get them to safety, but it felt like trying to cradle live coals to his chest.

“Where’s Sisu?” asked Kishtar, vaulting into the saddle behind Jarek. “Hey, Sisu! We’re heading out!”

“He’s not coming,” said Acharsis, approaching his own horse with grim determination.

“He’s what?” Kish looked from Acharsis to the rooftop and back. “What are you talking about?”

“He says he doesn’t want to lose his power,” said Acharsis. He placed his hand on the large knob at the front of the saddle and got a good grip on it. The horse watched him with one long-lashed eye. “Just leave him be, Kish. Trust me.”

“Leave him? I’ll knock his head off. Sisu!” She slid off the horse with all the lithe dexterity of someone still in their twenties. “Don’t make me come up there!”

“Kish,” said Acharsis. Something in his tone caught her attention. “Please trust me. The more you argue with him right now, the deeper he’ll dig in his heels. He’s frightened. On the verge of panicking. Confronting him will only give him strength. Leave him be, and I swear to you by all the beer in Narubtum that he’ll follow us.”

Kish hesitated.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” said Jarek in a low rumble. “Acting the big sister will only push him away.”

Kish’s shoulders slumped. “And if you’re wrong? I can’t let him do something stupid. Ishi would never forgive me.”

Acharsis took a deep breath and then leaped up, belly-flopping onto the saddle. Fighting for as much dignity as he could muster, he squirmed his way around and got his leg over, then straightened as the horse sidestepped. “If he doesn’t follow us, we’ll come back after him.”

“You swear it?”

“In the name of my father, Ekillos.”

“What’s happening?” asked Annara as she emerged from the hovel.

“We’re leaving Sisu behind,” said Kish, plainly miserable. “He says he’s not coming.”

Annara shot Acharsis a sharp, worried glance. He shrugged back. “That’s what he says. I wager the truth will be a different matter altogether.”

“Piamat’s men can’t be far behind us now,” she said sternly. “Is this the time to wager?”

“He’s irresolute,” said Acharsis. “If we push him now, he’ll fall away. If we leave, he’ll come hungering after us. But enough talk. We must be decisive if we’re to decide his mind for him. We ride. Come!”

His words were slightly undercut by his horse’s refusal to move. Acharsis shook the reins up and down, clicked his tongue, and then dug his heels into its flanks. With a snort it bolted forward, and Acharsis nearly fell clean off it. He lunged forward and grabbed it around the neck, then held on as it cantered out of the small yard and into the scrubland once more.

***

“It’s me,” Sisu called out from the darkness. “Don’t—Don’t do anything stupid.”

Acharsis let out a slow breath of relief and rested his head back against the wall of the slot canyon.

He’d begun to doubt. The sun had set an hour ago and the small fire they’d built had almost died down to coals, causing the steep walls around them to smolder in shifting hues of amber and rose.

Kish flashed Acharsis a bright grin and lowered her hammer. “Come on, Sisu. I kept some food warm for you.”

The Nekuulite youth scrambled down the side of the canyon, half-sliding in a crouch to the rocky floor, then picked himself up and dusted off his robes. The hobbled horses shied, but Jarek took the reins of the one he was brushing and hushed it.

“I knew you’d come,” said Kish, reaching out to hug Sisu. “Knew you’d be unable to face a life without my sunny presence by your side.”

Sisu grimaced as she squeezed him, then stepped away and glanced at Acharsis before looking down at the ground. “I, ah, changed my mind.”

“Did you, now?” said Acharsis, reaching into his pouch for his pipe and pantagr seeds.

“I, uh, yes.” Sisu followed Kish to the small fire, then sat as she gathered the spitted remnants of the prairie rabbit and set to scraping the burnt flesh onto a flat flake of rock. “I realized that no Nekuulite has ever journeyed beyond Nekuul’s realm here in the River Cities, but of course there’s death out there.” He waved his hand as if encompassing the rest of the world. “I thought it would be fascinating to see how far her power extends, and - in the service of research, that is - I would see for myself whether her authority is as ubiquitous as death itself. And if it’s not, then under whose dominion do the powers of death fall once outside the River Cities?”

“Uh-huh.” Acharsis took up a burning twig and pressed its end into the bowl of his pipe, inhaled three times quickly till the dry seeds caught, then tossed the twig back into the fire and leaned back. Smoke puffed out of the corner of his mouth. “Research.”

“Yes,” said Sisu. He took the rock-plate from Kish and ducked his head. “Research.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” said Kish. “Don’t make him say he missed us. His pride will never recover.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t miss your cooking,” said Sisu, dubiously picking up a sliver of blackened flesh. “Who made this?”

“Annara,” said Kish, looking down the canyon to where Annara and Elu were sitting by themselves. “They’re not doing too well.” Then she looked in the opposite direction to where Jarek had disappeared. “Seems like nobody is.”

“We just need to keep moving,” said Acharsis. “Outrun Irella’s forces, and bring word of her invasion to the Maganians. If we ruin the element of surprise, her invading army will be crushed. Then, with what gratitude we’ve earned from the rulers of Magan, we’ll help lead a counter-invasion back into the River Cities, topple her from her throne, and set the world to rights.”

Sisu arched an eyebrow. “That all? Oh. I thought you were going to try for something ambitious.”

Acharsis grinned at the youth. “I’m still working out the details, but yes. That’s the master plan.”

“It’s… what? Five thousand miles across the Golden Steppe? Parts of which dip into the netherworld itself.” Sisu set his plate aside. “Then we have to navigate the Demon’s Teeth when we sail down the Maganian Gulf. And once we reach Magan, we have to convince them to listen to us, to believe us—”

“Yes, yes,” said Acharsis, waving his pipe. “Like I said, a few details. And it’s not five thousand miles to the gulf. More like five hundred. And it doesn’t dip into the netherworld. It’s just an endless plain of grass.”

“On which terrors roam,” said Jarek, walking into the firelight. “Dream rhinos. Lakhar. A hundred nomad tribes, amongst them the Athites who nearly conquered our realm a few decades back. The God’s River. Feral gundi, carnivorous grass—”

“All of which we’re going to avoid,” said Acharsis. Even Kish looked skeptical. “Look, we’re not going to go haring off across the steppe by ourselves. Have a little more faith in me, please.”

“Then?” Jarek lowered himself into a squat and threw a small branch onto the fire.

“We’re going to the Waystation. We’ll join a merchant caravan there, and cross the God’s River in their company. Their guides will keep us safe and provide food, company, and good cheer. We’ll cross the Golden Steppe in record time, and then - based on the caravan master’s recommendations - sail down the gulf on a reputable ship.” Acharsis pointedly leaned back and crossed his ankles before him. “Nothing to worry about.”

The others exchanged dubious looks, but nobody challenged him. Thank Ekillos. He’d almost begun to relax when Elu stalked into the firelight.

“Acharsis,” said the youth. He’d changed. Gone was the handsome, carefree youth he’d met in Eruk so many weeks ago. In his place stood a young man, face hardened, shoulders pushed back, eyes stark with pain and determination.

“Elu,” said Acharsis warily.

“I want to formally thank you - all of you - for rescuing me.” He didn’t sound grateful. “You risked your lives for mine, and I owe you all a blood debt.”

Acharsis went to wave Elu’s words away but the youth continued.

“However, I’m confused, and my mother refuses to clarify something for me. It’s a question that’s haunted me since Yesu stole me away from my home. Akkodaisis was only sacrificing godsbloods atop his ziggurat. So why did he take me?”

“I, ah, ahem.” Acharsis sat up uncomfortably. “That’s a good question.”

“I had a lot of time to think while they held me prisoner.” Elu’s voice was inexorable. “I couldn’t figure it out. It didn’t make sense. My father was a great man, but he was no godsblood. My mother just swore that she isn’t either.”

“Hmm,” said Acharsis, tamping his pipe with a twig. “Is that so?”

“Elu,” said Annara, appearing behind him. “Please. Leave it alone.”

“She never told me she was friends with Acharsis, son of Ekillos,” said Elu. “You told me you’d come to pay your respects after not seeing her for a long time. How long?”

Nobody spoke. The fire crackled and spat.

“How long, Acharsis? How long had it been since last you visited Eruk?”

Acharsis looked up, though it cost him to do so. Annara was gazing at him over Elu’s shoulder, fear and fury warring on her face. She was glaring at him, warning him to stay silent. Elu stood with his shoulders thrown back, chin raised, eyes blazing. Damn, thought Acharsis. He looks just like I did at his age.

“Acharsis?” Elu’s voice was tight with anger. “I asked you a question.”

“Careful, boy.” Acharsis kept his voice soft. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

Tears suddenly glimmered in Elu’s eyes. “Kenu was my father.”

“I know he was,” said Acharsis.

“He’d have saved me if he’d lived,” shouted Elu. “Not you!”

Acharsis sucked his teeth and nodded slowly, looking back down at his pipe once more.

The air between them fairly vibrated, and then with a cry Elu spun away and strode off into the dark. Annara went to follow him, but then stopped. Acharsis watched her, but she never looked his way. Instead, her shoulders slumped and she walked off a ways before sinking down into a shadowed alcove and out of sight.

“Well,” said Sisu. “That was—ow!” He glared at Kish, who had just elbowed him hard in the side. “What was that for?”

“Come on, Sisu.” She rose and hauled him to his feet. “We’ve a long day tomorrow. Time we turned in.”

“We? Since when do we—ow! Stop that!”

Grumbling and rubbing his side, he let her pull him to another recess, and there they sat talking quietly to each other, their voices little more than mutters.

Jarek lowered himself beside Acharsis, and together they watched the dying fire. Neither of them spoke, and after a while Acharsis puffed on his pipe and blew out a dark cloud of oily smoke.

“The Waystation, hey?” Jarek’s voice was gravelly with fatigue and something else, something akin to quiet despair.

“Yes,” said Acharsis. “I passed through it on my way down from Khartis. Istrikar’s running the place.”

“Istrikar? Name’s familiar. Who’s that?”

“My old spymaster.”

“Ah,” said Jarek. “You talk to him?”

“No,” said Acharsis. “You’ll be shocked to learn that he wouldn’t have been pleased to see me.”

“You always were such a popular man,” said Jarek.

“But I’ll speak with him this time. See if he can’t pull a few strings for us and arrange our passage on a good caravan.”

“For old time’s sake,” murmured Jarek.

“Yes.” Acharsis reached under his shirt and fingered his warding amulet. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“You think we can do it? Cross the Golden Steppe, sail down the gulf and convince the Maganians to take Irella’s invasion seriously?”

Acharsis rubbed his chin. “I don’t know.”

Jarek grunted. “One thing at a time, I suppose.”

“And you?” Acharsis exhaled another plume of oily smoke.

“What about me?”

“You got a taste of divinity, my friend. Now it’s gone. Are you going to be able to see this through?”

A muscle twitched in Jarek’s jaw. “Yes. I think so. As long as everything we do is focused on crushing Irella, I’ll keep moving forward.”

“And Kish?”

Jarek gave him a flat stare. “What about Kish?”

“She seems… fond of you. I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“As would I,” said Jarek softly. “But…”

“But?”

“Never mind. Scythia’s blood runs through her veins. If things don’t work out with us, she’ll get over it.”

“Hmm,” said Acharsis, sucking on his pipe. “Romantic of you.”

“Damn romance,” said Jarek. “Only one thing matters, and that’s bringing my father back from the dead so that we can destroy Irella absolutely. After what I felt in Rekkidu, after what I saw—”

Acharsis fought a flicker of jealousy. “What did you see?”

“Alassa,” said Jarek, subsiding once more. “In the temple atop the ziggurat, Nekuul took me into the netherworld and gave me the chance to fight for my freedom. I would have died fighting one of her soul panthers, but Alassa emerged from the crowd of the dead and gave me strength.” He rested his chin on his broad forearms. “Seeing her, being saved by her…”

Acharsis waited, unsure as to what he could say. Finally, Jarek shook himself as if awakening from a dream, and rubbed his face. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s a long ride to the Waystation tomorrow. I’m going to turn in.”

The large man rose and stalked off into the gloom.

Acharsis sighed. He wanted to find Annara, but knew that doing so right now would be the height of folly. But he didn’t want to sit here thinking about dead gods, dead fathers, and what their children were willing to do to avenge them. He took a final puff from his pipe then knocked its bowl against a rock, scattering the glowing ashes and then stowed it away.

While he was worried about crossing the Golden Steppe, the dangers that awaited them - and the impossible challenges they’d have to overcome to stymie Irella’s invasion - weren’t his main concern. He looked about the silent camp, marking out where different people lay in the shadows, as far apart from each other as they could get without actually leaving the camp.

No.

Such obstacles depended on his having a band of friends and allies with which to tackle them. Right now, he didn’t know how much longer this group would hold together, if at all.

He picked up a pebble, then forced himself to his knees and spread his arms. For a moment, he considered not even bothering; considered just going to sleep without speaking the words of warding. But old habit made him speak the words, sending out the prayer to the dead gods.

“I pick up a stone; I defy all attackers.

I have been caught among the animals of the wilderness.

South wind, do not neglect your watch.

East wind, do not neglect your watch.

Earth and sky, do not neglect your watches
until Qun the Sun-god has arrived.”

CHAPTER THREE

It was evening when they finally rode up to God’s River.

They sat atop their horses, arrayed at the edge, gazing down into a world-shattering canyon. The sight, as always, stole away Acharsis’ fatigue and left his chest tight with wonder. There was no sight in all the wide world that compared with this view. Far below, the God’s River flowed, its surface placid and shadowed to a dull slate, an occasional silver thread crossing from below just above the water to latch onto the cliff face on the far side.

Nobody spoke. Acharsis remembered well the incredulity with which he’d looked down upon this wonder the first time he’d seen it: the vertigo, the sublime sense of how minuscule he was before the wonders of the ten gods' creation.

“By Alok,” murmured Jarek, slipping down from his saddle and stepping right up to the crumbling edge. “You can see the world’s bones in those cliffs.”

He was right. Striations of umber, crimson, buttery yellow and salmon pinks were exposed in rough ledges all the way down, too precipitous to scale but weathered and beaten by the elements for who knew how many thousands of years.

Sisu edged up behind Jarek and peered past him in wonder. “Now this is a sight I’ve yearned to see. This whole canyon should be a temple.”

“Nekuul’s Folly,” said Acharsis. “That’s what Ekillos called it.”

“Folly? No.” Sisu couldn’t tear his eyes away. “It’s a testament to her strength. Which other god could have tried to break the world in two so as to slide the entirety of the Golden Steppes into the netherworld?”

“Tried, and failed,” said Acharsis without animosity. “As powerful as she was, she couldn’t resist the combined might of the other gods.”

“Couldn’t?” Sisu looked up at Acharsis with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Who reigns supreme in the River Cities?”

“Careful there,” said Jarek, placing a hand on Sisu’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shove that caused the young Nekuulite to jerk backward. “You’re close to the edge. Don’t fall in.”

“Hey!” Sisu wrested his shoulder free and skittered back. “Don’t joke around like that.”

“I wasn’t joking,” said Jarek.

“He is joking,” said Kish. “Pretending not to joke is his idea of humor.”

Elu had stepped up to the edge but remained quiet, hands on his hips, lips pursed. Acharsis watched him. He’d hoped the sight would jolt the kid out of his sullen withdrawal, but it didn’t seem to be working. Twisting in his saddle, Jarek turned to regard Annara. She’d been silent all day long as well, and had avoided being alone with him during their midday break. She met his eyes with a flat stare and then looked away.

Acharsis wanted to protest, but slumped in his saddle with a sigh and looked back at the God’s River far below.

Kish joined Jarek, both standing fearlessly on the canyon’s very edge. “So… how do we cross?”

“Exactly,” said Acharsis. “The answer’s worth a fortune in gold, so of course it’s the merchants who’ve stepped in to provide the solution. You can’t see it from here, but I’m guessing a mile or so north we’ll reach the Waystation. That’s the only bridge over the chasm that’s as reliable as it is safe.”

“Must be some bridge,” said Kish, picking up a pebble and bouncing it in her palm. “Merchants built it?”

“You could say that,” said Acharsis. “You see those threads down there that cross the river to connect the cliff faces? Angler spiders throw those out to catch birds. The merchants saw that and ran with it.”

“Ran with spider thread? I don’t follow.”

Acharsis shifted in his saddle. “It’s pretty brilliant. They lower fake birds on fishing lines so that the spiders will throw their silk out to snare them. Then they reel the bird back up, and attach the silk to a wheel which they turn and turn until the spider below snips the silk. Takes four men to turn that wheel. Angler spiders are big.”

“And they used the spider silk to build the bridge? Impressive.” With a grunt, Kish hurled the pebble out into the void. It was a powerful throw, and they all watched in silence as it dropped into the shadows and disappeared from sight. “The things people will do to make money.”

“Come on,” said Annara. “Sun’s going to set in a couple of hours.”

“True enough,” said Acharsis, pulling his horse’s head around. “Let’s get to the Waystation. Only place we’ll be safe this side of the God’s River.”

“Why’s that?” asked Sisu, pulling himself up awkwardly onto his skittish horse. “Nekuul steal your stones - hold still!”

“It’s independent, the Waystation.” Acharsis regretfully urged his horse to start moving again. It began to plod forward, each step causing pain to jounce through his bones. “Merchant’s consortium hold the bridge. Any nation or nomad tribe tries to claim it, they’ll burn down the bridge and strike camp. Disrupt trade across the face of the civilized world for a year or so while they coalesce around a new crossing point. They did it twenty years ago when the Athites tried to take them by surprise. Nobody’s tried again since.”

***

By the time they saw the Waystation, the sun had nearly sunk below the steppe, a smoldering, dusky orb shorn of its beams. The lights that marked their destination arose like fireflies defying the dying light - a hundred crimson specks arrayed about a great cavern that burrowed into a stony hill by the canyon’s edge.

“That’s the Waystation?”

Acharsis couldn’t fault Kish’s disbelief. The lights looked otherworldly, and the last rays of dusk caused the bronze arabesques hammered across the entrance to glitter fitfully as if awash in blood.

“Some of it,” he said. “The fun part, at any rate. It extends down, deep into the rock, to where the bridge emerges from the cliff face. Come on. This uncivilized torment’s nearly over. One last push!”

He urged his horse into a bone-jarring canter, the others falling in behind. As they drew closer to the craggy hill, he began to make out the archway that framed the cavern’s entrance: a hundred feet high, its interior filled with the glimmering lights of the marketplace beyond. Faint strains of music floated out to him, twirling, whirling tunes that spoke of madness and delight, festivities and pleasures. He fancied he could smell the honeyed meats, the candied dates and rich beer. Just the thought of the foods that awaited him filled his mouth with saliva. Despite himself he realized he was grinning in anticipation. The last time he’d passed through here, he’d won a fair amount of coin, and made the acquaintance of a number of willing women who’d helped him spend it at the Dream Palace. He rubbed at his jaw. It seemed a lifetime ago.

He dismounted just before the high arch and led his mount into the Waystation, passing beneath the hundreds of lanterns and into the station proper. Great swathes of crimson canvas hung from the ribs of rock overhead to provide shade during the day, for large sections of the cavern’s roof were open to the sky. Galleries had been carved out of the walls, and entire columns of stone that extended out from the walls were hollowed out, windows in their sides affording him glimpses of the activities taking place within. Stalls crowded the cavern floor, and everywhere he saw humanity moving, bargaining, laughing, swearing, gorging itself upon the finest fare.

A crowd of youths mobbed them, crying out services that could be theirs for a pittance.

“Stabling for your mounts, my lords! The finest hay, cut by the gentlest of virgins and scented—”

“Sweet meats, scorched to perfection and flavored with annis and cumin—”

“Company, my lords and ladies? Impressionable young girls from the shores of Khartis itself, their skin as pale as bone! Handsome youths from distant Meluhha, mysterious and learned in the erotic arts—”

“Lodgings, my lords? Tents fit for emperors, clean and spacious, without any bedbugs or lice - well, not many—”

“Carpets? My master has to sell a dozen of the finest Maganian rugs by sunrise tomorrow or he’ll lose his head—”

Acharsis raised a silver coin - which sported a decent likeness of Irella on one side - and pointed it at a small boy in a red waistcoat, his arms tanned and bare, his hair a tousled mop. “Is the Dream Palace still open? It is? Then lead on!”

The other youths fell back, casting envious looks at Acharsis’ chosen, who bobbed his head and began to lead them down the central road that cut through the labyrinth of stalls and booths. “This way, high lords! This way, most beautiful of... ah, priestess ladies. Empresses, I mean! This way, it’s not far!”

“The Dream Palace?” asked Jarek.

“I know the proprietor. She’ll put us up and keep quiet about our being there. Can you smell that? I’m about to chew my own arm off!”

“Wait,” said Jarek quietly, touching Acharsis’ elbow. “See them?”

For a moment Acharsis didn’t, and then four of Irella’s death watch guards marched into view, scanning the crowd with a curious mixture of boredom and attentiveness. Acharsis casually turned his back to check his horse’s bridle, then breathed thanks to Ekillos when they walked on.

“Damn,” he said to Jarek. “I guess it doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’d be coming here. Still, Istrikar’s got to be fuming. We’d best hurry.”

They left the road where it descended into a spiraling ramp that led below, and threaded their way through the market. Acharsis took as much pleasure from watching the expressions of his friends as from being back in the Waystation itself. Laughter cascaded down to them from the balconies carved high above, and the scents of a hundred different dishes cooking over grills and open flames blended with the smoke and stench of humanity to make him feel completely at home.

The youth led them to a large pool at the rear of the cave, around which were arrayed hostelries whose interiors were buried within the walls. Women called to them, entreating that they try their particular inns and itemizing the wonders to be found within, but Acharsis only smiled apologetically and clasped his hand over his heart at the more impassioned calls.

“Here,” said the youth, stopping at last outside one of the seedier-looking establishments. Columns had been carved into the rock wall around the main entrance, and a number of young women watched them from windows above the doorway, clad in different states of dishabille.

“Welcome to the Dream Palace,” said a bald Maganian man who emerged from the doorway. He was clad in impressive finery, his features slightly swollen, his hands fluttering as if seeking to convey the depths of his pleasure at their stopping by his business. “Where your every desire, licit and otherwise, can be made flesh. Where you may—Acharsis?”

“Azotep,” said Acharsis, smiling down at the eunuch. “Here. I’m going to topple off my horse. Will you catch me?”

“Oh, but look at the state you’re in! Let me call for assistance. I’ll rouse the house! I’ll draw every free girl down from their rooms to—”

“No, no, I’m not actually wounded. Just very, very stiff. Also, I don’t have much coin. Here. Your shoulder will do.” Acharsis slid down awkwardly and winced. “There. Sorry about the handprint. And you’re a sight for sore eyes, Azo. The thought of your baths have kept me going long after any common soul would have laid down and died.”

“Not much coin? I’ll see if we can warm some pots for you to pour over your head. Now, your friends are a different matter. They shall receive only the finest at the Palace of Dreams!”

“I’m sure they’re dying to learn more.” Acharsis turned to take in the bemused looks from Jarek and Kishtar. Sisu was staring up in wonder at the women who were watching them with obvious amusement, while Annara’s gaze was as stony as ever. Elu was but a shadow at the back. “Can you see to the horses? And tell Ashanti I’d like a word? Discretion would be best, you understand. In terms of our being here.”

“The Dream Palace prides itself on being discreet,” said Azotep. “Never you fear. What fine mounts! But so poorly used! Here, I shall have them groomed and fed. We’ve taken on a nomad boy who works magic with these animals. I swear he speaks their language, and he shits just like one in the courtyard, too.”

In short order, their horses were led away and Acharsis followed Azotep into the Dream Palace. They paused to pour water over their feet, and then entered the establishment. Straight past the greeting room, past the stairwell that led up to the ladies' quarters, and to the rooms at the back they went. The temperature grew decidedly cool as the hallway narrowed, and the air took on a mineral tang.

“You’re a large party,” said Azotep. “Will three chambers suffice?”

“Yes,” said Annara. “Elu and I will take one.”

Kish hesitated, waiting for Jarek to speak, but when the large man remained silent she gave Sisu’s shoulder a punch, causing him to cry out in protest and sag against the wall. “We'll take one, too.”

“Very well,” said Azotep. “My apologies up front! These are some of our meanest quarters, nothing so fine and sumptuous as you’ll find upstairs - but then, you came seeking solace and solitude, did you not?”

“Some beer wouldn’t go amiss,” said Acharsis. “Or some honey-roasted goat. Or some—”

“And your baths, of course. Now, Acharsis, while your friends settle in, would you accompany me? If I know Ashanti, she’ll be desiring to know exactly what sort of trouble you’ve brought to our doorstep.”

Acharsis sighed. “The bath can wait, I suppose. Lead on.”

Leaving the others to duck into their rooms, they strode to the front of the Dream Palace, then up the stairs to a luxurious lounge where a half-dozen young men and women lay languorously smoking water pipes.

“Hello, Acharsis,” said one of the women in a shadowy purr. Her name escaped him, which was embarrassing; they’d spent quite a few nights together. Oshana? Olisha? He gave her his most courtly bow as he followed Azotep, returning smiles and trying to ignore the whispers that sprang up as soon as he left the room.

“You could have let me bathe and dress before leading me before them all,” he said to Azotep’s broad back. “My reputation has just taken a mortal blow.”

“You could have given me advance warning that you were bringing such trouble to my door,” said Azotep.

“Didn’t have much choice.” Acharsis followed him into a small study and pulled the door closed behind them. “We barely escaped with our lives.”

Azotep moved around a beautifully-crafted table of cedar and sat, leaning back with a sigh and resting his chin on the back of one hand. “For once, I believe you. No doubt you were involved in the madness that’s seized Rekkidu?”

“Word’s reached you already?” Acharsis looked around for a second chair and found none. “That was fast.”

“Word’s spreading like black fever. Is one of your companions Jarek, son of Alok?”

“Might be,” said Acharsis.

“Then I’m going to have to ask you to see to your business quickly and be on your way.” Azo’s voice was firm to the point of coldness. “It’s not that I’m not grateful for your past help, Acharsis. But there’s a limit, and defying Irella - having the Palace closed down - is well beyond the bounds of what I’m willing to subject my girls to.”

“Fair enough.” Acharsis felt fatigue steal over him as visions of wine and merriment faded from his mind’s eye. “Then I’ll need you to arrange a meeting with Istrikar.”

“I recall your boasting ad nauseam how he was an old friend of yours. Why do you need my help?”

“Now you’re just being mean. Do you want me to apologize, Azo? Why don’t you take my arrival here as a testament to how much I value our friendship?”

Azo simply stared at him, then sighed. “Very well. I’ll send word to Istrikar. What are you hoping to gain from him?”

“Safe passage west.” Acharsis turned away, not wanting to face more skepticism. He studied the ebon wig that lay over a mannequin’s head. “We can’t afford to fall in with the wrong caravan, and, well—”

“You don’t have the means to pay, do you?”

“No.” Acharsis blew out his cheeks. “We’re in a tight spot, Azo. I won’t lie.”

“You, my dearest friend, are the kind of person who approaches life in such a way that they always, always end up in a tight spot.”

“As the son of Ekillos, I could turn that into a rather lewd pun,” said Acharsis. “But you’ll be glad to know I’ve matured in my later years, and am above such jokes.”

“You’re going to have to move fast,” said Azo. “The Waystation is swarming with Irella’s soldiers. As soon as word arrives that you’re a hunted man, they’ll tear the place apart looking for you.”

“So they were here before we arrived?” When Azo nodded, Acharsis tapped his chin in thought. “Istrikar’s allowed them to stay?”

“I won’t speak for him, but things have become very tense here of late. The empress is testing the consortium’s patience to its utmost.”

“Good,” said Acharsis with a smile. “Istrikar will be dying to get rid of me so as not to give the death watch cause to turn the place upside down.”

“Good?” Azo raised a painted eyebrow and then laughed. “Only you would see that as ‘good’. Now, begone. I must work my magic and become Ashanti. And yes, yes, I’ll send word to Istrikar. When I have a response, I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll find me in the baths,” said Acharsis. “I plan to drink beer and soak until you call for me. It may be my last chance for some time.”

Azo stood, pity and fondness on his face. “Oh, Acharsis. You should have taken up my offer. Now look at you.”

“Don’t I know it. Baths, beer, and winsome girls every night. I must have been mad to turn you down.”

“All that, plus a little work. An important detail. Now get out. Some of us have work to do.”

“Thank you, Azo. I mean it.”

“Oh, no, don’t try your sincerity on me. I much prefer you sardonic and flippant. Now go! Out with you. Go!”

***

Steam from the bath condensed on the close stone walls and dripped from the low ceiling. Acharsis leaned his head back against the rim of the copper tub and sighed. The heat was slowly causing his snarled muscles to relax. A faint hint of lavender filled the air, and for this one precious moment, he felt completely and utterly at peace.

Annara opened the door and slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. Her expression was forbidding and distant.

Acharsis thought idly of his modesty, then decided that was her problem. “Come to join me?”

“No, Acharsis.” She crossed her arms, sleeves falling away to reveal her burgundy temple tattoos. “I’ve come to talk.”

“Thought as much. How’s Elu doing?”

“How do you expect? He’s lost his father twice over.”

“Rough. I can understand him being upset at me. What I don’t understand is why you’re just as angry.”

“Me? Angry? Of course I’m angry. No mother likes to see her son in pain.”

“Is that it?” He shifted, causing the water to lap over the edges of the tub and spatter on the stone floor.

“Elu wants us to leave. He’s talking wildly, concocting impossible plans to go to Uros and assassinate Irella so as to avenge Kenu.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I know it’s a bad idea. But I’m barely able to keep him from running off on his own.”

“You want me to speak to him.”

“Not as his father. More as the silken-tongued bastard I know you can be. Convince him to stay away from Uros. To not throw his life away.”

“You know,” he shifted once more, “we just accomplished the impossible. We saved your son. Jarek and I, we did everything you asked of us.”

“I know.” She took a steadying breath. “Thank you.”

Acharsis waved his hand. “That’s not what I’m after. At the end there, just before you and I climbed to Alok’s sanctum, you were… much friendlier with me.”

“I was grateful.”

“No… it was more than that. And now? You’re livid. As if all this is my fault. Which it isn’t. I went so far as to stir the nine dead gods back to life to help you - and now I’m somehow the villain here?”

Annara’s lips compressed and she half-turned as if to leave. But at the last she checked herself, head hanging low.

Acharsis leaned forward. “You’re angry with me because you started to feel for me once more. You remembered what it was like to be by my side. Remember how you goaded Jarek and I into helping you? Telling us it was our one chance to feel alive again? Well, who knew? It was your chance as well. And let me guess: Elu’s sensed that interest on your part, and it’s made him even more upset. He’s accused you of being unfaithful to his father—”

Annara’s head snapped up. “You presume too much,” she said, voice hard. “I am grateful, yes. And perhaps I was confused for a moment. But Elu is my son, and he is feeling lost, in pain. I must help him. Must protect him. And if that means keeping you at a distance? Then that’s the price I’m willing to pay.”

She drew herself up. “I will always owe you a debt of gratitude, but if you can’t reconcile yourself with my son, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to travel with you any longer, Acharsis. Speak with him. See if you can reach an understanding. And if you can’t? Find us a caravan going—going north. To Khartis, perhaps, or south to Dilman. Or Meluhha. Anywhere, but away from the River Cities.”

Before he could respond she slipped through the doorway and was gone.

“Damn,” he whispered. He sank back down into the bath, listening to the spilt water running down the massive central drain. “Damn it all to the netherworld and back.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Jarek sat on the edge of his cot, turning the Sky Hammer in his hands and examining its blocky head by the soft glow of the rush light. He’d never thought to see it blaze again with Alok’s sacred power; never thought he’d send souls screaming down to Nekuul with Alok’s blessing raging through his blood. And now?

Now it was just a block of stone once more, mute and dull, and he was just the same: a man, lost, bereft of his divine heritage.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come,” he growled, setting the hammer on the floor and turning as Kish entered. Her smile was broad, her eyes alight with mischievous energy, but he knew her well enough now to detect a slight hesitancy, a scintilla of doubt behind that direct and forward gaze. “Kish.”

“Jarek.” She crossed her arms and leaned one shoulder against the door frame. “I just ran into Acharsis. He forbade I go out and explore the Waystation. Said it was too dangerous and not worth the risk.”

“He’s right. Death watch guards are walking around. We’ve got to keep our heads down.”

“And miss out on all the excitement and sheer life that’s taking place out there?” She glided forward and dropped to her knees, taking his hands in her own. “Come on, Jarek! We’re not going anywhere tonight. Why sit cooped up in these miserable little rooms when we could be exploring the Waystation? Trying all those different foods, listening to that music, seeing traders from afar as Khartis or Meluhha?”

She was so young, her expression so open, her lips glistening and full. He wanted to kiss her; he wanted to cry. He felt old and dour and cracked and worn. Had he ever felt that kind of enthusiasm for life? For a market, like the one outside? Surely he had.

“All right,” she said. “I can see you’re going to need more convincing. If you don’t come with me, I’m going to slip out by myself anyway, and then who knows what will happen to me? You’ve got to come, if only to keep me out of trouble.”

“I know what would happen to you,” he said. “You’d challenge someone twice your size to a fight and knock them out cold.”

She grinned. “See? That’s what we’re missing out on. One cup of beer. That’s all. Come on. You come with me, have that drink, and I swear I’ll do whatever you say thereafter. Just one drink and we can come right back. All right?”

He knew he should say no. Nothing good could come from going outside. And yet... Kish’s smile. The way her hands were squeezing his own. Her sheer excitement and vitality, her open-faced anticipation. His dour mood took half a turn, and he thought to himself: why not? What good is playing it safe going to do me from here on out?

“Fine,” he said with mock severity. “But when I call it quits, we come back, no questions asked.”

She leaped to her feet, imitated Acharsis’ mocking bow, then leaned in and kissed him hard. Surprised, Jarek reached for her - too late. She stepped back with a grin. “I’ll meet you outside. Let me grab my hammer.”

And then she was gone.

“Damn fool,” he muttered to himself. He rose to his feet, cast around as if for something he’d lost, and then ran his hand through his hair. His heart was thudding as if he were about to step into battle, and he felt all wound up, needing release. Perhaps a cup of beer was a good idea. Hell, perhaps a fight with some death watch guards was a good idea too.

Jarek stared down at the Sky Hammer. He hesitated, then decided to leave it behind. No need to go signalling who he was to every fool who looked his way. Instead, he ran his hand over his ragged beard, still damp from the bath, and wished he had a polished bronze mirror in which to trim it. The very thought suddenly struck him as absurd; Jarek, son of Alok, days fled from Rekkidu and his brush with divinity, and here he was worrying about how presentable he might look. He laughed, shook his head, and stepped out into the hallway.

No surprise that Acharsis would have picked a whorehouse in which to hide from Irella. Though with Annara in the group, he wasn’t doing himself any favors.

A voluptuous woman stepped out of the stairwell just as he passed it. Jarek sidestepped and caught her around the waist, stopping her from tripping on her raised shoes.

Kohl lined her eyes, and her mouth was a startling slash of blood-red. Her shoulder length hair was sable and glossy like the fur of a panther, and her figure was full and curved.

“Excuse me,” Jarek said, stepping back once he was sure she’d regained her balance.

“Not at all,” said the woman in an amused, husky voice. She appraised him openly, looking him up from his feet to his eyes. Her smile grew. “If only I could begin every night by falling into the arms of such a handsome, powerful man.”

“I—ah.” There was something strange about her - something at once familiar and strange. Something calculated. She was older that he’d first assumed - his own age, perhaps - Maganian, and disconcerting.

“Now, that’s more like it,” she purred, stepping forward and placing a hand on his chest, pressing him back against the wall with surprising strength. “The highest compliment a man can pay a lady is to be awestruck by her beauty. However shall I thank you?”

“There’s no need,” said Jarek, stepping aside and away. “I—ah, must be going.”

“Such is always the case,” sighed the woman. “Men of valor must always be haring off to some field of battle, leaving us poor ladies heartbroken and forlorn. Hurry back, stranger. And when you return, ask for Ashanti.”

With that, she winked at him and sashayed down the hall, pausing once to look over her shoulder before laughing and turning a corner.

Jarek smoothed down his robe. “By Alok,” he said. “I’ve been up in the mountains far too long.”

Shaking his head, he navigated the rest of the brothel without further entanglements and stepped out into the Waystation’s main cavern. The roof disappeared into the darkness above, far enough away that the cries and laughter around him didn’t even echo. Men were emerging from the various doorways that ringed the rear of the cavern, smiling and clearly anticipating a night on the market. Children darted past with purpose, while vendors with boards hanging from their necks strolled by, calling out every inducement that Jarek could imagine.

“Jarek! Over here!” Kish stood by the edge of the central pool. She held a leather cup in one hand, a second resting on one of the pool’s white border stones.

Jarek made his way through the throng and took the cup she thrust it into his hand. “I see you’ve not wasted any time.”

“It’s a dare,” she said, raising her cup to her lips. “Here’s that first cup of beer of which I spoke. Are you really going to turn us around as soon as you drink it?”

Jarek stirred the beer with the filter straw. It smelt rich and pungent. He took a sip and sighed. “That’s good beer.”

“And I hear that’s there more out there, somewhere in that vast maze of wonders and delights.” She grinned at him and interlaced her fingers with his own. “Shall we go find some?”

Now that the moment was upon them, he felt a last vestige of reservation. “And Sisu?”

“Sisu?” Kish made a face. “He’s praying to Nekuul. Don’t feel bad; that’s his idea of a good time. Come on!”

She pulled him forward, and he allowed himself to pulled. Sipping on beer, they wandered back out into the main cavern. It was as if the constellations had been pulled down from the heavens and set amongst the many tents, for hundreds of tinted lanterns glowed with every color imaginable. The result was a surreal, dream-like fantasy of a market, where common cloths were illuminated in imperial purples and virulent yellows. Men and women emerged from shadows, strode for a few paces in the light of a green lantern and then disappeared behind more tents. Meat sizzled on spits, rats scurried through the shadows, knots of musicians held court wherever there was an opening large enough for people to dance, and dance people did, reeling and exulting to what seemed a thousand different tunes.

Kish was giddy with joy, pulling him from one sight to the next. Monkeys with wise, wizened faces wearing fine silver collars perched atop wooden stands, even finer chains keeping them from running away. A bare-chested man blew gouts of flame into the air while his partner swung great chains whose ends were roaring brands of fire, causing them to blur into great incendiary wheels. Here a pair of old men were huddled over a board of shatranj, a great crowd watching their every move. A woman clad in silks and a massive albino snake danced slowly on a stage, ringed by a crowd ten deep.

Jarek finished his beer, and then a second. Kish wanted to watch every show, applauded every act, and accepted every sample morsel that was offered to her. Jarek saw the consortium’s guards patrolling the market in pairs, their stylized dog helms gleaming in the lights, but it was Irella's guards he watched for. Each time he saw a pair of death watch he steered Kish away, and such was the wealth of entertainments on hand that there was always something convenient to steer her toward.

Finally, they ended up in a rounded chamber just off the main market, the floor hidden beneath luxurious cushions gone threadbare. Lanterns adorned the walls, and a band of nomad musicians were playing a rousing, thrilling song to a crowd that swayed and raised their cups in time to the rhythm.

“Come, Jarek, let’s dance!” Kish tugged on his arm, but he smiled and shook his head. He felt fatigue steal over him and sat against the cavern wall. He allowed his eyelids to droop until the lights flared through his lashes, each lantern becoming a many-rayed star. The cushions were comfortable. The beer was taking effect. Kish sat upright by his side, swaying in time to the music, entranced. She’d been right. Why pass up on such pleasurable moments when life offered them to you?

The musicians were playing as if possessed, filling the chamber with their complex music, crying out to each other in amusement, goading each other on. Slowly, Jarek became aware that one of the musicians - a dark, handsome man with a wild mane of hair and rakish clothing - was staring fixedly at Kish, and she was staring back.

With a cry, the musician set aside his instrument and leaped forward, clapping his hands overhead. He began a shuffling dance, alternating between stomping his feet and gliding about the open space before the crowd, turning rapidly from one side to the other, head whipping around each time to lock eyes with Kish.

Jarek stirred uneasily.

The musician extended his hand to her, beckoned imperiously. Kish rose, stepped through the crowd, and out onto the floor.

Jarek sat up slowly.

They danced. The man was a serpent: sinuous and controlled, circling her, never far, pressing close. Kish lifted her arms overhead, and where she lacked his skill, his steps, she more than compensated with her burning, exuberant joy in the music.

The crowd was cheering them, many of them sitting up like Jarek had. Kish tossed back her hair and smiled, eyes locked on the musician as he stepped in closer and then spun away.

Jarek sucked on his teeth. Anger began to pound along with the beat of his heart. He thought of rising to his feet, stepping forward, and planting his fist squarely in the musician’s face. Knocking him clear off his feet.

But no. Kish wasn’t his. She was her own person. If she wanted to dance, then who was he to stop her? He watched her as she undulated in time to the music, her flexibility and mastery of her body on clear display. Would she have danced with him in such a manner? She couldn’t have. She’d have had to circle him as if he were a dancing bear, humoring him. Not flowing together like she was doing with this young man.

Both of them were covered in a sheen of sweat now. The tension between them was palpable. Jarek looked down and away. His beer was nearly gone. He finished it. The music seemed to recede. What was he playing at? He was nearly twice her age. He was an old man. His time had come and gone. It had been kind of Kish to drag him out here.

He reached out and took her beer. It was nearly full. He cast aside the straw and drained it in one pull. Grit filled his mouth, the dregs bitter on his tongue. The music that had seemed so far away came pressing back, overly loud. The walls were pushing in on him, and suddenly he desperately needed to be outside this chamber - outside this cavern, beneath the stars, in the fresh air.

He rose to his feet, pressed back into the shadows. Kish never even looked his way. Bands of iron were tightening around his chest, making it hard to breathe. His head ached with fierce insistence, and his pulse began to race.

“No,” he whispered. “I saw you in the netherworld. You’re gone. You can’t be haunting me.” He clutched at his head with both hands. “You’re gone.”

He stumbled along the cavern wall, shoulder brushing the rock. He couldn’t breathe. Out into the main cavern, and into the market. Outside. He had to get outside.

Four soldiers walked right past him. No, not soldiers. Death watch guards. They didn’t even spare him a glance, but moved as if impelled by curiosity toward the fevered music.

Jarek stopped. The light was stabbing into his eyes, making the pain in his head even worse, but he forced himself to track the four guards as they moved to the back of the crowd that filled the chamber. People glanced back at them in annoyance and then stepped aside.

“Kish,” groaned Jarek. “Damn it. Kish!” He tried to straighten up, but a spasm of pain bent him over. With a gasp, he sank to one knee.

The guards yelled something and dove into the crowd. The music came to an abrupt and jagged halt. Voices rose up in alarm.

“Kish,” said Jarek. He ground the base of his palm into his temple. His chest was completely locked up. Urgency warred with despair. “Get up, you old fool,” he whispered to himself. “Get up!”

The cries rose up and became screams. His vision narrowed to a point. Panting, sweat dripping from his chin and nose, he stared at the ground.

Stand up, he thought. Damn it. Stand!

CHAPTER FIVE

Istrikar’s office was located high within a hollowed-out segment of cavern wall that extended into the market like a partially-drawn curtain. Numerous windows perforated its rough side, and balconies were bolted on so that spectators could gaze upon the maelstrom of lights and delights that surged below. Acharsis was led up a cramped stairwell for fifty or so feet, then along an even narrower corridor to a great door. Before it stood four guards with helms stylized in the shape of snarling hounds. They moved aside at a gesture from his guide; the door was pushed open, and Acharsis stepped into Istrikar’s office.

It was a narrow wedge of a room, barely four yards wide at the door and tapering to a point cut off by Istrikar’s desk. Windows had been chiseled out of the walls, curtains pulled back so that the sounds of the market arose from below to fill the air. Carpets had been laid haphazardly over the stone floor in such profusion that the ground felt springy to the step, and sandalwood incense burned from a half-dozen sticks that alternated with glass lanterns along the columns between the windows.

Istrikar himself sat behind the desk, a dozen glass bowls arrayed before him. He was examining one of them, holding it up to the light and scowling as if it personally offended him.

Acharsis hesitated and then crossed his arms, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose as he allowed Istrikar the opportunity to pointedly ignore him. He’d aged, of course; the last time Acharsis had seen his spymaster, the man had been in his late thirties, a barrel-chested and slab-faced man whose brutish appearance belied the quick, almost savage intellect that had allowed him to claw his way up to his vaunted position.

He’d started shaving his head somewhere along the line, leaving a faint shadow around the sides of his scalp and down the center showing where his hair had begun to recede. The former spymaster wore expensive silks beneath an intricately stitched surcoat of white and gold; a dramatic collar swelled up around his jawline, and a necklace of heavy, blood-red gold lay over his shoulders. Yet despite the finery, it was still Istrikar. His face had become heavier, a hint of jowls appearing at the sides. His nose was perhaps larger, and his barrel chest was now matched by a barrel stomach, but Acharsis wouldn’t have mistaken that irritated scowl anywhere.

Istrikar pulled a fresh tablet of clay toward him and made a series of careful impressions upon it with a reed. He stared at the offending glass bowl before him one last time and then set it aside, leaning back to regard Acharsis with his old, familiar glower.

“Human nature,” he said, his accent betraying a youth spent in Namtar’s slums. “What is it about these glassblowing idiots that makes them think they can get away with swindling me after getting caught time and time again? I’ve been too lenient. Been letting them off easy. Looks like some bones need breaking.” Istrikar paused, eyeing Acharsis, seeing and deducing no doubt far more in a matter of moments than most men would learn over the course of a month. “I hate being inconvenienced,” he continued. “I hate people trying to trade on familiarity to try and get the better of me. Now. What do you want?”

“It’s good to see you, Istrikar!” Acharsis smiled broadly. “You’ve aged well. I like the new look. Me? I’ve done all right for myself. Traveled some. Made dear friends. Still, nothing like running into a cherished old acquaintance. Am I right?”

A flicker of amusement passed over Istrikar’s thuggish features. “I’ll let you know if I see one. Now answer my question.”

“You wound me, old friend.” Acharsis stepped over to one window and gazed down at the market: the panoply of tents and stalls, the heads of the passers-by, large red canvases swooping down from above to block the sun, the islands of illuminated color. “I like your office. Both literally and figuratively. Head of the consortium, I hear?”

Istrikar sighed pointedly and laced his fingers over his stomach, leaning back in his chair with an expression of bored patience. “What of it?”

“Admirable, is what.” Acharsis crossed his arms and leaned against the window’s edge. “Power. Prestige. Wealth. Overseeing the interests of merchants from Khartis to far-flung Meluhha.”

“If I wanted my knob polished I’d have sent for a comely whore. You’re wasting my time. I told you. There are bones out there that need breaking. Get to the point.”

“What is it with people these days?” Acharsis shook his head. “Nobody seems to have the time for a little idle flattery. Very well. I need transport to Magan. I was hoping you could recommend a caravan that’s fast, safe, and discreet.”

“What are you bothering me for? Go to the staging area at dawn and show your coin. You’ll find one soon enough.”

Acharsis stayed silent.

“You ain’t got no coin.” Istrikar shook his head. “Fucking typical. I look like a charity ward to you?”

“No, you look like my old spymaster.” Acharsis allowed a touch of iron to enter his voice. “One who served at my pleasure for a half-dozen years, and served well.”

“Yeah, well, those half-dozen years are long gone.”

“But I imagine the man I once knew yet remains beneath that corpulence you’ve saddled yourself with.” Istrikar’s brow lowered but Acharsis pressed on. “The man who worked his way out of the slums through sheer wit and cunning. Who was determined to improve the lot of others by contributing to my success. Who wanted to bring greater wealth and education to the masses. Who would argue with me at all hours to devote more attention to public works, to elaborate my justice system, to rein in the excesses of others.”

Istrikar slowly sat up straight. “That man’s two decades dead. You’re starting to really piss me off, Acharsis. I’d advise you to shut up and leave.”

“Liar. You became the head of the consortium, what, ten years ago? I was running a trading venture up in Khartis at the time, and even up there I heard of the changes you made. The laws you implemented. The standardization of measuring weights. The punishments you mete out to thieves and swindlers. The Waystation’s never been this busy or filled with such varied goods, has it? Trade’s never been so good. And here you sit, in your cramped little office like a bloated spider, overseeing your empire - and to what end?” Acharsis took a step toward the desk. “Because you still care.”

Istrikar rose to his feet, a derisive comment on his lips, but Acharsis cut him off. “Not about people. I know you think humanity is asinine and not worth pissing on if they were on fire, but you care about systems. You like things to run smoothly. Efficiently. You like order. Logic. The maximization of benefits.”

Istrikar nodded thoughtfully and pulled a long-hafted ax from under his desk. Its bronze half-moon head looked wickedly sharp. “I suppose I do like all that. Why don’t you take a step closer and tell me more about myself?”

“That’s all going to the netherworld,” continued Acharsis. “I saw the death watch below. Irella’s moving in on your territory, isn’t she?”

Istrikar stayed silent. That was all the answer Acharsis needed.

“How much of a presence has she built up here already? How much more are you going to tolerate before you’re forced to shut the Waystation down? You’ve got a good thing going here. Good location, the spider silk trade, glassblowers, apparently - are you willing to burn it all down to the ground?”

Istrikar stayed silent.

“You hear about the invasion she’s launched into Magan?”

“Heard about troop movements down the Leonis,” said Istrikar. “Doesn’t mean she’s about to cross the steppe.”

“She’s not crossing the steppe,” said Acharsis.

“Not crossing the steppe? Then - what? Over the desert? You’re kidding me.”

“She’s sending the dead, old friend. Nekuul’s power is at its peak. Thousands of them are marching toward Uros as we speak. There, they’ll gather and cross the Puiama Strait to march across the desert and take Magan unawares.”

Acharsis knew Istrikar was too intelligent to not understand the implications. He could see his former spymaster working his way rapidly through all the consequences of such an invasion.

“What of it?” said Istrikar. “Say she takes Magan, then Khartis a year or two after that. What makes you think I won’t work for Irella?”

“The same reason you’re not working for her already,” said Acharsis quietly. “Because you hate her for what she did to our city. For her destruction of the nine gods. For her hubris, which gave her the kingship even as it laid the land to waste, causing tens of thousands to starve. You won’t serve her because she doesn’t appreciate what you and I appreciate: improvement, the betterment of society to the benefit of all.”

“You weren’t half this enthusiastic about my ideals when I served you,” said Istrikar, and Acharsis fought the urge to sigh in relief. “The only time you’d actually sit down to talk was when you wanted me to locate some woman you’d seen in the market.”

“I’ve discovered my civic duty in old age,” said Acharsis.

Istrikar grunted. “You want passage out to Magan over the steppes, you said. Discreet, fast, and safe.”

“That’s right.”

“And free.”

“We’re not useless. I’ve a Nekuulite godsblood in our number, along with several who can fight better than any other five men combined.”

Istrikar replaced the ax under the desk. “Interesting. Probably has nothing to do with what just happened in Rekkidu, does it?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said Acharsis.

“In that case, you won’t be interested in knowing that some two dozen soldiers just arrived, claiming to have been sent by Golden Piamat in search of a band of criminals. Jarek, son of Alok, along with a Nekuulite godsblood, and others.”

“That sounds a little far-fetched to me,” said Acharsis.

“Uh-huh. Well, the last thing I want is their getting in a fight with you here at the Waystation. My men would have to impose order, and that’d pull in the death watch. If you guarantee that you and your friends will leave without causing any problems, I’ll connect you with a caravan that’s in need of a leech. Their apsu’s just died, apparently, and they can’t get their dead oxen moving without one.”

“Discreet? Fast? Safe?”

“Once your Nekuulite works his charm on ‘em, sure.”

“His powers are fading. He’ll only be able to get them a ways into the steppe.”

“Not a problem. They’ve a Maganian priest whose powers should kick in by that point. The caravan’s led by Oxundo. Nasty piece of work, but he doesn’t sell his passengers to the nomads in exchange for safe passage and he knows what he’s doing. He’ll treat you fair at my word. You lot clear out of the Waystation now - not tomorrow - cross the bridge, and wait for him by the Hanging Rock. I’ll let him know to look for you there.”

Shouts rose up from below. Anger, outrage, fear.

Acharsis moved to the window, understanding as he did precisely why Istrikar had his office here. Looking down past the swathes of crimson canvas, he saw a disturbance taking place against the far cavern wall: a knot of people, thrust aside by death watch who were fighting their way into a recessed chamber of some kind. From his vantage point Acharsis could see into the chamber proper, where a young woman was drawing her hammer and backing away.

Acharsis groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was Kish. She had nowhere to run.

“Death watch,” growled Istrikar by his side. “Tell me that’s not a friend of yours they’ve cornered.”

Acharsis ignored him. It would take too long to run down the stairwell and then across the market floor. He needed to intervene now.

“Hanging Rock, you said? Thanks, old friend.” He studied the angled canvas sunblocks. Most hung flat, parallel to the ground, but a few sloped across the entirety of the market, smooth declivities as broad as the sails of a Khartisian ship.

“Guards!” roared Istrikar, moving toward his door. “Sound the alarm! I want—”

Acharsis didn’t hear the rest. Blood rushing in his ears, light-headed with nervousness and fear, he hopped up onto the windowsill. It was a hell of a jump. More screams sounded from below, and then he caught sight of Jarek crumpled on the floor outside the chamber, down on all fours.

“Ekillos be with me!” He leaped out into the void, high over the market floor, and with arms desperately outstretched grabbed hold of the uppermost hem of one of the massive sloping canvas sheets. The whole of it sagged under his weight, corners coming together above him as the ropes swung to accommodate his weight, and for a sickening second Acharsis thought his grip was going to slip and send him plummeting to the stone floor below.

Kicking his legs, he wriggled up and over the edge, diving forward and down into the furrow his weight made in the sheet. He rolled over as he began to slide down, picking up speed, the canvas svvvooshing around him as he raced down its center, stomach rising up to plaster itself against his diaphragm, his whole body locked rigid with fear as he hurtled down the crimson slope.

Everything was happening too fast. He wanted to curse his impetuosity, but the end of the canvas was racing up to meet him, a final upturn where the lower ropes held the edge above the furrow he was making. He hit the bottom and then shot up the final lip to fly out into the air, arms and legs cartwheeling as he became airborne once more.

He shot over the heads of the crowd, and only his reflexes allowed him to grab the edge of a much smaller canvas. It sagged violently beneath his weight; he swung out below it, collided with its underbelly, then heard the ropes snap as they failed to take his weight.

With a cry of despair, he fell the last few yards to the ground, the entirety of the crimson canvas fluttering down to cover the crowd bunched at the chamber's entrance. The breath was knocked out of him as Acharsis slammed into the rock, and for a moment it was all he could do to simply lie there, gasping like a landed fish and giving thanks for not having died.

“You mad bastard,” grunted Jarek. The large man was forcing himself to his feet. Acharsis scanned his friend's body for signs of a wound, but saw none. Jarek’s face glistened with sweat, his skin was pale, but he seemed unharmed.

The shouts had grown muffled beneath the huge canvas, which bulged and undulated as people fought to escape its smothering clutches. Even as Jarek reached down to help Acharsis climb to his feet, he saw Kish come crawling out through the forest of legs, hammer clutched in one hand.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Acharsis.

Kish sprang to her feet and wheeled around, ready for the guards. “Best we put them down now so they’re not at our backs.”

Acharsis eyed Jarek. His friend was swaying, his expression ghastly, eyes narrowed as if against a piercing light. “No. Another twenty or so of Piamat’s soldiers just arrived. We’ll be swamped. We need to get the others and escape. Hurry!”

A death watch guard fought his way free of the crowd, thrusting the canvas away angrily, and then pointed his bronze blade at them. “There! To me, death watch! To me!”

“Him?” Kish was almost pleading. “Let me drop him, at least?”

“Help Jarek, then run!” Acharsis gave her a push and slipped into the crowd, forging against the tide of curious onlookers. Off to his left he saw more of Irella’s guards thrusting their way closer, while angry yells from Istrikar’s guards came from behind them. This is getting ugly, fast.

Looking back, he saw Kish holding Jarek’s arm and guiding him forward. The large man was trying to keep up, but his feet kept tripping as if he barely had the strength to lift them. Acharsis craned his neck to gain a sense of the closing guards; off to the left he saw them drawing ever closer, a group of Piamat’s soldiers some eight strong. Coming in from the right were a dozen Waystation guards. They would soon be trapped.

He cast around wildly for inspiration and saw platters of gilded sweets piled high on the display boards of a nearby stall. He darted towards it, scooped up one of the great bronze plates, and hurled the glittering sweets high above the crowd. “Gold!” he screamed. “They’re after my gold!”

The effect was gratifying, if not quite as fanatical as he’d hoped; people looked up, caught sight of a flash of yellow, and immediately set to elbowing each other and rooting around the floor in an attempt to find what had just been tossed.

“This way,” said Acharsis, abandoning the direct route to the Dream Palace and instead ducking around the stall, leaving the two groups of guards to converge slowly on the increasingly irate crowd. They worked their way along the shadows, hugging the cavern wall, and when they finally broke free of the press Acharsis led them at a jog toward the back.

“They’re still after us,” said Kish. “I can see one of them tracking us over there.”

Acharsis followed her finger and saw the guard, struggling through the crowd a few stalls into the cavern but clearly keeping an eye on them.

“Damn.” Acharsis considered sending Kish in to dispatch the man, but chose against it. That risked embroiling her in an ever-bigger fight as more guards arrived. “Move faster. We need to get the others, and get out of the Waystation.”

“How?” cried Kish, looking back again to check their rear. “We’re going to have to fight them!”

“I don’t know,” said Acharsis. “One step at a time. Hurry!”

They left the stalls behind as they entered the cavern’s rear. The guard let out a shout and followed at a safe distance, blade held aloft to indicate his position. Acharsis led the others around carts and slower pedestrians until finally they reached the very back. Playful music was streaming from some open window, and people were standing around enjoying themselves with cups of beer as if nothing untoward were taking place. They watched, curious, as Acharsis led the other two straight to the Palace and through the front door.

“We’ll be trapped,” said Jarek, his voice regaining some strength. “There another exit?”

“I told Azo to make one,” said Acharsis, slipping past women and their customers and into the first room. Smoke filled the air; somewhere, a stringed instrument was being idly plucked, and more curious glances were directed their way from lounging figures in the soft shadows.

“Ashanti!” Acharsis’ voice cut through the soft conversations and stilled the music. “Trouble!”

Ashanti emerged from a side room, her painted lips thinned with displeasure, glass of wine in one hand. “What have you done, Acharsis?” she asked, using Azo’s voice.

“No time. Send your girls upstairs. There another exit? Jarek, Kish, get the others!”

“The Palace is closed!” barked Ashanti, clapping her hands loudly. “Girls! Upstairs, if you value your lives. Everyone else, out!” She wheeled on Acharsis, eyes slitted in fury. “That’s it. You’ve used up all your credit.”

“Fair enough.” Acharsis was watching the front door. Any moment now. “Another exit?”

“Oh yes,” said Ashanti in her feminine voice, the thought of it causing her to smile. “I have the perfect escape for you.”

“You’re getting your revenge, aren’t you?” asked Acharsis, stomach sinking.

“If you don’t like it, there’s always the front door.” Her smile was sweet, almost innocent.

“Fine. We’ll take this exit. Where does it go?”

Ashanti started striding toward the back. “Down, of course.”

“Down? How far down?”

“All the way down.”

“To the bridge cavern?”

“Deeper.”

“Wait. To the spider caverns?”

Ashanti’s smile was answer enough, but then a sharp report sounded down the hallway as the front door was battered open. She gave his shoulder a sharp push. “They’re here. I’ll try and hold them off. Open the drainage grate and climb down. Go!”

CHAPTER SIX

Jarek’s head was slowly clearing, but not fast enough. Pain still lanced through his mind like jagged lightning strikes and his body felt heavy, as if he’d spent the previous night drinking an ocean of beer. Urgency, however, gave him impetus; he followed Kish into the back of the Palace, roaring for the others to emerge.

“What is it?” asked Sisu, leaning out of his doorway.

“Death watch!” cried Kish. “They’re coming! We have to run!”

Jarek shouldered his way into his room and took up the Sky Hammer from where it lay on the floor. Just holding it gave him strength. Affirmed his purpose. A moment later he was back in the hallway. “Annara! Elu!”

“He’s gone!” Annara emerged from her room, eyes wide with panic. “Elu’s gone!”

Jarek wanted to slam his fist into the wall. “Gone? Where?”

“He’d been talking about heading to Uros. I made him swear to wait and talk to Acharsis.” She clutched at her head, then took a decisive step forward. “I’ve got to find him—”

The sound of the front door being battered opened echoed dimly back to them.

“Too late,” said Jarek. “We can’t go that way.”

Annara tried to step around him. “I won’t leave him.”

“Yes, you will,” said Jarek. Anger, resentment, fury at this world - all bubbled up within him. He saw Kish dancing once more with the musician, how alive she’d seemed, how much of a future yet lay before her. “You’re going to escape. I’ll find Elu and bring him to you.”

Acharsis came running down the hall and slid to a stop at the sight of them. “We need to—where’s Elu?”

Jarek gripped Acharsis’ shoulder. “Get them out. I’m going to find him.”

“He’s gone?” He locked eyes with Annara and then visibly bit back a curse. “We’ve no time. Jarek, you’re leading everyone below. I’ll go after Elu. You won’t be able to fight your way through what’s coming anyway.”

Jarek felt frustration like a burning fever. “I’ve already decided—”

“You need to lead them through the spider caverns. I’ll sneak past the guards. Cross the canyon and then wait for a caravan led by a man called Oxundo by a marker called Hanging Rock. The escape is down the drainage grate in the bathing chamber. Go!”

Before Jarek could protest, Acharsis darted back toward the front of the Palace and was gone.

“Damn it,” said Jarek. The desire to punch the wall was still strong. “Come on. Run!”

“Spider caverns?” Sisu bunched up close to his sister. “Acharsis was joking, right?”

Shouts filtered back to them, a few screams of alarm, and then Azo’s voice raised in righteous indignation.

Jarek ran to the end of the hall and pulled open the bathing room door. The two tubs gleamed in the light, and the circular grate lay flush between them. Jarek knelt, grabbed the bronze bars and hauled them off, revealing a vertical shaft with wooden slats nailed to one side descending into darkness. Cool, damp air wafted up, as if exhaled by the creatures below.

“I don’t want to go down there.” Sisu shook his head. “Spider caverns?”

“Stay if you like,” said Jarek. “Make nice with the death watch guards.” He slid the Sky Hammer into its loop in his belt, took a rushlight from the wall, and dropped it in. The light guttered as it fell, dropping perhaps twenty yards before going out. “Great. Kish, grab a lantern. I’m going first.”

He sat on the edge of the shaft, turned over onto his stomach and found the first wooden rung with the toe of his boot. It was slippery from the bathwater. He tested it to see if it would take his weight. Satisfied, he began his descent.

The motions quickly became repetitive, and soon Jarek felt as if he were skimming his way down, hands and feet reaching and catching with mechanical precision in the dark.

Reaching the ground came as a shock, snapping him out of his reverie. He stumbled, knee buckling, then caught himself on a rung and straightened. “I’ve hit bottom,” he whispered back up. “Careful.”

How far had he descended? Below the bridge cavern, most like. The shaft opened up into a great, dark space, but he couldn’t get a sense of its actual size. The darkness had texture - subtle, but there - and he sensed movement, like the canopy of a tree stirring before a breeze.

Could the spiders see him in the dark? He drew the Sky Hammer and gripped it with both hands. Rustling. A strange, eerie creaking, like a rope being stretched. Pinpricks of sweat emerged on Jarek's forehead. His heart pounded in his chest.

Kish was next, her arrival presaged by a growing lambency of gold light. She leaped the final few rungs to land lightly beside him, and Jarek was finally able to make out the netherworld into which they’d descended.

They stood in a cavern, the walls smooth and shot through with seams of creamy white and rose. Flecks of mica glittered in the lamplight. Three large openings led into other caverns beyond.

No spiders. No cobwebs.

But through the openings he saw the glistening gleam of silvery strands; a hint of a shape drawing back, out of the lamp’s penumbra and into the deeper darkness.

“This isn’t how I expected the night to end,” said Kish, stepping closer to Jarek.

“It’s not over yet. Stay close. I’m going to try to open a way through.”

Shouts came from above.

“They’ve found us!” Sisu’s voice, echoing down the shaft. “They’re coming down!”

Annara was the next to drop, Kish steadying her as she nearly fell. “It’s all right,” she said. “Acharsis will find him. You’ll see.”

Jarek took the lantern and strode to the first opening. He raised the light high and saw a gloomy, long cavern beyond. Thick ropes of silk clotted together in wrapped bundles against the walls, most of them no larger than a chicken. Again, large, insectile shapes backed away before he could see them, retreating into the dark.

Sisu dropped the last few yards with a yell and then thrust himself against the back wall, as if expecting to be immediately assailed by an army of spiders. “No webs,” he said, voice tight with fear. “Oh. Good.”

“They don’t catch their prey in webs,” said Jarek. “No need for them. They’re anglers. They shoot spider silk. So, on my count, we run. Our only chance here is to go fast and avoid their attacks. Ready?”

“No,” said Sisu.

“Yes,” said Kish.

Annara nodded.

The sound of the guards descending the shaft grew steadily louder. A few more moments and they’d be upon them.

“Then run!” Jarek handed the lantern to Kish and bounded through the opening into the next chamber, shoulders hunched, Sky Hammer raised. The ground was clear of debris and mercifully without strands of webbing that could trip them up. Down the length of the cavern he ran, whipping his gaze from side to side, then around a great pillar of stone and into a larger chamber beyond.

“Nekuul take me now,” groaned Sisu as they all staggered to a stop.

The chamber was easily four or five times Jarek’s own height, and divided by a forest of heavy stone pillars that held up the roof like great petrified tree trunks. Webbing covered the roof like a ghastly canopy, and bundles were ensnared throughout like horrific fruit.

But it was the spiders that drew the eye. They were as large as dogs, though here and there Jarek caught sight of an older specimen, some as large as mules. They were covered in black fur banded with gray, and hung from the webbing by means of six legs ending in hooks. The front pair, however, terminated in wicked-looking bone scythes. Their rounded heads glittered with eyes of different sizes, and their abdomens curved down and around beneath them to culminate in what looked like a shattered pomegranate of raw red, a wound edged with rounded fronds that pulsed, opening and closing with minute spasms.

There had to be nearly thirty in this chamber alone.

“Jarek?” Kish’s voice was little more than a croak.

“I see light through there!” came the harsh voice of one of their pursuers. “Gather up!”

The spiders seemed to be vibrating where they hung, not moving but fully alert. Their crimson spinnerets were flexing quicker now.

“With me,” said Jarek quietly. “As fast as you can. Go!”

He burst forward, and the chamber erupted. The abdomen of a spider just ahead and above him rippled violently; the spinnerets opened wide and a gobbet of silver came flying at him. Instincts honed on the field of battle caused him to sidestep, turning as the gobbet skimmed down across his chest to splat against the floor, connected by a thick cord to the spider above.

He didn’t stop. Recovering his balance, he ran on, ducking and dodging so as to not provide an easy target. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a larger spider spasm and launch a wad of webbing his way; he batted it aside with the Sky Hammer, only to be nearly pulled off his feet as the gobbet stuck to the hammer’s head and the spider yanked it back.

Grunting in alarm, Jarek staggered and almost fell, then set his feet, leaned his weight back into his heels and pulled. This spider was one of the larger ones, and the entirety of its bulk swayed violently from its webbing as it fought him, reeling in the rope of silk, sucking it back into its abdomen.

Jarek gritted his teeth, but still he slid forward, his boots not finding sufficient traction with which to resist its incredible strength. He wildly considered letting go of his hammer, but immediately discarded the idea.

Then Kish was there. She leaped up, grabbed the rope of spider silk with both hands and yanked with all her strength, swinging from the rope for a second before the spider lost its grip and fell to the ground. The impact was lethal; its abdomen burst open, spraying a milky green fluid, and it flailed with its hooked legs even as the pull on the hammer went lax.

To Jarek’s surprise, the rope didn’t stick to Kish’s hands. She backed away from the spider only to duck as a new gobbet sailed through where her head had been but a moment ago. Jarek blinked, took up his hammer and smashed it against the side of a column, raking its face against the rock and dislodging the still-sticky webbing.

Annara and Sisu were past him, weaving their way through the cavern, stutter-stepping and ducking as they went. Behind him, Jarek saw a party of the death watch emerge, some twelve or more soldiers who were clearly taken aback by the sight before them. A gobbet hit the lead man straight in the face, nearly knocking him off his heels, then yanked him forward so that he fell to his knees.

Cursing, Jarek ran after the others. Strands criss-crossed the cavern at perilous diagonals, but they weren’t themselves sticky; Jarek was able to push his way through them where they bunched closely together, taking care not to step on the gobbets themselves.

A wet splotch slapped onto his arm, spinning him around and nearly bringing him to his knees. Looking up, he saw that one of the smaller spiders had snared him and was now retreating into the webbing.

Jarek moved his arm around in a circle, wrapping more and more of the spider silk around his forearm, and then clutched it and hauled back.

The spider wasn’t big enough to resist him; it tore free of the web and fell to the ground. Unlike its bigger cousin, it wasn’t wounded by the impact, and immediately tried to scuttle away, still trailing the spider rope.

Jarek turned and swayed away from a sword slash that nearly removed the top of his scalp. Two guards had fought through, eyes wide and pale in the gloom, teeth bared in frozen snarls of terror and anger. Jarek backed away, was nearly hit by a new gobbet, deflected an attack with his hammer, and then hauled on the rope that was still attached to his arm with all his might.

The spider came off the ground, its hooks hissing across the rock as it sought to hold on, and then it was airborne and whipping around. The spider rope wrapped around the shoulders of the first guard, and the spider itself collided with the second, latching on to the back of his head and sinking its bone pincers into his neck.

The guard’s scream was immediately muffled by a gobbet of spider silk that smacked straight into his face. He fell, limbs flailing. His friend stared down at him, horrified. Jarek stepped forward and slammed the head of his hammer into the man’s gut, doubling him over, then cracked his knee into the man’s chin and dropped him.

A wet mass struck him square between the shoulder blades with such force that he was driven down to his knees, then the back of his shirt was torn free as Jarek threw himself forward against the pull. He rolled and came up running, joining the others in the far cavern.

Screams and cries followed them as the death watch battled the spiders. They entered a gallery of some kind; a long corridor of stone nearly choked with webbing, with openings between columns that looked out into the night. Fresh air caused the webs to sway, while the sound of the river below brought a sense of sweet relief to his fears.

“Where to?” cried Kish, holding the lantern aloft. “The bridge?”

“It’s above us!” Annara leaned out, gazing up into the night sky. “Should we climb?”

“No,” said Jarek. Spiders scuttled out of the main cavern behind them into the fishing gallery. They had no time.

He stepped up to the edge and looked out into the canyon. Thick strands of webbing arched into the night, disappearing toward the far and hidden wall.

He sheathed the Sky Hammer. “Grab a strand! Walk your way across!”

“Grab a strand?” Sisu looked to Kish. “What is talking about?”

Dozens of the silk ropes ran from each column out into the night. The larger of the spiders probably severed the strands against the rock when they missed their prey, leaving chaotic rope bridges extending out over the river. Jarek grabbed one that was at head height, then stepped out onto a second. They swayed beneath his weight, but held. Quickly, not daring to second-guess himself, he worked his way out into the night air, a good fifty yards above the ebon river that glinted in the light of the moon.

The strands remained roughly parallel to each other, but the farther out he edged, the more they swung back and forth. Hurrying only exacerbated the movement, so he forced himself to slow down, to move methodically, inching out into the void.

Above was the Waystation bridge itself. Broad enough for a caravan to cross, it was a marvel of engineering, a suspension bridge reinforced by countless twined ropes of spider silk.

Annara and Kish followed Jarek, and the arrival of several larger spiders flushed Sisu out onto the ropes as well.

“Watch out,” called Jarek. “They’re following.”

But the spiders didn’t loose any more attacks. Instead, they clustered in the gallery, waiting. The last guards emerged, torches held high, only to scream and curse as more gobbets splattered into them. Jarek watched as they fought futilely to free themselves, then looked away as the spiders closed in, bone scythes gleaming.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Acharsis barreled down the hallway, heart pounding, with no idea as to how he was going to survive the next few seconds. The voices out front were raised in brutal yells; Ashanti wasn’t going to be able to hold the guards for much longer. The Palace was too small to hide in. How to get past? How?

A cry of indignation, a bellow of pain, then shrieks of outrage and fear. The guards were coming through.

Acharsis turned on instinct and ran upstairs. Stupid stupid stupid he thought as he took the steps three at a time. You’re cornering yourself. Yet a hunch, a hint of an idea was forming in his mind. Not daring to examine it any closer for fear of dispelling it, Acharsis ran through the low-ceilinged receiving room and into Azo’s office. He closed the door behind him, dropped the bar and leaned against it, panting for breath.

“Damn you, Elu,” said Acharsis. He scanned the little office. How to get out? How to—

His gaze settled on one of Azo’s mannequins. A shimmering robe of sapphire silk hung from the dummy. A wig of outrageous bronze curls sat atop its head.

Acharsis groaned, but the sound of men coming up the steps just outside the door spurred him into action. He stripped off his robe, vaulted over the desk, then carefully - as if handling a spider’s web - peeled the robe off the mannequin and draped it over his shoulders.

It actually felt quite nice.

A broad yellow sash served as a belt, and with great care he lifted the wig off the dummy’s smooth head. It gleamed like lost treasure in the lantern light. Tilting his head back like he’d seen women do a thousand times when about to gather their hair, he slipped the wig over his head and set to tucking his hair under its weave.

His face. No time for a shave, to pluck his eyebrows, paint his lips and do all the thousand other things that Azo was wont to do before a night out on the Waystation. A veil, then, in the manner of the Dilmanians.

The door rattled, then shook. “Open up!”

No Dilmanian veils were in evidence. Azo never was one to hide his beauty.

In desperation, Acharsis turned to Azo’s open wardrobe and yanked out a purple tunic. He tore it in half, tied it around his face so that only his eyes showed, and then hurried to the door just as the guards outside started battering at it in earnest.

Thud. Thud. Before it could shake a third time, Acharsis threw the door open so that the guard staggered through, off balance.

A second guard entered right behind him, sword drawn, and then stopped at the sight of Acharsis. “What—who—?”

Acharsis stared at the guard, the tunic sucking into his mouth with each inhalation. Should he seduce the man? Simper? A detached part of his mind found it fascinating to watch the guard try to process what he was seeing, to wrestle with his incomprehension.

One thing was clear: the man was in no way buying his disguise. Time to come up with a different plan. Acharsis spread his arms wide in a supplicating manner, and in a falsetto voice asked, “But what about the parade?”

The guard narrowed his eyes again, flummoxed for a second time as Acharsis sauntered forward, placed both hands coyly on the man’s shoulders, yanked him forward and kneed him between the legs.

The guard gasped, twisted, and keeled over to crash onto his side.

Acharsis took the man’s bronze blade from his unresisting hand and rose quickly, blade extending to catch the second guard at the throat just as he was starting to move in to attack.

“Uh-uh,” said Acharsis. “You wouldn’t strike a lady, would you?”

The second guard tried to tilt his chin away from the blade, but to no avail. “What are you?”

“'What'? Such an insulting question.” Acharsis glanced down at the silk dress that was straining to contain his frame. “And one I don’t quite know how to answer. But, for tonight, I believe I am all yours.”

“All… mine?”

The first guard was starting to rise to his feet, so Acharsis gave him a kick in the gut. All the air whooshed out of him and he collapsed like a punctured wineskin.

“Yes. You’re going to tie up your friend, and then we’re both going to walk out of here. Understood?”

“Walk out of here?”

“Not the brightest of flames, are you?” Acharsis nodded at the fallen guard. “Give me your blade, then tie him up and gag him. And if you do a bad job of it, I’ll slit his throat to save myself further trouble. Hurry.”

The guard did as he was bid, trussing up his fallen companion with brutal efficiency that left Acharsis in no doubt as to the man’s inability to escape.

“Good. Now, what’s your name?”

“Kadneza.”

“Well, Kadneza, we’re going to walk out of here side by side. I’m going to have my dagger against your ribs. One wrong move and I’ll plunge it into your heart. Stand here, and I’ll stand beside you. Place your arm over my shoulder, like so. Yes, drape your cloak over me, very good. Feel that tip? It’s sharp. And if anybody speaks to you, you can only say, ‘It’s my lucky night.’ Any attempt to say anything different will result in your death. Understood?”

“It’s my lucky night,” croaked Kadneza.

Acharsis patted his cheek. “Sharper than I thought. Good man. Sheathe your blade. Now, we’re heading straight for the front door. If you stop walking for any reason, I’ll gut you like a fish. You’ve seen what innards look like?”

Kadneza nodded.

“Well, yours are just waiting to come out, glistening and gleaming like oiled-up snakes. Think on them if you’re tempted to break my rules. Now go.”

They stepped over the bound guard and into the low-ceilinged room. A number of courtesans were standing in the corner, whispering to each other. They froze at the sight of Acharsis and the guard.

Down the stairs they went, squeezed in together, Acharsis alert to the slightest indication that Kadneza might try for a headlock or cry out a warning.

He didn’t.

They stepped into the main hall and turned toward the front door.

“Soldier!” The bark had the ring of authority to it. “Where are you going?”

“It’s my lucky night,” said Kadneza.

“Our quarry has escaped below. Leave that woman and—soldier! I’m speaking to you!”

Acharsis dug the tip of his blade a little deeper between Kadneza’s leather armor.

“It’s my lucky night!” shouted Kadneza.

“It’ll be your last night if you don’t get back here! Have you gone mad?”

Acharsis pulled Kadneza into a jog. They began to run toward the door just as two more death watch guards appeared in its frame.

“Stop that guard!” bellowed the commander from behind them. “Stop him!”

“Lucky night!” screamed Kadneza as Acharsis jabbed him once more. “Lucky night!”

The two new arrivals stared, dumbfounded, as Acharsis and Kadneza charged them. Incredulously, they began to draw their blades, but at the last Acharsis tripped Kadneza, hurling the man into the pair of them and then leaping over their sprawling forms to the sound of his dress tearing.

He bolted out into the cavern, ignoring the stares and cries, running alongside a cart and then ducking around the mules, past the fountain and diving into the crowd. The shouts from the soldiers behind him were soon lost.

Where was Elu? He was smart - smart enough to not head out of the Waystation alone without transport and supplies. He’d have gone down, then; to the bridge cavern, where he’d try to find a ride to Uros on a recently arrived caravan.

Acharsis was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the change. The crowd was a static thing, pressed back against the walls, all eyes on the center of the market where a confrontation between two opposing lines of guards was taking place. Acharsis didn’t have time to investigate. Elbowing people aside, muttering apologies, he fought free of the press and out onto the main ramp. Down the gritty slope he ran, sandals smacking the rock, torn dress fluttering around him, dagger in hand.

The ramp spiralled down, down, down, its length lit by the occasional lantern. As many people were struggling to make their way up as were fighting to escape what was happening above. Voices cried out questions, called out curses, and trains of wagons were mired in the crowd, their drivers lashing out at the people before them with whips in an attempt to get them to move.

Acharsis skirted the wall, following its curvature and ducking the worst of the traffic until at last it gave out into the great bridge cavern. Here, scaffolding rose on all sides with ramps for hauling goods onto and off the waiting wagons, while the stench of animals and their ordure mingled with the lantern smoke to make the atmosphere close and cloying. The braying of mules, stern shouts from caravan masters and cries of those escaping the scene above made the scene chaotic, and Acharsis staggered to a stop, gazing about the milling crowd in despair.

How was he to find the boy in this great shifting morass? He could comb through the crowd all evening and never catch sight of him. He had to think, to puzzle this through. Elu was his son. He’d have done the same.

The cavern was divided in two, with the left half holding those who were overnighting at the Waystation before heading out into the River Cities or down to Dilman, and the right holding those about to venture forth into the Golden Steppe.

Elu would be looking for transport to Uros. That meant the left half. Fighting his way through, Acharsis reached a well-positioned scaffold and began to climb, hoisting himself up and not caring for the catcalls his torn dress elicited.

Up he climbed, and when he reached the loading platform - some four yards above the ground - he leaned out, arm hooked around a pole, and scanned the waiting caravans. They were lashed down for the night, mules unhitched and taken away to the huge stables at the end of the cavern. Guards stood alert, bows in hand.

No sign of caravan masters. Elu would be out of luck. He’d need to track the owners down to their quarters above, awaken them, and plead for a free ride. No; he’d know such a tactic was futile. What, then?

If Acharsis were as desperate, wounded, and young as Elu, what would he do? Try to stow away on a caravan, most like. Find the most poorly guarded and sneak in under a pile of goods.

Desperation grabbed Acharsis by the throat. If Elu had already managed this ploy, there would be no finding him. No way of knowing which caravan he’d snuck aboard, or which one to follow to recover him. They’d have to travel to Uros, wait and watch - no, impossible. He had to find him now.

Luckily, events were conspiring against the youth. With all the shouting and tension, every guard was alert and watching for trouble. Acharsis peered into the shadows around the loading area, seeking some sign of the boy.

“Hey there! What do you think you’re doing?” Acharsis turned to see an overweight man staring at him from the far end of the platform. “Get down!”

“Come any closer and I’ll kiss you,” said Acharsis, and resumed scanning the caravans. He probed at dark corners, peered into shadowed recesses.

Nothing.

“All right, I warned you nice. Now I’m going to have you thrown off. Guards!”

Just then, Acharsis saw a familiar figure dart out from behind a pile of crates and disappear behind the rear of a heavily-loaded wagon. “There you are,” whispered Acharsis, and leaped off the platform just as two men began to approach him, blades in hand.

He landed lightly on the headboard of a large wagon, dress splitting further up his thigh as he crouched, then dropped over the side before the drivers could object. Moving quickly, he darted past just in time to see Elu wiggle his way under a heavy tarp and disappear into the wagon.

“Hey, you,” barked a voice from above. Acharsis looked up at a drawn bow, then past that to the caravan guard. “Get away from there.”

A number of different ploys played through his mind in an instant. Lies, tricks, retreats, confrontations. In the end, he simply raised his hands. “My son’s snuck aboard your wagon. I’m just trying to get him out.”

The guard eyed him up and down. “Your son.”

“My wife’s dress. It’s surprisingly comfortable,” said Acharsis. The truth could only get you so far. “Here, I’ll just get him and go. Shoot me if I pull out anything but a very angry boy.”

“No!” hissed Elu from within the wagon. “Get away!”

“Sorry,” said Acharsis, raising the tarp and revealing his son’s furious face. “Your mother would never forgive me. Let’s go.”

“Hey,” called the guard. “We’ve a stowaway! Hurry round the back, there!”

“Come with me, or get cut down by who’s coming,” said Acharsis. “Your choice.”

“No choice at all,” said Elu, squirming free. “Just another one of your lies.”

“Another one?” Acharsis paused. “All I’ve done so far is save your life.”

“You call this saving my life?” Elu clearly had more to say, but the sight of three guards closing in cut him off. “Leave me alone!” And with that, he darted away.

Acharsis followed. He put on a burst of speed and caught Elu by the arm. The kid came wheeling around, and Acharsis barely missed a punch that would have cracked him across the jaw. I've just about had enough of this.

“Now, listen,” said Acharsis. But he got no further.

“They’re firing the bridge!” yelled a voice from the entrance ramp. “Istrikar’s given the order! They’re firing the bridge!”

The effect on the crowd was immediate. People shoved frantically at each other as they fought to reach their caravans; voices were drowned in a roar of confusion and anger, and then screams sounded as hound-helmed guards carrying torches began to flood out of the ramp, blades raised and glimmering.

“Come on!” yelled Acharsis, hauling at Elu’s arm.

“No!” Elu gave a futile yank, trying to break Acharsis’ grip. “I’m not going with you!”

Acharsis pulled Elu in close. “They’re firing the bridge. That means this Waystation is done. It’s going to be chaos up there. None of these caravans are going to get out in one piece. Irella will probably order them all confiscated to punish the merchants. You try and go with them, you’ll be found and killed.”

“I’ll take my chances!”

“You’re smarter than that,” said Acharsis. “Put your anger and pain aside. Think! You’ve no money, no weapons, no knowledge of the cities, nothing. Come with us! You can always get revenge later - when you’re ready for it!”

The sound of clashing blades rang out, accompanied by hoarse shouts and screams. Acharsis saw Elu waver, and seized his opportunity. Pulling the youth after him, he fought his way through the crowd.

“Where are we going?” cried Elu.

“To the bridge!” Acharsis shoved a stumbling man away, then turned to shoulder his way through a knot of arguing merchants. A corridor opened in the crowd, and he ran down it, only for it to squeeze shut and trap them before he was more than halfway through. The sound of fighting grew louder. For the first time, he smelt smoke.

Suddenly, the crowd parted and Acharsis saw the battle taking place. Istrikar’s hounds were fighting a retreat toward the bridge, torches in hand, a growing force of death watch guards attacking them ferociously. The battle was taking place amid the caravans and wagons, surrounded on all sides by the heaving crowd.

A group of caravan guards stepped out and mobbed one of the hounds, pulling him down right before Acharsis and Elu, tearing the torch from his hand. The death watch guard he’d been fighting spitted him through the ribs, then turned to attack another hound.

“Hurry!” yelled Acharsis, racing just outside the worst of the fighting, keeping an eye on the skirmishes and swinging blades. “Stay close!”

The wagons on this side of the cavern were being hitched up to protesting beasts, their drivers and guards fighting to get moving, to clear the crowds and soldiers before them. Their faces showed helpless fury: they knew they were too far back to have any hope of crossing the bridge, but still they fought.

At the very front of the line was a massive team of wagons emblazoned with black flags and banners. These were already hitched, the drivers cracking their whips at the dead oxen even as their guards fought off opportunists who sought to clamber aboard. The crowd was a mass of arms reaching up to try and grab hold of the wagons.

“There,” cried Acharsis. “Our only chance!”

Spider silk affixed the bridge to huge columns of stone that flanked the chasm's opening. Its length gleamed like a band of cartilage in the light of the moon, and men were fighting furiously along its base, private guards struggling to keep the hounds at bay.

“Up!” shouted Acharsis, throwing Elu against the side of the last wagon and then boosting him toward the top. “Mind the guards!”

Elu scrambled up the ropes that lashed down the barrels, and Acharsis climbed up beside him. There were six guards fighting atop the uneven wagon, all of them wielding spears. They sliced and stabbed down in a furious frenzy.

One of the guards - face drenched with sweat, eyes wide with panic - turned and saw Elu’s head rise over the wagon’s side. He cried and jabbed with his spear. Acharsis surged up and knocked Elu aside, then grabbed at the spear’s shaft and pulled. The guard, already off balance, tottered forward and fell right over the wagon’s side and into the crowd below.

Acharsis found better footing, hefted his stolen spear, then hurled it at the next closest guard. It slammed into his armored side and fell away. It did little damage, but distracted the man, who cried out and turned only to have hands latch around his boot and haul his leg out from under him. In a moment he was gone, over the side, consumed by the crowd.

The wagon lurched forward, the driver’s whips cracking over and over as they bellowed their commands. Acharsis nearly fell, then managed to steady himself and climb onto the wagon’s top. The remaining four guards at the end of the wagon saw him, but couldn’t turn away from the crowd below; they lashed out and swung their spears, keeping the desperate souls at bay.

Acharsis grabbed Elu by the arm and pulled him up, then shoved him down onto his back as a guard turned and charged him, stumbling awkwardly over the crates and skins that the wagon bore. Luck caused the wagon to sway at the right moment; Acharsis dropped to one knee as the guard overbalanced, and the spear passed over his shoulder. Instead of grabbing for the weapon, Acharsis launched himself up and into the guard, bearing him to the ground. The man yelled and shook him off, rising to a crouch, and then the wagon jostled and he lost his balance. Without thinking, Acharsis shoved him over the side, and then he, too, was gone.

The wagon rumbled out into the night, and the roar of the crowd died away. The three remaining guards gathered to fight off the last, desperate few. Acharsis picked up the fallen spear and readied himself for their eventual charge. Elu rose to stand by his side, a dagger in hand.

“Careful with the drivers,” said Acharsis. “Don’t let them cut your legs out from under you.”

Elu inched further away from the headboard, where the two men were urging their oxen out onto the swaying silk bridge. The first five wagons were already moving ahead of them, causing the huge ropes of spider silk to groan and stretch as they took on the weight. Acharsis shook his head. Istrikar was a mad bastard. He’d never find another Waystation as good as this one.

The hounds were now bunched at the head of the bridge, a half-dozen of them applying their torches to the huge ropes, the others fighting off Irella's guards. Acharsis watched, fear growing in his chest, as the massive white strands smoked and blistered.

“Faster!” cried one of the drivers, whip cracking like repeated stabs of lightning. “Faster, damn your dead hooves!”

On they rumbled. The three guards finished off the last of the hangers-on and then considered him. Acharsis fought to calm his breathing, but the men didn’t attack.

“Truce?” called out Acharsis. “Till we reach the far side? Then you can call to your friends on the other wagons and butcher me in peace.”

“Truce,” said one of the guards, panting for breath. “Truce.”

His desire to fight was gone. All Acharsis could do was watch as the hounds fought to torch the bridge, their figures growing smaller as the wagons rumbled on, descending to the center of the bridge before rising back up to the far side.

There was an audible twang as a major rope suddenly gave way, and the right side of the bridge sagged violently. Men on the wagons cried out in alarm, and everybody hunkered down and grabbed onto something.

“Are we going to make it?” asked Elu, voice hushed.

“I pray to Ekillos we do,” said Acharsis. The wagon ground on, the boards laid over the silk beneath them rumbling. The hounds had stoppered the exit onto the bridge, and in their own torchlight Acharsis could see them falling before the onslaught. They were being smart about destroying the bridge, however, and were concentrating their flames only on one side.

Acharsis looked ahead. Three of the wagons had already gained the safety of the far side. They were perhaps a score of yards away themselves.

He wanted to just stand there, to watch in horrified fascination as the hounds destroyed the bridge, but instinct snapped him out of his stupor. “Come on!” He shook Elu; then, carefully picking his steps, ran up between the drivers, placed one foot between them, and leaped.

He was mid-air when he heard the second support rope snap. He fell between the two oxen, just ahead of their harness, and then the bridge went out from beneath him, twisting and falling away.

Elu crashed down beside him and began to slide. Acharsis, one hand gripping a broad slat, grabbed hold of Elu’s wrist and, with a straining yell of effort, hauled him back up so that he could grab hold of the boards as well.

The oxen lost their footing, and the wagon just behind them slid and turned and then fell off the collapsing bridge.

The wagon before them was sliding as well, the drivers and guards leaping off as it twisted and slewed to the side. Then it too fell away, sucked into the darkness below.

Acharsis watched, wide-eyed, as the wagon crashed through a multitude of random threads that connected the spider caverns to the far chasm wall, and then heard a distant splash as it smashed into the river below.

“Go,” he whispered, trying to rouse himself. “Move!”

Elu needed no further urging. He climbed up to the remaining side of the bridge, rose to a crouch, then reached down to help Acharsis do the same. Together they scrambled along the great threads to the far end, where guards reached out to help them back onto solid ground.

Acharsis collapsed in relief the moment he touched rock, chest heaving, mind spinning. The past few minutes were a delirious blur. The screams from the other side of the cavern were replaced by furious shouts, but nobody was coming after them. Istrikar had carried out his threat. The bridge was ruined. The chasm was now impassable.

The wickedly sharp edge of a blade pressed against Acharsis’ throat, and he looked up into the unyielding gaze of a guard.

“You,” said the man. “Why shouldn’t we just toss you back into the void?”

“Me?” Acharsis smiled. “You’d not believe me if I told you. But if you give me but one moment with the master of this caravan, I assure you he’ll reward you for bringing such a gift into his hands.”

The man considered him, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Look,” said Acharsis. “Your master will take either great satisfaction in killing me, or even greater pleasure in enriching himself at my expense. Either way, you win. One minute. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“All right,” said the guard. “On your feet. Let’s get this over with.”

“How do you do that?” asked Elu quietly, rising beside him. “How d'you convince everyone to do what you want?”

“My charm, I guess,” said Acharsis.

“It’s not your charm. You’re not charming.”

“My impeccable sense of fashion, then.” Acharsis gave the guard a warm smile. “Now, chin up. Time to go haggle for our lives.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jarek leaned against the Hanging Rock. He felt as old as time, as planted as the arched stone itself.

Arms crossed, chin dipping as he fought off sleep, he watched the sun rise over the horizon, spilling its burning beams over the distant God’s River crevasse, casting long shadows across the steppe wherever any stunted tree dared lift its head above the grass. The sunlight did nothing to alleviate the cold, but Jarek didn’t mind. He felt as sensitive as the rock beside him. Let his core freeze out. He’d remain standing here, arms crossed, waiting until Acharsis showed his damn face.

He heard the wagon wheels before he saw the caravan; the steady pace held by dead oxen, the slow, inexorable approach. He wanted to shift off the Hanging Rock, push up to stand ready, but he felt frozen in place. It was all he could do to turn his chin and watch the road as it wound its way up from the canyon below. A minute later, the first caravan churned its way into view.

Two dead oxen pulled it, skin flaking from their death-hardened muscles, eyes milky-white, purple tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths in a mockery of living exhaustion. The wagon itself was large - a land trader’s equivalent of a river barge. Its load towered up behind the headboard on which sat four men, none of them surprised to see him.

Good. He relaxed a degree. Their very expectation meant Acharsis had survived. Otherwise they’d be scrambling in anticipation of an ambush.

“Whoa there,” said the apsu, drawing back on the dead oxen and wresting the beasts to a stop. They did so grudgingly, slowing, slowing, then finally stopping, sagging in place, heads lowering so that they stared at the dirt. “You Jarek?”

“Might be.” He pushed off the Hanging Rock at last, feeling ornery for having been made to stand out here all night by fate, or the gods, or whatever else might be responsible. “Who’s asking?”

“See?” Acharsis walked into view from the far side of the wagon, an exhausted Elu stumbling behind him. “Told you he was as pleasant and pliable as a village hussy.”

Guards followed behind Acharsis, a good dozen of them. They were adequately armored in boiled leather, spears in hand, some of them sharp-eyed, most of them not.

“Sloppy, having no advance scouts,” said Jarek. “What use is your guard if they’re behind you?”

The caravan master was evident. Clad in sensible traveling leathers, he sat up on the headboard. His features were slab-like, his eyes recessed, his nose broken repeatedly. A florid mustache fell past either side of a bare chin, and flowing locks spilled down to his shoulders. The man was built like a bush boar, with all the kindness and give of a vulture. He smirked down at Jarek. “My outriders marked you an hour ago as they made their way past. You didn’t see them ‘cause they didn’t have to come into view. Said they heard you snoring from half a mile away.”

“Well, shit.” Jarek crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels. “I’m getting too old for this. Acharsis, you square things away?”

“Yes.” His friend stepped up beside him. “This is Master Guthos, heading by Ekillos’ grace right to the Maganian Gulf. He’s agreed to let us travel with him in exchange for our services. You, Elu, Kish and I are to work as guards. Sisu’s to help with the oxen until we’re too deep into the steppe. In exchange, we get to sleep under the wagons.”

“Food?”

“You’ll hunt your own,” said Guthos, voice flat. “I’ve only enough provisions for my men. You can hunt when you’re not on duty.”

“Interesting, that,” said Acharsis. “When I pointed out that the good Master Guthos here lost two wagons and a dozen men, and thus should have ample stores left in excess, he failed to see my point.” He raised his hands to forestall any protests. “No matter. We’ve secured passage across the Golden Steppe. The others?”

“Safe.” Jarek studied Acharsis. “Hell of an escape route your friend sent us down.”

“It got you out, didn’t it?” Acharsis clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what matters.”

“We’re moving on,” said Guthos. “If you’ve a mind to call your companions, do so now. Elsewise you’ll be left behind.”

Jarek didn’t respond. He simply stared up at Guthos, who nodded to the apsu. The man flicked the reins, clucked his tongue, and the oxen started up again, plodding forward so that Jarek was forced to step aside at the last so as not to be trampled.

“We have to travel across the entirety of the steppes with this bastard?” asked Jarek.

“I don’t blame you for not liking Guthos,” said Acharsis. “I’m not overly fond of him either. But the bridge was damaged enough that nobody else is coming over, and we’ve no chance of meeting up with the caravan Istrikar intended to introduce us to. So, Guthos it is. His caravan’s large enough to keep the worst of the nomads at bay. I don’t trust him - I don’t like him - but it’s this, or go it alone.”

Jarek wanted to rumble with displeasure, but sighed instead. “Fine. You talk sense into the kid?”

Elu was hugging himself and watching the wagons roll by. “I’m not a kid.”

“I’m working on it,” said Acharsis. “But I got him to come this far at least. We’ll see if we can stop him from doing anything else foolish.”

“I’m right here,” said Elu. “Stop talking as if I’m not.”

“Good,” said Jarek. “Where we’re headed, there’s no tolerance for stupidity. I’ll fetch the others.” He turned and began making his way through the rocks towards the gulley in which the others were sleeping, Elu sputtering behind him.

They headed southwest toward the Maganian mountains. Though the wagons moved slowly, the oxen never needed to rest, and their steady pace ate up the miles in a deceptively gradual manner. The steppe seemed endless; thigh-high grass that blurred into uniformity a mile out, becoming a golden plain across which the wind would blow endless waves, or on which passing clouds would cast their adumbrate forms. Far to the south, the mountain peaks showed a hazy purple.

Marching alongside the wagons, Jarek fell into a welcome trance. The hours slid by without any change to mark their passage. It seemed as if the world rolled beneath their feet so that they never changed place, a continuous march that would never end. The wagons creaked. The wind whispered. Their nomad outriders would return every few hours to report. They ate their meals on the move. The sun wheeled overhead, a blazing orb whose progress slowly marked the passing of time.

It was easy to believe they were the only ones out on the vast steppe. The soft undulations of the land were such that occasionally they would reach a subtle ridge that allowed them to gaze out for miles and see not a single living being.

Jarek avoided Kish as best he could - which was physically impossible while limited to a caravan. But his stony silences and one-word answers soon made his preferences clear; she retreated, baffled and hurt.

By the second day, he was confident that he’d raised impenetrable walls, but the sight of the dream rhino brought them crashing down.

“Over there!” came the cry from the kestrel tower. Jarek looked up at the guard and then shaded his eyes as he looked in the direction the man was pointing. Nothing. It was mid-morning, and clouds were scudding overhead, blotting out most of the sunshine and imparting an ethereal tinge upon the air. “Dream rhino!” cried the guard once more, and Jarek found himself moving before he was aware of doing so.

He grabbed hold of the wagon’s side and hauled himself up, gripping the heavy hemp ropes, toes finding purchase in the slatted sides, up to the top where the scaffolding of the kestrel tower was lashed. Holding on with one hand, he swung out and studied the great swale coming into view below.

There.

Even a mile away, it was stunningly huge. A hill of stone on the move, a ponderous force of nature more akin to storms and earthquakes than beasts. The sight of it hit Jarek like a fist to the chest, and he simply hung there, staring.

The rhino moved with an inevitability that made the dead oxen appear flighty; that made it seem as if it would plow through mountains or cities without breaking stride. Each vast leg was slowly raised, swung some dozen yards, then planted down with earth-shuddering power, but Jarek knew that slowness was deceptive. Knew just how fast the dream rhino could move when provoked.

“Look at that,” Kish whispered. He hadn't even noticed her climbing up alongside him. “What’s it doing to the grass?”

She was right. The golden grass was darkening in a circle some twenty yards out all around it, turning gray and brittle and slowly collapsing under its own weight. It left a vast swathe of dead grass behind, an indelible trail that would take years to revive.

“Feeding,” said Jarek. “You can’t see it from this angle, but its horn will be glowing as it uses its power. Draining the grass of its life essence.”

“Amazing,” she breathed, her arm pressed against his own. He became supremely aware of the warmth of her skin. “Can it drain us?”

“No,” said Jarek, shifting away a fraction to break the contact. “It can’t kill us with its aura. But if you got too close, you’d experience something akin to a fever dream instead. Visions of the netherworld that last for hours. It’s why people used to believe the steppe led down to Nekuul’s realm - twisted tales of encounters with the dream rhinos.”

The creature's progress seemed ponderous, but the sheer length of each stride was already drawing it away from them. Jarek couldn’t hear it from this distance, but he remembered the crackle as the grass dried up and died.

“How do you know all this?” He could tell Kish was looking at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the distant rhino.

“I wandered some when I was young.” He sounded gruff, defensive even to his own ears. “Spent some time on the steppe. I tracked one down and stepped into its dream aura on purpose.”

“I’d like to hear about it,” said Kish. “Maybe later tonight?”

Jarek could feel the thud of his heart, the dull weight of his pulse in his ears. He clenched his jaw. “Maybe some other time.”

“Jarek.” Her voice grew tight. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He scowled, sighed, then turned to face her. “What?”

“What?” By Alok, she was beautiful. It hurt him to look at her, to meet her bright eyes. “I can understand if you’re hurt by losing your power. By losing your father. But I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away. Talk to me, Jarek.”

“You don’t know?” He’d hoped she’d figure it out, but no. “Fine. But not here, on the side of a wagon. When we stop for camp. I’ll tell you then.”

“Good. I look forward to it.” She leaped down, landing lightly, and walked back to her post.

Jarek looked back to the dream rhino’s retreating form. He was doing the right thing. He was being the mature one here. The wise one. So why did he feel churlish, almost ashamed of himself? It didn’t make any sense.

The dream rhino was growing ever smaller. He recalled that night as if it had happened only the week before. The stars had been brilliant motes in the endlessly deep sky, sharp pricks that had begun to smear like tears across the heavens as he’d entered the rhino’s aura. The beast’s smell had pervaded the air, dry and musky like sun-baked dung, and he’d tasted something akin to fennel - a sweet, sharp flavor. It hadn’t even noticed him; hadn’t noticed as he’d walked up to it, shaking and fighting for breath, and extended his hand to touch its flank—

“Jarek!” Acharsis’ voice cut through his recollection. Jarek blinked and saw him approaching, Sisu in tow. “Get down here. I want to win yet another bet with this poor young man.”

Jarek climbed down carefully and stepped off the rolling wagon. “What?”

Sisu wasn’t looking good. There were hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, and his shoulders were rounded.

Acharsis slung an arm around the godsblood’s shoulders. “Sisu here doesn’t believe you’ve touched a dream rhino. He says - and I’m really quite offended - that I’m just trying to rile him up with some more blasphemy.”

“The katakeros exists in both worlds,” said Sisu, voice flat. “It walks through the netherworld and brings that realm to the surface. This is known. You cannot touch it without entering the netherworld yourself.”

“You all right, Sisu?” Jarek lowered his head slightly to make eye contact with the Nekuulite. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Sisu’s smile was pained, his expression amazed. “You honestly don’t know?”

“I don’t.”

“Being out here is what’s wrong.” Sisu flung out a hand to encompass the steppe. “Do you see any shrines to Nekuul? Hordes of her faithful? No! Just grass. What am I doing out here? Tending oxen while each step takes me further away from my goddess, her power, my power?” He stared down at his hands. “I can feel it slipping away like dust between my fingers. I doubt I could even cause a dead man to twitch right now, much less stand up. The oxen are barely able to walk. And my prayers? What’s the point, when Nekuul isn’t here to hear them?”

“There may be only two people in this whole world who understand what you’re going through,” said Jarek, “and you’re looking at them.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Sisu looked away. “But you didn’t lose your power voluntarily. Think about what you went through, then try imagining doing it on purpose.”

With that, he shrugged off Acharsis’ arm and walked away, head down.

“He’s not in good shape,” said Jarek.

“None of us are,” said Acharsis. “Annara’s avoiding me like the black fever. How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” said Jarek, walking alongside the wagon as it lurched forward once more.

“You should know better than to lie to me.” Acharsis fell in with him. “I wake every morning expecting you to have disappeared over the course of the night. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t eat. All you do is glower at people to make sure they don’t get too close.”

“Yet here you are.” Jarek fought an upwelling of anger. “What do you want, Acharsis?”

“What do I want?” He spoke softly, as if he were asking himself. “Revenge, mostly. On Irella.”

“And to get it, you need us,” said Jarek. “That’s why you’re concerned about Sisu and myself.”

“Cruel words, old friend.” Acharsis gazed in the direction of the dream rhino. “It’s possible to exact revenge and still care about those who are working with you. But keeping our group together is like trying to hold a clay cup after it’s shattered. Sisu is drowning in bitterness. You are becoming as approachable as a… no, that’s an impolitic metaphor. Annara, as I said, won’t talk to me for fear of fueling Elu’s resentment, and he refuses absolutely to interact with me in any way. Only Kish is relatively normal, and she’s depressed from how cold you’re being to her.”

Jarek jutted out his lower jaw. “I’m talking to her tonight.”

“Oh? A grand reconciliation? Shall I arrange for a special tent?”

“No.”

“Then...?” Acharsis walked alongside him until it was clear Jarek wasn’t going to answer. “Not my concern. I see. Though I’d dearly love to understand. You have a beautiful, vivacious, passionate young woman who’s moderately attracted to you and willing to give you her company - and you’re pushing her away. If I had to guess, I’d hazard that you don’t want anybody interfering with your self-pity—”

Jarek raised a hand, not knowing if he wanted to strike Acharsis or simply shove him away, and then caught himself.

Acharsis turned to regard him. “You’ve never liked being called out on your moods. Fair enough. Hard to spend half your life as a demigod and then be held accountable. But I need you, Jarek. We all need you. This mission of ours is not going to survive another week if we continue to fall apart like we’re doing. I know you’re in pain; that an old wound was torn wide open again in Rekkidu. Trust me. I’m dealing with all kinds of fatherhood issues right now, too. But you need to get over it. You need to move on, and set your eyes on the one goal worth pursuing.”

“You want me to fuck Kish so that you can avenge yourself on Irella?”

“No, the dead gods blast it. Talking sense into you is like trying to get a constipated goat to shit by squeezing its head. I need you strong, focused, and on task. I need you to stop making yourself miserable, and stop making Kish miserable while you’re at it. Wise up, my friend.”

Jarek grunted. A host of petty comments crowded his mind, but he had enough dignity not to voice them.

“Guthos is up to something,” said Acharsis. “I need you sharp and attentive. He’s becoming reasonable, as if my requests don’t really matter anymore. You know how I beat him at shatranj every night? He used to get furious. Now, he just smiles and gives me this satisfied look, as if each of my victories only sweetens his anticipation for something. Not a good sign. So figure yourself out, all right? And fast.” With that, he walked away, crossing before one of the advancing wagons and out of sight.

Jarek watched him go. His knuckles ached from how tightly he was clenching his fists. Slowly, with effort, he forced himself to relax, then hung his head and resumed his march.

Dusk was falling over the steppe, the sun sinking into a sweltering haze of crimson and burgundy on the horizon as it dissolved into a series of shimmering curves. Guthos called for them to make camp at a singular, lightning-blasted tree, and as the evening routine ensued, Kish walked purposefully toward Jarek.

How hard would it be to greet her with an embrace? To let her walk into his arms, to hold her tight, bury his face in her hair? Pretend that all the differences between them were nothing? To enjoy the moment? To simply be?

No. He was too old to delude himself, to believe in the promise of a spring love. He knew where this would go. She was just starting out, and he was making his way home to Alok. He knew the pain a relationship would bring. Best to end it now. So, before she could reach him, he turned and led the way, walking into the gathering gloom toward a distant rise behind which they might find a modicum of privacy.

The chatter of the camp receded, replaced by that breathless immensity of the steppe, the hush that made it seem as if the sky itself were inhaling all the sounds up into the darkness between the stars. Jarek stepped over the rise and descended the subtle slope a few dozen yards, then turned to wait. He crossed his arms, then dropped his hands to his hips, then crossed them again. Where was she? Had she changed her—no. There.

“They seem pretty excited about something,” said Kish as she walked down to him, the grass brushing her thighs.

“Who did?”

“The guards. Everyone, really. You didn’t notice?”

“No.”

“Probably nothing. Just a new kind of tension I hadn’t noticed before.”

“Let’s make this quick, then. Acharsis said he thought Guthos was up to something. Kish…”

“Yes, let’s cut to the chase. Why, Jarek? Why are you pushing me away?”

“You don’t see?” Frustration roiled within him at having to voice his thoughts out loud. “I’m nearly twice your age. I’m old, Kish. Twenty years ago, we would have set the world on fire - but now? This can’t work.” The words came out in a rush. “You deserve someone better. Younger. Who can dance with you, laugh with you, who doesn’t carry the weight of a life filled with regrets on his shoulders.”

“You don’t think I can make that decision?”

“No.” He jutted out his chin. “You’re living in the moment. I know what that’s like. Used to do it myself. You think that nothing matters beyond the now, that passion alone can justify all the pains that are to come.”

“We might die tonight, or next week, Jarek. You’re damn right I’m living for now. Irella’s after us—”

“That’s true for any life.” He gestured blindly out toward the dark. “Everyone thinks they’ll live to fifty or sixty. But everyone, no matter their station or wealth, could die at a moment’s notice. So, no, I won’t use that line of thinking to justify folly. Not when I know better.”

“You know better.” Her tone was hardening. “Clearly. You’re such a paragon of wisdom and balance. It’s impossible that you’re pushing me away because of your pain, isn’t it? Impossible that your brush with Alok opened all your old wounds. That you’re pushing me away not because you don’t want pain, but because you can’t bear to feel alive after being divine for a few hours?”

Her words were like punches to the gut. He wanted to stride away. To push past her and return to camp. “Yes, I’m broken. That’s what you’re saying, and I agree.” His hands flexed in helpless anger. “I’m not a good time, Kish. I’m not going to laugh, and drink, and enjoy the moment with you. I’m a broken man. That what you want to hear?”

“No, Jarek—”

“I meant to die that night in Rekkidu. Instead, I visited the netherworld. I saw my father and I brought him back to life, and for a few hours I was a demigod again. I felt tens of thousands of souls flood me with their faith and strength - and then it was torn away from me. Again. You can’t know what that’s like. You’re just a godsblood. You have no idea what it feels like to have divinity stripped away from you.”

He advanced on her, loomed over her, and she was forced back, one step, two, three. “Jarek,” she tried, but he cut in again.

“I don’t want your pity,” he said. “And I can’t pretend I’m nineteen and nothing else matters but fucking. So, yes. It’s over. And in time, you’ll look back and know I was right.”

“I don’t need time.” Her voice was shaking. “I’ve changed my mind. I agree with you right now. In fact—”

“Wait.” He raised a hand.

“Wait? Wait for what?”

“Shh,” he said, cocking his head to one side. Had he imagined it? A rumbling? No, a pounding of hooves. “Down!”

They both fell into crouches, the tops of their heads barely above the grass, and a moment later a wave of horsemen rode past them, surging up the shallow rise and pouring over the top to the camp beyond.

Jarek’s hand closed over the haft of his Sky Hammer, but there were far too many: dozens upon dozens of dark shapes on their steppe ponies, shadows flitting past, and then the last of them were gone.

“What’s going on?” asked Kish, half-rising. “An attack?”

“Not an attack,” said Jarek, moving forward. “No weapons drawn. No war cries. Come on.”

He crept toward the ridge and looked at the camp beyond. It was ringed now by several hundred mounted nomads, their faces illuminated by the guards’ torches. Nobody seemed alarmed. A barrel-chested nomad dismounted and moved forward to meet with Guthos.

“Not an attack,” breathed Kish with relief. “Come on. Let’s—hey!”

Jarek pulled her back down by the shoulder. “Hold on.”

Shouts rose up from the camp, cries of outrage and anger. Familiar voices. Jarek saw Sisu and Elu herded forward, then Annara behind them. Last came Acharsis, his face bloodied, arms bound behind his back.

Guthos bowed low and gestured at the four. The Athite leader beamed, clapped his hands, and his men moved forward to claim their prisoners.

“Bastard,” said Jarek. Cases were being unloaded and given to the nomads, the guards working hurriedly as the Athites called out in mocking tones. “He sold us out.”

CHAPTER NINE

The men had his arms twisted behind his back and were hauling him forward. No matter how Acharsis thrashed, their grip was solid. In desperation, he threw himself forward, managing to break free for but a moment before a fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over.

Acharsis gasped, tried to inhale, but nothing came. Suddenly reeling, he was unable to fend off the hands that latched on to him again, that wrenched his arms behind his back and drove him forward into the space between the wagons where Guthos stood smiling. Beside him, a heavyset Athite, bedecked in gold, eyes gleaming with avarice.

A foot slammed into his ankles and his legs were kicked out from under him. Acharsis collapsed onto his side, what little breath he’d collected driven out of his lungs again. Wheezing, he stared at Guthos, trying to kill the man with sheer hatred alone.

“My apologies, dear Acharsis,” said Guthos. “I’m afraid I’ve proven an inhospitable host.”

Acharsis could barely breathe. It took supreme effort to just gasp out one word. “Mother…”

“Mother? You want your mother?” Guthos looked momentarily thrown off stride, but then he smiled and continued. “Yes, you’re upset. Infantilized, apparently. Understandable. Still, if it’s any consolation, I’ve traded far worthier people than yourself to the Athites in order to secure safe passage. Even Maganian royalty, would you believe? I swear, there’s no accounting for the foolishness of those who put their fates in my hands.”

“…fucker.”

Guthos paused, eyes narrowing. “Ah. Now I see what you were trying to say. Nobody insults my dear mother.” With that, he stepped forward and buried the tip of his boot in Acharsis’ gut.

Acharsis didn’t have enough breath to yell in pain. Instead, he just curled up, using the movement to turn and watch how Elu and Annara were being handled.

Annara was walking stiffly before her captors, chin raised, glaring at anybody who came too close. Elu wasn’t in sight yet. Acharsis knew Annara well enough to see the terror beyond her composure, to know how much effort it was taking her not to scream her son’s name in futile warning. They marched her up to stand beside him. One of the guards placed his foot on her calf and drove her down onto one knee.

Annara cried out, lost her balance, and fell.

Acharsis didn’t hesitate. Breath or no, he somehow rose, coming up straight beneath the guard and headbutting him under the chin. The man staggered back, but Acharsis was on him, hands grabbing his shirt to steady him as he kneed him with all the implacable strength of a dream rhino, lifting the man up onto the balls of his feet before tossing him aside and turning to point a finger in Guthos’ face.

“Any of your men touch her again like that—”

White light burst before his eyes, and when he blinked he was on the ground, grass spiking into his face. His ears were ringing. Was that laughter? Didn’t matter. Annara was shouting, and the sound of it - the desperate fear in her voice that only he could hear - drove him up once more.

Grunting in pain, he pushed himself to his knees; then, expecting the kick to the ribs, he twisted and rose to catch the incoming foot. He latched onto the boot, absorbing the blow, then twisted the toe and heel, forcing the guard to turn and fall to avoid having his knee dislocated.

Acharsis rose and backed away, arms raised before his face. A blow from behind, then another, and more laughter.

They were toying with him.

Anger. White-hot and scalding. So this is how Jarek feels. He stepped into the next punch, trapped the arm against his chest and then gave a sharp spin. The elbow - it was probably the elbow - snapped.

The guard screamed and fell back.

Elu and Sisu were being brought forward. Blood ran from a cut on his son’s brow.

Where was Jarek? Kish? He didn’t hear bellows and the sound of hammers on bone. Where were they?

“Don’t any of you whoresons touch her,” said Acharsis, backing away from the four guards closing on him.

“Acharsis, stop.” It was Annara. Elu now knelt beside her.

He should stop. It was the right, rational thing to do. He couldn’t beat all the guards. Couldn’t defeat all the Athites. All he was doing was providing amusement, making himself look ridiculous, and asking for pain.

Well, fuck it. Sometimes, he wasn’t a reasonable man.

Acharsis reached down, slipped off his sandal and hurled it at the approaching guards. They flinched and threw up their hands in an overreaction, but Acharsis wasn’t focused on them. He whirled and leaped at Guthos.

The caravan leader scrambled backward, nearly tripping on his own heels. The Athite chieftain interposed himself, swayed back from Acharsis’ punch with lazy skill and then stepped past him, slamming the inside of his elbow into Acharsis’ throat as he did so.

For a moment, Acharsis was airborne, and then he slammed down onto the ground. Again.

Hacking, fighting the urge to simply cradle his neck, he rolled onto his side. The torchlight was starting to blur. Damn it.

Elu was up, shouting something in protest.

“Leave the idiocy to me, you fool,” croaked Acharsis, but nobody heard him. As croaks went, it had been pretty pitiful. He managed to sit up in time to see Elu throw a straight punch at the Athite, who stopped it cold with his palm.

Elu tried to yank his hand back, but the Athite closed his fist around Elu’s own and began to squeeze.

“Stop!” Annara tried to leap up, but a guard was ready. He buffeted her on the side of the head, knocking her down.

“I told you,” said Acharsis, rising up, feeling drunk on pain. “Don’t you fucking touch them!”

He staggered forward. The Athite had forced Elu onto his knees again. He glanced over at Acharsis’ haphazard approach and booted Elu in the chest, sending him sprawling.

Quick, thought Acharsis. A cunning tactic. Throw another shoe? Spit blood in his eye?

He was too dizzy and nauseous to do more than feint a blow then simply lash out with his foot at the man’s groin even as he collapsed forward. The Athite turned his hip, deflecting the blow, then caught Acharsis by the shoulder, steadying him, helping him stand.

For a second, Acharsis swayed, surprised. And then the Athite chieftain’s face rushed toward his own. There was an awful crack as the man’s brow slammed into Acharsis’ face, and everything went dark.

CHAPTER TEN

“What do we do?” Kish’s voice was tight with fear and fury.

“Nothing,” said Jarek. He forced himself to remain still as he watched the events unfolding below. “Stay still. Keep down.”

Guthos and the chieftain had left their prisoners and moved to sit on stools facing each other, drinking liquor from small cups as the Athites strapped cases and goods to the backs of their ponies. The two leaders were smiling, but some kind of argument was underway. The chieftain kept shrugging and shaking his head, while Guthos pressed his case.

“What’s going on?” asked Kish.

“I’d guess the Athite is demanding more payment.” Jarek took scant comfort from Guthos’ obvious displeasure. “Guthos is probably making the case that his lost wagons mean he should pay less.”

More liquor was poured, and still the conversation continued. Jarek turned his attention to where Acharsis was bound across the back of a pony, expertly trussed and unconscious - or feigning unconsciousness. It had tested Jarek to his limits, watching his friend get battered into unconsciousness and refraining from running down to help. Sisu and Elu sat on a second pony close by, hands bound behind their backs, mouths cruelly gagged. Annara had been claimed by what looked to be a powerful warrior, and now sat behind him, face a mask of self-control.

Finally, Guthos laughed and threw up his hands. He gestured to some of his guards, and more goods were unpacked. These were quickly bound to the last of the free ponies, and then the chieftain rose to his feet. The two leaders bowed their heads to each other; the Athites mounted, and a series of high-pitched cries were given by the whole warband, who wheeled and rode off into the night.

Jarek crept back over the shallow ridge and sat. Kish joined him a moment later. He could tell she was waiting for a plan. Something brilliant. Her expectancy grated on him.

“Well?” She crouched before him. “What do we do?”

“Do? I don’t know.” He shook his head slowly. “That many Athites, this deep in the steppe? That’s no raiding party. That’s a whole tribe. There’ll be thousands of them at the main camp. Which is where they’re returning to.”

“Thousands,” said Kish. “Well, perhaps we can sneak into their camp and free the others?”

“Possible,” said Jarek. “Acharsis and the others will be lightly guarded, and held at the perimeter of their tent city. It’s likely that they’ll be able to escape by themselves, regardless.”

“Perfect,” said Kish. “Then—”

“Think,” said Jarek. “Why do the Athites make it so easy for new slaves to escape?”

Kish hesitated. “I don’t know. Stupidity?”

“It’s the quickest way to break their spirits. They let them escape, let them run for a few days across the steppe, and then snatch them back up. Bring them back to the camp, and put them in the same poorly guarded cells. Whip them. Let them escape again if they want to. Whip them again. Over and over, until their spirits break.”

“Then… then we come up with a place to hide once they’ve escaped. Where we can avoid the Athites until they give up—”

“We’re in the middle of the Golden Steppe,” said Jarek. “The Athites are amongst the world’s best trackers, especially out here. Even if we do get them away, without mounts of our own we’ll be run down in days.”

“So… we steal a dozen - no, two dozen - ponies. We mount up only six of them, and then send the rest running in all directions—”

“No. The Athites can tell from the depth of the tracks which ones are being ridden and which aren’t.”

“So we put weights on the saddles of the others—”

“There are thousands of them, Kish. They could track a hundred ponies without difficulty if they really wanted to.”

Kish subsided, her frustration obvious. “Then we buy them back!”

“With what?”

“We raid Guthos. Steal an entire wagon. Trade it for—”

“They’d take us and the wagons; or, depending how old their deal with Guthos is, return the wagon to him. We’d have no way to make them honor the bargain.”

“Damn it,” said Kish, rising to her feet and pacing off into the darkness. Jarek watched her stride back and forth, a shadow that fairly vibrated with anger. “There has to be something.”

Jarek pressed his thumbs to his eyes. Acharsis was the planner. Acharsis would be in his element here. He’d masquerade as an envoy of Guthos’, perhaps, or fake some religious miracle that would overwhelm the Athites. But he wasn’t Acharsis.

“We can take revenge on Guthos, at least,” said Kish. “Kidnap him, force him to come up with a way to free our friends…?”

“Guthos knows we’re out here,” said Jarek dully. “He’ll be expecting us. We’ll have to fight through the whole camp.”

“Then we fight!” Kish dropped quickly, clamping her hand over her mouth in alarm at her own volume. “Then we fight,” she continued in a whisper. “We kill every one of those traitorous bastards—”

“Even if we could - which we can’t - what will that achieve? It won’t bring back our friends. No.”

“Then you come up with something!”

“I’m trying,” he grated. “We don’t have much to work with.”

“There has to be something. There has to.”

There has to. Jarek closed his eyes again, lowered his chin, pursed his lips. What could he do? His Sky Hammer was just a block of stone without Alok’s blessing. He no longer wielded any divine might. He could defeat perhaps a half-dozen of the nomads before being taken himself. They couldn’t outrun the them. They couldn’t defeat them. They couldn’t reason with them. If they found out who he was, the role he had played in casting them out of the River Cities twenty-odd years ago, they’d torture him to death over the course of a month.

Think. What would Acharsis do?

Imitate someone. Jarek didn’t have the acting skills. Fake a divine miracle. Jarek didn’t know enough about the Athite religion.

A thought occurred to him. “Wait.”

“What?” Kish moved closer. “You have an idea?”

“Not an idea. More like a creative way to commit suicide. But… yes.” He felt his pulse quicken. “A chance. An impossible chance.”

“That’s better than nothing,” said Kish. “What is it?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” He rose to his feet. “Then you can tell me how crazy I am.”

“I like you crazy.” She rose smoothly to her feet. “You’ll get no objections from me. Let’s go.”

They marched through the night. Purpose fired Jarek’s stride, and Kish had no difficulty keeping up. They forged a path through the high grass, which turned silver under the light of Ninsaba’s crescent moon. Nothing stirred for miles around. The night swallowed the horizon so that it seemed as if they walked in a dream; an endless prelude to a nightmare that was always about to begin.

Slowly, the moon sank down and out of sight, and the horizon to the far east began to lighten. Somber purple gradually became cobalt blue, then ever softer hues, even as the west remained dark. The grass grew damp with dew, and Jarek fought the urge to quench his growing thirst.

He was half asleep when the ground crunched beneath his feet. He staggered to a stop and stared about him. In the pre-dawn light, the swathe of gray grass appeared otherworldly; a corridor cleaved through the endless sea of the steppe, extending as far as the eye could see to the southeast in one direction and curving gently around to the west in the other.

“Praise Scythia,” said Kish, bumping into his side. She took hold of his arm as she gazed at the dead grass. “I was beginning to think we were going to wander out here forever.”

“Not Scythia. Nekuul,” said Jarek. He reached out and took hold of one of the few remaining high stalks. It crumbled to ash in his hand. “Impossible to say how fresh this trail is. But it has to be the same one.”

Kish looked westward. “How far away would it be by now?”

“I don’t know. Only one way to find out. You good to keep walking?”

“You’re the one who pointed out I’m half your age. Keep up, old man.” She strode past him and smiled slyly over her shoulder as she went. Jarek fought the urge to smile back.

They marched throughout the day. Jarek watched their trail, unsure if Guthos would try to track them down, but by the time Qun blazed high overhead he decided they were safe. By tacit agreement they marched alongside the desiccated trail, not on it, though walking on its ruined surface would have been easier. On they strode, ever on, with no sight of their quarry.

They rested at midday beneath the remnants of a wizened tree. Its top had been bitten off, but still it provided enough shade - or the illusion of shade - for them to sit and doze against its hoary trunk. The sound of vultures woke Jarek, and he saw dozens of them eyeing him from the remaining branches, shuffling their cruelly-taloned feet and jostling for space. Dozens more wheeled overhead.

They marched on.

Qun lowered toward the horizon, and still they saw no sign. Dusk fell, and Kish set to talking about her favorite meals: how she liked nothing so much as freshly grilled lamb with mint leaves and honey; figs, freshly plucked, or even a simple grain salad; beer, cold and fresh, or even water. The sound of Jarek’s stomach growling made her stop, hand to her mouth. Then she burst out laughing, and even he had to smile.

Night fell. They slept in a hollow, little more than a rut, and the cold made it practical for them to curl up together, Kish the warm center around which he curved his body. He lay awake after she fell asleep, simply listening to her soft breaths, leaning his face in occasionally to inhale the scent of her hair. Sadness suffused him. He wanted to squeeze her in tight, keep the darkness away from her, and fought to keep his own melancholic thoughts at bay. When she stirred against him he would tense up, only to relax as she did. For a long while, he thought of kissing her neck, waking her, but he held back, and finally exhaustion claimed his thoughts.

They were up again a little after midnight. The moon was high, and they moved with urgency, tracking the dull river of ruined grass. At one point, Kish stumbled, and he caught her by the elbow. It seemed natural to let his hand slide down into hers, and for a while they marched hand in hand, the grass whispering around them, the air bitingly cold, the world endlessly removed so that there only existed a limited bowl of dusky grass and the ceaseless sky above.

Dawn was nearly breaking when Jarek finally saw the dream rhino. It was a darker mass against the night sky, lit from behind by its glowing horn so that its bulk was limned in an impossible, soft-burning purple aura. He squeezed Kish’s hand, and her head came up as if she were waking from a walking dream.

“There,” he said. “There it is.”

They stopped. It was almost half a mile away. Unaware.

“How are you…?”

“I don’t know,” said Jarek. “This is the creative suicide part, remember?”

“But you did touch it,” she said, trying to sound convinced. “You walked away once. It can be done.”

“I’m going to have to do more than touch it,” he said. “And this time, Alok isn’t going to shield me from its aura. I may collapse as soon as I get too close.”

“You won’t,” said Kish. “I know you won’t.”

“One way to find out,” he said. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

His fatigue fell away from him as they walked that last half-mile. Kish took his hand once more, and he held hers tightly, glad she was there with him. If this was to be his last moment, there was nobody else he’d rather have by his side.

When finally they drew close enough, they stopped. Neither spoke. The dream rhino was bewilderingly massive, twenty yards at the shoulder, a miniature ziggurat on the move. The grass crackled as the rhino consumed its life energy, a constant susurrus that was interspersed with the steady crunch of each massive foot being placed on the dirt.

“Wish me luck,” he said. He made to release her hand, but she held him tightly and pulled him around, her other hand slipping behind his head to pull him into a fierce kiss.

Jarek froze, eyes wide, but before he could decide whether to kiss her back, she pulled away. “Luck,” she said.

Jarek nodded woodenly, released her hand, walked backward a few steps and then turned to face the dream rhino. It seemed oblivious to his presence, still walking away from them, each step carrying it a dozen yards. “Luck,” he whispered, then inhaled deeply that familiar scent of dung and fennel.

He squared his shoulders and moved up alongside it, staying just outside the radius of desiccated grass until he was abreast with its front shoulder. He saw its head in profile at last: a great wedge that seemed to thrust directly from its mountainous shoulders, broad where the small ears emerged and tapering down to its small mouth. Liquid black eyes framed by large, delicate lashes, the curvature of each eye reflecting the lurid illumination from the horn that rose from the beak of its front lip to extend almost five yards into the air; a flat blade of bone that bifurcated at the tip, useless as a weapon but glowing with incised lines and what looked like runes in a language nobody had ever been able to decipher. The Nekuulites were said to have derived their secret language from it.

The purple glow pulsed as the dream rhino fed; it cast an otherworldly illumination on the ground before it, bathed the stony ridges of its face, and made the night beyond seem all the more impenetrable.

“Luck,” whispered Jarek to himself again. The last - and only - time he’d attempted this, he’d still been within the farthest limits of Alok’s power; had been able to stagger forward, shielded from the worst of the rhino’s aura, to reach its pebbled flank and brush his fingers across its rough hide. He’d felt the surprising warmth of the beast, like a sun-warmed stone, and then fallen away, assailed by visions he’d forgotten the moment he’d left the aura.

Jarek dry swallowed. The dream rhino took a step, and just like that, it was a dozen yards beyond him. No time to rest. No time to doubt. Aware of Kish watching him, he squared his shoulders and stepped onto the dying grass.

It was like stepping out of shadow into sunlight. Warmth washed over him, his skin prickled, his mouth flooded with saliva and the taste of fennel. His chest tightened. The purple aura from the horn was everywhere, suffusing the night, creating a bubble in whose center walked the dream rhino. The aura played over its skin like light reflecting off water, or summer lightning dancing across the steppe.

Jarek took a deep breath and felt his mouth and throat immediately dry out. Another step, and another. Alok did not rise within him as the time before. The effect did not wash away. Instead, he felt feverish, knees loose, the sensation of the ground beneath his feet growing distant. His very sense of his own body began to warp, so that he felt as if he were floating over the ground even as he struggled with each step.

Gritting his jaw, he pressed closer, trying to hurry. The dream rhino’s form undulated before him as if seen through a heat shimmer, the huge folds of its thick hide seeming to swim. For a moment it seemed smaller than he did, and then it expanded to fill his entire field of vision, becoming a wall that he could never hope to scale.

The ground beneath his feet crunched, and when he looked down he saw bones hidden amongst the gray grass. Ribs and grinning skulls, femurs and random knobs of vertebrae. An old battlefield? He searched the ground and saw that the gray waste extended now beyond the purple aura. The steppe was gone. The dream rhino was moving through a trackless waste of ash, distant hills silhouetted against stormy, impossible skies of shifting crimson and black.

He’d been here before. He knew this place.

Sweat stung his eyes. He blinked, and in a flicker the steppe was back, the dream rhino nearly past him. Kish was calling out, but he couldn’t understand her words. Gripping hold of the Sky Hammer with both hands, he forced himself to jog up beside the dream rhino once more, head lowered as if running into a strong wind. The bones were gone. The purple radiance played across him, causing the hairs along the back of his arms to stand. Tracing his scars.

Thud. The dream rhino’s front left leg impacted with the ground, raising a cloud of ash. Jarek thrust his hammer into his belt, broke into a sprint and leaped just before he reached the leg, clutching at a ridge of hide just behind its knee. He slammed into its calf, and felt its heat radiate into him, banishing the cold. He grabbed on with both hands, suddenly sweating profusely. Cries rose up all around him, a chorus of lamentation, thousands wailing in sorrow and loss, but he ignored the sound and focused on one thing alone: climbing up.

The rough hide swum in and out of focus as he fought his way up. The dream rhino didn’t react to his presence at all. Suddenly, the leg lurched up and swung through space, and when it stepped down again the force was such that he was nearly knocked clear off.

He could feel himself weakening, his grip growing loose. With a cry he pulled himself up, then again. Stuck his toes into a broad seam, then flung himself off the leg and onto its side, grabbing hold of large whorls in its hide. The sky above him was crimson once more, riven by soundless lightning. A dusty wind tugged at him. Up he fought, grabbing at boney protrusions.

One final gasp of effort, and he crawled up over the rhino’s neck. Heaving for breath, he lay across it, trying not to vomit, to not look at the world around him. A ragged gasp, and he turned to climb up between its shoulders. Still it walked on, muscles the size of bridges sliding and bunching beneath the impossibly thick skin. Jarek grasped and pulled, swayed and hauled, dots of white dancing in his vision, till at last he was able to turn around and fall to his knees, right between its shoulders, and gaze out over its head, between the forked tip of its horn and out into the netherworld.

The steppe was truly gone. Everywhere, he saw Nekuul’s dominion. A river of souls was marching by to his right; an endless procession of the dead, some sobbing, some crying for succour, most with their heads bowed in defeat. Hills of bone rose here and there, shrines at their peaks, where shadows whirled and screamed their devotion. Lightning flickered on, and dust was whipped into whirlwinds by the cruel gusts that sought to flay skin.

Jarek took a deep breath. He could barely keep his head up. He felt impossibly weak. Only the sheer breadth of the rhino’s back kept him from falling off. Inhaling deeply, he looked up into the crimson sky and bellowed with all his strength, “Nekuul! Attend me! It is I, Jarek, son of Alok! I beg you, come to me now!”

The wind howled around him, growing in strength, forming a vortex of ash around him that forced Jarek to raise a hand to shield his eyes. Grimacing, he peered between his outstretched fingers and saw a figure approaching through the storm, hovering in the air as if carried by the very currents that harried him.

Presumption, said the voice, and Jarek felt as if an ice-cold finger had traced his every bone. Arrogance. A pause, then: Ingenuity.

Jarek fought the urge to supplicate. He was Alok’s son, not hers. “My lady, forgive me my sins. Desperation drives me. Your dream rhino afforded me an opportunity to right wrongs. Hear my plea.”

Your wrongs take place outside my realm. What transpires in the world of the living is not my concern. Why should I involve myself in your troubles, son of Alok?

Never had Jarek been so aware of his own vitality. The gaze of the goddess made him conscious of his soul, fluttering within his breast like a caged butterfly. “You know that I have no other recourse. My father lies overthrown in your realm. You must have some sense of balance. For death to exist, there must be life, must there not? And in the world of the living, that balance is gone. Your daughter, Irella, has broken it. I hope that awareness might incline you to listen to my plea with some measure of forbearance.”

The goddess did not respond.

“I don’t ask for much. All I ask is that you allow me to direct this dream rhino for a day, to guide its footsteps as I will. I shall keep it away from your faithful, and do nothing to harm the cities that worship you. You have my word on this.”

You think me unable to calculate the consequences of your request? They might be too subtle for your mortal eye, but I can see the manifold futures that such a request would birth.

Jarek sought a response, a way to convince her. Nothing came to mind.

But... it is as you say. The balance must be redressed, even in some small measure. Even if that opens the possibility of revolution. I grant your wish, son of Alok. For a day, my servant shall go where you direct, and you shall be free of the power of its aura.

Jarek felt a thrill of victory. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you.”

Twice you have visited my realm before your time, she said. The third time, you shall not leave. I shall see you soon, son of Alok.

Her words hit Jarek with punishing force and he reeled back - but the vortex of ash was gone. He sat athwart the dream rhino’s shoulders with only the endless steppe extending in all directions before him, the sun’s uppermost edge now visible over the horizon.

I shall see you soon, son of Alok. How soon? Was his death imminent? Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pivoted where he crouched and saw Kish keeping pace off to the right. The sight of her flooded him with resolve, and he lifted a fist high into the air. The sound of her victory cry brought a grin to his face, even as Nekuul’s words continued to resound in his mind.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Acharsis fought the urge to spit. Instead, he tongued the dusty interior of his mouth, unable to leave his wobbly tooth alone, and looked out through the bars.

Two days they’d been held prisoner by the Athites, and for two days they’d been largely ignored. From their cage he could see a large line of tents arrayed before him, a narrow path winding its way between them and the next row. Women and children hurried back and forth, busy with domestic tasks that he couldn’t be bothered to figure out. Still, he smiled at every person who looked his way, bobbed his head, seeking some flicker of empathy or concern in whichever dark gaze he could hold.

Didn’t find any.

Sighing, he leaned his shoulder against the wooden bar and looked at where the others lay. The bars overhead provided precious little shade, and this - combined with the minimal water rations they were given - meant that all of them were parched and burned. Elu lay with his head in Annara’s lap, while Sisu sat in the far corner, head lolling back, sleeping uneasily.

Acharsis placed his pebble back in his mouth and sucked slowly at it, letting his spit form and provide him with an illusion of water. The bulk of the men would be back soon from whatever hunts or raids they left on each day. The camp would fill with the sound of their cries and laughter, dust washing over the tents as hundreds of horses came stamping in to be corralled. Women and children would rush to greet their husbands, and music would start up, life shattering the serenity of the camp. Any moment now.

“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?” asked Annara softly.

Acharsis turned to regard her. “I thought you were asleep.”

“You should know better.”

Acharsis nodded. How could she rest while Elu was in danger? For all his ferocity and bid for independence, he was still but a youth, and had sought comfort from his mother after being thrown in this cage. “Fair enough. And… yes. I’m waiting for him. But to be honest, I can’t imagine what he could do.”

“I know. If he had his powers still…”

It was a conversation they’d had many times already. If Jarek still had Alok's blessing, then maybe he could take on an entire nomad city - but without it? Acharsis spent the first day racking his brains to figure out a genuine escape plan, not the obvious trap that lay open before them with their flimsy gate and flimsier lock. He’d had to physically bar Sisu from trying to escape last night, had been forced to stiff-arm the Nekuulite away from the door, explaining for the second time how breaking free in such a manner would only lead to days of torment and pain.

“There has to be a way out,” he muttered. “Feign death? No. Hard to convince people you’re dead when they give you an experimental stab. Reveal our true natures? Too risky. They’d probably hand us off to Irella in exchange for some gain. Pretend to have a vision? Fake a prophecy? Possible.” He tapped his chin.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Give up?” He made a face. “Why ever would I give up?”

“We’re surrounded by thousands of Athites. You told us yourself how impossible it is to escape them, on foot or on horse; how Athite slaves remain such for the rest of their lives. Anybody else would be despairing. But you’re still trying to figure out a way.”

“Course I am,” he said, roping his arms around his knees. “There’s always a way. Always. The solution to any problem under Qun’s blazing sun is perseverance plus thought. There’s nothing that can’t be done if you just set your mind to it long enough.”

“How long will they keep us in this cage?”

“They’ll hold us here until we try to escape. Not trying will only make us worthless in their eyes, completely without spirit, and they’ll start reducing our water until we die. So. We’ll have to make a go of it within a week or so. I’m thinking… perhaps we break free, but don’t flee into the steppe. Instead, we try to hide within the camp.” He tapped his chin again. “It’s large enough that conceivably we could pretend to be someone else’s slaves on an errand. Everybody might think we’re on someone else’s business and leave us alone. We hide at night under—I don’t know—boxes, or hay, or whatever… and wait until they strike camp and move. Then we endeavor to be left behind with the rest of the camp refuse.”

Annara sat up. “Do you think that could work?”

“Could it? Yes. Is it likely to? No.” Acharsis sighed. “The camp remains would be picked over by the poorest of the Athites, who would discover us pretty quickly. And the odds of our surviving hidden in the camp itself until they pack up and move? A camp this large only moves once every few months. We’d have to survive for weeks without being apprehended, and we’re a distinctive lot. So… no. I’ll just add that to my growing pile of desperate stratagems.”

Distant cries filtered through the air, familiar from the evening before: high-pitched whoops and shrill calls that signalled the approach of the main host. Acharsis opened and closed his left hand, massaging the fingers that had been sprained in the fight. “We’ll think of something. There has to be a way.”

She was watching him. Not speaking, just watching, and running her fingers through their son’s hair. He could feel her gaze even as he looked out through the bars. “I’ll get us out, Annara. I’ll get him out. I promise you.”

“I’d laugh, but after Rekkidu I’m inclined to believe your reckless promises.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her.

He chanced a glance in her direction. “Perseverance plus time.”

“That formula is missing an element. Perseverance, plus time, plus Acharsis.”

“Careful,” he said. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Maybe it was.”

“I thought you were inexplicably furious with me in a way that makes perfect sense only if you’re a woman.”

She canted her head to one side. “See? It’s comments like that that get you in trouble.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“You are. And... thank you. I’ve been meaning to say it.”

“You’re welcome. But what for?”

“For trying to protect Elu and I when the Athites came.”

“Oh, come on.” He looked away, back to the dusky path between the tents where children and women were hurrying. “You make it sound noble, to defend—” He cut himself off. To defend your woman and son.

She didn’t respond. Bleak despair fought to get its claws in him. The odds were terrible. A realist would make peace with their new life as a slave. Start thinking about how best to please the Athites, how to gain their trust, how to wrest independence from them. Instead, here he was, furiously trying to imagine a means of escape that had even the slightest chance of success. Perseverance plus time plus Acharsis. It might make Annara feel better to believe it, but he knew better. They were fucked.

Sisu startled and sat up with a cry, arms rising to ward off a blow. He blinked, came to himself, then sagged back against the bars. “Not a dream, then.”

“No,” said Acharsis. “At least, not my kind of dream.”

“Don’t ask him,” said Annara. “He’s just hoping for an excuse to be lewd.”

“How can you be so cheerful about this?” asked Sisu. He hugged himself. “Unless you’ve come up with a plan to escape?”

“Not yet,” said Acharsis, trying to sound cheerful. “But a plan is imminent.”

“Imminent,” said Sisu. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined myself ending up as an Athite slave. And I won’t.” A new surety entered his voice. “I’ll tell them who I am. They’ll give me back to my mother.”

“You sure you want that?” asked Acharsis.

“It’s better than being a slave.”

“I don’t see how it would be so different. After your past… indiscretions… I doubt Irella will be very tolerant of your idiosyncrasies. You’ll be made to work night and day. Watched by guards. Forced to live the rest of your life out in her service. That what you want?”

Sisu turned away, staring out the bars toward the steppe beyond. “Better beds, at any rate.”

“Yes, yes, better beds, better whips, all sorts of—what is it?”

Sisu had stiffened and turned around altogether so that he was on his knees, gripping the bars and staring out at the dusk.

“Sisu?” Annara shook Elu, who sat up in confusion. “What is it?”

Acharsis hurried over to the other side of the cage and stared into the gloom. It took him a moment to catch sight of what Sisu had seen. “A dream rhino?”

“Coming this way?” asked Annara, moving to crouch beside them.

“Impossible,” said Acharsis. “They shy away from people. It’s well known that they avoid camps.”

“Well known?” asked Sisu. “That one’s coming right for us.”

Shouts rose up from beyond the tents.

“Looks like the Athites have noticed, too,” said Annara.

A dozen horsemen rode into view, galloping across the flattened grass and bare dirt where flocks of goats had been grazing for a few months. Another group rode in from the other side. Breathless, Acharsis watched as the two groups reached the dream rhino then parted before it to circle and come riding back at a furious gallop.

“They don’t look happy,” said Acharsis.

“That’s good, right?” Elu was peering over his shoulder. “Whatever upsets them is good for us?”

The horsemen rode out of sight.

“Hard to say just yet,” said Acharsis.

Sisu knelt and clasped his hands before him. “My lady Nekuul has sensed my plight. She sends her sacred servant to save me.”

“Hard to say,” said Acharsis again, seesawing his head from one side to the other. “But… unlikely?”

“There’s someone riding the rhino,” said Elu. “Look. Can you make him out?”

“Hmm?” Acharsis pressed his face to the bars. The dream rhino was a dark blur, moving ever closer, the glowing purple horn reducing the rest of its mass to a shadow. “You sure it’s a him?”

“That, or a very large lady with broad shoulders and some beard,” said Elu.

“Jarek?” asked Annara.

“Can’t be,” said Acharsis. “Can it?”

A wave of horsemen rode out, blazing torches held aloft. About a hundred of them, Acharsis guessed. They flowed down to the dream rhino and there began to circle it, whooping and crying out and waving their flaming brands.

The rhino continued to placidly walk straight toward the camp. After a minute, the horsemen hurled their torches into the grass before the rhino and rode back a few hundred yards to wait and watch.

The rhino’s horn pulsed brightly, and the flames died down and then disappeared. Smoke rose from the extinguished brands, and the rhino walked calmly over them.

“It must be Jarek,” said Annara. “But how?”

“This couldn’t happen without Nekuul’s blessing,” snapped Sisu. “If it’s him, then she’s using him to save me.”

“Fine, yes,” said Acharsis. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he makes it all the way here. Look.”

More horsemen were riding out. Hundreds now, the entire force of the camp. They rode with spears held aloft, silently now, their intent lethal. The original group turned and joined ranks, drawing their own weapons as they galloped toward the approaching rhino.

“They mean to kill it,” said Annara.

“Or wound it enough from a safe distance to drive it away,” said Acharsis. “The Athites wouldn’t dare risk Nekuul’s displeasure so openly.”

“Or kill Jarek,” said Elu darkly. “If he’s controlling it, then killing him would free it to act normally.”

“Damn,” said Acharsis. He could barely make out the figure riding on the rhino’s massive shoulders.

Four or five hundred Athite nomads were pounding down toward the rhino, the sheer force of their charge making the ground vibrate even at this remove. Acharsis gripped the bars with both hands. He couldn’t do anything but watch as the distance between the rhino and its attackers shrank. Five hundred yards. Four hundred. Its aura was, what—twenty feet or so? The nomads would be able to hurl their spears as they rode by. Jarek didn’t stand a chance.

Three hundred yards. On they charged, the warriors rising with impossible grace, guiding their mounts with their knees alone. This was why the nomads were so feared. Why they’d almost taken the River Cities two decades ago. Their speed, mobility and ferocity made them unimaginably dangerous foes. You couldn’t clinch with them, couldn’t force them into a toe-to-toe fight. They would ride endlessly past your forces, peppering them, harrowing them, whittling them down. Whenever you charged, they melted away like mist. It was like boxing with shadows. Only the combined forces of the gods had allowed Acharsis and his fellow demigods to drive them forth, and even then only once the nomads had taken cities they sought to hold.

Two hundred yards. Spears were raised aloft. On came the rhino, each step covering a tremendous span of land. Acharsis’ pulse was racing. He couldn’t breathe. Jarek’s tiny figure seemed impossibly vulnerable and exposed atop the rhino’s back.

It was hard to make out the remaining distance now, but there were but seconds left. Acharsis closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer to his father, Ekillos; sought to not rush through the words, to not let his despair color them, the knowledge that his father couldn’t hear his plea. Wouldn’t be able to intercede even if he could.

“Look!” Sisu’s cry made Acharsis’ eyes snap open. The dream rhino’s horn was flaring brightly, making it hard to look at directly, casting forth a brilliance that silhouetted the riders even from this distance. The gray corona of dead grass surged out from around the rhino’s feet, expanding rapidly to where the riders were galloping, surprising them and causing them to scream and turn their horses aside, ruining the charge.

Then they began to fall.

Their horses reared, kicking their front legs, or fell over onto their sides to roll and thrash amidst the trampled grass. Their riders cried out, dropped their spears, threw up their arms or flailed at the air as if assailed by demons. Hundreds of them milled about, many tripping and falling over their brothers, their piteous wails rising as visions assailed them.

“By Ekillos,” whispered Acharsis. Never had he seen the like. The entire attacking force was undone, a maelstrom of hooves and screams. Those at the very rear of the group wheeled away in panic and raced back toward the camp.

Sisu laughed and gave the bars a shake. “Taste the wrath of the goddess of death, you heathen bastards. Bow down! You’d do well to kneel, to beg for mercy, though it would be for naught! My mistress spares nobody, and—”

“Easy there,” said Acharsis, giving Sisu’s shoulder a squeeze. “Look. He’s still coming.”

And indeed, he was. The dream rhino continued its placid approach, its horn now glowing normally once more, and to Acharsis’ horror it began to wade through the morass of fallen warriors. Each foot was the size of a tent, and swooped down to crush the fallen beneath its sole without mercy or hesitation. The screams took on a new tenor, and still the rhino came.

“Don’t watch,” said Annara, reaching up to turn Elu’s chin, but he blocked her hand and kept his gaze focused on the carnage below.

“Elu, come help me with this,” said Acharsis, moving to the prison door.

“You’re being obvious,” said Elu. “You’re just trying to please my mother.”

“No, I’m trying to make sure we can escape when the moment presents itself. Unless you’d rather prove how tough you are at the expense of getting out of here?”

Elu scowled and hurried over. Outside, Acharsis could hear the cries and wails of the Athites as panic stole over the camp.

The door was lashed together with oiled rope and firmly knotted on the far side. It would take hours to undo, and their guards had never bothered to actually open the door; what food and water they were given was passed to them through the bars or simply thrown down on the ground.

“Here,” said Acharsis. “Take turns with me.” So saying, he stepped back, bit his lower lip, then planted his sandalled foot as hard as he could into the wooden beam that framed the door.

The whole cage shook, the beam flexing beneath the attack, but Elu’s kick came right after. Acharsis booted it again. Athites rushed by outside, but nobody paid them any heed. Again, Elu kicked the door, and this time they were rewarded with a satisfying crack.

“Good man,” said Acharsis, then grunted as he kicked right where Elu had created a hairline fissure in the wood.

“He’s almost here,” called out Sisu. “Hurry!”

Again and again they pounded at the door, but the flexibility of the wood prevented them from shattering it altogether. A faint crackling filled his ears, like Khartisian frost crunching beneath his boots, and then he turned and saw that the dream rhino was almost upon them.

“Kish!” Sisu rushed to the side of the prison and gripped the bars. “Over here!”

She’d emerged onto the path between the tents perhaps thirty yards down, hammer in hand, and turned at the sound of Sisu’s cry with a grin. “Sisu!” She raced over, ignoring the cries of surprise from a group of Athite women, and reached the door. “Get back!”

She swung her hammer with both hands, and the wooden beam exploded into a shower of splinters. Acharsis wasted no time in yanking the rope lock free and throwing the door open. Sisu pushed past and pulled Kish into an embrace, then moved on so that the others could follow.

“Come on!” said Kish. “We’ve got to flee!”

“No,” said Acharsis, reaching out to grab her by the arm. “Not out into the steppe. We need mounts. We need water and food, or we’ll not last a day. Follow me!”

He led them along the path as best he could, the others behind him. Some instinct, some sixth sense told him that the dream rhino’s aura was nearly upon them. He could feel its approach, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms prickling. Was it trying to blanket the entire camp?

They broke out into an open square fronted on all sides by fencing and large tents. The smell of horse dung was pungent here, and voices were raised in shouts, a group of warriors shoving at each other in fear and anger. Beyond them stood the Athite chieftain, Razan, his great scimitar in hand, flanked by his clanmates, wrestling with the reins of an ebon stallion that was rearing and resisting his attempts to control it.

The warriors ceased their shouting and stared at Acharsis. The stallion broke free and charged away between the tents, Razan no longer caring as he turned to stare as well. No, realized Acharsis as a feverish haze swept over him; they were staring past him. Past him, and up.

Acharsis turned and saw the dream rhino’s great head slide into view over the closest tent, horn glowing with effulgent purple light, and then the tent collapsed under its bloody foot and the aura fell upon them.

The tents around them swayed as if suddenly caught in a fierce storm, and the horses shrilled and whinnied in terror. Cries of alarm from the warriors melted into each other, and purple rivers of light sluiced overhead to come crashing down like lightning strikes across the square.

Annara screamed, clutched at her face as if intending to claw out her eyes, and collapsed. Acharsis caught her just in time, slipped her over his shoulder, and saw that the others were glowing as if filled with candlelight. Sisu shone most brilliant of all, and even Elu was lit with his own inner light.

God’s blood, thought Acharsis. It’s keeping us sane.

Not so the Athite warriors. They screamed as Annara had and began to collapse, to stagger around, waving their blades at unseen enemies before falling. Gritting his teeth, Acharsis strode across the square, fighting for focus as visions of the dead began to assail him. He tripped over a protruding bone, then startled as an inhuman scream sounded from behind him and sawed higher and higher until it was suddenly cut off.

“This way!” cried Sisu, seemingly unaffected. He strode forward, pulling Acharsis by the sleeve. The dream rhino was continuing forward, crushing more tents as it proceeded into the center of the camp. Acharsis, sweating profusely, followed.

Two Athites somehow had the wherewithal to stagger toward Sisu, interposing themselves between him and the chieftain. Sisu raised his hand and cast two balls of churning green flame at them, smiting them in the chests and causing them to fall. He laughed, delighted, and hurried past the reeling Athite chieftain to where the horses were panicking within the corral.

“In the name of my dread mistress, queen of this realm, empress of eternity - know peace!” Sisu’s voice was pitched to carry, and to Acharsis’ amazement the horses stilled. “Oh.” Sisu looked down at his hands. “That worked. Here; you as well.” He extended his hands to where Acharsis, Elu and Kish stood, and it was like a curtain parting, or an urn of cool water being suddenly poured over his head on a blazing hot day.

The feverish intensity of the air receded, and Acharsis gasped as strength flooded back into his limbs. The sight of the dead clawing their way up out of the ground faded, and once again they stood in the Athite camp.

Acharsis and Kish hurried to fetch the horses. Many of them were still saddled from their day’s ride. Acharsis gathered three of them, nodding to Kish as she and Sisu pulled another three closer, and then turned to see Elu walking slowly toward the chieftain.

The Athite held his scimitar with both hands, head whipping from side to side as if possessed. He alternately grimaced and smiled, a disturbing sight, and shifted his weight, turning back and forth as if seeking to keep a dozen enemies in view all at once.

“Elu!” Acharsis took a step toward his son. “Stop! Come back!”

“This is for my mother,” said Elu, pausing only to draw a sword from one of the charred corpses.

“Elu!” Acharsis thought of handing his reins to Kish, of running after his son, but he knew it was too late. He watched as his son drew the sword back and then swiped it across the chieftain’s neck, the force of the blow knocking the man back even as it tore open his throat.

Blood geysered forth. The Athite let out a choking cry and dropped his sword. He placed both hands across his throat, staggered, then fell.

“Elu,” whispered Acharsis. The youth never looked away as the chieftain kicked and then went still. “Elu!”

Elu hesitated, bent down to pull something from the corpse, then jogged over. His expression was hard, his mouth a taut line, his eyes bleak and distant. He met Acharsis’ gaze defiantly, daring him to say something, but Acharsis held his tongue. Elu strode past him, took a set of reins from Kish, and then climbed up onto the saddle.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Acharsis, the sounds of screams and terror rising from all around the camp. He heaved Annara over the saddle and then pulled himself up after her. “After me. Let’s ride!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kish led them in a swooping circle around the rear of the great tent city. Chaos had descended upon the Athites; everywhere horses reared, people screamed and clutched at their heads, sank to their knees or fell unconscious to the ground. Overhead the purple aura of the dream rhino coruscated, casting a dome of energy over the camp. Maddened teams of riders charged past, lost in their own visions, swinging their swords at eidolons until they fell from their saddles, overcome.

“Jarek said he’d meet us at the rear of the camp!” Kish was bent low over her horse’s neck, galloping through the madness. Athites were boiling out of their camp like ants from a kicked-over nest.

“And the rhino?” Acharsis held on grimly to his horse’s reins with one hand, using the other to steady Annara before him. He hated the way she was bouncing across the front of the saddle, but there was nothing he could do.

“He’s abandoning it! Should have done so already!”

They swung around the perimeter of the camp until the rhino’s entry point came into view, the grass dead, the tents collapsed. Jarek was running with a ragged gait into the open, his Sky Hammer in one hand. At the sight of them he stopped, raised his arm, and then collapsed face first into the dirt.

“Jarek!” Kish urged her horse forward and was off it before it had even stopped. Acharsis was right behind, and was about to dismount when he saw her lift Jarek by herself, the muscles of her arms and back writhing as she got her shoulder under his bulk and then hefted him up onto her horse.

“Do you… need… never mind.” Acharsis watched in amazement as Kish leaped up onto the saddle behind Jarek. “Scythia’d be proud, girl.” He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Let’s get out of here!”

They rode hard for an hour, nobody speaking, all of them casting worried glances behind them. The camp was soon lost from view. Nobody came after them. Still, Acharsis was worried about running into outriders or patrols; he kept a wary eye on the horizon at all times, and when it was finally so dark that he could barely see the others beside him, he called for a stop.

Annara was murmuring, caught in delirium, turning her head from one side to the other. Carefully, Acharsis pulled her from the horse. Elu was by his side a moment later, and together they laid her on the grass. Sisu stepped up, his expression hard to make out in the dark.

“She’ll be all right soon,” he said, kneeling beside her. “She just needs rest. Time will draw her out of Nekuul’s influence.”

Kish heaved Jarek down beside Annara and then fell, collapsing onto her rear. “And Jarek?”

Sisu pressed his hand to Jarek’s brow. “The same. What he did… I’ve never heard of the like. He is blessed by my goddess. It’s the only explanation.”

“Good,” said Kish, and fell onto her back, one wrist draped over her eyes. “I could sleep for a week.”

“Not yet,” said Acharsis, struggling to his feet. “We’ll rest for an hour and then we have to move again.”

“You think they’ll follow us?” Elu’s voice was quiet. Not alarmed, not frightened.

Acharsis nodded, then realized nobody could see him in the dark. “Soon as the moon rises, we’ll be visible for miles around. Tonight’s likely to be our only reprieve. Come morning, a new chieftain will claim control of the Athites. I can’t say for sure if they’ll make us a priority, but they will if someone saw us collecting Jarek. We need to be long gone by then - in some other tribe’s territory, if possible.”

“You know which way to go?” asked Elu.

“I will come sunrise. Soon as we can make out the Maganian mountains we’ll head for them. We’ll make far better speed now that we’re free of the wagons, and it’ll be speed that will keep us safe. With a little luck we should reach the Maganian gulf in three days, maybe four.”

“And then?” Sisu rose, shoulders stiff, arms crossed. “Or are we going to continue to improvise as we go?”

“Then we’ll sell the horses in exchange for passage down to Magan,” said Acharsis. “Once we reach the delta, we’ll sail up it to the first major city we find, and then, yes. We’ll improvise.”

“Sleep,” said Kish. “He said we could sleep for an hour. Why are we talking?”

Acharsis could imagine Sisu’s scowl perfectly. “Because—”

“Sleep,” said Kish, rolling over to place an arm across Jarek’s chest. “Now.”

Sisu clicked in disgust and walked over to where the horses were gathered.

“You’re not telling us everything,” said Elu quietly.

“No,” said Acharsis. “There are certain things we can’t control. No sense in getting everybody worried about them. Either things will work out, or… not.”

“Such as?”

Acharsis hesitated. Elu watched him steadily. The boy had changed. Even thinking of him as a boy no longer felt right. “Water, for one. These horses can’t ride forever without it. They’re exhausted enough as it is. If we don’t find water for them soon, it’ll take us much longer than three or four days to reach the gulf.”

“Anything else?”

Acharsis wrapped his arms around his knees and linked his hands. “Plenty, unfortunately. Even if we escape the Athites, the odds are high that we’ll run afoul of other tribes. We haven’t done an inventory of what’s in our horses’ packs - how much food we’re carrying. None of us are qualified to cleanse us of our spiritual pollution, and being in the dream rhino’s aura has surely tainted us. Want me to go on?”

“No,” said Elu. “That’s enough, I guess.”

Acharsis hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject, then simply asked, “What did you collect from the chieftain’s corpse?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to bring this up. You think I was wrong to kill him.”

“No, not wrong. Just cold.”

“Cold. I suppose it was.” Elu looked down at his hands. “But I’m glad I did.”

“You feel anything else?”

“You’re not my father,” said Elu. “Don’t pretend you are.”

“True enough,” said Acharsis. “But can you see Kenu talking to you about murder?”

Elu stiffened. “It wasn’t murder.”

“All right. What would you call it?”

“Revenge,” said Elu.

“Revenge. And do you feel better now?”

Elu looked down at his hands once more. “I didn’t do it to feel better. I did it because it was right. And I took this so I will always remember the moment.” He threw something into Acharsis’ lap.

Acharsis held it up. It was cold, metallic, finely crafted. A spiral. The golden snake that the chieftain had worn about his bicep. It was sticky with dried blood. “I’ll say one thing, not as your father, but as someone who wants to be your friend. Don’t take pride in doing things just because they were hard to do. What seems necessary but distasteful in the moment may haunt you for years to come. Listen to your better instincts. The more you do, the louder they’ll speak to you, and the less regrets you’ll have by the time you’re my age.”

Elu snorted. “As you say.”

“As I say. Anyway. Rest. I’ll keep watch,” said Acharsis.

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re bone-tired. You just don’t know it. Do this: lie down and close your eyes. If you’re not asleep in under a minute, you can take the watch. Agreed?”

He could sense Elu trying to find a reason to argue with him. Something that wouldn’t sound petty or foolish. In the end, the boy simply turned away and lay down. A few moments later, his breathing slowed, deepened, and he was asleep.

Kish was starting to snore lightly. Acharsis rose and pressed a hand to Jarek’s brow. Warm, but not fevered. He then moved over to Annara, who was the same. After making sure they were comfortable, he forced himself to stand and move to the group’s edge, gazing back in the direction of the Athite camp. He’d fall asleep if he remained sitting. Arms crossed, he watched as the moon slowly emerged above the horizon.

The odds of their reaching the Maganian gulf were slim. But then again, he’d never expected to escape the Athites. Perhaps they’d used up all their bad luck with Guthos. Perhaps they were in the clear.

Acharsis reached under his shirt for the silver amulet Ishi had gifted him back in Rekkidu. It was whole. He scanned the night before him, half-expecting to make out a familiar dancing shape, manacles clanking, eyes rolling with idiot glee. But his demon didn’t present herself.

Three or four days, thought Acharsis. A little luck. That’s all we need. Please, Ekillos. Send a little luck our way.

***

“Now this,” said Jarek as he leaned over the railing, “is the way to travel.”

Brown water flowed placidly past them as they sailed up the delta, the lateen sail overhead billowing out before the western wind. The shallow hull was better suited to this broad river, and where before they’d pitched and been knocked about by the storm they’d run into out in the gulf, now they eased their way up toward Magan in a gentle glide.

Other river craft crowded the water, most of a similar size, a few larger, all of them interspersed by small fishing skiffs that darted through the river traffic with the brazen confidence of small birds dancing with the tide. Every mile or so they passed a different village, the houses painted white and raised curiously on stilts, naked children laughing and diving off balconies into the warm waters below.

The shores here were a vibrant green, a lush outpouring of palm trees, bushes and fronds of all kinds, between which Acharsis spotted glimpses of fields extending away from the river. Everywhere, people were laboring, backs hunched to the sky, working irrigation canals or filing along levee walls with huge baskets atop their shoulders.

“Amazing,” said Annara, leaving her bench on the ship’s deck to come stand beside them. “Look at that. It has to be taller than even the ziggurat at Uros.”

The edifice that arose before them was magnificent. Painted a glowing white trimmed with vivid crimsons and blues, the tower's broad base tapered to a narrow cupola at the top in which a great flame was burning, surrounded on three sides by burnished discs of copper shaped like lion heads.

“A temple?” asked Jarek, rubbing at his jaw.

“Perhaps,” said Acharsis. “But I thought the Maganians worshipped lamassu… not living fire.”

“That, my friends, is the lighthouse of Senusetep,” said Tareos, the ship’s captain. Comfortably rotund, with bandy legs and rounded shoulders, he appeared deceptively soft. But Acharsis had seen him hauling on ropes with the strength of three men during the storm in the gulf, and knew that his voice could be pitched to carry even over raging winds. “It marks our final approach to Magan itself. A pity. I’ve grown fond of your company.”

Annara smiled, turning so that her hip was against the railing. “Our company or our gold, captain? Surely you’re not confusing the two.”

“You wound me, fair lady,” said the captain with a smile. “What little gold I charged you for this voyage was stolen from me these past three nights by Acharsis here. A devil with dice, cards, or even guessing the speed of falling raindrops. Woe that I ever agreed to wager against him! He’s beggared my ship. I shall not be able to pay my daughter’s dowry as I had hoped…”

“You’re not getting any of your gold back,” said Acharsis. “But if you need a hug…?”

“It is a cruel world,” said Tareos with a deep sigh. “Still, perhaps I have learned probity and self-control from this experience. And I have been able to delight my eyes by gazing upon your fair countenance each evening, Annara. That is more than enough recompense for me.”

“You’re still not getting any of your gold back,” said Annara with a smile. “But thank you for the kind words.”

“Cruel beauty! Still. If the wind holds - and I don’t see why it shouldn’t - we shall be reaching the outskirts of Magan within the hour. There I shall dock, and we shall part ways. I shall be passingly busy, and may not have time for proper farewells.”

“Thank you, Tareos,” said Acharsis, grasping the captain’s forearm. “For your hospitality, and for the speed of your ship. A question, though, before we part. We’ve never visited Magan before. Can you give us directions to a friendly tavern where we may find a reliable guide?”

“I shall do you one better,” said Tareos. “When we dock, I shall assign Magrib to your service for the rest of the day. He’s painfully lazy and of no use to me at all. He speaks fluent Maganian, however; he can guide you where you need to go, and ensure that you are not unduly cheated of your ill-gotten wealth.”

“My thanks,” said Acharsis, sketching a shallow bow.

“Think nothing of it. Now, if you will excuse me.” Tareos inclined his head to Jarek, kissed the tips of Annara’s fingers, and then left, calling out fresh orders to his crew.

The three of them turned back to the railing and gazed out over the river. The last of the villages had fallen away, revealing the ubiquitous patchwork fields.

“An hour till we arrive in Magan,” said Jarek softly. “I’m going to miss this peace.”

“No, you’re not,” said Acharsis. “As soon as things start to get exciting you’ll forget all about this idyllic boat ride, where our lives weren’t in danger and food was prepared for us by a proper cook.”

Jarek only snorted in response.

Annara rested her chin on her palm. “I can’t wait to see how much your plan contributes to this excitement.”

“Plan?” asked Acharsis. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the railing, staring somberly at the passing water. “What plan?”

The city of Magan slid into view by slow degrees. The endless walls of the nobility’s riverside estates finally gave way to the harbor: a vast stone embankment along the river’s edge, cluttered with sailing vessels, barges, skiffs, and royal ships. Shouts and the cawing of birds filled the air as crews hurried to load or unload their cargoes, while crowds of porters, servants, sailors and more swarmed the docks, intent on their hundred and one tasks. Beyond them rose geometric buildings, most of them two storeys tall but all of them large, their facades painted a pure white and trimmed with the same bold colors as the lighthouse. Flat-roofed, they formed a warren amongst which Acharsis could glimpse narrow streets overshadowed by extended awnings of dusty reds and browns.

Beyond them rose a magnificent building, one that put even the ziggurats of the River Cities to shame. It too was painted alabaster white, with a vast frieze of carved figures around its upper quarter, their outlines painted in vivid hues. Black banners were draped between the figures and extended down the length of the nearly vertical walls, their fronts emblazoned with gold serpents.

As large and captivating as Magan was on the left bank, however, it was the right bank that drew the eye. There, a broad road of white rock extended with unnatural straightness across a mile of fertile yet uncultivated land to end at the base of a tower that put even the lighthouse to shame. Its base was ringed by an exterior wall, rich in carvings and inlaid with what looked like an endless amount of precious stones, with several vast archways leading into the interior. The tower burst up to challenge the heavens from its center. The first four storeys boasted galleries and balconies, hinting at the scope of the rooms continued within, but the tower tapered as it rose before suddenly spreading out to form a great table at its very peak.

“I’ve sailed this river since I was old enough to walk,” said a confident voice by Acharsis’ elbow. “But still the sight amazes me. The Third Tower of Heaven, it’s called. They say there’s one in every main Maganian city, though I’ve not seen them. See that flat part at the very top, up above even where the vultures fly? That’s where the lamassu himself is said to lie out and sleep. Course, it’s so high up nobody can really tell, can they?”

A young boy had wiggled his way next to Acharsis at the railing, on which he’d crossed his tanned arms. He beamed up at Acharsis, his teeth a perfect white, and then gave a wink. “Magrib at your service. You’ve saved me an afternoon’s back-breaking labor. You won’t regret it.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Magrib,” said Acharsis, turning back to the lamassu complex. “All of that. A temple, of kinds?”

“That’s right. And lots of priests doing whatever it is priests do, I suppose. Making sure the lamassu is happy with their performance. You can tell how seriously the Maganians take their religion by all that empty land there. You know how much grain they could grow on that bank if they wanted to? I’ll tell you: lots. But they don’t, because for some reason that makes the lamassu happy. Who knows? I don’t. But what an impressive way to waste land, right?”

“Right,” said Acharsis with a smile. “Though I’m sure they’re getting something in exchange. The lamassu is a living god, correct? His favor must be important.”

“Must be,” said Magrib with a happy sigh. “Still. I’ve never been on that bank, and don’t mean to go. I can tell you lots about the docks, though. The captain said you wanted to find a watering hole?”

“One frequented by foreigners like us,” said Acharsis. “I want to catch up on the news as quickly as possible, get a sense of what’s going on here.”

“Right. Easy enough. It’s been six months since we last visited, but there’s a good place I know of that should still be open. One thing you can tell even from here, though, is that the pharaoh has died.”

Acharsis straightened in surprise. “Died? How can you tell?”

“See them black banners on the palace up there? Tareos just told me they mark the pharaoh’s death. Whole city will be in mourning. Probably be all you hear about when we arrive. But I’ll take you to my favorite spot when we land.”

“Good man,” said Acharsis, and then Magrib was gone.

The sail was furled as they drew close to the great stone docks; oars were extended, and used to navigate the labyrinth of ships at anchor. The din of civilization was raucous after the silence of the past few weeks: the cry of gulls, the shouts of fishermen, the work songs of men mending nets or hauling away goods, the lowing of cattle, the snap of sails filling with wind, the splash of water along the embankment and against a hundred prows.

The smells, too, were suddenly pungent and vivid: the silty richness of the river mixed with the tang of drying fish, the scent of cook fires on the wind and fish guts on the wharf.

“You look pleased with yourself,” said Jarek, stepping up with Kish by his side, pack over one shoulder.

Acharsis spread his arms, taking in all of Magan. “Feast your eyes, my friend. Civilization! Which means beer, spiced food, comforts, song, crowds, laughter, unnecessary purchases! I’m an enthusiastic proponent of some time spent in the wilderness, but this—this feels like coming home.”

Kish matched his grin. “I know you well enough now to pick out the one word that mattered there: beer.”

“True enough. Beer, and a chance to get back to work. We’re going to have to figure out a way to get into that palace up there. Get an audience with the ruler, and convince them while we’re at it that we’re worth paying attention to. Not easy.”

“Let me guess,” said Jarek. “We’re going to do it over beers.”

“Why not? Would you rather do it in the midday sun? Qun is as fine a god as any, but when deliberating I prefer the presence of the goddess Siris - liberator of men, and tongues.”

Cries greeted their arrival, and as they drifted in to the docks, sailors hurled coils of rope to waiting porters who tied them fast to mushroom-shaped rocks. With a groan, the side of the ship pressed against the dock; water rose up in a splash as it was squeezed between the two, then the ship settled. Gangplanks were extended down, which sailors immediately began to run.

“Where’s Sisu?” asked Acharsis. “Someone should tell him his torment is over.”

“There he is,” said Kish, rising to her tiptoes. “Please, Acharsis. Don’t mock him. He’s in a foul enough mood as it is.”

Annara and Elu crossed the deck to where they stood, dodging around hurrying sailors, and Sisu joined them a moment later, his pallid features almost waxen.

“Some inspiring words before we step off this ship,” said Acharsis, ignoring Sisu’s immediate groan. “We’re here. We’ve beaten the odds and reached Magan. Now, our true test begins. Crossing the steppe was hard enough, but we’ve now got to navigate a completely foreign culture, penetrate its most exclusive court, and convince them to send their armies into the hinterlands of their empire against a threat we cannot prove is coming. Which is why I’ve asked Magrib - there you are - to lead us first to a watering hole of low repute. I can’t even begin to imagine doing all this while sober. Magrib?”

The boy beamed at them. “I’m yours 'til sundown, so if you’re ready? This way. Stay close!”

He waited for a break in the traffic using the closest gangplank and then ran down to the broad dock. The stone radiated heat. Weaving a deft path through the crowd, he led them to one of the large buildings that faced the docks and whose front wall was open and shaded by a supported awning.

“That was closer than I expected,” said Acharsis as he paused by the entrance, looking for a bowl of cleansing water with which to wash his feet. Seeing none, he shrugged uneasily and followed after Magrib, who had already disappeared inside.

The tavern was a large, rambling affair, a maze of supporting walls and pillars about which were arranged countless benches and tables, many of them packed already by foreign sailors and merchants. Young women with shaved heads and iron collars around their necks hurried to and fro with trays of clay cups. Somewhere, a musician was plucking at a stringed instrument in a desultory manner.

Magrib had weaseled his way to the back of the tavern and taken possession of a recently vacated table. The group sat around it, pulling up stools and benches, and Acharsis couldn’t help but sigh in relief as he leaned back against the wall and looked out the closest window at a palm tree festooned with what looked like good luck charms.

A round of drinks was set before them, and when Magrib and Elu moved away to begin learning the local news, Acharsis leaned in, beckoning for the others to do the same.

“All right. Here’s the plan. As I told you in the Waystation, we’re going to be improvising heavily depending on what we learn from here on out. We need to ascertain who’s going to take power with the pharaoh dead - find out who the heir is - and how we can get access to them. Obviously, nobody is going to take us seriously in our current condition, so we’re also going to have to generate enough wealth to bedeck ourselves in the best Maganian finery. We’re probably going to have to buy gifts as well, gifts fitting for a new ruler, and then insinuate ourselves into their good graces - or those of the regent - so as to convince them that Irella really is sending an army of the dead to attack Magan from its unprotected rear.”

He looked around the group. Jarek was leaning forward on both elbows, face pulled into a skeptical scowl. Kish was sitting back, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Annara was nodding thoughtfully, while Sisu didn’t even seem to be listening.

Jarek cleared his throat. “You’re saying we’re going to first have to steal a lot of money?”

“Steal, borrow, make, earn - something, yes. We don’t have long, but I’ll take a little time to study the economy, perhaps find a gambling den or two we can either swindle or rob.”

“Then,” said Kish, her tone equally skeptical, “you plan to dress us like nobility? So as to get access to the royal court?”

“Sure. If it turns out the royal court is in power. Every ruler since time began wants one thing: stability in which to exercise their powers. If we can promise to increase that stability through gifts, wealth, and knowledge, then—”

Raised voices interrupted Acharsis. He turned in his chair and saw Elu confronted by four guards. They wore masks of weathered jade, their features arrogant, perfectly symmetrical and with their eyes outlined in black.

Acharsis rose and in five long strides was by Elu’s side, smiling affably. Hands on his hips, he leaned forward, trying to guess which guard was in control. “We’re but recently arrived in your fair city, good sirs. Whatever is amiss, let me apologize with a round of drinks.”

Magrib, looking like he wanted to run, quickly translated.

One of the guards took a step forward and pointed at Elu’s arm, barking out a stream of angry words.

“He says… he says Elu is a thief of royal property.” Magrib’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “That… that he must come with them and be interrogated.”

Elu raised his arm to stare at the golden serpent he’d wrapped around his bicep. “Royal…?”

“A mistake,” said Acharsis, keeping his smile in place. “Magrib, tell them we’ll hand the ornament into their care with gratitude, and that we but found it on our travels across the steppe. We’ve no wish to offend.”

Magrib gave a rapid translation, but the guard made a chopping motion and growled out what was clearly a negation.

“He says Elu must go with them. Now.”

Damn. Acharsis could feel his smile growing strained. The entire tavern had fallen quiet, and those closest had drawn away as surreptitiously as they could. Attack them? Throw beer in their faces and flee out the back?

Jarek stepped up behind them, Sky Hammer on his shoulder, and leaned forward politely. “There a problem here?”

The four guards drew back at the sight of the son of Alok. Their leader gave a curt command, and one of the guards backed away, then turned to run out the front door into the sunlight.

Reinforcements.

Three guards. They’d not yet drawn their khopeshes, but their hands were on their hilts. Killing guards within half an hour of arriving would potentially ruin their chances of impressing the local ruler. But if they didn’t kill them before escaping, these three would no doubt spread word of their description, making their entrance to court all the more impossible.

“No problem, Jarek,” said Acharsis. He spread his hands and nodded to the lead guard. “Magrib. Tell them we won’t resist. As innocent men, Elu and I will come and explain this mistake willingly.”

“We what?” asked Elu.

Magrib translated, and Acharsis saw the lead guard’s eyes swivel to examine him, followed by an annoyed query.

“He asks what your relation to Elu is,” said Magrib.

Acharsis took a deep breath. “Tell him I’m his father. And where he goes, so do I.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

They were escorted down the length of the crowded docks to a large guardhouse set on the corner where a tributary flowed into the main river. Their passage was marked with great curiosity; people of all ranks turned to watch, and Acharsis resisted the urge to wave. Instead, he focused on maintaining a pensive frown, seeking to project an air of dignified grievance.

The guardhouse was two-storied and as glaringly white as all the other buildings in Magan. Palms grew in its dusty forecourt, where a number of street vendors catered to what looked like a line of weary plaintiffs arrayed to one side. Acharsis and Elu were marched inside, where scribes sat at desks listening to their visitors' tales and making imprints on blocks of clay. High, vertical windows allowed light into the room, which was pleasantly cool, but before Acharsis could take in much more they were hustled down a corridor and into a large office.

An obviously high-ranking individual was seated on a cushioned stool, dressed in flowing robes of office and wearing a beautifully crafted jackal mask. Robes of white and green flowed down his length, and an ebon staff banded with gold and topped by a serpent’s head lay across his lap. His hands were those of a man in his middle years, strong, and bearing several rings of precious metal.

Three scribes sat on simple blocks along the left wall, tilted lecterns before them on which they were busy imprinting, while the right wall was open to a private garden dominated by a pool of water surrounded by all manner of flowering bushes. A wondrously beautiful bird was strolling about the pool, its plumage a metallic green, wings and tail so long that they trailed behind it by a good two yards.

A hearing was in process. Three older men in matching robes of tan and umber stood in the room’s center, anxiously watching one of the scribes, who was in the process of writing something on his tablet with the serene expression of one who will not be affected by the terrible events he is taking part in. They all turned as the lead guard approached with obvious deference, and a quick exchange took place between the magistrate and the guard which resulted in the older men bowing their heads and leaving the room.

“Stop scowling,” said Acharsis quietly to Elu. “I know I’m not your father. We’re trying to portray ourselves as innocent men, not sullen thugs.”

Elu’s scowl deepened and then, with obvious effort, smoothed away. Acharsis turned to the magistrate as he was ushered forward, raising his eyebrows and affecting a polite smile. When he was motioned to stop, he bowed.

The lead guard stepped up to the magistrate and gave him Elu’s golden serpent. Its appearance caused even the scribes to sit up in shock. The magistrate turned the coiled band about in his hand, then held it up to read something on its inner surface.

Damn these masks, thought Acharsis. Makes it impossible to get a good read on their emotions.

The magistrate held the band out to his side and a slave hurried forward, holding a cushion on which the band was carefully set.

The magistrate then turned his attention to the two of them. Acharsis forced himself not to stiffen, not to smooth down his clothing or otherwise betray self-consciousness. This was as dangerous a battlefield as any he’d fought on, and the odds were steeply stacked against them. He didn’t know the legal system, the exact nature of their offense, nor the punishment that they might be facing.

Finally, the magistrate spoke, but not to them; he was dictating to the scribes, all three of whom set fresh clay tablets before them and set to making imprints with their styluses.

Again, Acharsis fought the urge to tense. They would be doomed if they were not allowed to defend themselves. Patience. The magistrate was watching them even as he spoke. Don’t betray yourself.

The magistrate spoke a question, the tone curt, almost accusatory. Magrib, who stood just behind Acharsis, spoke up, his voice trembling with fear. “He wishes to know your names, your countries of origin, when you arrived in Magan, and your business here.”

“Acharsis and Elu, of Rekkidu in the River Cities. We arrived, as you know, this morning. As for our business, we were separated from our trading caravan due to a nomad attack while crossing the steppe, and now await their arrival.” Magrib didn’t smile back, but nervously translated.

The magistrate spoke at length, at one point lifting the band from the cushion and holding it up for them to see as he made a point. When he set it down, Magrib translated, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

“He says that you stand accused of stealing royal property, of heresy, and of insulting the royal family and the lamassu by wearing the snake band. The penalty for doing so is death. He demands to know from where you acquired Prince Senacherib’s royal band, and what you know of the prince’s fate. If you can provide any information that might help recover the prince, there is a chance your death will be made a swift one.”

Acharsis sucked on his teeth as he absorbed this, never taking his eyes off the magistrate. A number of different answers leaped to his lips, but he spoke none of them. Instead, he considered, turning the words over in his mind. The band was clearly unique to this prince; the magistrate had identified it by reading an inscription along the inside. The prince was missing; he must have been the royalty that Guthos boasted of selling to the Athites, who in turn must have claimed the band and kept it as treasure upon taking their royal slave.

But what to do with this information? Should he stick with the claim that he was innocent, and the band but accidentally acquired? No. Ignorance here would most likely not avert their deaths.

If only he could speak with the man directly. Alas, he’d have to work with what tools he had.

“Magrib, do you know when this prince went missing?”

“I, ah, not exactly. Perhaps ten years ago?”

“And how old was he when he disappeared?”

“Master Acharsis, I don’t really know. I’m sorry. He was supposed to have been young.”

“Very well. Ask the magistrate the following question in exactly these words: does he refer to the prince who disappeared ten years ago at the age of eight years old?”

Magrib took a steadying breath then repeated Acharsis’ question. The magistrate’s response was as sharp as it was curt.

“He says the prince disappeared in the seventeenth year of the last pharaoh’s reign, and was six years old.” Magrib narrowed his eyes as he did the sum. “That would make it… thirteen years ago.”

Acharsis’ thoughts swirled, a storm of conjectures and risks. The penalty was death. A six-year-old, gone from court these past thirteen years. The magistrate’s ignorance as to the boy’s fate. Heresy. The pharaoh’s death. Their need to enter the court, to convince Magan to go to war. The odds. The impossible odds.

Acharsis took a deep, shuddering breath. “Translate as I speak, Magrib. Loudly, now. You help me pull this off, I’ll pay you your weight in gold. Understood?”

“I—what?” Magrib hunched his shoulders. “What are you going to do?”

“Acharsis?” hissed Elu. “What are you—?”

“Your honor,” said Acharsis, changing his demeanor as he stepped forth, adopting a tone that was at once commanding and forbidding. “You ask who we are, and our business in Magan. You question Elu’s right to wear the serpent band, and accuse him of heresy for daring to display it on his arm before the world. You desire knowledge as to the location of the missing prince, and wish to know his fate. I can answer your questions. I shall tell you the truth, a truth that shall change the fortunes of Magan forevermore.”

The jade-masked guards had stepped forward, hands dropping to their khopeshes, but a wave from the magistrate’s hand sent them back to their posts against the back wall.

Magrib finished his translation, his voice faltering as he cast wild-eyed looks at Acharsis. The magistrate responded, impatient.

“He commands you to speak and to stop wasting time.”

Acharsis raised his chin as if affronted. “Tell him that he shall go down in history as the first Maganian to welcome their lost son home; the official who bore word of this moment of rejoicing to the palace. Tell him that after a daring rescue against the Athite nomads, after risking life and limb, we have sojourned here from the heart of the steppe bearing the most precious gift that could ever be presented to the lamassu: the return of their lost son, Prince Senacherib!” Acharsis bowed low to Elu, who was staring at him incredulously.

Magrib’s translation trailed off as he gaped. Then he caught himself, stammered, and finished in an almost apologetic tone.

Silence filled the hall. The scribes were staring. The magistrate sat frozen. Only the ornamental bird moved, pacing its eternal circuit around the emerald pool outside.

Sweat trickled down Acharsis’ back. He remained bowed over, an arm extended to Elu, who, to Acharsis’ great pride, had managed to swallow his shock and now stood impassively, staring out into the middle distance.

The magistrate laughed. Loud and surprised, the man guffawed with obvious amazement and delight, then waved his hand and spoke, poking a finger through his mask to rub at his eye.

Acharsis straightened. “Well?”

“He says… he says you are as amusing as you are mad. And that you have one last chance to tell him the truth before he hands you to the guards for, ah, more physical questioning.”

“Acharsis?” Elu’s whisper was harsh. “What are you doing?”

“Ask the magistrate,” said Acharsis with all the wounded hauteur he could muster, “by what right he is denying our claim? Who is he to make this decision? This is a matter of royal blood. He cannot risk being wrong.”

“You’re going to get me killed,” whined Magrib. “Don’t make me say it.”

Acharsis glared at the magistrate and didn’t answer.

Magrib sighed and did as he was bid. This time, the scribes turned to glance at each other, shocked, and the magistrate sat up straight, eyes narrowing as all amusement left him. He began his irate response, but Acharsis spoke loudly over him.

“Yes, I do dare! I dare because you sit before royalty, because you presume to judge his value, because you condemn him to death without the authority or wisdom to do so!” He pointed to Elu. “Here is your prince, missing these past ten years, wearing the armband of royalty and come home at last - and you dare laugh? You dare? As worthy a man as you may be, you cannot judge his worth! No! The only being capable of weighing his measure is the lamassu itself!”

Magrib cringed but continued translating, his tone dripping with fear and apologies. No matter. Acharsis summoned all his dignity, his gravitas, the authority once invested in him by his father Ekillos, and glared at the magistrate.

To his immense relief, the man did not immediately respond. Instead, he shifted his weight on his stool, hands tightening and relaxing around his serpent staff. The seconds drew out in agonized silence. At long last, the magistrate asked a question.

“No,” said Acharsis. “We are done here. Only a higher authority can judge the veracity of our claim.”

Silence.

Magrib didn’t translate. It wasn’t necessary. After a moment, the magistrate spoke to the guards. Their leader barked at Acharsis and pointed at the door. Acharsis nodded, then followed the guards down the hall to a much smaller room with no windows. Once Elu and Magrib entered behind them, the door was firmly closed.

Elu moved to face the wall, fingers to his temples, then turned, jaw working. Acharsis sat down on the sole bench, crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back, waiting.

“What… what manner of madness… of insanity… was that?”

“A pretty bold move, I’ll grant you,” said Acharsis. “A little risky, to be sure. But I’m feeling good about it.”

“Bold? Risky?” Elu’s voice was rising. “You mean ‘suicidal’? ‘Stunningly stupid’?”

“There are some dangers, yes. But before you get too carried away with your praise, think on this: we’d none of us be in this predicament if it wasn’t for your penchant for looting the dead and wearing royal symbols openly on your arm.”

Elu flushed. “I didn’t know that was the Maganian royal crest.”

“Didn’t look like your ignorance was about to sway that magistrate. And since it looked like the truth was only going to earn us a swift death over a slow one, I had to improvise.”

“Why didn’t we just run away back in the tavern? Jarek could have stopped those three guards. We could have lost them in the alleys.”

“First, I don’t think we’d have lost them so easily. Not with the royal crest involved. They would have continued to search for us for days, if not weeks after. And we’re a memorable crew. Second, we’d have lost the services of Magrib here, leaving us lost in a city we don’t know and don’t understand. All of which would have made it even harder - if not impossible - to accomplish our plan.”

“More possible than convincing them I’m their long-lost prince.” Elu slid down the wall to a crouch, head clutched in his hands. “I don’t even speak Maganian.”

“You don’t have to. You were stolen when you were six. You weren’t raised here. Which also explains why you don’t remember the culture, your family, your religion, any of it. You’re a perfect stranger.”

“Well, fine. But I don’t look Maganian. I probably don’t even look like this Senacherib.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Black hair, your skin’s tanned dark enough. And who’s to say what a six-year-old will look like by the time he’s eighteen?”

“The lamassu,” said Magrib in a hollow voice. “That’s who.”

Elu sat up. “You think they’ll actually take me to him?”

“I don’t know,” said Magrib. “But if they do, you’re out of luck. He’s a god. It’s a god. It knows everything. It’ll see through your lies and eat you.”

“Eat him?” asked Acharsis skeptically.

“Eat him,” said Magrib.

“Great,” said Elu, sinking his head into his hands. “Great.”

“Would Senacherib have been next in line to inherit the pharaoh's throne?” asked Acharsis.

“He wasn’t the eldest, no,” said Magrib. He was staring straight ahead, as if unable to comprehend what had just happened. “I don’t know much about the royal family, but I know there’s an older brother. But it doesn’t matter. That’s not how Maganians pass on the kingdom.”

“No?” Acharsis turned to the boy. “What do you mean?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know much. But the lamassu picks the next ruler. There’s a process called the Quickening, or—or the Kindling, or something. I don’t know. There hasn’t been one in thirty years, or however long the last pharaoh ruled. But the lamassu, he decides everything in this city.”

“This city?” Acharsis rose, unable to remain still, and began to pace. “Not all of Magan?”

“No,” said Magrib. “There’s a lamassu for every major city.”

“Just like home,” said Acharsis. “Which means they’d have to reach an agreement… interesting. But that’s fine. We don’t need to make Elu the ruler of Magan. Just being a royal prince would be enough. That would gain us the perfect access to the court—”

“Weren’t you listening?” yelled Elu, throwing his hands down. “The lamassu’s going to bite my head off!”

Acharsis stilled. “You don’t know that. We’ve thrown the die. And so far, it’s going well.”

“Well?” Elu laughed bitterly and looked around their cell. “You call this 'going well'?”

“The guards didn’t touch you when they escorted you here - did you notice? They weren’t shy before. Which means they’re unsure of themselves. Which means we’ve created enough doubt that our case is going to be escalated. There’s a lot that can happen between now and our being presented to their god. A lot of opportunities for us to take advantage of before we meet the lamassu, to twist to our benefit. And, if we’re actually dragged before this god? Whom better to explain the threat to? We’ll make our case to the lamassu, prove the danger Magan is in, and convince it to muster its armies. This isn’t over, Elu. It’s just begun.”

They subsided into silence. Acharsis paced for a while, then sat down once more. Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, he tried to recall everything he’d ever heard of Magan, all the lectures he’d slept through when he’d been the ruler of his home city. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and slept.

He awoke with a start when the door opened, and a jade-faced guard stepped inside. Many more stood in the hallway behind him. Elu climbed to his feet, and Acharsis did the same, smoothing down his shirt.

The guard studied them and then spoke a firm command.

Magrib heaved a huge sigh and slipped off the bench. “We’re being taken to the Third Tower of Heaven.”

Acharsis blinked. “What? Now?”

Magrib nodded. “Now.”

Acharsis studiously avoided Elu’s glare. “Very well. I’m glad to see they’re taking us seriously. Let’s go.”

They were escorted out of the guardhouse and into the front courtyard, where a crowd awaited them. The magistrate stood to one side beneath a broad parasol held by a shaved slave girl in an elegant white robe. Three other figures of seemingly equal rank were arrayed beside him, one with another jackal mask, the second in that of a cat, while the last wore a genderless mask of gold. A dozen jade-masked guards stood to attention to one side, while a score of servants and slaves knelt by the walls, faces pressed to the dirt.

A guard took Acharsis by the elbow, his grip painfully strong, and pulled him aside. Two more flanked Elu and ushered him forth to stand before the four magistrates. Nobody spoke. Elu raised his chin, hands clenched into fists. The four officials studied him and, at a signal from their original magistrate, the guards guided Elu around in a tight circle, as if he were a prize bull being examined for sale.

The genderless figure bowed their head, and Elu was led back to where Acharsis and Magrib stood. There, they were ushered onto a plain palanquin, which was hoisted up with trained expertise onto the shoulders of eight slaves. The masked officials each climbed into their own palanquin in turn, and at a cry from the guards the convoy moved out of the courtyard and onto the docks, guards trotting alongside, slaves following behind.

Acharsis fought to regulate his breathing as he gazed out over the crowd, which parted reluctantly before them. Had word already gotten out? It would seem so; several hundred commoners had gathered to stare, to whisper and point. Acharsis caught a flash of Jarek’s stern visage in the crowd, his brows lowered, and resisted the urge to give a little wave. Jarek didn’t look amused.

The palanquin moved forward rapidly, the slaves timing their strides to avoid unnecessary bounces, and they sped down the length of the docks, the cries of the guards ahead causing people to scatter or move carts aside as they went. The waters of the river glimmered to their left, and Acharsis sought out their ship but failed to spot it. Would Tareos be questioned? Most likely. Acharsis offered up a brief prayer to Ekillos to safeguard the captain.

They reached a gargantuan gate at the end of the docks and passed between two massive statues. Acharsis turned in his seat to examine them, impressed by their size and the elegance of their carving: two huge lions with heads of wise-looking men, beards tightly curled and reaching down to their chests, wings stiffly raised and pointing behind them.

Lamassu

The sanctum beyond featured a broad ramp descending to the river’s edge, where a glittering barge awaited them. Broad, ornately carved and already crowded with servants, it was clearly transportation fit for a noble or king. Did this mean they believed Elu to be Senacherib? Or did the magistrates always cross to the Third Tower of Heaven in such manner?

The palanquins were set down. The magistrates boarded the boat and seated themselves in a semi-circle beneath an arbor of living vines, and soft music began to play. Acharsis followed their guards to the rear of the boat, where they waited out of sight behind the sole cabin. Twelve guards watched them impassively. He could probably dive off the back of the boat into the muddy water, but to what end? They’d no doubt fish him out before he could get far.

The barge pushed away from the stone docks, and a dozen delicate oars extended out to dip into the river’s waters and propel them to the far shore. Acharsis inhaled deeply of the fresh air, savoring the smell of silt and the city. There were no guarantees that he would ever see this sight again.

Magrib was a small shadow at his side, while Elu stood, hands on his hips, glaring at the guards and then raking the grand city of Magan with his gaze. At the very least, he looked princely.

They rowed for a long time, moving at a sedate pace, and Acharsis allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the beautifully played music. Would it be too much to ask for a beer? Probably. The sun was warm, and despite the tension of the moment he found his thoughts drifting, returning to previous times when he’d sailed the Leonis on his own imperial barge, so that when they finally jolted against the far dock he blinked, looked around, and realized that they’d arrived.

They waited while the others disembarked, and then were escorted down a ramp to a second palanquin that awaited them. This one was crafted entirely from cedar wood and draped in white cloths that hung nearly to the ground. They were borne forward with impressive smoothness, the slaves loping after the other palanquins toward the distant temple, surrounded on all sides by new guards wearing alabaster masks.

“Expensive,” said Acharsis to Elu, rapping his knuckles on the wooden side. “They’d have to have imported this from the northern range of the Aloros mountains. Probably worth more than gold.”

Elu’s flat stare showed that he wasn’t interested.

Sighing, Acharsis turned to study the tower. It rose to truly phenomenal heights, yet no birds circled it. He studied the high platform where the lamassu was supposed to rest, and despite himself found his heart beating a little quicker. What chain of events had he set off here with his lies?

They reached the great wall that surrounded the temple complex, and there the entire convoy was blessed in Maganian by a series of priests who walked past the palanquins, calling out prayers which were answered by a chorus of slaves, servants and guards in a ceremonial fashion. The priests held torches aloft that burned with green flame, and cast white dust at each member, a dust so fine it seemed to disappear in mid-air before reaching the supplicants.

The palanquins lurched forth again, passing between another guarding pair of lamassu statues and into the great courtyard within. The sole building was the massive tower whose base expanded into a temple complex. There was a brutal grandeur to the size of the building and its lack of windows or ornamentation; where the palace on the far bank had been beautifully decorated, this temple had the aspect of a tomb, an intimidating geometry that spoke of inhuman aesthetics and scale.

The palanquins were set down before broad steps that rose to the phalanx of columns that fronted the temple entrance. There, several influential-looking priests conferred with the magistrates. Acharsis, stepping down from the palanquin, watched with great interest as the figure with the genderless mask spoke with a hugely obese priest who wore a wig of gold that fell in great curls past his shoulders in imitation of a lion’s mane. They conferred at length, then the priest beckoned, and Acharsis, Magrib, and Elu were brought forth.

There had to be over a hundred gathered around to watch them, Acharsis realized, but the scale of the tower made the crowd seem small. Acharsis drew himself up and stopped when indicated. The massive priest stepped forth to stare at Elu. The man’s eyes were ringed in cobalt blue, and his lips were gray with paste. Massive bands of gold encircled his forearms like the coils of a great snake, and he held a tall staff of cedar topped with the hooded head of a cobra.

The priest studied Elu, disdain and suspicion evident in his expression, then raised a hand. Immediately servants and priests began to flow up the steps into the temple proper, while temple guards in white masks moved to stand escort alongside Acharsis and Elu. The palanquins were lifted and borne away, and with a shove to his shoulder, Acharsis was set in motion to follow the priest up the steps.

They entered the shadowed temple, and immediately the temperature dropped to become pleasantly cool. They turned to continue climbing a second set of broad steps to the second floor, and there stepped out into a hall that had to encompass the entirety of the structure.

Acharsis’ gaze was drawn to the far end of the hall, where a massive white marble dais rose, carved to resemble a cloud, and upon which rested a monster. An otherworldly being, a god: the lamassu of Magan.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The lamassu’s presence filled the room like the heat from a vast furnace. The elegance, wealth, and finery of those attending it were as nothing beside its own innate grandeur; recumbent upon its marble dais, it dominated the hall without moving, its broad face the focal point like the sun in the sky. Acharsis caught a brief impression of the crowd arrayed before it: a hint of massive pillars leading down the sides of the hall, the brightly-painted reliefs that adorned the walls, but no more. The lamassu held his attention with complete and utter surety.

It was huge, and though lying down, Acharsis guessed from its sheer bulk that it would stand some twenty feet tall should it rise to its leonine paws. Its eagle wings were draped down the length of its back, and in the light of the braziers its fur and wings glimmered like hammered bronze shot through with seams of copper and gold. Twin horns like those of a bull arose from over its triangular ears, each the length of a man, and though its upper lip was smooth, a great beard reached down to its paws, oiled and woven with metallic threads of crimson, blue, and silver.

Its face was broad and striking, that of a powerful man in his forties, with harsh, rugged cheekbones, a flattened shovel of a nose and a broad mouth. Its heavy brow beetled down over its recessed eyes. It was at once monstrous and awesome; regal and inhuman; powerful and indolent; sensual and terrifying.

A second shove got Acharsis moving again, and he walked down the length of the hall. Now he did take in the crowd: the servants with great plumed fans that they waved slowly to stir the arid air, the countless curious stares, the fine gradations in rank, the distant and sonorous chanting of priests in some hidden chamber.

The lamassu grew larger with every step so that, when finally they were bid to stop, it loomed over them like some effigy from the netherworld. Golden bands were wrapped around its wrists, from which hung hundreds of discs the size of Acharsis’ palm. He looked at its paws and thought of the talons hidden within them, and quickly averted his gaze.

The great priest moved to the fore and all conversations ceased. The priest climbed the first three steps toward the dais and then bowed, lowering himself to his knees and pressing his brow to the fourth step with impressive agility. He then rose without a signal from the lamassu, and began to address it in formal and reverent tones.

Acharsis, familiar with ritual, guessed that the first few minutes or so would be just titles and pleas for mercy and the like. He’d heard enough addresses like this to his father’s shrine when he was younger. After a while, he tuned out the priest’s droning voice and settled to studying the lamassu. Its expression was as impassive as if it were carved from rock, with only the occasional twitch or flicker of its tufted lion’s tail indicating that it was even alive.

Finally, the priest finished and stepped aside. The genderless masked official stepped up and bowed in a similar manner, then also began to speak. His - or her - voice was smooth, liquid, and as asexual as the mask. They spoke quickly and with assurance, and then also bowed and stepped aside.

At this point, a stern-faced woman in luxurious regalia stepped forth from the front of the crowd. She was tall, her shoulders square, and despite her years she yet retained some measure of her striking beauty. Hair so black it had blue tints hung to her shoulders, and a band of gold was wrapped around her brow, the head of a snake rising from the center of her forehead. Bands of gold adorned her upper arm, and there Acharsis espied a similar serpentine band as that which Elu had stolen.

She studied Elu with obvious contempt, then turned to the lamassu, bowed low, and spoke with stern disapproval. Her address was quick and to the point, then she bowed once more and stepped back.

The smoke from the braziers was starting to get to him, Acharsis realized; they were musky, and thick with some incense. Combined with the stillness of the air and the heat generated from the lamassu’s body, he was finding it hard to focus.

Not good.

Two other priests stepped in to speak, and through it all the lamassu remained impassive, immobile, its gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun. Acharsis was starting to think these speeches would go on forever when the lamassu finally looked down upon them and he felt the full weight of its focus fall upon him.

“You are immured by echoes of fallen divinity,” rumbled the lamassu in perfect River Cities common, its tone archaic, its pronunciations stiff and undercut by a velvety rumble. The words seemed to come not from its throat, but from the depths of the earth itself. “The scent of a passing god hangs in the air. You are far from your home, godling, and shorn of your power. Who are you?”

Acharsis dry swallowed. So much for pretense. “I am Acharsis, son of Ekillos, god of knowledge and male fertility, scion of the River Cities and former ruler of the city of Takurtum.”

“Ekillos,” rumbled the lamassu, as if tasting the word. “Yes. That is the savor. A manifold divinity, but long gone from this realm. You are a wound, Acharsis, a fissure in the rightness of the world. Why have you traveled here to disturb my court?”

Again, Acharsis swallowed. His mind felt mired, slow to react. What stratagem to pursue? The lamassu’s gaze seemed to pierce him to his core, to see both his past and his future.

“I come to give warning,” he said. “Irella, daughter of Nekuul, sends her dead armies across the Desert of Bones to strike at Magan from the rear. She seeks to conquer your nation, topple your towers, and subjugate your people.”

Acharsis felt ripples of nausea flutter through his stomach. Desperate, he studied the lamassu’s craggy features, hoping to read some sign of his words' impact.

The lamassu contemplated him, unalarmed. “The next ruler of Magan will thank you for your assistance, son of Ekillos. But I do not concern myself with temporal matters.”

Acharsis frowned. “Wait. You’re telling me you don’t care if Irella invades Magan?”

“We have been invaded before,” said the lamassu, voice a low rumble. “But Magan is old, older than the bones of the earth. Like a forest, it needs the occasional fire to cleanse the brushwood and revive its vitality. If the daughter of Nekuul invades our land, then we shall suffer, but in time we shall overcome and grow stronger for the experience.”

Acharsis turned to Elu as if the youth might have an answer. Elu’s eyes were still wide open, his face pale. No help there. “All right,” said Acharsis. “Who is to be the next ruler of Magan? When can I have an audience with them?”

“That is a question to which I am most curious to learn the answer,” said the lamassu. It crossed one paw over the other, the golden discs jangling as it did so.

“I thought you and your… family… chose the successor?”

“Not so.” A flicker of idle amusement passed over its face. “We must allow for the vagaries of fate. Were we to direct Magan with so stern a hand, it would become brittle, and shatter. No. Each city’s royal family shall put forth a candidate. These six shall enter the Quickening, where they shall be tested. The winner of this trial shall be elevated to the status of pharaoh, and rule over Magan for the remainder of their natural life.”

The priests, royal family members, magistrates and other notables were staring at them with increasing wonder. Most people probably didn’t get a chance to chat with their god-lamassu like this.

“And when shall this Quickening take place?”

“Three days hence. Then shall the purification rites begin, followed by the weeks of fasting, anointment, and finally, the coronation. Within a month, Magan shall have its new ruler.”

Acharsis sucked on his teeth. “A month. Irella will be here long before then.”

“A time of turbulence and sorrow for Magan,” rumbled the lamassu.

Acharsis pressed his hand to his brow and grimaced. Not good enough. Did the lamassu not understand the threat that Irella posed? Did it not care? How would it react when its Third Tower of Heaven was crawling with Death Seekers? Irella would extend her empire, subjugate the only entity that could rival her in power, and solidify her control over the River Cities.

“Acharsis?” Elu’s voice was a whisper. “What do we do?”

They couldn’t wait a month; couldn’t wait for Maganian politics to play out while Irella’s dead marched upon the hinterlands. Licking his lips, Acharsis balled his fists and stood up straight.

“Lord lamassu. We were brought here to stand trial. I claim that my son, Elu, is truly Senacherib, second eldest son of the pharaoh. Do you contest that claim?”

The lamassu raised its head, brows lowering as its ears quirked forward. A tide of whispers ran through the crowd. “Your son, Elu, is not Senacherib, second eldest son of the pharaoh.”

“Granted, he hasn’t been - but he could be.” Acharsis took a step forward. “Elu has divine blood coursing through his veins. He is the grandson of Ekillos himself. His lineage is as royal as that of Senacherib, or any of the scions that will enter the Quickening.”

The lamassu turned its head to one side, eyes narrowed. But it was listening.

“You said yourself you don’t pick the next successor. That you allow for the vagaries of fate. Further, you aren’t concerned with Irella’s attack because it will strengthen your people, will help cleanse them of dry brushwood. What but the hand of fate would have brought Senacherib’s snake band to Elu? What but the hand of fate would have brought him to Magan mere days from the time of the Quickening? Divine providence. A chance for new blood to revive the Maganian royal lines. A chance to invigorate your people.”

It was impossible to read the lamassu’s expression. He might as well have tried to guess the mood of a cliff face. Acharsis licked his lower lip. “If you hear any merit in my words, if you detect a pattern to this fateful meeting, then please, let him enter the Quickening. If fate does not want him to win, then, well—he won’t. But give him the chance.”

“Acharsis,” said Elu in a strangled voice. “What are you doing?”

Meeting the lamassu’s gaze was like staring into the sun. Was he daring too much? Was he mortally offending the god of this city? Had he thrown the nascent cordiality the lamassu had been showing him into the trash heap with his presumption?

“Fate, or conspiracy?” asked the lamassu at last. “Three months ago, the pharaoh was killed by Irella’s assassins. We grieved, but such is the way of the world. Now you appear at our temple, son of a dead River Cities god, and ask for the right to enter the Quickening. Fate? Or conspiracy?”

“I swear to you in the name of my fallen father that I seek nothing more than to defeat Irella, overthrow her rule, and bring back the nine dead gods.” Acharsis’ voice trembled with emotion. “The people of the River Cities starve. The harvests grow ever poorer since the death of the god of agriculture, and the dead shall soon outnumber the living. I wish nothing more than to aid Magan so that it can in turn aid me and my people. This I swear, by Qun the sun and Ninsaba the moon, by my life’s blood, my ancestors, and my children.”

“Victory would cost you your son,” said the lamassu. “To win, he must be the best ruler for Magan. He must hold our interests first and foremost in his heart. His loyalties would lie solely with us. You would lose Elu, and we would gain Senacherib.”

“With all respect, my lord,” said Elu, voice shaking as he stepped forward. “That is a concern you should not be putting to Acharsis, but to me.”

The lamassu turned its head to consider the youth. “You have a voice?”

Elu flushed, his brow gleaming with sweat. He was terrified, Acharsis realized. “Yes. I do. And though I’m young, I have the wisdom to know when to speak, and when to be silent.”

“A rare talent,” said the lamassu.

“I have no loyalty to the River Cities,” said Elu. “I don’t care for Irella or her rule. My whole life I’ve seen nothing but starvation and poverty. If I were to win through, I would have no difficulty in choosing to serve you and your nation.”

“And what do you know of me or my nation?”

“Nothing,” said Elu with a sharp smile. “But I would learn. After all, I can only win if the Quickening decides that I’m the best candidate. And if Senacherib is the best possible pharaoh, then that Senacherib will no doubt quickly learn all that there is to know about Magan.”

“Hmm,” rumbled the lamassu. “You speak well. You are your father’s son in truth, I see.”

“No,” said Elu. “You’re wrong. This man is not my father. He sired me, yes. But he didn’t raise me. He doesn’t know me, and I know nothing of his father, Ekillos.”

Acharsis felt his chest constrict. He stared at Elu, unable to speak, but his son stared straight up at the lamassu.

“I sense fire in your soul,” said the lamassu at last. “A will of your own. This pleases me. Had you remained silent, I would have denied Acharsis’ request. But you show spirit, and your divine heritage shines through you like the sun through thin clouds. I shall grant your request. For the next three days you shall be Senacherib, the lost son of the pharaoh, and shall be allowed to enter the Quickening. If you win through, you shall be elevated to ruler of Magan. If you fail, yet survive the trial, I shall punish you for your temerity by eating you and your companions. Are we agreed?”

The lamassu’s tone didn’t change in the slightest. Elu blanched, but then nodded, jaw clenched.

The lamassu turned its pitiless gaze to Acharsis. “Are we agreed?”

“Yes,” croaked Acharsis. “We are.”

“Very well.” The lamassu unfolded its great wings as it rose majestically to all fours, tail lashing behind it. It looked out over the crowd, and then spoke to them in Maganian, its voice unyielding in its authority. Acharsis didn’t see the reaction of the crowd. He but dimly heard their muffled gasps of surprise and shock. All he could do was stare at Elu, each beat of his heart spearing him with pain.

Elu turned to face the crowd, shoulders pressed back, chin raised, his mouth pulled down into a stern frown. It was only when the priests approached him, each of them desperately trying to mask their shock and confusion, that Elu finally glanced back at him. And his gaze was as hard and cold as the lamassu's.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Well,” said Kish, tapping her empty cup against the tavern table, “we could always try and find a dream rhino and ride it across the river.”

Jarek smiled sourly. “That might try Nekuul’s patience.”

A serving boy, head shaved to the scalp, iron ring around his neck, stepped up with three cups balanced on his tray. He’d already learned not to bother speaking, so instead simply raised his eyebrow in question, then set to replacing their cups at Jarek’s grunt.

“Drinking yourself into oblivion won’t help our situation any,” said Annara.

“No, but nor will getting kicked out into the street for not doing business.” Jarek swirled the harsh spirit around the base of the clay cup. “At least here we can sit in the shade while we plan a rescue.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Annara leaned back, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Planning? We’ve been waiting here all day. I think it’s safe to say they’re not coming back.”

“Feel free to contribute,” said Jarek. “Here are the obstacles we face: no translator. No idea as to where they were taken. No idea as to the exact charges, or how dangerous they might be. No means of bribing a guard to tell us anything useful.”

“No means to pay for these drinks,” said Kish.

“I could go on. But charging outside waving my hammer won’t accomplish much.”

“We need information,” said Annara. “It will be dark soon, and we can’t spend the night in this tavern. Tareos may have refused to help us, but we can try to find a more friendly merchant or traveler and ask them about where Acharsis and Elu might have been taken. Then…”

“Then?” prompted Jarek.

“Then… then we figure out our next step.”

“If we leave this tavern, Acharsis will have no easy way to find us,” said Sisu quietly. “If he talks his way to freedom, he’ll come back here.”

“Then one of us should stay and wait,” said Annara. “The others will get to work.”

“Very wise,” said Sisu with a sour smile. “I’ll sacrifice myself and stay here. No need to thank me.”

Jarek continued to oscillate his cup’s base around the tabletop. Surely their quest was cursed. First the debacle at the Waystation, then Guthos’ betrayal, and now Acharsis and Elu’s arrest within minutes of setting foot in Magan.

“Perhaps we should seek a Thorn Gate, or an apsu,” he said quietly. “Our luck has been sour ever since we left Rekkidu. A proper cleansing might help.”

Sisu snorted. “I doubt they have those in Magan. Everything here is centered around their lamassu.”

“Still, he might have a point,” said Annara. “We need every advantage we can afford. But again, where? How? We don’t have time. We need to rescue them now, not tomorrow.”

Jarek rose to his feet. “All right. Sisu, hold this table. If they ask for payment, order more drinks. We’re going to try our luck down the docks. Perhaps Master Tareos will reconsider if we prove a little more aggressive.”

“It can’t be that easy to lose your trading license,” said Kish, rising beside him. “And maybe he’s missing Magrib by now.”

“That, or he’ll not want a hole in his hull.” Jarek settled a hand on his Sky Hammer’s head. “Let’s go.”

He led the way across the tavern floor and had almost reached the entrance when Magrib appeared in the doorway, two jade-masked guards just behind.

“Jarek!” The boy grinned and hurried forward. “You’re here!”

Jarek muttered thanks to Alok even as he studied the two guards. “Magrib. You still under arrest? What happened?”

“Under arrest?” For a moment the boy seemed genuinely confused. “Oh, them? No! They’re my escort, to make sure nobody interferes with my mission.”

“Wait,” said Kish. “Your escort?”

“Where’s Elu?” Annara’s voice was stony with apprehension. “Acharsis?”

“That’s why I came! I’m to take you to them. You won’t believe what’s happened. I mean that literally. You’ll think I’m lying.”

“What?” asked Jarek. “What’s Acharsis done now?”

Sisu joined them, and they all bent over as Magrib beckoned for them to lean in. “He’s gotten Elu crowned as Prince Senacherib! We met the lamassu, and Acharsis convinced him to—”

“Magrib,” said Annara. “Stop. Say that again.”

Magrib’s grin grew wider. “See? The man’s a miracle worker. You should have seen him chatting with the lamassu as if they were friends! I’ve never seen a bunch of nobles and priests look so shocked.”

Sisu lowered himself to a crouch. “The lamassu. Acharsis had an audience with the lamassu?”

“Yes!” Magrib beamed. “It’s amazing, but it’s true. But let’s go! I’ve been sent to collect you. Prince Senacherib awaits you all in his private suite in the palace!”

“You’re right,” said Jarek. “I don’t believe you.”

“Me neither,” said Kish.

Annara looked pale, and Jarek saw Kish subtly slide her arm through the older woman’s to steady her.

“Fine. You don’t have to believe me. Just hurry. Follow me to the palace. You’ll see. It’s amazing! Everyone is so furious!” Magrib hurried to the door, turned to beckon them and then disappeared into the evening sunlight, the two guards following.

“Prince Senacherib,” said Sisu.

“Come on,” said Jarek, moving forward, ignoring the stares from all around them. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Magrib led them quickly away from the docks, into the city proper and toward the palace that rose above them all. Colorful cloth awnings extended before shops. Plinths and obelisks exalting the lamassu arose wherever they looked, and the streets were thronged with the people of Magan, ranging from guards on patrol to slaves to everyone in between. Canals of muddy-red water infiltrated the city everywhere, skiffs plying their way amongst bobbing vegetation and foam, while music, laughter, or the sound of someone being whipped floated to them from dark windows as they passed.

They emerged onto a large processional that led directly to the palace. The great stone slabs that composed the road’s surface were impressively smooth, and its length was flanked by an endless series of statues on thrones so vividly painted that they seemed alive.

The palace gate was thronged with people, a variety of them wearing masks. Slaves in sumptuous gowns brushed past servants, while groups of scholars or scribes stepped aside for important nobles.

There were no doors in the main entrance, which was a shadowed maw between two vast statues of the lamassu that rose up nearly thirty feet on either side, painted with exacting care and bedecked in enough gold and jewels to beggar any one of the River Cities. Magrib hurried up the steps and beckoned again eagerly for them to follow, then disappeared into the shadows.

“Well, we’re going into the palace,” said Kish.

“Doesn’t mean Elu’s a prince,” said Sisu.

“Come on,” said Annara, rushing up the steps. Her haste drew curious, flat gazes.

Jarek followed last, taking in the magnificence of the carvings in the walls, the impossibly high ceilings, the pale floor strewn with vividly colored flower petals. They soon emerged into an open air courtyard, whose center was dominated by a recessed pool on which three swans were slowly gliding to and fro. Pillars wider than Jarek rose up to support the distant ceiling covering the edges of the courtyard, and on every surface were paintings and runes, an endless array of knowledge and worship that beggared the mind.

Magrib followed the guards as they led deeper into the complex, through a staggering number of halls and open courtyards, some lit by burning braziers, other by the evening sky. There was a logic to the palace that evaded Jarek; he knew only the verticality of the ziggurat, where height equated authority. Here, everything seemed sprawled, without rhyme or reason.

Finally, they reached the head of a broad hallway that ended in an impressive arch; guards were stationed before it, but Magrib skipped past them without fear. Wary, hand resting on his Sky Hammer, refusing to believe what was increasingly becoming evident, Jarek followed into a huge and luxurious chamber.

A rectangle in the ceiling allowed the evening’s soft light to filter down upon an ornate pool from whose center arose the statue of svelte woman holding a vase. The scale of the room dwarfed what little furniture there was, but Jarek stopped, almost stumbling into Kish as he saw Elu seated on a high-backed chair toward the rear of the chamber.

He’d recently bathed and shaved; his cheeks and upper lip were as smooth as a child’s, leaving only a fringe of hair along the length of his jaw, and his scalp gleamed. It immediately gave him an alien, otherworldly look, to see the angularity of his skull imparting upon his features a sharp, almost predatory air. He sat bare-chested, his skin gleaming as if recently oiled, a thick necklace of azulite and gold draped over his chest, his upper arms bound in bands of gold and bronze. A white skirt was stretched taut over his thighs, while the thongs of leather sandals were bound all the way up to his knees.

“Elu?” Annara hesitated, a hand raised in hesitation.

The severe-looking young man grinned and rose, spreading his arms wide. “Mother! Can you believe it? I’m a prince!”

“He was telling the truth,” said Sisu, pressing a hand to the side of his face and pulling down his cheek. “By Nekuul’s never-ending hunger for the souls of the living, he was telling the truth.”

“But—how?” Annara stepped forward, gazing around at the chamber, the magnificent paintings on the walls, the ornate pillars, the trappings of royalty. “I thought…?”

Elu stepped forward to take her hand. “Acharsis. What more need I say?”

Annara gave a weak laugh. “Truly? He did this?”

“Somehow. He kept digging us into deeper trouble, always escalating his claims with such… arrogance? Confidence? Authority?—that he intimidated the magistrates into taking us before the lamassu lest they make a terrible mistake. And there he negotiated with it—mother, if you could have seen their god! It was huge, and terrifying, but Acharsis convinced it to let me be Prince Senacherib—”

“Hold on,” said Jarek, stepping up alongside Annara. “The lamassu knows you’re not Maganian royalty, right?”

“Yes. Even so. Acharsis convinced him that fate had brought me to Magan just in time for me to enter a trial called the Quickening to determine who’ll be the next pharaoh. Fate - and, well, my ‘divine’ blood.” Elu made a face.

“I have to sit down,” said Annara. Elu led her to the steps below his chair, and there she sank down to stare glassily at him. “The Quickening?”

“Yes. It’s how they pick their successor here. I’m going to be entering it to try and become pharaoh.” Even as he said it, Elu’s eyes widened with amazement, as if the words were hitting him for the first time.

Jarek felt his bewilderment come dangerously close to anger. “That’s… ridiculous. Is the lamassu mad?”

“No,” said a new voice, rich with cheer and slightly slurred. Acharsis emerged from behind a pillar at the rear of the chamber, a golden cup in one hand, dressed in a white tunic that reached down to his knees and which was belted around his waist by a golden band. “I am simply that magnificent with my words. I speak, and the birds, they swoon. I break wind, and the crowd erupts in applause. Ekillos would be proud. Desperation turned my silver tongue into gold, and now, well.” He raised his golden cup. “Free beer.”

Jarek pinched his brow. His temple was pulsing. “I thought we were going to approach this carefully. Discover the lie of the land. Figure out an approach.”

“No time,” said Acharsis, leaning against one of the massive pillars. “I do believe they were going to put us to death, and were only debating how courteous to be about it. Innocence and ignorance didn’t hold much weight in their court - including poor Magrib here. And that would have been unconscionababble.” He frowned. “Unconsciousnoble. Uncon… whatever. Ungood, as they say.” He grinned over the rim of his cup. “So I said a few choice words, and here we are. All hail Prince Senacherib, returned from the dead, freshly shaved and oiled and remarkably ungrateful to his reviled father.”

“You—” said Elu, but Acharsis waved his goblet, spilling some wine and cutting him off.

“Yes, yes. I know. We all know, just like I’m not Jarek’s old friend, or Annara’s anything. Just Acharsis, saving the day, anointing royalty and giving us all a chance to affect the tides of fate. But hey, I’m not bitter. Like I said: free beer.”

Sisu drifted forward, circling the far side of the pool. “A miracle. There’s no other way to explain it.”

“I have been called such,” allowed Acharsis.

“What is this Quickening?” asked Annara, rising to her feet and taking Elu’s hand. “Is it dangerous?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Elu. “We didn’t even know it was happening until a few hours ago.”

“Yes,” said Acharsis. “Things have been rather rushed. But it seems our old friend Irella - your mother, Sisu - arranged to have the previous pharaoh assassinated.” He said this last word with great care. “Three months ago. Which raises my estimation of her… her perfidy - that’s a good word - several rungs or notches, or what have you. Very perfidious. Perfiduous. Also, it explains the timing of her attack. She must have known about this Quickening business, and timed her strike on the rump of the empire with exquisite timing.” He frowned, replaying the sentence in his mind. “Timed the timing. Hmm. Ungood.”

“Great,” said Annara. “You’re drunk.”

“Am I?” Acharsis peered into his cup. “I’ll admit, I have had some drinks, so I have drunk, and am perhaps in the process of drunking. But do I not deserve a little respite after pulling off this—what did you call it, Sisu? Miracle?”

Annara turned to Elu. “When is this Quickening?”

“In a few days. We’re going to be leaving the city to head into some distant hills, where the trial will take place. It’s a day’s travel away, I think. I haven’t been able to learn much, but all six royal families from the largest Maganian cities will send a representative to compete. The one who wins through first becomes the next pharaoh.”

“Combat?” asked Jarek.

“I don’t know,” said Elu. “I don’t think so. It’s a trial, of sorts. But we’ve not yet learned the details.”

“Prince Senacherib,” said Kish. “Do we have to call you that now?”

“Only if you don’t want your head cut off for being rude to royalty,” said Acharsis. “But that’s really up to you.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the entrance, and then a lean man in sumptuous robes entered the chamber, a tall staff in his right hand. He tapped its base against the floor and intoned, “Beautiful are the beauties of Magan, the beautiful one has come. The Lady of Grace, Sweet of Love, Pharaoh’s Wife, Lady of all Women, and Mistress of Magan, Nethena.”

A crowd then flowed into the chamber, led by a stern, beautiful woman clad in royal regalia: a great blue headdress banded in gold upon her brow, a broad necklace of gold and lapis lazuli spread across her chest, and a sweeping dress of purple banded with crimson and gold. Her lips were pursed tightly, her nostrils pale, and her gaze livid as she strode up to their group, trailed by a score of other nobles and servants.

“I welcome you to the palace of Magan,” she said in flawless River Cities common, her voice clipped with tension. “The sun and moon rejoice in your return home, my precious son Senacherib, and birds of heaven sing their eternal gratitude that you are once more amongst us.”

“Well,” said Acharsis from where he still leaned against the pillar. “That sounded sincere.”

“Queen Nethena,” said Elu with surprising calm. “Thank you for your welcome.”

“'Queen'?” She took a step forward. “Why so formal, my son?” The words were nearly bitten off. “I am your mother. You are my flesh and blood, and I love you more than life itself. Come. Bask in my eternal love.”

Elu hesitated and glanced sidelong at Annara. The queen looked at her as well, and her smile grew cutting.

“What a remarkably coincidental resemblance,” she said. “The same brow. The same eyes.”

Annara met the queen’s gaze with a defiant expression. “Queen Nethena. I congratulate you on the return of your son.”

“Yes,” said the queen. “My son. A son who looks nothing like the boy I lost thirteen years ago.”

Acharsis pushed his way through the crowd to join them. “Well, boys change as they grow, you know. You can’t really fault him for not looking six years old anymore.”

“Were it not for the divine mandate, I would think you all opportunistic imposters,” said the queen. “I would order you hung from your thumbs till they tore free, then would have you impaled out on the mud flats so that the insects could consume you alive. But no. I cannot doubt the judgement of our living god, so it is instead with sweet and tender devotion that I welcome you home.”

“I’m going to need more beer,” said Acharsis, staring lugubriously into his cup.

“Brother,” said a young woman, stepping up alongside the queen. She bore a striking resemblance to her mother, tall and elegant, but her anger made her cheeks flush and her eyes shine. “I can scarcely believe you are returned home.”

“Ah—thank you, sister…” Elu trailed off with a look of panic.

“Ahktena,” she supplied with a voice that was both venomous and sweet at the same time. “Your twin.”

“Thank you, sister Ahktena.” Elu bowed his head stiffly. “It’s good to be home.”

“Your timing is exquisite,” continued his sister. “To think, I was about to embark for the Quickening tomorrow morning - but here you are. Do you intend to enter the trial yourself?”

“I do,” said Elu.

“Then you contest my own desires. How unfortunate. How are we ever to resolve this impasse? Grand Vizier?”

The bald man who had announced the royal family’s entrance stepped forth. His was a long and sorrowful face, his skull prominent beneath his dark skin, his eyes alive with cunning. “When a royal family cannot agree upon a sole candidate to submit to the Quickening, then must each contesting member elect a champion to duel for their right.”

“A duel?” asked Elu. “Is that the only way?”

“Do not worry,” said the vizier. “The winner is pre-ordained by fate. As such, this fight to the death is a mere formality.”

“Oh,” said Elu weakly. “Good.”

The queen smiled coldly. “Luckily, we already have our champion selected and with us. Do you have someone who will fight for your right?”

Elu hesitated, then glanced at Jarek. His eyebrows were raised high in question, and his relief was evident when Jarek nodded his agreement.

“I do,” said Elu, “actually.”

“What are the terms of the combat?” asked Jarek.

“Silence,” hissed the chamberlain. “Who do you think you are?”

“What are the terms of the combat?” asked Elu.

The chamberlain visibly reined in his distaste and bowed his head. “The terms are simple. Each champion must select one weapon with which to face the other. Combat continues until one champion is killed, unable to continue fighting, or concedes. Once the combat has begun, no outside interference is allowed. Should such occur, a new challenge will be scheduled at the earliest convenience.”

Elu looked questioningly to Jarek, who nodded again uneasily.

“Very well,” said Elu. “We, ah, accept. And are ready when you are.”

“Excellent,” said the queen. “It is best to resolve such familial disputes as quickly as possible, so as not to poison the air. Come. Let us move to the Hall of Light.”

Ahktena inclined her head to Elu, her smile smug, and then turned to follow her mother out of the hall.

“Don’t like those rules,” said Acharsis, falling in beside Jarek as they followed the vizier. “What’s to stop someone from loosing an arrow into your back, ruining this challenge, and forcing a second one at our ‘earliest convenience’?”

“You’ll have to watch my back, then,” said Jarek.

Kish stepped up on his other side. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

Jarek smiled. “You going to offer to fight in my place?”

“You know I would.”

“And you’d probably win. But yes. I’m sure. If there’s one thing I can do, it's swing this damn hammer.”

“All right.” She gave his arm a squeeze, then dropped her hand. “Though I can assure you that’s not all you know how to do.”

Jarek coughed into his fist, studiously ignoring her sly smile and Acharsis’ guffaw. Things had become better between them since the dream rhino, though Kish’s tactful distance had allowed him not to question their growing intimacy. Instead, he’d simply allowed himself to enjoy her company, her companionship, and her humor. Did he want more? For the first time, he tried to confront his feelings, to sort out his desires. Of course he did. But was it the right thing to do? What had changed? And if nothing, then why was he allowing their relationship to grow again?

They emerged into a large hall. This one was devoid of a central pool, though its stone floors were strewn with flowers. The evening light filtered in through the open ceiling, bathing the many dwarf palm trees that lined the walls with a soft gray glow. Torches burned between the trees, and a large brazier at the end of the hall sent flames spiraling up into the air, flames that caused a bronze circular mirror beyond it to gleam as if lit from within by its own inner fire.

Everyone moved to stand by the walls, with more people streaming in as word spread. The queen sat on a black chair with gold armrests and nodded to Ahktena, who stepped forward, her eyes shining with anticipation. She spoke in Maganian first, then turned to them and repeated her words in common.

“I, Ahktena, first daughter of Queen Nethena, summon my champion to fight for my right to enter the Quickening. May the lamassu bestow his favor upon his sword, and may his victory be flawless and overwhelming. Captain Haremhab, please step forth.”

Jarek studied the man who emerged from the crowd with interest. He was incredibly tall; even hunched over as he was, he towered over Jarek. His body was as devoid of fat as a lizard's, such that the long, lean muscles were clearly delineated, the veins lying over them in sharp relief. His face was strikingly ugly, with a slash of a mouth beneath a broad upper lip and a button of a nose, his brow receding, his hair sparse and combed over in an attempt to cover his scalp. Yet his eyes glittered as he studied Jarek, and his smile was predatory.

Two men came forth bearing the man’s weapon. It was a broad staff, as thick as Jarek’s wrist, with a large chain affixed to one end that ended in six ax-heads that were pressed together to form a massive flail. Haremhab took up this staff without looking away from Jarek, and the bronze chain clinked as the ax-heads were lifted off the cushion.

“By Ekillos’ sacred staff,” said Acharsis. “One hit from that thing and you’ll be torn in half.”

Elu stepped forward, face flushing as he gazed around the crowd. “I, Senacherib, son of Queen Nethena, summon my champion to fight for my right to enter the Quickening. May the lamassu show his favor—I mean, bestow his favor upon him, and may his hammer be as unstoppable and swift as a falling meteor. Jarek, please step forth.”

Jarek did so, shoulders squared, schooling his features to impassivity. A translator was repeating the introduction to the crowd, but Haremhab didn’t seem intimidated in the least. The tall man leaned on his staff, chain held in his off-hand, flail head hanging a foot from the floor.

The crowd murmured as Haremhab turned to bow to the bronze disk, and Ahktena took the opportunity to step over to Elu and Jarek. She smiled winsomely. “Dear brother. No matter the outcome of this combat, I am pleased that you are home. And to have such a mighty champion ready by your side! Most impressive. Jarek, I wish you well.” And then she laid her hand on his shoulder, and he felt a sharp prick, as if he’d been stung by a wasp.

Jarek jerked his shoulder away but Ahktena was already returning to her mother.

“What is it?” asked Elu, voice pitched low.

“My shoulder,” said Jarek, peering down at it. A fine bead of blood had appeared on his skin. “She pricked me.”

Acharsis stepped up alongside them. “Pricked you?” He frowned at the blood, then looked over to where Ahktena was whispering contentedly with her mother. “I’d bet you were just poisoned, old friend.”

“Should we protest?” asked Elu. “Call the vizier over?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Acharsis took another sip of his beer. “No outside interference is allowed once combat’s begun. Well, it’s not begun, has it? They’ve done nothing wrong per the rules.”

“Stand still,” said Kish, and placed her lips over the pinprick. She sucked hard, then turned and spat. “I don’t taste anything strange. But perhaps I should fight in your place.”

“No,” said Jarek.

“Can we substitute them?” asked Elu.

Acharsis rubbed at his face. “Worth a try. I’ll go talk to his Grand Vizierness.” Gold cup in hand, he walked through the crowd to where the man stood and began talking to him in a low voice.

“Jarek, let me take your place,” said Kish. “You can’t fight if you’ve been poisoned. We need to get you to an apsu or a healer. Your life could be in danger.”

“No,” said Jarek. “I can take him. I feel fine.” Though to be honest, his shoulder was starting to smolder.

“I can do this,” said Kish. “Why risk it? Let me fight.”

“No,” said Jarek. “Haremhab looks dangerous. I’d best handle him.”

“You don’t believe in me,” said Kish.

“It’s not that,” said Jarek. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You could be dying, you big ox. And you don’t want me to get hurt? Scythia’s blood runs through my veins!”

Ahktena and Nethena were watching them, their smiles pleased.

“I won’t have you fight in my place,” said Jarek. “Acharsis is coming. He’ll confirm that you can’t.”

“His Vizierness said it’s very irregular, but since the fight’s not yet begun we can change champions if we want. He made it clear it’s very taboo, but what do we care? Elu, you just have to—”

Jarek scowled, drew his Sky Hammer, and stepped out into the hall. His shoulder was starting to sting as if he’d brushed against nettles, but he put that from his mind. Haremhab began to swing the ax-heads around by the chain in his left hand. Did he know Jarek had been poisoned? Would he try to keep Jarek back, buy time to let the poison work? Probably.

The vizier was talking in Maganian. A quick charge before the man could build up speed with his flail? A feint, then a blow to the side of the head? No, Haremhab would be expecting that. The trick would be to corner him, prevent him from swinging.

With a cry, the vizier slammed the butt of his staff against the ground, and Haremhab released the chain and took hold of the staff with both hands. Muscles stood out in sharp relief all along his arms as he swung the staff around, the ax-heads tearing through the air. Jarek growled and began to circle, finding an angle of attack that would drive his opponent against the closest wall. Haremhab simply pivoted, swinging the flail ever faster and keeping Jarek in view.

With a grunt, Jarek leaped forward, swinging his hammer right at the incoming flail. Haremhab stepped back and dipped his staff, causing the flail to swing under Jarek’s hammer and nearly disembowel him. Jarek threw himself back just in time.

The huge flail was moving incredibly quickly now, the staff flexing under its weight, passing before Jarek every second or faster. Haremhab suddenly released his grip on the staff, allowed it to slide almost completely free, only to grab hold of its base, extending the chain’s reach by a sudden four feet.

The flail came screaming around at Jarek’s torso. With a cry, Jarek dropped to the ground, the passage of the ax-heads riffling his hair. He rolled to the side as the flail came tearing back around and smashed into the ground where he’d been, sending chips of stone flying. Jarek came up and stepped in, hammer swinging, but Haremhab’s grip on the staff had returned to center, and he reversed the staff so that he could lash out at Jarek’s chest with its butt.

Jarek took the blow, grunted, tried to step in again, but was forced to dive aside as once more the flail came shrieking around. Haremhab stepped back and once again set up a protective stance, swinging the flail at a downward angle to proscribe any approach.

Sweat began to bead on Jarek’s forehead, and he felt the burning in his shoulder pass into his chest. Anger rose within him, and he circled Haremhab.

The strength was flowing out of him. His hammer was starting to feel ponderous in his hands, and his chest was becoming tight. To his surprise, Jarek saw a look of confusion flicker across Haremhab’s face, but then it was gone as his opponent schooled his features to impassivity.

Jarek lunged once, twice, three times, but each time was forced back by the speed of the flail. He tried to attack the weapon once more, but again Haremhab directed the flail head to avoid his Sky Hammer, nearly removing Jarek’s legs below the knees.

Jarek broke off his attack to stagger back. His breath was coming in shallow pants now. He felt as if he’d just run ten miles. Haremhab drew back as well, watching him closely. Fighting to control his breathing, Jarek straightened and raked his hand through his sweat-drenched hair. At this rate, he’d be down within the minute. His heart was laboring, his pulse pounding in his temples. He avoided looking back at where Kish stood. Damn, but he’d been a fool.

“I haven’t used this technique in some time,” he said, walking forward. “Let’s see if I can remember how it goes.” He’d fought a similar duel against the Athite leader two decades ago outside the walls of Rekkidu; had chased the nimble man across the sands for ten minutes before losing his patience. Inspiration charged with madness had struck him, and his next blow had felled the Athite.

Haremhab lowered himself into a wary crouch, inching back to keep a good ten feet between them, flail whining as it tore through the air. The man’s face was starting to blur. The flames from the torches were swaying, spreading out into the air like ink diffusing through water.

With a grunt, he stiff-armed the Sky Hammer directly into the air above his head, holding it with just his right hand. Its weight had tripled. He took a deep breath, straining his chest to its maximum, then allowed the hammer to fall back, and swung it down and around with all his might to release it at the last moment and send it flying at Haremhab’s chest.

The Sky Hammer flew through the air, a bolt of meteoric stone, right through the flail’s defenses. At the last moment, however, Haremhab turned aside so that it skimmed past his chest and smashed into the pillar a few yards behind him. There was a sharp retort of cracking stone. Haremhab turned back to Jarek, eyes wide, just in time to see his fist crack across his jaw.

Jarek nearly fell with the man, falling to his knees as Haremhab collapsed bonelessly to the ground, his flail flying free to bounce and skitter across the floor toward the crowd. The light sources were flowing out to meet each other, forging smears of crimson and gold in the air that blinking refused to clear.

Fighting for breath, his whole body shaking now, Jarek grabbed hold of Haremhab’s tunic and lifted his torso up off the ground. Haremhab’s head lolled back. His eyelids fluttered, then closed. He was done. With a gasp, Jarek released him, and then rose to his feet with supreme effort. He swayed like a reed in a storm, barely able to stand. He pointed at where he thought the vizier stood.

“Call it,” he said, tongue thick in his mouth.

Silence.

“Call it,” he demanded. Was he pointing at the wrong man?

He heard the vizier say something in Maganian, and then polite applause broke out across the crowd. Jarek’s knees buckled and he fell to all fours. Someone was by his side. People were helping him down, but he couldn’t understand their words.

“Kish,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Tears blurred his eyes. He was such a fool. Such a damned fool.

“I’m sorry, Kish,” he said again as the red light in the air filled his vision. “I’m so sorry.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kish let out a cry as Jarek sagged in her arms. All around, voices were raised in consternation, with women hiding their faces behind feathered fans while men called out demands and inquiries in voices tight with anger and confusion.

Acharsis set his beer aside. Gone was the warmth, the comforting fuzziness of his inebriation. Gone was the self-pitying remove at which he’d stood, feeling at once tragically heroic and a fool. Elu was demanding something by his side. Annara had moved to crouch beside Kish. But Acharsis ignored them. Ignored them all.

He stared, instead, at Ahktena.

The young woman stood frozen, her eyes wide in disbelief, her chin raised as if she’d just scented something foul. Her mother was rising to her feet, snapping commands at her servants, clearly intent on quitting the scene. Retreat. She wanted to remove herself and her daughter from the public eye.

Acharsis wouldn’t give them the chance. He strode forward, cutting a direct line across the hall, stepping over the unconscious Haremhab as he did so. Guards stepped to bar his way, crossing spears and glaring at him, but Acharsis paid them no heed.

“Ahktena,” he said, voice loud over the whispers. How many here understood River City common? He didn’t know, nor did he care. “Give me the antidote.”

“I don’t know of what you speak,” she said, two points of color appearing high on her cheeks.

“This is your one chance to save your life,” growled Acharsis. “Right here, right now. Give me the antidote and all will be forgiven. Fail, and when Senacherib ascends to pharaoh, he will remember this evil and reward you accordingly.”

“You dare threaten my daughter?” Nethena turned back, eyes wide, nostrils flared. “You dare?”

“Not a threat,” said Acharsis. “A promise. And one you will be unable to stop once your son is ruler of Magan.”

“Seize him,” hissed Nethena. “Seize this insolent knave and take him to the dungeons.”

Guards drew their weapons, and the two closest took hold of Acharsis’ arms. He didn’t resist. Didn’t deign to even notice them. He kept his gaze locked on Ahktena. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. But for those two spots of color, her dusky features had grown pale.

“Ahktena. Listen to me. You can change your fate. You must have an antidote. Give it to me. Save yourself while you still can.”

“Don’t respond,” said her mother, making a chopping motion with her hand. “We leave. This is below our dignity.”

“On one condition,” said Ahktena, voice trembling.

“No conditions,” snapped Acharsis. “The antidote. Now!”

“One condition,” said Ahktena, ignoring her mother’s furious glare and drawing closer. “Senacherib will need to choose seven followers to accompany him into the trial. I will give you the antidote if he agrees to make me part of that group.”

“You think to still win through?” Acharsis wanted to laugh; wanted to cry. He could practically feel Jarek’s life slipping away. “You think—”

“All right,” said Elu, stepping up and cutting him off. “I swear that I will choose you as part of this team. Now please. The antidote.”

It was Acharsis’ turn to glare as Ahktena drew a slender vial from her sash and pressed it into Elu’s palm. His son hurried back to crouch by Jarek’s side.

“I underestimated you,” said Acharsis. “I won’t do so again. If you think to betray us during the trial—”

“This turn of events is to your favor,” said Ahktena. “You need me more than I need you. Do you honestly expect to pass through the trial without a Maganian of royal blood to help you navigate its perils? You may have a certain base cunning, but you lack all cultural awareness and context. You would die within minutes of stepping foot within the cube. You need me.”

Acharsis wanted to argue, to tear her words apart, to break her composure and leave her rattled and feeling terrible. She’d nearly killed Jarek. Had used his life as a bargaining chip. And yet, he couldn’t fault her argument. He’d not even known that the Quickening involved a group of followers. It meant he’d be there, able to advise Elu - but seven more? Even with Ahktena, they still lacked a member.

The princess seemed to read his mind, dark amusement causing her lips to quirk. “You’re counting, aren’t you? I know that there’s only six of you foreigners, including my dear, dear brother. With me, you have seven. Whom else will you choose? How will you round out your team? Do you think to hire somebody from the streets?”

Acharsis pressed his lips into a thin line.

Ahktena drew closer. “That you’ve stumbled this far is a testament to your luck. I don’t know how you convinced the lamassu to back your ridiculous claim, but there is nothing I can do about that. But you cannot expect his assistance from here on out. You are alone. And your luck will run out, either here or within the cube. You need me. Ask, and I shall provide the eighth member of the group, a member whose contributions shall tip the balance of the scales in Senacherib’s favor.”

“An ally,” sneered Acharsis. “You think to double your chances of betraying us.”

“Poor man,” she said, her voice sweet, her smile pitying. She reached up to pat him on the cheek, but he jerked his face away. “You’re only now starting to understand the perilous depths into which you’ve strayed. You will all die at the Quickening without my help. Can you read Maganian? No? Then how would you even open the entrance to the trial? Believe me. The risk I pose is far outweighed by the benefits I bring. Ask me. Ask me to provide an eighth member, and I shall do so.”

“Excuse me,” said Acharsis, taking a step back. “I must attend to my friend. You know, the one you poisoned?”

Jarek lay still within Kish’s arms. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she was biting her lower lip as she studied his face.

“How is he?”

“I don’t know.” Kish touched the side of Jarek’s neck. “Alive. He drank most of the antidote, but not all of it. I tried to pour it in, but some spilled—” Tears filled her eyes again.

Jarek’s skin was waxen. Acharsis touched his brow. He felt feverish. “If we had an apsu, we could ask for the intervention of the spirits…” Frustration ground within him. “But none of them will listen to me.”

“That bitch,” whispered Kish, staring past Acharsis to where Ahktena was exchanging intense words with her mother. “I’ll make her pay for this.”

Acharsis grimaced. “Let’s… lets focus on Jarek. We need to get him to a bed. Elu, your chambers?”

“I—yes.” Elu nodded sharply. “Of course. Follow me.”

With Sisu’s help, Acharsis and Kish carried Jarek out of the prying crowd, down the hallways and into Elu’s large chamber, past the columns at the back and into a second area where a feast was laid out beside a broad bed. They lowered Jarek onto the stiff mattress and then straightened his limbs.

“He seems to be doing better,” said Acharsis. “We can only watch, and hope. Hope that the antidote was a potent one.”

He stepped away from the bed and was hit by a wave of exhaustion, as though he had been the one to fight. Annara moved to his side, slipping her arm through his and then pulling it free once more when Elu returned.

“Is he going to be all right?” Elu stepped over to where they stood.

“He will.” Acharsis tried to sound confident. “Jarek’s tougher than the mountains. He’ll be awake and sulking in no time. You’ll see. Now. About Ahktena.”

“What?” Elu turned to face him, eyes narrowing. “You disapprove of my taking her on?”

“Well, she did just try to kill Jarek. But—”

“I am Senacherib now, Acharsis.” Elu’s voice was hard. “I’m in command now. You may have manipulated me into this position, but I won’t let you continue to move me around like a piece on a shatranj board.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“And I had no choice, did I? I couldn't risk calling her bluff and letting Jarek die. Not after he fought for me. I had to accept her, if only for his sake.”

“That’s true,” said Acharsis. “But—”

“You entered me into this Quickening,” continued Elu. The words were flowing quickly now. “You didn’t ask if I wanted to play at being prince, if I wanted to change my very identity, if I wanted to be ruler. You just chose for me, and pulled the strings, and used your impossible luck to make it happen. Well, it worked. You got what you wanted, and forced me into being Senacherib. Which means you now have to do what I say. You have to respect my decisions. And if I choose to bring Ahktena into the trial? Then that’s how it’s going to be.”

Acharsis sucked on his teeth as he rocked back onto his heels. “All right. I’d interpret what happened today a little differently, but you’d probably just accuse me of manipulating you further by pointing out I saved your life and all that.”

Elu’s face flushed, so Acharsis raised his hands to fend him off. “But no matter. You’re correct. You’re Senacherib now. Royal prince and contender for the throne of Magan. I’m here to help you - just like Jarek, Kish and Sisu. Wait. I’m being presumptuous, aren’t I? Do you even want my help?”

“Acharsis,” said Annara.

“I don’t know,” said Elu, crossing his arms. “With you around, things have a habit of suddenly veering out of control. Your solutions seem to only make things worse. Perhaps I’d do better without you.”

“He saved your life in Rekkidu,” said Annara. “He saved your life again today.”

“But would Yesu have taken me to Rekkidu if Acharsis hadn’t shown up in Eruk?” Elu’s grin was all teeth and no humor. “Didn’t you tell me that before he arrived, he was visited by his demon?”

Annara’s eyes widened in shock. “I—yes, but I never meant—”

“Perhaps all of this is Acharsis’ fault. The death of my father. My being kidnapped. My being dragged across the face of the known world, and now being forced into a lethal trial to become the ruler of a country I know nothing about - all so as to continue serving Acharsis’ aims.”

Acharsis held his tongue. There was nothing he could say right now that wouldn’t throw oil onto the fire. He’s just a boy, he thought. He’s furious. He’s hurt. He’s still grieving, and he’s blaming everything on you. Be wiser than him. More patient. The fate of the River Cities depends on it.

“Fine,” said Elu. “You can stay. But I’m warning you, Acharsis. If you pull any of your tricks, try to manipulate me, or make decisions for me, I’ll invoke this power you’ve so generously gifted me and have you hauled away. Understood?”

“Understood, Your Imperial Royal Highness,” said Acharsis with a mocking half-bow. Again, he clenched his jaw before more words could slip forth.

“Elu,” said Annara. “We have to work together. We won’t survive what’s coming if we’re divided.”

“We’ve never ‘worked together’, mother. Don’t you see? We’ve only danced as Acharsis pulled the strings. Perhaps that’s your limitation. Perhaps you still love him in some way, and can’t see when you’re being used. Maybe that’s why you’ve forgotten father so quickly, why you’re so eager to resume your old life with—”

Annara slapped Elu. Kish and Sisu jerked their heads up to stare, eyes wide.

Elu stared at his mother, eyes wide. “You can’t do that, mother.” He tongued the inside of his cheek. “If anybody sees you slap me, you’ll be taken away and killed.”

“You talk like that to your mother,” said Acharsis, “And—”

“And what?” Elu smiled. “You’ll what, exactly?” His eyes grew glassy with tears, and he began to shiver. “If you’re angry, Acharsis, I understand. But be angry with yourself. You did this. You made me. Ha! In more ways than one. You made me this. So take some responsibility, and hold your tongue.”

With that, Elu strode away through the pillars and into the large front room.

Acharsis’ chest was locked up tight. He didn’t need to breathe; his fury sustained him. Then, with a sigh, he released his breath and his shoulders sagged. “Damn.”

Annara wiped at the corners of her eyes. “He doesn’t mean it.”

“He does. And he’s not completely wrong.” Sisu and Kish had gone back to tending Jarek, but still Acharsis drew Annara a little farther away. “We’re going to have to find a way to get through to him. You’re going to have to find a way. Our chances of surviving this upcoming trial are going to depend on our ability to work together. And if we go in with him hating me this much?” Acharsis shook his head.

“I’ll do what I can,” said Annara. “And he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even know you.”

“He seems to think he does.” Acharsis ran his fingers through his hair.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Annara. “Though he’s not too happy with me, either. Still. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Please,” said Acharsis. “Our lives are going to depend on it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Acharsis swayed in the camel’s broad saddle. He was perched atop its back what felt like fifteen feet above the canyon floor, nominally in control of the strange animal’s progress through the canyon, but in truth simply letting it obey its herd instincts and stay with the expedition. He knew its large, beautifully eyelashed gaze could turn malicious in a moment; he’d seen Sisu’s mount hawk a gobbet of mucus at the youth with impressive skill and little provocation. He didn’t fancy his own chances of imposing his will on this one.

Cries came from the front of the column, but a bend in the roseate walls of the canyon prevented him from seeing what was taking place.

“An attack?” asked Kish from her own camel.

“You sound almost relieved,” said Acharsis. “But no. I’d guess we’ve finally arrived.”

The expedition began moving forward once more. Guards at the fore trudged around the bend in the canyon, followed by the endless number of elegant palanquins and camels. Half the city’s court had accompanied them out to the site of the Quickening, with double their number in servants and supply wagons; a mass exodus, every face taut with excitement and anticipation.

Acharsis twisted in his saddle to check on Elu. His son - no, Senacherib - reclined with impressive impassivity on a massive palanquin borne on the shoulders of nearly twenty slaves. Guards ringed him, and already he seemed distant, almost alien.

Annara urged her camel up alongside Acharsis, then turned to follow his gaze. Elu must have noticed their staring, but didn’t turn to regard them.

“He has to act this way,” she said. “He has to play the role.”

“He’s doing so exceedingly well.”

“You’re his father. The blood of Ekillos runs through his veins. Perhaps this feels right to him.”

Acharsis wanted to reach out and take her hand. Wanted to squeeze it, reassure her. She was searching his face, eyebrows raised, looking for reassurance. Looking lost.

“Perhaps it does,” he said. But he couldn’t lie. “But I think there’s more to it.”

“More? How so?”

“Did you manage to speak with him alone?”

“The day before. I sat with him while he broke his fast.”

“And?”

She looked away. “And what?”

“How was the conversation?”

“Awkward. He rebuffed me. Told me I had to treat him like Senacherib. That too much depended on his playing the role for even a moment’s lapse.”

They reached the bend, and a faint noise emerged from before them, a whisper, a complex pattern of sound that could have been a waterfall.

“There’s a lot of anger in him,” said Acharsis. “He feels lied to. Controlled. He’s still grieving for his father, and for the loss of his old life. This affords him a chance to strike out. To cast us off, and be himself.” He laughed beneath his breath. “Pity that means Senacherib and not Elu.”

Annara pursed her lips, clearly not happy with his words, but then they rounded the last of the curve and rode out onto a broad shelf. A vast camp sprawled all the way around the steep slopes of red hills that rose to form a tight bowl; a panoply of tents, a transient city that encircled a barren clearing in the bowl’s center. The sound of a thousand voices, of hammers and cries and the lowing of livestock and the shouts of masters filled the air, rising up to them like steam from freshly baked bread.

“I’d not imagined…” Annara gazed wide-eyed at the tents below. “So many. All for the Quickening?”

“Must be,” said Acharsis. Their camels continued to amble forward, following the column toward a ramp that led down to the tents below. “Must be the delegations from the other five cities.”

Though his gaze was tempted by the myriad sights that their descent into the tents afforded him, he found his attention drifting back to the barren plain below, empty but for the six towering columns that formed a circle at its outer reaches. Were obstacles to be dragged out onto its surface? Would that sand soon be drenched in blood?

Their procession wound its way down through the tent city and to the final open segment that had been held in reserve for them. Immediately, a hundred slaves leaped forward to begin clearing the ground of rocks, erecting tent poles, unrolling canvas, leading pack animals to a corral, hauling goods off wagons and other frenetic activities. Acharsis considered his descent from the camel for a good thirty seconds before attempting it, ignoring Annara’s smooth slide down and managing a semi-dignified scramble of his own.

“I hate riding animals,” he said, bending his knees and resisting the urge to rub life back into his rear end. “The benefit just barely outweighs the torment.”

Jarek strode up. “It looks like Elu’s wasting no time in presenting himself.”

Acharsis turned around and saw that Jarek was right. Elu had already descended from his palanquin and was being ushered to a dramatic promontory that extended a dozen yards out over the steep slope. The attention of the tent city was fixed on that extension of rock. Flanked by lamassu priests, Elu moved to the very edge and there extended his arms in greeting, taking in the thousands of Maganians who watched him in silence.

“Not so close to the edge,” whispered Annara as she hurried after Acharsis.

“They’re not going to push him to his death before everybody,” said Acharsis over his shoulder. “Though he is really close to that edge.”

The ranks of nobles who had followed Elu in an attempt to be associated with him parted reluctantly before Jarek’s polite taps on their shoulders, their faces darkening in outrage. Just as they reached the rock itself, however, cries of wonder and ecstasy arose across the camp.

For a delirious moment Acharsis thought the Maganians had recognized him, had been awestruck by his appearance, but then a shadow passed over and he looked up. His stomach knotted and his breath caught. The lamassu had arrived.

There were six of them. He’d missed their approach, but now they circled overhead, great, languorous beats of their wings keeping them afloat, golden torques and armbands glinting in the sunlight. They dipped and rose with each beat of their wings, looking almost as if they were playing with the currents, and then each descended to one of the towering columns upon whose top they alighted, their bulks settling, wings furling, so that they could gaze down upon the gathered humans.

Everybody had knelt, Acharsis realized, most of them pressing their foreheads to the ground. Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee, heart pounding. Were they truly gods? They seemed defined by their physicality. Ekillos had dwelt in his home realm, a spiritual being that he felt within his soul and who manifested in the ziggurat’s apex; whose power was fed by faith and devotion. Were these lamassu comparable? Did they care for faith? Did they need it? Did they bestow powers upon their followers?

Slaves ran out onto the plain below, unrolling a great white carpet onto which a priest walked, his form glittering with gold, his mask that of a lion. He was flanked by a host of lesser priests and acolytes bearing braziers. When he reached the carpet’s terminus he bowed, then lowered himself to his knees and pressed his glittering mask to the ground.

Acharsis snuck a glance at Elu. His son was also kneeling, but had risen to sit on his heels and watch the activities below. Nobody gainsaid him, but nobody else had dared rise in such a manner.

The priest below stood and began to orate to the lamassu, gesturing and waving his arms, his voice tremendous and carrying thinly even up to where the tents were arrayed. It didn’t seem to matter, however, if the people around Acharsis could actually hear the priest; they murmured along with him as if he were reciting a common prayer.

This continued for some time. Acharsis shifted his weight on his aching knee, and fought the urge to just sit cross-legged. More priests filed out to speak, all of it in Maganian. A white bull was led forth to the base of each column and then slaughtered, their blood bright on the sand, their thrashing and bellows mercifully short.

Through it all, the lamassu remained impassive and still, seated on their haunches, tails wrapped around their legs, watching the humans with their alien visages. Were they gods? Were they truly immortal, or merely long-lived? Did they have powers beyond their ability to rend and tear?

The song drew to a close and the formal tension seemed to dissolve from those around him; people relaxed and began to speak, the ceremony over. Acharsis stood with a groan, rubbed at his knee, and curbed his instinct to approach Elu directly. Annara moved forward instead, but Elu strode past her.

“Come,” he said. “Ahktena has prepared my tent. We have much to discuss.”

“In his tent?” asked Jarek.

“Must have been arranged beforehand,” said Acharsis. “Which I’m not entirely pleased about. I hope Elu doesn’t start valuing her advice over our own.”

“Senacherib,” said Sisu as he joined them. “Remember?”

They trailed in Elu’s wake as he strode to his tent. It had been erected in the center of the former clearing, and was a sumptuous affair of crimson and gold, wind chimes hanging from each corner and a phalanx of guards arrayed before the entrance. Servants were rushing in and out, carrying cushions, side tables, provisions, and other comforts. This stream parted for Elu, the servants dropping to their knees before him.

Incense burned within, filling the large tent with the scent of sandalwood, and Ahktena was standing to one side, Haremhab and four servants behind her. She smiled at Elu as they entered, and moved forward to bow with lithe grace.

“Sweet brother,” she said. “The moment is finally upon us. You handled yourself well in the eyes of the world.”

“Ahktena,” said Elu, clearly struggling to find the right tone. Acharsis watched carefully. Did Elu seem bashful? Already? “I’ve reached my decision.”

What decision? Acharsis forced himself to smile even as he knotted his hands into fists behind his back.

“Haremhab is welcome in our group,” continued Elu. “You’re correct. I don’t have anybody else, and his loyalty and skill with his flail will be very useful to us within the cube.”

Jarek stiffened by Acharsis’ side.

“Now,” said Ahktena, gesturing to a servant who hurried to pour her a cup of wine. “Let us review the basics of the Quickening. Fortunately for you, the particulars are a secret to all; whatever takes place within the cube is such that participants do not speak of it upon emerging.”

“Cube?” asked Elu, moving to sit. “The Quickening takes place within it?”

“I’ll leave the cube for you to experience in person,” said Ahktena with a sly smile. “Just so I can observe your face. But yes, the trials take place within. What is known from observing previous trials is that the doorways into the cube are riddles in and of themselves, great eyes on whose surface are carved Maganian symbols of religious import. You see? Without me, you wouldn’t even have been able to enter.” She gave Acharsis a perfectly infuriating smirk.

“But inside?” Elu leaned forward. “Nobody knows what to expect?”

“There are endless amounts of speculation,” said Ahktena, taking her cup. “And much has been inferred over the centuries. The trials are designed to determine who is the best-suited to rule Magan, which in turns means scholars and philosophers have studied the winners to see what traits they displayed, and then worked backwards to guess at the trials they might have passed. From that body of study have emerged a few ‘truths’ on which all are agreed.”

Acharsis took a cup of wine from one of the servants, momentarily regretting that it wasn’t beer.

“First, obedience to the lamassu is the hallmark of any pharaoh,” said Ahktena. “All who have won through have shown unwavering loyalty to the gods. As such, one can expect that love to be tested. Having been raised in foreign lands, dear brother, your own commitment to Magan’s gods might be a weak spot. I would urge you to keep your devotion to them front and center at all times once we are within.”

“Great,” said Sisu.

“Second, the pharaoh must be a strong defender of Magan. He must be able to defeat all manner of threats, and so all pharaohs have displayed physical courage and resolve. But nobody expects a pharaoh to fight on the front lines, which is why most teams that enter the cube feature a handful of warriors. There will be violence within, and we must be able to win through any contest.”

“Jarek and Kish can see to that,” said Elu. “Haremhab will also help. I’m not completely useless with a blade myself.”

Ahktena bowed her head in gracious acknowledgement of Elu’s prowess. Damn it, thought Acharsis. Is he flirting?

“None can deny that the pharaoh need also possess uncommon luck, but there is nothing you can do to affect that element of the equation; either you have it, or you don’t. The final principle on which all the scholars have agreed is a pharaoh’s ability to inspire and lead his or her people. What that translates to within the cube, nobody knows; but you must be the leader of your team - you cannot let others make your decisions for you.”

Acharsis stiffened and tightened his grip on his cup. Still he said nothing. Though Ahktena didn’t look at him, he felt as if her words had been arrows launched at his heart. Her wording was too precise. Had she listened in on their arguments? Had Elu shared his concerns with her?

“Don’t worry about that,” said Elu, sitting up straight. “I’m young, but I know my own mind.”

Acharsis wanted to set down his wine and step back outside. He felt petulant and petty. There were a dozen things he wished he could say, a score of ways that he could infuriate Elu and cause their enterprise to go up in flames. Instead, he sipped his wine and stayed quiet. How could he win back Elu’s trust? Annara had proven inadequate to the task. There had to be another way.

“Tomorrow morning, all six teams shall present themselves to the lamassu,” Ahktena said. “There will be a number of ceremonies, and then the trials shall begin.”

“Very well,” said Elu. “The rest of my day is full of meetings, apparently. I’m to be introduced to the other royal families and who knows what else.”

“If you wish,” said Ahktena, lowering her eyes, “I would be honored to help you navigate these meetings adroitly. I know the other families well, and could help make these meetings both more pleasant and more productive.”

“Yes,” said Elu, sounding surprised. “That would be, ah, much appreciated. Everyone else, you’re dismissed.”

Acharsis bowed, took the wine carafe from the servant and stepped outside into the sunlight. Already, the space around them was completely different: tents had arisen everywhere, and dust hung in the air as countless servants and slaves rushed to and fro.

“Acharsis,” said Jarek. “What in Alok’s name just happened in there?”

Acharsis raised a hand, forestalling the outraged comments the others clearly wanted to make. “Follow me, follow me. Let’s not bray our displeasure like asses before Elu’s tent. Come.” He had no idea which tent was meant to be theirs, and didn’t honestly care. He ducked into the first empty one that he found, then turned to his friends.

Jarek and Kish stood on opposite sides of the group. They’d not mended the rift that had sprung up anew between them after Jarek’s poisoning. Annara was hugging herself in the middle, while Sisu stood hunched and miserable beside her.

“So. Let’s take a moment to appreciate where we are. How far we’ve come. A few weeks ago, we were fleeing Rekkidu, determined to attempt the impossible. Now we’re in the royal camp, about to be presented to the lamassu, and to attempt to raise one of our own to the rank of pharaoh. An improbable accomplishment! I think we all deserve a round of applause.”

Nobody clapped. Kish crossed her arms. Jarek shook his head.

“Yes, well, we still face some difficulties. I didn’t say we could relax.” Acharsis began to pace, refilling his cup as he did so. “We’re about to enter some legendary trial tomorrow and compete against five other teams, facing violence and tests that are probably going to be quite unpleasant. Not only that, but Elu is… how shall we put it?”

“Talking to the woman who tried to poison me, and teaming up with the man who tried to kill me,” said Jarek.

“Flirting,” said Kish. “Though I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it.”

“Wait,” said Sisu. “He was flirting? Was she flirting with him?”

“Yes.” Kish shook her head pityingly. “Though she was much better at it than he was. But it was pretty clear she was just leading him on.”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand,” said Acharsis. “He’s furious with me for manipulating him - which I haven’t. Not recently. But now he’s replaced me with someone who’s even more obvious at it, and who clearly can’t be trusted.”

Annara pressed her fingers to her temples. “We can’t contradict him. Not while he’s taking his role as Senacherib so seriously. We’d risk being pushed away even farther. So how do we protect him inside? How do we prevent Ahktena from betraying us?”

“Are you so sure she plans to?” asked Sisu. “Maybe she’s just angling for as much power as she can get.”

Acharsis drained his cup. “I doubt it. She’s recognized her influence on Elu and is using it to get what she wants.”

“She got him to accept Haremhab into our group,” said Jarek. “What if I snap his neck the moment we walk into the cube?”

“Snap his neck?” Kish gave him a look of disgust. “That the kind of person you are now?”

Acharsis sighed. “We need Elu to trust us. We need to trust each other. I don’t know what we’re in for when we enter that cube, but if we’re to stand any chance of winning this ordeal then we need to operate like we did back in Rekkidu. We need to trust each other. To complement each other’s strengths.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Sisu. “I lost my strength when we left the River Cities. I’m about as useful right now as a pitcher with no bottom.”

Kish threw her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t be too hard on your bottom, Sisu. I’ve seen how the dead girls look at you.”

“Great,” he muttered. “That cheers me up to no end.”

Acharsis fought to stave off the despair that threatened to swamp him. Jarek and Kish weren’t even able to meet each other’s eyes. Sisu was a powerless, sullen teenager. Annara was consumed by concern for her son. And Elu? He’d become as alien as the Senacherib he was imitating. Which left Ahktena and Haremhab to round out their group.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to pull this together; had to remember that this was about more than just their survival. The fate of Magan depended on their success. The fate of the River Cities. The revival of his father, of Alok, of all the dead gods.

“In our veins runs the blood of gods,” he said, cutting off the conversation. He raised his head. “Even Annara here stands close to Scythia, having dedicated her youth to the worship of the goddess. We are no mortal team. We are not common people. We are demigods and godsbloods. That divinity enable me to stand before the lamassu and sway his mind, allowing us this shot at redemption. Nobody else in this competition can make that claim. Nobody.

“I don’t know how we’re going to make it through this trial, I don’t know how we’re going to win through, but I do know this: the fate of Magan and the River Cities depends on our victory. Tens of thousands of innocents depend on us putting our grudges and doubts aside and doing our utmost tomorrow; depend on our manifesting every ounce of skill and determination and bloody-minded resolve to win through. And we will. We cannot fail. The fates are at our backs. That we’ve come this far against such odds is a testament to the righteousness of our cause. Tomorrow, we will overcome the obstacles set in our way, and by tomorrow night we shall stand united beside Elu as he is crowned pharaoh.”

He felt his own inner fire rekindling, his own determination solidifying in his heart. He held each person’s eyes in turn, a sense of mastery and power invigorating him and banishing his fears. “Just as we did in Rekkidu. Just as we did in the steppes. Tomorrow, we shall—”

The silver talisman that lay against his chest crumpled as if squeezed by an invisible fist, and then jerked free of its chain to fall down the inside of his tunic. Acharsis clamped his hand to his chest, but it was too late. The sound of chains clanking came to him from the outside of the tent. The sound of bare feet padding on the sand as his demon danced, her breathing hoarse, wheezing with delirious laughter. He stood, frozen, his friends gazing back at him with growing concern.

“Acharsis?” asked Annara.

He could picture her with perfect clarity. Her sooty skin, her wild, stringy white hair, her emaciated body, the manacles that had rubbed her wrists and ankles raw. Her rolling eyes. Her savage grin. Dancing, chains clanking—

He turned, drew his knife, and stabbed at the tent wall. Then he gripped it with both hands and hauled it down, tearing a vent in the fabric, thrusting his way through, seized by an incoherent fury - and saw nothing outside.

She was gone.

“Acharsis?” Jarek was by his side, scanning the closest tents, the curious servants who had paused to look at them.

He couldn’t catch his breath. He fell into a crouch and buried his head in his hands. Damn it. Damn it all to the underworld, piss on it and set it on fire.

“It was her, wasn’t it?” asked Annara, emerging on his far side. “Your demon.”

“Yes,” he said, forcing the word out between his lips. He fished into his tunic and drew forth the crumpled silver talisman. “I’d thought Ninsaba could protect me. I’m such a fool. How can a dead goddess keep my demon at bay?”

“What does it mean?” asked Kish from just within the tent. “Are we doomed?”

“Remember what happened last time she appeared?” Sisu’s voice was shaking. “All our plans to save Elu from Rekkidu were ruined. We all nearly died. And tomorrow we’re going into a death trap? Of course we’re doomed.”

Acharsis wanted to argue. To salvage the situation. But he felt paralyzed. Numb. He stared at the crumpled silver moon, then let it fall from his fingers to the sand. Doomed. His demon always, always presaged a terrible turn in their luck. He buried his face in his hands.

Doomed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jarek stood outside their tent, arms crossed, staring impassively at everyone who glanced his way. He felt monolithic, rooted to the spot as if he were an outcropping, as unpassable as a cliff face. Darkness was falling over the bowl, and everywhere glimmers of firelight and torches were springing up like a band of crimson stars that circled the plain of sand below with its six columns.

The lamassu had descended at sundown to sink their talons into the slaughtered bulls and fly them up to their perches. The sound of their maws rending flesh had echoed across the tent city, which had stilled for the feasts’ duration. Once the meat was devoured, the lamassu had snapped bones, the reports sharp and unnerving.

Jarek knew how hard it was to shatter a bull’s femur.

The night was textured by the familiar sounds of a thousand people settling down to rest. Strains of music were carried to him on the winds, along with laughter, the occasional barked reprimand, and the scents of honeyed meats, cloves, pepper, and human offal. A thousand bowels were emptying themselves tonight, and nobody was about to let that shit run downhill onto the sacred arena.

Kish approached, a platter of steaming food held in one hand, the fingers of the other glistening greasily in the torchlight. For a moment, Jarek thought she’d brought him dinner, but no; she stopped beside him and made no move to hand over the plate.

“He still inside?”

“Yes,” said Jarek. “Annara’s with him.”

“You spoken to him?”

“I thought it better not to. Out of our group, I’m probably the worst person to try and cheer someone up.”

“After Sisu, perhaps.” She picked up a sliver of meat and popped it into her mouth. “It’s not looking good, is it? I was just starting to feel a little hope there at the end of Acharsis’ speech, but now?”

“It’s not looking good,” said Jarek, “but what can we do? We’ll fight as best we can.”

“We’ve got to do better than that,” said Kish.

“You going to give me a speech?”

Kish snorted and then popped some kind of vegetable into her mouth. It must have been piping hot: she chewed it quickly then swallowed it down, giving quick, sharp breaths in an effort to save her tongue. “No. But I’ve been thinking about Scythia. Thinking about Numias, Scythia’s daughter. What she would have done if she were here.”

“If Numias were here?” Jarek rocked back on his heels, recalling the demigoddess now two decades dead. “She’d have whipped half of us to death, demanded a feast, killed somebody, then led an attack on the lamassu.”

“Exactly,” said Kish. “And what have I done? Spent my time being hurt by your actions, worrying about our relationship, observing events and feeling out of my depth. Nothing that would have impressed Numias.”

“Kish—”

“No.” It was quietly, firmly said. “I don’t want to talk about us. There’s no time, and I don’t have the patience for it. I’m here to talk as your companion-in-arms. As warriors. We’re losing this battle. Acharsis is laid low by depression and guilt. Elu’s consorting with the enemy. Sisu’s a spineless wreck. Annara is too busy playing the aggrieved mother and widow to remember she’s a warrior priestess of Scythia. We’re going to die tomorrow unless we turn this around.”

“You’ve a solution?”

“Yes. We take the initiative.” She scarfed down another searingly hot tuber. “Ah, ah, ah.”

“If you wait, those will cool down.”

“I like them hot. Now. What’s our largest problem?”

“Acharsis’ demon. The ill luck it’s brought us.”

“All right. Now, I’m no apsu, but here’s what I’m thinking. His demon is a threat from the spirit world, correct?”

Jarek moved his head from side to side. “Close enough. Demons are—”

“If we were in the River Cities, we could approach apsus, but I’m sure Acharsis tried that long ago. But we’re in Magan. Why don’t we go ask the lamassu for help?”

Jarek paused. Ran her words through his mind again. “The lamassu?”

“Sure.” She licked her thumb clean of grease. “Our patron lamassu let us in to the trial, didn’t he? We go tell him we’re being interfered with. That a demon is attacking us, ruining our chances of becoming pharaoh. Ask if he can intervene.”

Again, Jarek paused. He wanted to laugh her suggestion down, but her eyes gleamed with anticipation, daring him to do just that. “Approach the lamassu.”

“Yes. What do we have to lose?”

“All right. Then what do we do about Elu?”

“One thing at a time. Let’s rouse Acharsis.”

“No need,” said Acharsis, opening the tent flap. “I’m aroused.” He stepped forth, Annara by his side.

“You think she’s on to something?” asked Jarek.

“She’s a genius. I bow to her wisdom, and consider myself for the millionth time in my life to be a fool. If I hadn’t been so caught up in despair, I’m absolutely sure I’d have thought of it myself.”

“But you didn’t,” said Kish. “I did.”

“Indeed, and so let it be recorded when our epic quest is said and done. But yes: we frame our argument as a plea for neutrality, to remove an outside influence that seeks to meddle with the politics of Magan.” Acharsis rubbed his hands together. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Jarek, lowering his hand to his Sky Hammer.

“One moment.” Kish devoured what was left of her meal, hissing and hopping from one foot to the other as she gingerly chewed and swallowed her food. She cast her plate aside, wiped her hands on her shirt, and nodded. “Ready.”

Acharsis led them toward the royal tent. Its form was illuminated from within, causing it to glow in the night with a crimson light.

“Elu?” asked Jarek, moving up alongside his friend.

“We’ll need him to get to the lamassu,” said Acharsis. “No chance the guard and priests and whomever else would allow us to bother their gods at this time of night otherwise.”

The guards stationed at the tent’s entrance stiffened at the sight of them but then relaxed and bowed. Acharsis gestured for the others to wait, then slipped inside. Jarek followed.

The interior of the tent smelled of sandalwood and honeyed meat. A feast lay partially consumed on a side table; while Elu reclined on a narrow divan facing Ahktena, who mirrored him but a few yards away. They were both laughing.

“—so he approached her parents, and began to praise her sweet nectar—”

“He didn’t!” Elu put a hand to his brow, then caught sight of Acharsis and frowned. Ahktena caught her breath, her smile fading away, and sat up.

“Acharsis.” Elu’s voice grew hard. “What is it?”

“A request, your highness.” Jarek was impressed. Somehow Acharsis had kept his voice free of mockery. “We need to speak with the lamassu on a matter of extreme urgency. Would you be so kind as to escort us so that none bar our way?”

“What matter is this?” Ahktena leaned back onto an elbow, one eyebrow raised. “It’s no small matter to disturb the gods.”

Jarek watched his friend. Would he submit to being questioned by the girl? It seemed he would.

“My demon has seen fit to make an appearance, Your Highness. It shattered my protective amulet and has laid its malediction upon us. Our entire party is polluted, and our luck tomorrow shall be ruined. I would ask the lamassu to intervene and stop the demon’s influence from affecting us.”

“Your demon.” Elu’s eyes glittered in the light of the lanterns. “Not our demon. Your demon. Which means - and correct me if I’m wrong - if I exclude you from my party, I shall be free of its influence without having to bother the lamassu.”

“Do you think so little of my help?” Acharsis’ voice was tight with emotion even as he fought to keep his tone light.

“Are you asking me to balance your manipulations against a demon’s influence?”

“Your highness,” said Jarek, unable to restrain himself any longer. “If Acharsis is removed from your party, I’ll leave too.”

Elu considered him, jaw clenched.

“Perhaps none of this is necessary,” said Ahktena, rising smoothly to place a conciliatory hand on Elu's shoulder. “It is unusual to request an audience at this hour, but you are the royal delegate and potential pharaoh of Magan. I’m sure we can find a way.”

“Yes, all right,” said Elu, rubbing angrily at his jaw. He glowered at Jarek. “But it’s very interesting what truths come to light in these moments. What loyalties. Come on, then. Let’s all get up and go beg an audience with the lamassu just to make Acharsis happy.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Acharsis bowed low, then turned and left the tent.

Jarek considered Elu. The youth met his gaze and lifted his chin. “Yes?”

“Careful, Your Highness.”

“Careful? Is that a threat, Jarek?”

“No. It’s a warning. I know how power can go to your head. Don’t forget who you really are.” Before he could say something he couldn’t take back, Jarek turned and left the tent.

“What happened?” asked Annara, stepping up alongside Sisu and Kish. “Is he coming?”

“Your son,” said Jarek, trying to keep his voice as reasonable and soft as possible, “needs a fist in the face.”

Acharsis clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure that would do wonders to ameliorate his resentment. He’s coming. Ahktena of all people convinced him to help.”

“Ahktena?” Kish frowned. “Why would she do that?”

“If she’s as good as I think she is,” said Acharsis, “she’ll know not to push too hard. By being reasonable now, she earns Elu’s trust all the more. In the future, should she urge him to act against us, it will seem a more balanced request in light of her past behavior.”

Further conversation was forestalled by Elu and Ahktena’s emergence from the tent. A phalanx of servants appeared as if from the shadows, falling in line with the royal pair and following them as Ahktena led the way down the main road toward the columns below.

Jarek fell in step with Kish. “I don’t like it. They were laughing like old friends when we arrived.”

“They’re brother and sister,” said Kish. “I’m sure nothing can happen between them.”

“Nothing official,” said Jarek. “But even so. How has she gained such influence over him so quickly?”

Kish gave him a knowing smile. “Are you so old that you’ve forgotten the influence of a beautiful face and young body?”

“I—no. I mean, obviously not. You, ah, had a very direct influence on me—your body, that is. And face, of course. Not that that was the only reason, ah, that I was receptive to your advances.” He glanced sidelong at her, saw her smirk. “Oh, for Alok’s sake, put me out of my misery.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You don’t know how adorable you look when you’re drowning in embarrassment.”

Jarek coughed and looked ahead. “Well. I suppose we shouldn’t forget that Elu’s from Eruk. Small village, sheltered life. All of this must be going right to his head.”

“The attention of a royal princess as beautiful, seductive, and charming as Ahktena? Definitely going to his head.”

Jarek studied her inscrutable smile. “All right. You just amused yourself greatly with that last statement but I have no idea why.”

She patted his arm. “Don’t worry about it. Look—priests.”

They reached the bottom of the slope, passing through the thick band of tents and stepping out onto level ground. The sand underfoot was compact and firm, tufted here and there with dusty weeds that were silvered by the moonlight. An outpost of sorts had been set up at the end of the path, and there a dozen guards stood to attention beside a couple of priests wearing the same genderless masks that Jarek had seen back in Magan.

These stepped forward, their manner forbidding. Guards moved up behind them, torches raised high, but at the sight of Elu and Ahktena they quickly bowed low.

The priests and Ahktena engaged in conversation, and the tone moved from wary to cautious to pleased. Ahktena pressed the base of her thumbs to her brow, hands opened like wings, and bowed. The priests placed their hands over their hearts and bowed as well, then stepped aside to let them all pass.

“That was… easier than I expected,” said Elu once they were clear.

“I may have lied by omission,” said Ahktena, her tone mischievous. “I told them you wished to pray, and beg the lamassu’s favor on the eve of your trial, and pledge a donation of a year’s worth of taxes to the temple in Magan.”

Jarek grunted, then leaned close to Kish. “Not too bad.”

They weren’t the only ones out on the sands that night. Jarek saw other delegations moving in tightly-knit groups from the tents to the columns. Priests? Supplicants? Tomorrow’s contestants? Impossible to say.

They reached the base of their lamassu’s column. There, Ahktena lowered herself to her knees and pressed her brow to the sand. Elu hesitated, then did the same, and in short order their whole party had abased itself before the vast column of stone.

“Don’t we need to invoke it or something?” asked Kish.

“I’m guessing it knows we’re here,” said Jarek. His back felt horribly exposed, and he had to fight the urge to loosen his Sky Hammer from his belt.

A wind passed over them, bearing the scent of fur and cinnamon. Sand crunched lightly before them, and when Jarek glanced up he saw the lamassu settling itself down to sit on its hind legs.

Ahktena began to intone a prayer of some kind, an impassioned plea that must have lasted a good five minutes. She repeated the last line five or six times and went still.

Jarek hesitated. Should they remain kneeling? He looked up once more and met the lamassu’s gaze. It was staring right at him, and in that moment its eyes flared a metallic crimson. A pang of fear raced through Jarek and he lowered his head quickly. Why was the damn thing staring at him?

“Rise,” said the lamassu in River City common, voice a rough purr in the dark. “It pleases me that you have come to ask for my blessing, Senacherib. It shows deference and wisdom.”

“Thank you,” said Elu, voice almost breaking. He sat on his heels. “I—I wanted to ask for your blessing.”

The boy was clearly terrified. Gone was the hauteur he’d assumed these past few days. Gone was the regal disdain. He stared wide-eyed at the lamassu, unable to do more than mimic its words.

“And you have it,” said the lamassu. “Have you assembled your team?”

“I have, your divine worship. I will be taking my sister Ahktena, along with Acharsis, Jarek, my m—ah, Annara, Kishtar, Sisuthros, and Haremhab.” He gave a nod, as if affirming to himself the wisdom of his choices. “We’re going to enter together tomorrow.”

“Little Asp,” said the lamassu, voice avuncular in its fondness. “Most impressive. And yet, I should not be surprised.”

Little..? Jarek realized with a jolt that the lamassu was addressing Ahktena, who had bowed her head modestly.

“You do me too much honor, oh Holy of Holies.”

“I honor you precisely as you deserve,” said the lamassu. “Now. Tell me the real reason for your visit.”

Everybody but Acharsis tensed. He rose to his feet as if he’d been awaiting this moment, and bowed low. “I have come to report outside interference, Your Holiness.”

Jarek expected the lamassu to react, to probe, to ask questions; could almost hear the natural response it should give: what interference? But instead, it rose to its four feet and moved forward, the sand crunching beneath its paws, mane silvered by the moonlight, its shadow made massive and stretching away across the sands.

It stepped forward until its face was but inches from Acharsis, and Jarek heard it sniff. Its tail lashed from side to side, and then it sat back on its haunches and raised a paw. A single talon slid forth, and like a harpist it plucked at the night air.

A deep throbbing emanated from nowhere, welling up as if from the ground beneath their feet. Acharsis gasped, staggered, and almost fell.

“You are bound, I see. I feel the strings that connect you to your tormentor. The webbing that binds you together.” Again, it flexed its talon, and a slightly different tone played, plangent and mournful. Acharsis exhaled sharply and fought to remain standing.

“A powerful demon. Its hooks are sunk deep into your soul. How long has it journeyed with you? Decades?”

“Yes,” wheezed Acharsis. “Seventeen years.”

“It is so firmly intertwined with your essence that I can no longer discern where you end and it begins. Were I to sever these cords, your very fabric might unravel. I pity you, son of Ekillos, even as I admire your strength. Your pain is matched only by your determination.”

Jarek rose, took three steps, then knelt beside Acharsis, who placed a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. “Can you help us?”

“I would not have Senacherib’s chances reduced due to your complications. Senacherib: do you truly wish to have the son of Ekillos on your team?”

Jarek turned to Elu, who was licking his lower lip. Say yes, damnit, he thought. The youth shrugged one shoulder and then nodded.

“Very well,” rumbled the lamassu. It reached up with one paw and, with surprising delicacy, extended two talons with which it took hold of a gold band clasped in its beard. This it drew forth, and then extended to Acharsis, who cupped both hands so that the band could be dropped into his palms.

“Wear this until the trial is over,” said the lamassu. “It shall hide you from your demon, preventing it from visiting its curse upon you. But know that its malediction will only grow in strength the longer you evade it, and that upon returning this charm to me, your demon’s vengeance will fall upon your head with terrible strength.”

“Thank you,” said Acharsis, bowing low. He stepped back and knelt.

“I hope that you are the most fitting candidate, Senacherib,” said the lamassu. “I hope that the pharaoh shall reside in my city once more. The consequent ceremonies please me, as does the chagrin of my fellows. I shall see you at dawn tomorrow.”

With those words, the lamassu crouched then sprang aloft, wings beating powerfully and stirring up a dust storm that abated as it climbed up into the moonlit sky.

Jarek exhaled in relief even as Kish reached out and took his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. Her eyes were bright and her smile infectious.

“We did it!” she whispered. “Success!”

“Thanks to you,” he said. “Good thinking, Kish.”

“I’ve got plenty more coming. Just you wait and see.” She stood, brushing the sand from her knees. “Before you know it, you’ll be thinking of me as an equal. Don’t take too long, though. I may finally run out of patience.”

Jarek started to smile, only to realize that the last words had been said without humor. Before he could respond, she turned away to embrace Sisu, but stopped, hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Jarek climbed to his feet and joined them. Even by moonlight Sisu's face looked wan, his eyes bright as if he were in the grip of fever.

“The—that lamassu,” Sisu said, voice shaky with emotions. “Through him, in that moment when he touched the cords that bind Acharsis to his demon, I sensed—I felt a resonance, a—I don’t know how to describe it. An echo of Nekuul? A taste of her power.”

“You did?” Jarek stepped closer. “A similar power?”

“Yes and no. At once nothing like Nekuul, but with overtones of…” Sisu shook his head as if trying to clear away a mental fog. “It’s connected with death, with the netherworld. I could feel its affinity for the dead.”

Ahktena and Elu had drawn close, and now she spoke, her voice sober. “Once a year, the lamassu convey the souls of the worthy to the netherworld. That is their most sacred duty. Without them, we would be forced to remain in the land of the sun as ghosts, lost and famished, driven mad by a hunger for rest that nothing could satiate.”

“Your souls need conveyance?” asked Sisu. “How strange! In our land, souls descend by themselves, drawn to Nekuul’s realm by the laws of life and death. Only those who were greatly offended or polluted during life remain amongst the living as ghosts.”

Acharsis was rubbing his chin. “Does this mean there is but one netherworld? And the lamassu serve Nekuul by bringing the dead to her realm?”

“No,” said Ahktena firmly. “There is no goddess of death in the underworld. The worthy dead spend the rest of eternity praising and feasting before Amubastis, the mother of the lamassu, whose eyes are like the moon and whose love burns like the rays of the sun. In her presence, all time is but a single instant, such that the dead forget about having once lived, and in that forgetting find bliss.”

“Amubastis?” asked Sisu. “All time is but an instant? That sounds a little far-fetched to me.”

“Are you mad?” hissed Ahktena. “You say this within hearing of the lamassu itself?” She gazed up fearfully at the column’s top. “Were a Maganian to even think such heresy they would be devoured, their soul left to wander the sands in famished torment…”

“Well, luckily for me, I’m not a Maganian,” said Sisu. “I’m the grandson of Nekuul, and in my veins run death-touched blood.”

“That sounds impressive,” said Ahktena, “Until I remember that you’re as powerless and pathetic as a kitten with a broken spine.”

“Enough,” said Elu, stepping between them. Jarek saw Acharsis subside, as if he’d been about to speak up. “This isn’t the place to argue theology. Are you satisfied with your amulet, Acharsis?”

“I am, Senacherib,” said Acharsis. Then, to Jarek’s surprise, his friend bowed low. “Thank you. For helping me with this curse, and for allowing me to remain part of the group.”

“Yes, well.” Elu shifted his weight. “It’s too late to go changing things up. Just don’t make me regret it. Now let’s go. We have very little time left to rest and prepare for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Senacherib,” said Acharsis. “You’re right. Please. Lead the way.”

Elu eyed him suspiciously, then pulled his cloak about his shoulders and began walking back to the cordon, Ahktena by his side.

Jarek fell in stride with Acharsis. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure things out,” said Acharsis. He held up the gold clasp to examine in the light of the moon, then closed his fist about it. “All too soon we’re going to be entering this cube, whatever it is. I aim to heal the rifts in our group as much as I can before then.”

“By being polite?”

Acharsis’ grin gleamed in the dark. “A novel approach, I know. But hey, I’m desperate, so it’s worth a shot. Anything to keep us alive tomorrow. Right?”

“Right,” said Jarek, watching Kish’s back. “Right.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sun was yet hidden behind the eastern hills, but its diffuse gray light illuminated the assembled crowds and gave an ethereal air to the proceedings. The tent city was quiet, abandoned, its occupants having descended to surround the plain of sand in the pre-dawn gloom, where they now stood four ranks deep.

Acharsis wished, not for the first time in his life, that he were taller. He was but one row behind the front, but even so he had to rise to his tiptoes to scope out the other five teams that were assembled at equal distances about the plain. The front row in its entirety was given to the nobility and priesthood of Magan, and even in this soft dawn light their wealth caused them to glimmer like coins espied at the bottom of a well. Nobody spoke. Everyone watched the tops of the columns, waiting for them to incandesce in the light of the rising sun.

Elu was just before him, clad in a beautiful bronze cuirass and with a leather skirt fringed in gold hanging down to his knees. A gold band fit perfectly about his brow, and his short beard was freshly oiled and combed into rings. One hand rested on the circular pommel of a new sword that was strapped to his waist, while the other held his staff of office, a spear whose haft was banded in crimson and gold and whose head was broad and shaped like a leaf from a Khartisian tree.

Chin raised, shoulders thrown back, he really seemed to be taking to his new role as royal prince. Despite the dawn coolness, however, a bead of sweat was running down his temple, and Acharsis could see him clenching and unclenching his jaw. Every few moments he’d glance sidelong at Ahktena beside him.

She only stared straight ahead.

Acharsis wanted to sigh. Though it was but dawn, he already wanted a drink. Was he proud of how Elu looked? So very much a young and determined warrior?

Conflicted. That was the word, the obvious, terribly obvious word. Conflicted. His son. Elu, Kenu’s son. Did he love him? Of course not. But he wanted him to succeed. To do well. To be happy? Even if that happiness came at his own expense? Sure. But then, was that not love?

Acharsis gripped the hilt of his own sword and raised his eyes to the tops of the columns. Come on, he thought. Light up and save me from these ruinous ruminations.

The lamassu were barely visible. They were facing inward, staring down at the center of the plain of sand, wings furled, as motionless as the gate statues back in Magan. Acharsis fingered the golden clasp he’d strung around his neck. Would it work? It was his most powerful ward yet. Direct from a god-like lion-thing. It had to work. Else they were doomed.

A cry went up, torn from thousands of throats, and Acharsis looked up to see that the lamassu had raised their wings, extended them fully high above them so that they caught the sun’s first beams, their feathers glinting bronze and gold, shot through with lines of crimson and edged in white. He heard Jarek shift his weight beside him; wanted to make some kind of joke to break the tension, but nothing came to mind.

“Now what?” whispered Sisu from behind.

The ground shivered. The crowd cried out, but not in fear. More like wonder and joy. The ground shivered again, and then shook, and the sand in the center of the open space began to dance, then fall as if narrow ravines were opening up beneath the surface. Four lines, a great square, the sand hissing audibly as it cascaded into the widening depths, and then the area between those four lines began to rise.

“By Alok,” whispered Jarek, his voice barely audible over the growing rumble.

Acharsis wanted to press forward, push past Elu so that nothing obstructed his view. The ground was rising, a huge square easily two hundred yards long on each side. The exterior of the cube was unremarkable, rough brown rock, but here and there a massive grating of bronze was embedded within its side, and from these gratings more sand poured forth like dull waterfalls.

The crowd was chanting, falling to their knees, arms raised in an ecstasy of supplication. The ground quivered underfoot. The cube continued to rise, gradually but steadily, until finally it cleared the ground and rose into the air itself.

There were no mechanisms. No support struts or other visible means of raising the huge block of stone.

“By Ekillos,” whispered Acharsis. “Magic? Sorcery? What is this?”

Ahktena looked over her shoulder at him, lips curved into a supercilious smile. “Behold the entrance to the netherworld: the cube of the lamassu, a sign of their power made manifest in our world. What have your gods ever done that is so grand?”

The cube was still rising, higher and higher until it finally stopped some fifty yards above the pit it had left below. The last of the sand poured out from the bronze grates, and as the fine dust cleared, Acharsis saw a golden disc affixed to each side like vast eyes; concentric circles covered in Maganian glyphs even created the appearance of sclera, irises, and pupils.

“The cube spins,” said Ahktena, just loud enough for them all to hear. “Four gates are currently available. Four teams will be able to enter straight away. After a short while, the gates below and above the cube will move into the horizontal, allowing the last two teams to enter. As I said, our future pharaoh must be lucky, and thus gaining access to the first four gates is the first test.”

The head priest with his golden mask moved forward into the ring of columns, where he praised the lamassu and called out a sermon of some sort in Maganian for a mercifully short amount of time. Then he raised his staff and cracked it down on the sands, prompting the other five teams to move forward and approach him.

“A simple test,” said Ahktena to Elu, touching his arm. “You must draw one of the long straws. Come. The Quickening begins!”

Acharsis fought the urge to turn and survey the crowds as he followed Elu and Ahktena out onto the sands, and instead gave Annara a quick and reassuring smile. She could only manage a tight, pursed one in response.

Two other teams had already reached the priest; both leaders pulled long straws. Elu stepped up to try his luck, and Acharsis watched intently as his son plucked a straw from the priest’s hand.

A long one.

Kish laughed in relief, and Acharsis squared his shoulders, nodding in approval to Elu as his son returned to them, fighting to suppress a grin.

A few moments later, the last straws had been plucked and the two unfortunate teams stepped back, doing their best to hide their dismay and disappointment.

The head priest took a hammer from an acolyte, raised it high for all to see, then called out a phrase and swung the hammer at a gong the acolyte only just raised in time. The brassy peal rang out across the sands, and immediately four teams of slaves ran forth from the crowds carrying long ladders on their shoulders.

“Come!” said Ahktena. “We must get into position!”

She strode away, Elu rushing to keep up, and led them back to the edge of the plain. Their ladder team embedded the ladder’s legs in the sand. Two slaves ran on, thin cords snaking back over their shoulders to the ladder’s top, growing ever tauter until the ladder itself suddenly jerked up, pulled toward the vertical even as the other slaves pushed and guided its ascent from its base. With majestic grace, it rose to tower into the sky.

Acharsis almost tripped as he tried to hurry sideways and keep an eye on the ladder; slaves with forked poles pushed from behind while the two from the front hauled on their ropes, and the ladder reached a perfect verticality before toppling over the far side. A second set of ropes - attached to its top and extending back toward the crowd - went taut as two other slaves arrested its fall, and it was lowered to bounce against the cube’s side just shy of the great golden eye.

Another of the four ladders was not so fortunate; it hit the cube at an angle and slid down the stone face to collapse sidelong onto the sands below. The slaves shouted in terror and rushed to pick it up.

“I shall go first, Senacherib,” said Ahktena, moving to the base of the ladder. “It shall fall upon me to open the golden seal. Follow as the ladder allows!”

With that she began to climb, moving quickly and with confidence up toward the distant eye. Acharsis realized that of course they’d have to climb this flimsy ladder; fortunately, the slaves that held the top ropes had run out to opposite sides to hold the ladder in place. Still. Watching the ladder flex and bounce beneath Ahktena’s lithe form was incredibly disconcerting.

Elu waited until Ahktena was halfway up and then followed, climbing fearlessly. Acharsis peered up, hands on hips, and watched as Ahktena reached the circular entrance. She leaned back to take it in, head turning from side to side as she examined the huge glyphs.

“I’ve got to admit,” said Jarek, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We’d be done for already without her. I’d have no idea how to open that thing.”

“True enough,” said Acharsis. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or him.” He looked to where Haremhab stood, dressed in leather armor and a white skirt, watching his mistress intently.

When Elu reached the halfway point, Haremhab went to follow, but Annara reached the ladder first. She shot him a warning glance then turned to climb, her natural athleticism displaying itself as she quickly ascended, spear held lightly in one hand. Acharsis tried not to stare, but it was impossible to tear his eyes away from her toned thighs.

“There!” Sisu stepped up and pointed. The large outer circle of the eye had begun to turn, dust sifting down from its inner edge, gleaming and glimmering as the dawn light hit its upper quarter.

“Fascinating,” said Kish.

“I’ll go next,” said Sisu, “being the lightest. Look how the ladder’s bending.”

The poles were indeed sagging. Still, Sisu began the climb, testing each rung and watching the poles beneath his hands as they supported him.

“Second circle’s moving,” said Jarek, squinting upward. “The first one’s still spinning, too.”

“What is it, I wonder?” Acharsis itched to get closer, to examine the golden seal in person. “A riddle written on each circle? A religious test?”

Sisu’s progress stalled as he reached the halfway mark; the ladder was now sagging precariously under his weight, so that he moved slower and slower, then stopped.

“Keep going!” yelled Kish. “It’ll hold your weight better at the top!” She hesitated, then turned to Acharsis. “Won’t it?”

The ladder that had slid off the cube had been repositioned, and once more the slaves ran forward. Acharsis watched as they repeated the process, and this time the ladder fell squarely on the rock face and held. The fourth team rushed to begin their attempt at the climb.

“Third circle’s moving,” said Kish. “First two are still spinning.”

“Look,” said Jarek. “The second ladder, over there. They’re all going up.”

“Must have opened the seal first,” said Acharsis. “Damn it. Come on Ahktena. Hurry!”

Three distinct clicks echoed down to them, and then the central pupil dilated, disappearing into the second circle, which retracted into the third, and then the fourth. This final, outer band withdrew into the rock face, and a shadowed circular opening was revealed, leading into the cube.

“Hurry!” Kish darted forward and grabbed the ladder. “Go, Sisu! Hurry!”

Ahktena, Elu, and Annara disappeared into the entrance, and moments later Sisu hauled himself in behind them. Kish practically ran up the ladder, but when Haremhab stepped forward to go next Jarek interposed himself, bristling. The ladder practically bounced under Jarek’s weight as he climbed, leaving only Acharsis and Ahktena’s man.

When Jarek disappeared within, Acharsis gave the warrior a mocking half-bow. “You first. I’m strangely not eager to test this ladder.”

Haremhab nodded his thanks and began to climb. Acharsis studied the other two teams - they’d made no progress yet, both groups waiting anxiously at the ladder’s base and staring upward.

Haremhab was halfway up, the ladder bending alarmingly beneath the combined weight of his lanky form and his flail, when Acharsis took a deep breath and moved forward. The first dozen or so rungs were easy, but the higher he went the springier the ladder became. Within moments he was ten yards up, then twenty. He fixed his gaze on the aperture above, and when Jarek appeared to grab hold of the ladder’s top he grinned in relief. Not that he’d really believed Haremhab would send the ladder sliding and sabotage their team, but still.

Up he went, the crowd below growing ever smaller as he ascended, the cube more massive, until finally he reached the aperture and climbed over the stony lip, hands reaching out to grab his arms and help him inside.

The chamber inside was large and the walls still bore the marks of the chisels that had carved it free. There was a bleak severity to its scale and lack of ornamentation. Acharsis couldn’t make out any source of light, but there was an indistinct golden glow that hung in the air that allowed him to see to the room’s far depths, where a tall doorway led deeper into the cube.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands and stepping forward. “Here we are. But where’s the test? Do the lamassu wish to see if we can cross rooms?”

Ahktena was biting her lower lip. “Everything within the cube is a test. Supposedly. We just haven’t noticed how we’re being tested yet.”

Kish drew her hammer and swung it around once by its thong before catching it in the palm of her hand with an audible smack. “Well, this is a race, isn’t it? Let’s get going.”

Jarek and Haremhab moved up alongside her, and together they began to walk into the room. Acharsis and Sisu brought up the rear, with Ahktena, Annara and Elu in the center. A thousand questions thronged Acharsis’ mind: about the origins of this cube, its place in Maganian theology, the powers that sustained it, who had wielded the chisels that had hollowed out this room - but he bit them back and instead focused on searching for signs of danger.

A rumbling, crackling sound came from the far end of the room. Everybody froze. From a dark slit that spanned the breadth of the ceiling above the doorway, a crimson glow appeared, rapidly followed by molten rock that flowed down in a thick curtain to begin pooling on the ground.

“What is that?” asked Elu. “Solid fire?”

“Lava,” said Jarek. “I used to dream of it when communing with Alok. It flows about the bones of the world, like the blood within our bodies. Liquid rock, hotter than fire.”

The lava continued to fall from the slit, a lumpen curtain of deep burgundy shot through with streaks of lurid crimson. The surface was cooling into ash-colored rock, Acharsis realized; a thin skin that broke over and over again as the lava flowed toward them, giving off a stink of rotten eggs. Sweat began to prickle across his brow as the heat in the room rose, and the ceiling and walls glimmered as they reflected the crimson light.

“All right,” said Elu, voice shaking even as he fought for command. “How do we get past this, then? There’s one door, and the lava stretches from wall to wall.”

“We have to jump it!” Kish turned to them. “Look! It’s only four yards—though we have to go fast, or—”

“Jump it?” asked Sisu. “Only four yards?”

“Can we run over it?” asked Acharsis, turning to Jarek. “Move so quickly that it doesn’t burn us?”

“It’s flowing too fast. You’ll roast the soles of your feet, maybe burn your whole foot if it punches through.”

“There has to be a solution,” said Ahktena, voice rigid with control. “No test is impassable.”

Acharsis moved toward the lava. It was at least a foot deep and flowing quickly, too far already for even Kish to leap over. The room was sweltering now. If they couldn’t go through the lava, perhaps they had to evade it? “Search for a secret door in the walls! There might be another way through!”

Everybody ran to the walls and began rapping their weapons on the rough rock or feeling with open hands. Jarek leaped a few times to crack his hammer higher up. Acharsis fumbled over the blank stone like a blind man, grimacing as the heat continued to rise. The lava had filled half the room already.

“Come on, come on,” said Kish, battering at the wall as she moved down its length.

“What if we’ve missed our chance to find the door?” asked Sisu. “What if we hesitated too long and now it’s too late?”

Elu stepped into the center of the room and faced the lava. He shook his head, eyes wide. “I can’t fail so quickly. We’ve just entered this damn cube. I can’t leave already!”

Annara stepped up beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression focused, calm. “This is a test. You must display the qualities of a ruler to pass it. You’re faced with impossible odds; a foe you can’t reason with, deceive, or bribe.”

“It’s lava,” snapped Elu. “Of course I can’t —”

“On the evening of the world’s first day, Scythia walked into the Primeval Forest in search of the demon Olaku. When she found him, he smiled at her, and spread his arms and became a thousandfold. An army of demons. Impossible odds.”

Everybody had clustered behind Elu and Annara. They were all slowly walking backward, the great portal to the world outside now only yards behind them.

“Your myths have no bearing here!” said Ahktena. “This is a Maganian trial—”

“And Scythia laughed, for she knew herself to be a goddess, immortal as long as she had faith in her own divinity. So she stepped forward and cut down the foremost Olaku. The nine hundred and ninety-nine other demons disappeared in the flash of an eye, and Olaku himself lay dead at her feet.”

“Mother,” said Elu. “We can’t cut down this lava—”

“Know yourself to be divine, my son.” She smiled at him. “Have faith in yourself, just as I do.” And so saying, she stepped forward and into the lava.

“Mother!” screamed Elu, reaching for her just as Acharsis lunged to grab her hand. It was too late. Her foot sank down to the ankle into the lava, smoke rising in a hiss, and then she took a second step forward and the lava disappeared.

Annara stumbled, caught her balance, then covered her face and gave a weak laugh. “Oh, thank you, Scythia.” She turned to them, tears in her eyes. “That was terrifying.”

Acharsis stepped up to join her, gazing down at the now-barren floor, then ahead to the dark slit above the door. “An illusion?”

“But the heat,” said Elu. He wiped a hand over his brow and stared at the gleaming dampness on his fingers. “The smell?”

“Your first test,” said Ahktena. “And you passed it.”

“No,” said Elu. “My mother did.” He stared at her in wonder, shaking his head in amazement.

“No,” said Ahktena. “She is part of your team. She is one of your strengths. You chose her. Thus, her success is yours. You passed. A pharaoh cannot best every individual in his empire at every skill and task. Instead, he is the sum of all their strengths, and his ability to marshal them to the benefit of Magan is his true responsibility.”

Kish grinned. “Luck, the entrance, and now this lava. That’s three tests down. On to the fourth?”

“On to the fourth,” said Elu, pushing his shoulders back. “Come.”

He marched down the length of the now-cool chamber and approached the far door. Acharsis wrapped his arm around Annara’s waist and gave her a squeeze, and her eyes gleamed with emotion as she glanced up at him, a tremulous smile on her lips.

The floor was starting to tilt; Acharsis realized he was having to put more weight on his right foot as they reached the end of the hall, as if walking across a sloped surface. “Cube’s spinning,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Jarek, walking carefully before him. “Very helpful of you.”

They passed through the doorway into a second large hall, and for a moment Acharsis couldn’t understand what he was seeing. The tilted floor before them was broken up at regular intervals by stone columns, with a balcony running down the floor’s center to the far wall. The wall to their right was smooth, its surface decorated with carved Maganian runes. Steps at the end rose in a semi-circle to the base of a door that extended horizontally across the far wall, its sides flanked by statues in twin alcoves. Sunlight spread into the room from a large bronze grate in the left wall.

“We can climb up to that door,” said Jarek, pausing to consider. “Up onto that column carved into the corner; then we can leap up, grab the edge of that first alcove, over the statue, and into the doorway.”

“Or we could wait five minutes and let the right wall become the floor,” said Sisu. “I’m already half-sliding down toward it anyway.”

“Is that the test?” asked Kish. “How to navigate this room?”

“Too simple.” Acharsis scanned the alcoves between the columns on the floor. They were empty. “Perhaps the statues at the far end?”

The statue on the left was of a bare-chested man in a skirt, a flail held in both hands across his chest, his face regal. The other was of a woman in armor, a snake held in her hands much like one might hold a coil of rope. Each was easily four or so yards tall.

The floor continued to tilt. It took some effort, but the columns helped him visualize what he had thought of as the floor as a rising wall; he was pressed against it like a fly, leaning precariously as the room’s corner became a trench underfoot.

“Shall we press on?” Kish stepped into the room warily, reached the first column and hopped over it, landing in the alcove beyond. Haremhab followed, one hand outstretched to almost touch the rising incline of the floor, balancing carefully on the sharp slope.

They all stepped forth, with only Sisu losing his balance and falling to his ass to slide several yards down toward the chamber’s true floor. He cried out, and Jarek tried to grab him as he passed, only to lose his own balance and be forced to hop after him, unable to stop his descent until he reached the line where corner met floor and there straddled them both, one foot on each surface.

A rumble sounded from the Maganian runes carved into the center of the right wall - the true floor. The runes glowed gold, then cracks appeared between them and they bulged up - or across - into the air. A towering figure tore itself free of the ground, emerging as if from a pit to stand at a sharp angle on the sloped floor, as if unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“What is that?” asked Kish in a flat voice. “Jarek?”

It was a hulking statue, vaguely humanoid and composed of disparate boulders held together by magic. It hunched over, massively long arms reaching all the way down to the ground so that its weight rested on its knuckles. Each boulder that formed its arms glowed with a golden rune. Its head was a shovel, angled and made from rock, twin golden eyes refulgent in the deep cracks of its face. Even hunched over, it stood nearly five yards tall, dominating the center of the room, and each time it moved, dust sifted down from its joints to pour across the floor.

“Next test,” said Jarek, hefting his hammer. “Kish? Haremhab? May Alok guide your blows.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“It’s going to ask us a riddle, right, Acharsis?” Sisu looked up at him plaintively.

As if in response, the golem began to move forward, walking on all fours despite its upright nature. Each step shook the floor with a solid crunch of rock grinding on rock.

“If it’s going to ask us a question, it better hurry up,” said Acharsis. “Do we back out of the room?”

“No retreating,” said Elu, voice shaking once more. “We must defeat it!”

“'We'?” asked Jarek, drawing his Sky Hammer. “What’s this ‘we’ business?” He ducked his head and ran forward, hopping with each step from wall to floor as if down the length of a trench.

A second set of golden lights flared to life in the golem’s craggy face, and with surprising speed it swung a fist the size of a wagon wheel at Jarek’s head. Jarek ducked just in time, nearly tripped, then was behind it.

“For Scythia!” yelled Kish, running across the alcove, climbing up onto the second column and then leaping with prodigious strength into the air. Her whole body arced backwards as she grasped her hammer with both hands and brought it crashing down on the golem’s arm. Her hammer blasted through, tearing a chunk of stone free, sending shards of rock flying. She landed almost beneath its curved chest, failed to find purchase on the floor, and crashed onto her side.

The golem twisted around, positioned a fist over Kish and went to crush her with a jerky slam. Acharsis belatedly drew his blade - just as the golem’s fist exploded into rubble, the Sky Hammer flying through it to smash against the far wall.

The golem staggered, lost its balance, and gave Kish enough time to roll aside before it righted itself. Annara took a hopping step forward and launched her spear at the golem’s head; her aim was true, but her spear bounced off ineffectually.

The room was still turning. It was easy now to see the colonnaded floor as a severely inclined wall; Haremhab worked his way carefully over the columns, using handholds to keep himself from falling. He loosed his flail and swung it down and around in a vicious arc that would have terminated with the golem’s head. Instead, the golem caught the ax-heads with its remaining hand and crunched them within its fist. Haremhab dropped his staff, drew a long dagger, and with a cry leaped out to land on the golem’s broad shoulders. It reared, spinning about in an effort to dislodge him, but Haremhab held on. He raised his blade and slammed it down in the joint of its shoulder, and there set to working it back and forth as if sawing at a tree.

“My hammer!” roared Jarek. “Throw it to me!”

Acharsis cursed, sheathed his blade, and slid down the wall to the floor. He turned away from the fight and ran to where the Sky Hammer lay, partially buried in rubble. With a groan he hefted it with both hands, levering it up onto his shoulder and sagging beneath its weight. How by Ekillos’ eternal attractiveness to women did Jarek even swing this thing?

A dull boom resonated through the chamber as the golem smashed its remaining fist into a column, shattering it completely just as Kish threw herself aside. Jarek was hurling fist-sized rocks at its head even as Haremhab continued to work his blade. Sparks of golden light were shooting up around his dagger, the runes that decorated the length of the golem’s arm flaring and fading as if in time to an erratic pulse.

“Here!” Acharsis gripped the hammer by its haft and spun around, allowing the hammer’s own weight to lift the head up to the horizontal before letting go. The weapon spun away, but instead of passing under the golem’s arm it smashed directly into its head, causing it to stagger back.

Kish surged up the sloped floor and brought her hammer down with both hands on its knee, slid back and then leaped up again to batter once more at its leg. With a cry, Haremhab finally plunged his blade all the way down, and the golem’s left arm fell apart, each constituent boulder falling away to rain down on the ground, barely missing Kish.

Jarek darted forward and snatched up the Sky Hammer, but took a glancing blow to his shoulder that sent him spinning through the air to crash into an alcove and bounce back out onto the floor.

Haremhab screamed, arms cartwheeling as the golem reared back, and fell to the rock-strewn ground. He managed to raise his blade in a futile parry a moment before the golem brought its right fist down upon him, crushing him against the floor.

A scream of effort tore itself from Kish’s throat as she climbed to her feet, hammer swinging up and around with all the strength of her arms, back and hips to smash into the underside of the golem’s lowered head. A chunk of stone broke free, two eyes still gleaming in its side. Kish fell back, overbalanced, and in that moment Elu ran forward, Annara and Ahktena both crying out after him.

Blade raised, he climbed up the sloping floor, placed his foot on a fallen boulder and leaped up to slam the tip of his blade into the crevice Kish had opened in its face. His blade sank in and then shattered. Elu fell badly, ankle twisting under him.

“Oh no,” said Acharsis as the remaining two eyes went dark. The golem was right over Elu. Whatever magic bound its boulders together began to give way, losing its form. With a curse, Acharsis bounded forward, grabbed the back of Elu’s bronze cuirass and hauled him away just as the golem collapsed.

The sound was thunderous, dust rising in a billowing cloud, and the silence that followed was broken only by the sound of people coughing.

“Jarek!” Acharsis sat, Elu between his legs, eyes gummed up by dust. “Jarek, you all right?”

“Fine,” said Jarek from somewhere ahead. “Great. Loving life.”

“Haremhab!” Ahktena’s cry caused Elu to jerk to his feet and fight his way toward her. The dust was beginning to settle, and Acharsis saw Ahktena struggle between the fallen rocks to where Haremhab lay. Upon reaching him she drew back, hand going to her mouth, eyes wide.

“He was brave,” said Kish, moving to stand beside her. “He fought well. We’d not have bested the monster without him.”

Elu reached Ahktena and gazed down at where Haremhab lay, his face blanching at the sight. “He’s gone to Nekuul,” he said. “He’ll be received as a hero.”

“I don’t feel Nekuul’s presence,” said Sisu. He’d remained crouched against the wall the whole time, his sword held before him. Now he rose to his feet, sheathing the blade with shaking hands.

“You're saying he’s not going to the underworld?” challenged Elu. “That he’s going to be cursed to remain here as a ghost?”

“No, no. I said I don’t feel Nekuul’s presence. Instead…” He reached out like a blind man about to explore a newcomer’s face. “I feel… a different energy. A gathering. Like… a snake’s hole in the bank of a river. No. Suction. A great inhalation. No.” He closed his eyes, brow creasing with effort. “It’s like trying to understand a different language. I feel… the brush of wings. A gathering. Yes. I can see it. Wings of bronze and gold. A heart that shines like the sun. Haremhab - it must be him - gathered into that light.”

“By the lamassu,” said Ahktena in wonder, pressing the base of her thumbs to her brow, hands spreading out like wings.

“And there —if I—if I—” Sisu grimaced, eyes squeezed tightly shut, reaching out, stumbling forward. “I can sense the underworld, through the light, through the wings. The falling, soaring pain of its beauty—my domain—”

His right hand caught fire. It flared up with tongues of gold, impossibly bright so that they seared Acharsis’ eyes and forced him to look away. Sisu screamed, then fell. Kish was by his side, calling his name. Acharsis tried to blink away the bright afterimage of that burning hand, but it overlay everything before him.

“Sisu?” Kish’s voice was strained with fear. “Sisu?”

“I’m all right.” His voice was weak. Acharsis rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, and found his sight returning. Sisu was sitting up, staring at his hand. It was unblemished. “It’s gone now. Whatever it was.”

“You mad fool,” said Ahktena, crouching before him. “You sought to touch the divine fire?” She laughed breathlessly. “Might as well seek to swallow the sun!”

“Nekuul’s blood runs through my veins, woman.” Sisu shrugged off Kish’s hands and rose to his feet. “I’m no common priest or ranting idiot like you have in your temples. I’m a godsblood. Death is my domain. And your lamassu, they deal in death. Therefore, it’s a game that I can play in - and will.”

“Madness,” said Ahktena, rising and stepping to Elu’s side. “You’ll damn your soul if you do.”

“My soul belongs to my grandmother,” said Sisu. “I’d like to see your lamassu fight Nekuul herself over it.”

“Nekuul’s not here,” said Ahktena. “You said so yourself.”

“Whatever,” said Sisu. He studied his hand once more. “You couldn’t understand.”

“Enough,” said Elu. “Haremhab is gone. We’ll honor him when we get out of here. I know what he meant to you, Ahktena.” He took her hand. “I know the loss you’re feeling. I thank you. For his sacrifice, and for your own.”

Ahktena wiped at her eye with the side of her hand. “You’re gracious, Senacherib.”

“No, I mean it.” Elu let go of her hand and looked at the others. “It’s not my tale to tell, but Haremhab saved Ahktena once at great cost to himself.” He looked to Jarek. “And he didn’t know of Ahktena’s ploy at your fight. She just lost a true warrior.”

Nobody spoke, and if anything, Ahktena looked discomfited by the praise. Finally, she sniffed and nodded her thanks to Elu.

He squared his shoulders. “But for now, we have to keep going. Well done, Jarek, Kish. That’s our fourth test. On to the next.”

The floor had mostly leveled out so that they were able to walk past the golem’s remains, up the steps to the doorway. Acharsis watched the twin statues warily, but they didn’t move. The sunlight from the grating overhead cast the entrance in bright light, but served only to shadow the interior. Trying to control the racing of his heart, Acharsis followed the others into the room beyond.

“The straws tested luck. The entrance tested knowledge,” he whispered, more to himself than the others. “The lava, determination. The golem? Martial prowess. What’s next?”

The room beyond was small and square and without a door. A dead end. The same sourceless light filled its interior, illuminating four bells of varying sizes that lay against the far wall, the smallest the size of Acharsis’ fist, the largest as broad as Jarek’s chest.

“No door,” said Kish, moving around the room’s perimeter, tracing the wall with her fingertips.

“The bells, obviously,” said Elu, moving to study them. “Look. There are runes on them.”

“Faith,” read Ahktena. “This one says 'Destiny'. This one, 'Obedience'. And here, 'Exaltation'.”

Acharsis rubbed his chin. “Faith, destiny, obedience, and exaltation. Clearly, we’re meant to ring one of the bells.”

“It is my destiny to become pharaoh,” said Elu tentatively.

Ahktena touched his arm. “But obedience to the lamassu is paramount.”

“You can’t have obedience without faith,” said Acharsis.

“Exaltation seems pretty obvious,” said Kish. “I mean, what’s to debate here? Not everything has to be a trick. Perhaps we’re being tested in our ability to be direct and seize our goals. You want to be exalted.”

“What do you think, mother?” Elu looked to Annara.

Annara drifted from one bell to the next. “I don’t know.” Her tone sounded dreamy. “Which will make you pharaoh? Many have faith, many are obedient. Some may even be exalted. But only one has the destiny to be pharaoh.”

“Destiny,” said Elu softly. It was the smallest bell. He lifted it, hesitated, then rang it once.

The bell’s peal sent pain tearing through Acharsis’ mind, as if the tips of ten swords had plunged through his skull to rake at the fabric of his self. He screamed, but couldn’t hear anything above the rushing roar in his head; fell, and still the bell pealed on, tearing at his mind, his sanity. He couldn’t endure it. He writhed, muscles spasming, and when finally the awful sound receded, he lay panting, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

For how long he lay there he didn’t know, but slowly he felt himself shifting, sliding down the floor to fetch up against the wall as the cube turned. Sisu slumped against him, prompting him at last to move. He sat up, the taste of blood thick in his mouth, and pressed his hand to his head. The others were slowly stirring around him, cursing and moaning and trying to rise.

“Not destiny,” he said, tongue thick. “Not destiny.”

The bells had slid down the floor to fall against them. Gingerly, so as to not ring them, Acharsis set them upright, then climbed to his feet.

“At least none of us died,” said Sisu.

“But we lost time,” said Ahktena. “I don’t know how much, but we can’t afford to lose more.”

“Faith, destiny, exaltation, obedience. A riddle.” Acharsis forced himself to focus. He crouched before the bells. “A formula for a pharaoh. Four components. Destiny isn’t correct. Faith implies obedience, so perhaps obedience is unnecessary. But faith leads to exaltation, does it not?”

“Everything begins with faith,” said Jarek.

“That’s true. Faith is the cornerstone of every ruler, of every good and just man. You cannot hope to become pharaoh without it.”

“Faith, then?” Elu carefully picked up the bell. “Are you sure?”

“No, but we can’t just sit here,” said Acharsis. “Try.”

Holding the bell as far away from himself as he could, Elu gave it a shake. The peal that ensued was soothing and clear, comforting and gentle.

Nobody moved. They glanced around, waiting, but nothing happened.

“Well, at least we weren’t punished,” said Acharsis. “But no obvious result, either. A neutral bell? Or the first bell that must be rung?”

“Should we try destiny now?” asked Kish.

“Does faith lead to destiny? Perhaps.” Acharsis rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “But in Magan, faith leads to obedience. It’s how the lamassu maintain their control over the empire, isn’t it? And the pharaoh, his faith must dictate his obedience too.”

“Obedience,” said Elu, picking up the bell. “And look, it’s the next largest bell.”

“Try it,” said Acharsis.

Elu did so, giving it a sharp shake. This peal was more sonorous, golden and rich. It filled Acharsis with a sense of calm, of acceptance, of peace.

Still nothing happened.

“Two left. Exaltation, or destiny? Faith leads to obedience. Obedience must lead to exaltation, both spiritual and in station.” Acharsis was warming up to the riddle now, enjoying the challenge. “Once you display the proper obedience to the lamassu, you stand a chance of being raised in their esteem, of earning their favor.”

“Which will lead to destiny,” said Elu. “My destiny. It can only manifest if I am exalted by my obedience to the lamassu.” He took a deep breath, lifted both the remaining bells, then rang exaltation and destiny in quick succession.

Their peals filled the room with a thrilling crescendo, rising up in power and beauty so that Acharsis felt for a moment as if Ekillos himself had returned and touched his soul, filling him once again with that old purpose and surety that had guided his early life. When the peals finally subsided, a doorway had opened silently beside them, leading into what was obviously another small chamber.

This one had a wooden block extending from every wall, including the floor and ceiling. Two feet high, they each featured a cleaver sunken into their tops. Acharsis felt a subtle sensation of dread as he moved into the room and saw that carved into the top of each block was the outline of a hand, the cleaver embedded at the wrist.

“Sacrifice,” said Ahktena, reading a rune that was duplicated on every block. “That’s all it says.”

Nobody spoke. It was as if everyone suddenly stood alone, cut off from each other.

“Sacrifice,” said Elu, moving up to the block. He reached for the cleaver’s handle, then pulled back. “Someone has to lose their hand?”

Again, nobody spoke. The silence in the room ached.

“Am I supposed to cut off my own hand?” asked Elu, looking to Ahktena. Though pale, his voice was calm. Collected. Acharsis felt a burst of pride.

“I don’t know,” said Ahktena, her voice small. “That… that might be for you to decide.”

“Let’s ask the obvious question first,” said Acharsis, pushing his way to Elu’s side. “Has anybody here been harboring a strong desire all this time to cut off their hand, and simply been waiting for the right opportunity to do so?”

“That’s not funny,” said Annara.

“Well, maybe just a little funny,” said Acharsis. “Nobody? All right.” He turned to Elu. “I’ll do it.”

“You?” Elu stepped back as if slapped. “Why?”

“Is there a rune for ‘explanations’ next to ‘sacrifice’, Ahktena? No? Then we can cut to the cutting.” Acharsis smiled, then reached out to take hold of the cleaver’s handle.

“Wait.” Elu took hold of Acharsis’ wrist. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”

“To help you, obviously. To do my part in this.”

“You already have. You solved the mystery of the bells.”

“To continue doing my part, then. I want to help you become pharaoh. It’s that simple. Now let go.”

Elu continued to grip Acharsis’ wrist tightly. “Are you trying to impress my mother? Impress me? Don’t. I know you only act to further your own goals.”

Acharsis stilled. It felt as if Elu had just punched him in the gut. He held his son’s eyes and forced himself not to respond. To count to five. Then, carefully, quietly, deliberately, he spoke.

“I no longer care why you hate me, Elu. But I’ve decided to help you. And the best way I can do that is by treating you as an equal. I will no longer try to direct your actions. Instead, I’ll explain my thoughts to you. I’ll listen to your words. I’ll work with you. And, if necessary, I will make sacrifices so that you can succeed. You can hate me if you like. I’ll never be your father. I’ll never replace Kenu. But I will work to earn your trust and respect - and maybe one day, your friendship. Until then, please. No more insults. Let me do my part. For you. For all of us. For the River Cities and Magan.”

Elu let go of Acharsis’ wrist and stepped back, eyes wide. He swallowed and then gave a shaky nod.

“All right. Good. Now.” Acharsis yanked the cleaver free. It was top-heavy, the blade wickedly sharp. Even so, Acharsis wasn’t sure he could cut through his wrist in one chop.

“Here,” said Jarek, taking the cleaver from him. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Acharsis laid his arm on the block. He stared intently at his left hand. The familiar star-shaped scar where a hook had punched through during a sailing accident on the Khartis. The whorls over his joints. The aging skin. The black hairs that crept up from his wrist to grow fine and disappear across the back. He clenched it into a fist, his whole body tensing, then exhaled sharply and gave a single nod.

The cleaver thunked down into the block.

At first Acharsis felt nothing. Just a blank nullity that was somehow immense in its emptiness. Then a gentle warmth. Annara was wrapping a strip of cloth around his wrist, cinching it tight. The warmth began to grow, and he felt sweat break out over his entire body. His hand lay on the block. He stared at it, fascinated. The bloody stump, the white bone, the blood washing out over the wood.

The warmth suddenly crescendoed into a searing white agony, and Acharsis grit his teeth, fighting to not pull his arm away from Annara. For a moment, the world receded, and then he took a deep sucking breath and found his footing once more.

“It’s not bleeding,” Kish said. “Stop, look. It’s… it’s already healed over.”

Acharsis turned his stump upward and saw that Kish was right. The pain was already receding, and a layer of skin covered his wrist as if he’d been born without a hand. No redness. No swelling.

“Acharsis?” Annara bent down to meet his eyes. “Are… how do you feel?”

“I could use a beer,” he said.

“Look!” Sisu had stepped up to the block. Acharsis’ hand had disappeared. The cleaver was once more embedded in the wood.

The disappearance of his hand rocked Acharsis, and he pressed his arm to his chest, suddenly feeling vulnerable, awkward, clumsy. Annara wrapped an arm around his waist and placed her other hand on his shoulder.

“I’m all right,” said Acharsis, trying to make it true. The pain was gone, but that made it even worse. As if he’d been robbed, somehow, of the means to come to terms with his loss.

A door opened across from the one they’d entered through. It led to a hallway that pointed straight up. Kish moved inside, quickly searched the walls, then shook her head. “We’re going to have to wait for the cube to spin around some.”

Acharsis sat down against the wall, stump still clasped to his chest. He focused on his breathing. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel his missing hand, a faint hint of its presence. He tried to clench his fingers, felt the sinews in his forearm flutter, but the ghostly sensation didn’t change.

“Straight up,” Sisu was saying. “The cube’s rotated twice since we entered. That would mean we’d have had to make it here before the second rotation to keep going.”

“Unlikely,” Jarek said. “Even if we’d passed the bells without error I doubt we’d have made it here so quickly.”

“Then why design it this way?” Sisu stepped into the base of the hallway and looked up. “A natural check on our progress?”

Acharsis smiled tiredly. “It’s simple. If the other teams are experiencing identical trials, then whomever designed this cube wanted a number of teams to progress at the same time to the next phase.”

Elu stood on the far side of the small room, biting his lower lip and watching Acharsis. When their eyes met, the youth quickly looked away.

Acharsis closed his eyes. Annara’s presence by his side was endlessly comforting. He wanted to rest his head on her shoulder. Instead, he leaned back and exhaled. He’d lost his hand. It was gone forever. Only time would tell what he’d gained in exchange.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jarek stood within the hallway that was slowly levelling out. It had to be about twenty yards long, and terminated in a blank wall. The door - hopefully - opened up on one of the sides. Kish was sitting on the floor by his side, resting against the wall and his leg both, chin on her chest as she dozed. The others had retired to the room of bells. Sitting amongst chopping blocks wasn’t conducive to sleep, it seemed.

Jarek couldn’t get the image of Acharsis laying his arm down on the block out of his mind. The very thought of purposefully losing his hand made Jarek’s blood run cold. His hands were an integral part of his very sense of self; he’d not be able to wield the Sky Hammer with but one hand, to grasp the world, to crush and direct. What kind of courage did it take to make that sacrifice? A different kind of courage than Jarek understood. Which challenged his fundamental understanding of courage itself, of bravery, of strength of character. He’d always assumed it meant a willingness to meet obstacles head-on. But this was something else.

Kish shifted against his leg, murmuring something under her breath and then subsiding. Don’t take too long, she’d said. I may run out of patience. He studied her profile. An equal. He couldn’t deny her fighting talents. Her bravery, a bravery that he understood and admired. But his equal? He was the son of Alok, she but a granddaughter - at best - of Scythia.

No, that wasn’t it. An excuse. He was clutching at divine straws. He thought again of Acharsis placing his arm on the chopping block: a bravery that opened one up to vulnerability. To limitations. Acharsis had been willing to become less of a man in order to gain something greater.

No. Not less of a man. Jarek grimaced. He’d known veterans of the Cleansing Wars who had suffered worse wounds and losses but only risen in his esteem during the years that followed. A man wasn’t his limbs. But Jarek’s hands allowed him to be who he was. A fighter. A champion of Alok. Wielder of the Sky Hammer.

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. There was a truth there. A connection between Acharsis’ sacrifice and his own treatment of Kish. If only he were wise enough to grasp it.

Jarek checked the hallway. Almost there. He wished it were ready, so that he could escape these thoughts, these emotions that discomfited him so. Escape into violence, action, confrontation.

Think. Figure it out. Acharsis had been brave enough suffer a loss. Was Jarek capable of such bravery? Could he love Kish, knowing that he might lose her? He thought of his dead wife, lost in the stream of souls that wandered Nekuul’s underworld. Could he love Kish, and risk not being enough for her?

He thought of the gypsy dancer - a memory he’d shied away from ever since that night. Young and carefree and passionate and alive. Wasn’t that what Kish deserved? A partner her age?

Before you know it, you’ll be thinking of me as an equal.

Jarek reached down to ghost his hand over her ebon hair, careful to not rouse her. Did he have the right to decide what she deserved? To make her decision for her? Or… or was that but another excuse to keep his hand off the chopping block? A final, seemingly altruistic excuse to keep from risking rejection, loss, and pain all over again?

Kish stirred, wiped at her face, then looked up at him and stretched, smiling as she caught his eyes. “We ready?”

Jarek took her hand and helped her to stand. “Might be. Looks climbable.”

Kish placed a foot on the steep incline, then looked back at him. “What? You’re not going to insist on going first?”

Jarek leaned back against the wall. “Be my guest.”

“Really?” Wary caution flickered across her face. “This some kind of test?”

“I’ll leave the tests to the cube. Go ahead. See if you can climb it.”

“All right.” She placed a hand on the wall and started to walk up, moving with ponderous care, placing her weight carefully on the balls of her feet as she fought for traction. One step, then two, then a third. “I think we can do it.”

“All right,” said Jarek. “I’ll fetch the others.”

“You’re not going to tell me to wait?”

Jarek turned back. “You do what you think’s best.”

“Did that blow from the golem catch your head?” Her brows quirked in confusion, her smile half-defensive, half-surprised. “'What I think’s best'?”

“That’s right.” He didn’t want to say it. It felt too obvious, too crude. But the words needed to be said. “I trust you.”

Then he strode through the chopping block room and back into the bell chamber. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

Acharsis was resting beside Annara, their heads together. He straightened, blinking in confusion, and Jarek felt a pang at the sight of his friend’s face; he seemed older, more frail. Annara climbed to her feet first then helped him up. Jarek wanted to turn away, to not witness Acharsis’ weakness or confusion or whatever it was, but instead forced himself to step in closer. “You ready?”

Acharsis gave a husky laugh. “I dreamt that the next contest involved draining a bowl of beer larger than a bull. I mean, it’s possible, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Jarek, unable to resist a smile. “It’s possible.”

“Then I’m ready. Let’s finish this.”

Jarek led the group back into the hallway, where Kish had climbed up about two thirds of the way. She looked down at them, a finger to her lips. “I think I hear voices from above. Another team.”

“Then let’s hurry,” said Elu, stepping carefully up onto the sloping corridor. It was growing more level by the moment, and soon they were all making their way up, clinging to the walls and breathing heavily as they fought the incline. Jarek came up last, ready to catch anybody who might fall and slide, but nobody did.

They emerged at last into a massive, circular chamber. In its center arose a stone spire, a series of stacked cylinders whose surfaces were covered in runes. A crystal sat on the spire’s apex, dull and heavy. Eight plinths were arranged around this spire, equidistant from each other, a series of steps leading up to each. There were complex geometries underfoot, the floor descending by means of depressed triangles and diamonds to where the spire rose. Five other tunnel entrances were arrayed about the walls, and from one of these a second team had emerged.

Jarek stepped alongside Kish, who stood just behind Elu and Ahktena. The others spread out behind them, just as the second group was arranging itself behind its leader and studying them in turn.

The man at their fore was tall, his features striking and long, clean-shaven but for his chin where a stiff goatee extended perhaps a foot, carefully bound in gold wire. His high brow, harsh cheekbones and pursed lips held a distinct air of disdain.

Behind him stood five other individuals; they’d lost two in the trials thus far. An older man with cloud-like hair was missing his left hand; he held the stump to his chest, as if to protect it from further harm. No women, Jarek saw: just a small, wiry-looking man who was pulling up a rope fashioned from robes from their inclined hallway; a great oaf of a man with a studded club over his shoulder; and two compact men who might have been brothers, blades at their hips, expressions flat and hard.

“You don’t speak Maganian, do you, Senacherib?” Their leader’s tone was clearly mocking. “I shall be made to speak your River Cities’ language. How insulting.”

“Mahten,” said Ahktena. “Congratulations on your success thus far. But I don’t see Patun by your side? Did you choose not to bring him?”

Mahten’s expression darkened. “He fell fighting the scorpion king. He died bravely.”

Elu took a step forward. “Other teams will soon arrive. Let’s agree to a temporary truce while we examine this room. Agreed?”

“I will not lower myself into entering accords with you. Ahktena, I give you my word that we shall not attack until we both agree to end the truce or another team arrives.”

“Very well,” said Ahktena. “A truce, then.”

Both teams moved toward the circle of plinths, each to one side. Jarek watched the other team, trying to gauge who was a true threat. Mahten was no fighter, but the brothers moved with an easy grace. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, they’d be fast and dangerous with their blades. The oaf was limping. A new injury, no doubt. Good.

“Two hands,” said Acharsis, moving up the steps to study the closest plinth. It rose perhaps three yards in height, with steps rising into a small alcove which housed an inclined block of stone. Two sets of handprints were indented into its surface. “That cheers me up no end.”

“Eight plinths,” said Ahktena. “We’re but seven.”

“There are only six teams.” Acharsis touched the plinth, ran his hand down its smooth side. “Therefore, it can’t be that each plinth represents a team. See any runes, Ahktena?”

“No,” said the princess, moving around the plinth. “Nothing. Nor or on the central spire.”

Mahten’s team was gathered in a like manner around the opposite plinth, which suddenly emitted a low hum. Its apex glowed with a frost-blue radiance, and a beam of light extended from its front to connect with the spire, causing the crystal on its top to glow faintly. Just as abruptly, the light disappeared.

“Here,” said Kish. “Let me try.” Before anybody could gainsay her, she stepped up beside Acharsis and placed both hands in the indentations. Their own plinth hummed, emitted a blue light, and Jarek saw a beam shoot out to connect with the spire.

“It’s warm,” said Kish. “But I don’t feel anything else.”

Mahten’s plinth lit up once more, and when its beam hit the spire, the crystal glowed brighter.

“Look,” said Sisu. “Do you see? A faint light connecting all the plinths.”

Jarek squinted. Sisu was right. Thin beams of ghostly blue had appeared between the eight plinths, connecting them in a heptagon so faint that he could barely make it out.

The humming continued for a few more seconds, then Kish pulled her hands back. Mahten’s plinth went dark a moment later.

“Interesting,” said Acharsis. He tapped his chin. “The light would be brightest when all eight plinths are activated. To what end? Would doing so pass this test?”

“We’re out of luck then,” said Sisu. “Only six of us have both hands.”

“You, Sisuthros, are a very perceptive young man.” Acharsis frowned. “The whole hand-chopping thing makes it impossible for any one team to activate all the plinths at once. Even in a best-case scenario, a team would need help from an outsider.”

“Ahktena!” Mahten’s voice rang out as his group approached. “A word.”

“Well,” said Acharsis. “He doesn’t waste any time.”

“I admire your ambition,” said Mahten, stopping a half-dozen yards away. “I always have. And while there have been some misunderstandings between us, I know that we both seek the same thing: the everlasting glory of Magan.”

“Misunderstandings, Mahten? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

The other man waved his hands. “Come. We’re adults now. Those were but the games of children. Let’s leave the past behind. What matters is the present, and the future of Magan. Join me. Join your true countrymen. I regret to see that Haremhab is not with you, but if you can bring two others over to my team, then I shall appoint you high priestess of the lamassu when I am raised as pharaoh. You have my word.”

“Ahktena?” Elu looked nervously at her.

Annara stepped up beside her son. “Whatever you offer, Senacherib can offer the same.”

“True,” said Mahten. “But you’re River City dogs. I’ve known Ahktena since we were little. She would never allow the sun throne to be made dirty by having a foreigner sit on it.”

“I am Senacherib,” said Elu. “Son of Queen Nethena. You keep speaking that way and I will have your head.”

Jarek couldn’t help but nod. Direct, but good.

“Ahktena. Come. Don’t waste time. Or the next team will arrive, and this chance for you to serve our country will slip away.”

“My mother has always counciled me to be very wary of being honest. But I’ll tell you this, Mahten. I joined Senacherib’s team in hopes of just such an opportunity.” She paused and gave an apologetic smile to Elu. “Sorry. It’s true. But,” she turned back to Mahten, “in just these few short days, I’ve come to see the wisdom of the lamassu’s choice. It spoke, and declared this man to be Senacherib. And while I don’t say that he is Amon Osan come again, he’s a damn better man than you will ever be, Mahten. Now go ahead and call me a bitch and tell me how much I’m going to regret this.”

Mahten’s expression screwed up in fury and disgust. “Bitch! You sully your house and dishonor your ancestors! Very well. If you won’t join me willingly, then I shall have to cut down your new friends until they agree to do as they’re told.”

“There we go,” said Jarek, drawing the Sky Hammer. “Time to get to work. How many of them do we need to leave standing?”

“Two,” said Acharsis. “With both hands.”

Kish circled out wide, and Elu drew his blade. Annara took a single step forward and hurled her spear in an overhand cast. It flew through the air and sank into the chest of the oaf, who staggered back and tore it out with a whimper of dismay.

“Kill them!” screamed Mahten, drawing his own sword. “Senacherib! Face me if you dare!”

The brothers ran forward, blades held low, and the monkey-looking fellow ran out wide to circle around their group.

“Eye on the rear!” called Jarek, moving to stand beside Kish. The brothers put on a burst of speed at the last and lashed out with their blades. Jarek gripped his hammer just below the head and used it to bat aside the sword thrust, then threw himself forward to grapple with the man. His opponent spun aside, however, and cut open a gash along Jarek’s ribs.

Growling, his old anger rising within him, Jarek reached out instinctively for Alok’s strength and of course found nothing there. No matter. He pressed forward, hammer once more held before him, only to hear Kish scream.

Every instinct told him to wheel around, to protect her. Get her out of this fight, take both men on at once.

Think of me as an equal.

Jarek gritted his teeth, roared his frustration, and leaped forward. His opponent yelled in fear, or surprise, or both, and made the fatal mistake of slashing at Jarek instead of stabbing. The blow cut across Jarek’s chest, and then the Sky Hammer sank into the man’s head down to his jaw. Blood and brains spattered everywhere, but Jarek was already turning, tearing his hammer free, searching for Kish and her enemy.

The other brother was backing away, one arm clearly broken, sword held awkwardly in his left hand. Kish was moving after him, but a knife was sticking out of her back. The monkey-looking fellow must have thrown it.

“Coward!” Jarek ran past Sisu to where Annara and Acharsis were trying to corner the agile man. With a grunt, Jarek threw his hammer to the man’s left. The wiry man leaped right on instinct, and straight into Jarek’s charge. He grabbed the man by the skull, lifted him up off his feet, then whipped him around and down to shatter his head against the floor.

“Wow,” said Acharsis, lowering his blade. “That was… wow.”

Jarek took up his hammer, wheeled around, and saw Kish stepping in to drive Mahten back. Where was the oaf? There, sitting down, hand to his spear wound, eyes half-closed.

“Surrender!” Jarek’s roar momentarily quelled the fighting. Kish and Elu stepped back, allowing Mahten to withdraw and stand beside the wounded brother and the one-handed sage. “You’ve lost,” said Jarek, stalking forward, hammer gleaming crimson and flecked with white. “Surrender, or I’ll stave in your skull.”

Mahten cursed in Maganian and threw his blade onto the ground. The surviving brother dropped his, and the three of them clustered together.

“You’ve lost,” said Elu. “You’re not fit to be pharaoh. If you assist me now, I’ll be merciful when I ascend to the sun throne.”

“Never,” said Mahten. “Soon another team will arrive. Unlike Ahktena, they will side with me. No foreigner is worthy enough to sit on the sun throne, no matter what the lamassu says! I will freely give my help to the next team, and together we will kill you.”

“That so?” asked Kish. She reached behind, hissing as she drew the dagger from her back, then flipped it over so that she held it by the tip. “You probably should have kept that to yourself.” She flicked her hand, and the dagger flew through the air and into Mahten’s open mouth.

He screamed, clawed at his mouth, seeking purchase on the recessed pommel, and then turned to the sage, gesturing and shrilling. The older man tried to help with his one hand, but Mahten batted him away and shoved his fingers past his lips to grab the dagger and yank it free. He coughed as blood and pieces of his tongue splattered forth, and then sank to his knees. He glared at Kish, and tried to throw the dagger back. It landed perhaps a few yards short of her and slid across the ground to her boot.

Mahten coughed, spat more blood, then fell forward onto his face and lay still.

Nobody moved as Kish bent down to pick up the knife. She turned to the survivors. “Any of you plan on siding with the next team?”

The brother and sage exchanged words in Maganian, then moved to sit beside the oaf. The sage spoke to Ahktena, his words grave, and then shook his head.

“He said that they will not assist us, even if it means their death. Participating in the Quickening is the greatest honor of their lives, and they shall not defile their ancestors and houses by betraying Mahten’s memory.”

“Great,” said Elu, sheathing his blade. He ran his hands through his hair as he turned to consider the plinths. “So what do we do now?”

“We can’t force them to help,” said Jarek. “Even if we wrestled them into place, we’d have to leave them to stand at our own plinths and they’d just move away again.”

Elu turned to Ahktena. “What can I offer them to make them help?”

Ahktena shook her head sadly. “I don’t think you can. They are invoking their pledges and oaths to Mahten’s royal line. They won’t help.”

“All right,” said Acharsis, running his hand through his hair. “So we prepare to ambush the next group that arrives. Arrange ourselves around their tunnel entrance. Kill the first few to enter, and force the remaining members to help.”

Jarek moved to Kish’s side. “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad,” she said, but her face was pale and her pupils dilated. “I’m losing a lot of blood down my back, though.”

“We’ll have to bind it,” said Jarek. “Annara, can you help?”

Kish sat carefully, seeming to grow stiffer by the moment. Annara hurried over, and together they helped her remove her leather jerkin and set to tearing strips of cloth from Jarek’s tunic.

“It won’t work,” said Ahktena. “We’ll get the same response from the others. This is not just a contest to be won. They are performing before the lamassu, before their houses. If they allow us to force them into siding with us, they’ll lose all honor and respect. They would rather kill themselves than be so shamed.”

“Very well, let me think. Let me think.” Acharsis began to pace. “Bribery, then, like Mahten was trying with us.”

The wound in Kish’s back was a thin, puckered slit. It was weeping blood and had turned her entire side crimson. Carefully, gently, Jarek pressed a wad of his tunic against the wound, then held it in place as Annara began to wind the rest of the tunic over it.

“Remember?” asked Kish, her voice dreamy. “The last time you bandaged me?”

Jarek flushed. “Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.”

“That was the first time we made love,” Kish said to Annara. “It was amazing.”

Jarek felt his face burn and studiously avoided Annara’s eyes.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Acharsis, coming to a stop. “We have to think like pharaohs. The trial was set up so that each team had to recruit at least one person away from another team. Maybe more if they lost people in the previous tests. It’s a test of leadership. Leaders have to inspire. Elu, we’re going to have to appeal to the next team in some way. Convince them to join us.”

“That… sounds tricky,” said Elu. “You heard Mahten. They all know I’m not Senacherib. They’re not going to be very interested in hearing why a foreigner should sit on the sun throne instead of them.”

Jarek finished binding the bandage and sat back on his heels. His own wounds were starting to throb. “Kish isn’t going to be fighting any more. She’s lost too much blood.”

“Great,” said Elu. “I mean, I’m sorry, Kish. But that’s going to make it that much harder to intimidate the other team, or to stop them from killing us.”

Acharsis moved to stand before Elu. “You have to have faith in yourself. You have to believe you are going to be the next pharaoh. You must have the confidence to sway the next team to your side, no matter what they think or desire.”

“They’d rather die then help us,” said Elu. “How can I overcome that?”

“I don’t know. But I have faith in you. I know you can do it.” Acharsis reached out and took hold of Elu’s shoulder. “And you will. Believe it.”

Elu took a shaky breath. “My moment of truth. All right. Yes.”

“Hold on,” said Sisu. He’d been squatting beside the body of the fallen brother. “Maybe not.”

“I—what?” Elu turned sharply to face him. “You saying I can’t—”

“No, nothing like that. I’m saying you may not have to.” Sisu lowered himself to his knees. “Silence. Everyone shut up.”

“Charming,” said Ahktena. “Why did we bring him?”

“Because of this,” said Sisu. He closed his eyes and raised his hands. Sweat immediately broke out on his brow. He began to mutter in the secret Nekuulite tongue under his breath. Jarek could feel the faint brush of power across the edges of his mind.

“Come back,” said Sisu, in common. “Both of you. No, come back, I said.” He made a grasping motion, and began to haul back as if pulling in invisible nets. “You’re not done here yet. The blinding sun can wait. You’re mine. Obey my call. Hear my voice and obey my call. I own you. The world is not yet quit of you. Nekuul compels you. Nekuul demands that you return. Get back here. Back—and—in—”

Sisu’s hands caught fire. Both burned with a searing white light, and Sisu reached down to press his right hand to the corpse’s chest. Immediately it convulsed. Sisu then rose and hurried to where the wiry man lay and touched him in turn. The corpse shivered violently.

“Stop complaining,” said Sisu, rising to his feet and beckoning. “You’re but freshly dead. It feels so familiar. Like old shoes. Get up. Stand. Feel your muscles respond. Rise. Rise, you bastards.”

The three Maganians let out cries of horror as the two corpses sat up and then struggled to their feet.

“Now,” said Sisu, face bathed in sweat, eyes feverish. “Let’s get in place before I lose my control of them. Hurry!”

“You heard the death priest!” barked Acharsis. “Go! To a plinth!”

Jarek helped Kish stand and led her to the closest plinth, up the steps so that she could lean against the angled stone and press both hands into the indentations. Immediately her plinth began to hum, and the beam of blue light shot forth to connect with the spire.

Jarek leaped off the steps, grunting in pain, and ran past the next plinth which Ahktena had claimed, and on to the farthest plinth. He was panting by the time he reached it, his chest tight, and as he climbed the steps he saw the two dead men mount their own.

Would it work? He waited to see, and when their plinths lit up he let out a savage cry of satisfaction.

As each plinth hummed to life, the blue light between them became brighter, and Jarek saw that a pattern was emerging; a complex star that centered on the spire whose crystal was now blazing with terrible blue energy. He was the last one left. Looking down, he saw Acharsis watching, and met his friend’s eyes. Acharsis gave him a nod, and Jarek stepped forward and pressed his hands into the prints.

The hum was a deep vibration that Jarek felt in his chest, that caused his lungs to shake, and the light spread from the crystal, so bright that it blinded him. Jarek fought the urge to cover his eyes, and instead squeezed them shut and looked away. Even through his closed eyelids he could see the searing white light, and the hum rose to a crescendo, shaking him like a leaf in the wind - then nothing.

Darkness.

Jarek blinked. The plinth was gone from under his hands. Had they done it? He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear away the afterimage, and looked around. The others were with him, gathered together in a circle. They were in a large chamber. The walls were rough, the chisel marks evident. At the far end was an open doorway to the next room.

Dread seized Jarek, and he spun around.

Behind him rose the great golden seal. The iris door.

The entrance to the cube.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Acharsis stared at the distant doorway with its dark, room-spanning slit in the ceiling above and felt despair leach all emotion from his soul. A quiet enervation, a profound and simple realization that they had lost. Somewhere, something had gone wrong.

“But…” Elu stepped forward. Faltered. “We came so close. What happened?”

Ahktena drew herself up, face pale with fury, and turned on Sisu. “You did this. You polluted the trial. You tried to cheat. Did you think the lamassu would allow you to interfere so baldly? We’ve been punished for our heresy! This is your fault! Yours alone!”

Sisu looked as if he’d been hit square between the eyes by a cart’s axle. “No. That can’t be right. They were animated by a power similar to Nekuul’s, but not hers. It couldn’t have happened without their knowing.”

Kish sat with a moan. Jarek rushed to kneel by her side. Annara took Acharsis' arm. Her grip was tight. “What do we do?”

As if in response, the distant slit began to rumble, and lava began to pour down onto the floor. The sight of it, exactly the same as last time, drove the despair deeper into Acharsis, robbed him of the ability to move, to even think. He watched as it pooled and then began to flow toward them, the heat rising, the stink of rotten eggs filling the air.

“If the lava test has reset,” said Jarek, his voice low. “Then it stands to reason that the other tests have done so as well.”

“We can’t beat the golem without Haremhab and Kish,” said Annara.

“Well, I’ve still got one hand left,” said Acharsis. “We can get past the chopping blocks pretty quickly.”

Everyone turned to look at him. He forced himself to stop grinning and passed his remaining hand before his eyes.

“Even if we pass all the tests again,” said Ahktena. “We’ll be far too late. Even the sixth team must be ahead of us by now. The corridors will have rotated. We’ll have to wait for them to become navigable once more. There’s no way to reach the final chamber in time.”

The lava was creeping closer. Even though his mind knew the lava was an illusion, his body was reacting to the heat, to the smoldering glow, making him want to recoil, to step back. To flee.

“Acharsis?” Annara was searching his face. “What do we do?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said. “Ahktena’s right. Jarek’s right. We barely made it through the first time at full strength. Now? With Kish unable to fight?” He gave a shaky laugh. “I don’t know.”

Elu was staring down at the lava. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the group. “We’ve got to try anyway.”

“Why?” groaned Sisu, lowering himself into a crouch and covering his face. “Why bother? We’ll just get crushed by the golem. Or this scorpion king.”

Elu looked at Acharsis. “We’ve sacrificed too much to give up. Haremhab gave his life. Kish has taken terrible wounds. Acharsis.” He paused. “Acharsis gave his hand. I have to honor that. We can’t stop.”

“But it’s futile,” said Ahktena, stepping away from him. “Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see.” Elu sounded tired. “But what else can we do? We have to try. We can’t give up.”

“I’ll have to carry Kish,” said Jarek. “She’s barely conscious.”

“We’ve lost most of our weapons,” said Annara.

“Honestly, I’m not giving up my hand,” said Sisu. “I know nobody expects Acharsis to cut his other hand off, but it won’t be me to step up to that block.”

“If it comes to it, I’ll cut my hand off,” said Elu. His voice was gaining strength. “Acharsis has already given too much. Now, up. Everybody. We can lose here, or we can lose fighting to get to the end. I know where I’d rather be. Up.”

Jarek took a deep breath. “Well said, Elu. Well said.” With a groan he rose to his feet, hefting Kish up in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest. Her bandages were soaked red.

Annara let down her braid, then carefully coiled it up once more and pinned it in place. “I’ll fight. I’ll do whatever I can to get us through. I believe in you, Elu.”

Acharsis wanted to laugh, to cry. To have given up his hand - for this? A paltry second attempt? “Why not? Beats sitting here or climbing down shamefacedly to face the Maganians. Let’s give it a second try. Lead the way, Senacherib.” His smile faded, no longer feeling appropriate. “I’ll follow.”

Ahktena looked away, biting her lip.

“Ahktena?” Elu stepped up to her, took her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. About whether you should have sided with Mahten or not. I’m glad you didn’t. Thank you. But we need you now. We have to keep going. Will you walk with us?”

“Fine,” she said. “Yes, fine. What else am I going to do?”

Sisu stood. “Nobody's going to try and convince me to come?”

Jarek shifted Kish’s weight in his arms. “Why bother? You’re coming.”

“All right.” Elu turned to face the lava that was nearly at his feet. “Together now. Follow me.” He stepped forward and the room and the lava disappeared.

Acharsis stumbled. They were back in the final chamber. The searing white light that had filled his vision constrained itself to a single band that was pulsing straight up from the central spire, blasting up to the distant ceiling. The others were positioned at the plinths, looking about themselves in shock and confusion.

A deep, aching rumble sounded from above, and Acharsis raised his good arm to shield his face. Instead, he saw the roof irising open, thick ledges of rock sliding back, revealing blue sky beyond. The platform on which the plinths stood shivered and began to climb.

“Acharsis!” Annara turned, hand outstretched. “Climb up! Hurry!”

He needed no second prompting. Using his elbow and good hand, he levered himself up onto the platform just as Annara grabbed his arm and hauled him up. She helped him stand, and together they looked up at the sky as they rose toward it.

“That was a final test,” said Acharsis. Then he laughed, amazement and delight suffusing him. “A final bloody test, and we did it!” He looked across the plinths to where Elu stood. “Elu! You did it!”

Elu grinned and raised a fist in response. He looked thunderstruck, and only then did Acharsis realize what this meant:

Elu, his son, was going to be the next pharaoh of Magan.

Annara laughed and covered her mouth, tears gathering in her eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

Acharsis slung his arm around her shoulders. “Well, luckily, you don’t have to. It’s still going to happen.”

The plinths emerged into the morning air. Everyone stepped down from theirs to gather around Elu, who was shaking his head in wonder.

“You did well,” said Jarek, reaching out to squeeze Elu’s shoulder. “At the end there, when it counted most. You came through.”

“I’m going to be the pharaoh of Magan,” said Elu, turning to Acharsis and Annara. “How the hell am I going to do that?”

“I’ll be there to help guide you,” said Ahktena. “And let me be the first to officially greet you as Pharaoh Senacherib, third of his name, Son of the Lamassu, High Priest of Every Temple, Lord of Magan.” She knelt before him and pressed her forehead to the stone floor.

“Do we all have to bow?” asked Sisu.

“You did it,” said Acharsis, stepping in and laying a hand on Elu’s shoulder in turn. “You did. Well done.” Son, he almost added, but bit it back at the last.

“Thank you,” said Elu. His voice shook. “Thank you, Acharsis. For believing in me. For your sacrifice.”

“I almost said 'any time',” said Acharsis. “But… that would have been a lie. I’d like to hang on to this last hand of mine if you don’t mind.” Then he smiled. “But you’re welcome. It might not mean much, but I’m proud of you, Elu. You proved yourself worthy. A leader. Well done.”

“Thank you,” said Elu again. “And – I’m sorry. For how I’ve behaved. These past weeks have been a nightmare. I promise you I will do better moving forward.”

Acharsis smiled. “I know you will.”

“Elu,” said Annara, and stepped forward to hug him. “Your father would be so proud. I’m so proud.”

Elu hugged Annara tightly, burying his face in her hair. “I’m sorry, mother. For how I’ve treated you. I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s behind us. Everything is behind us.” She held him tight. “A new life is beginning for you. And I’ll be there for you every step of the way for as long as you need me.”

Acharsis fought the wave of bitterness that flooded through him. In another world, he might have been the man to step up and hug them both; might have been the father that had never left Annara, that had raised Elu, that could claim them both as his own. But he couldn’t. He’d left. He’d lost that right. So instead he watched, pain tearing at his heart, as the woman he loved and the young man that could have been his son hugged each other tightly.

“You hear that?” Jarek turned toward one of the edges of the cube. “Sounds like a huge crowd cheering.”

“The beam!” Ahktena rose to her feet. “They see the light spearing into the heavens. They know a new pharaoh has been chosen!”

“Look!” Sisu pressed against Jarek. “The lamassu are coming!”

Six great winged figures were descending upon them.

“Prepare yourself, Senacherib,” said Ahktena. “These are your gods now. These are the six stars by which you shall forevermore navigate the course of your life. Kneel.”

Elu did so, stepping forward and dropping to his knees, then pressing his brow to the stone surface. The lamassu alighted in a circle around their group, the wind whipping up as they beat their powerful wings to arrest their descent, touching down lightly, haunches bunching as their legs took their weight.

Acharsis turned slowly, taking them in one at a time. All were of the same shape, leonine beings with eagle wings, but there their resemblance ended. They varied in size, in color, and each had as distinct a face as a disparate group of people. One lamassu stood head and shoulders above the others, its fur a sooty black, the gold in its braided hair gleaming, its face ebon like that of the people of Dilman. Another was slender, a gold so pale it was nearly white, its mane darkening to crimson at the tips, its face feminine, otherworldly, its eyes milky-white.

Acharsis focused on their lamassu. It moved forward, facing Elu, and there was in its harsh visage an air of exultation, of pride and triumph.

“Rise, Senacherib, third of your name, Child of the Everburning Sun and Ruler of Magan. You alone of all our subjects may greet us with a bow.”

Acharsis shifted his weight on his feet, painfully aware of his breach in decorum, but no. He was not a Maganian. These lamassu would not ferry his soul to the underworld. His father and god was Ekillos, his death goddess Nekuul, and he would not bow to them like a true worshipper.

Elu rose. His hands were clenched into fists, and his face was pale, but he met the lamassu’s gaze without flinching.

The massive black lamassu spoke, its voice akin to the rolling of summer thunder. “Do not grow accustomed to your successes, brother. Three times now your city has given us our ruler. You test the fates with your luck.”

Their lamassu’s lip curled into a mocking smile. “Gaze upon my flesh, brother, and see modesty and gratitude incarnate. It grieves me that your children did not win through. Were my joy not so dizzying, I would weep for you.”

The black lamassu drew back, eyes narrowing to slits, but their lamassu turned back to Elu. “Now begins your true life. All that you have been, all that you were - your loves, loyalties, and life - are like dust blown from your open palm. You have been reborn, Senacherib. You shall soon feel the powers of the sun flow through your veins. We shall guide you in your reign, and under our patronage you shall learn both the art of ruling and the intricacies of Magan.”

Elu gave a jerky nod. It was clear he didn’t trust himself to speak yet.

“Fear not. The very fact that you stand before us means that you have the qualities necessary to lead Magan. Those qualities will only grow, and as long as you hold to the core truths, you and Magan shall prosper.”

“Faith,” whispered Elu. Then, in a stronger voice, “Obedience. Exaltation. Destiny.”

“Indeed.” The lamassu’s tail whipped back and forth. “Now, it is time for you to meet your people. Just as I bear the souls of the dead from this world to the next, so shall I bear you down from the heights to the land of the living. Mark well the symbolism. You have died, and we now bring you back to life. Drink deep of that truth. Nothing shall ever be the same again, but all shall be infinitely better. Come.”

The lamassu extended its front leg to serve as a ladder, and Elu, with great hesitation, moved forward and climbed to the god’s back. There, he settled beween its wings, eyes still wide with wonder.

The lamassu turned to the rest of the group. “For your role in the pharaoh’s ascension you are all blessed, and will bear the title of Royal Companion for the rest of your lives. My brothers and sisters shall attend to your injuries and fly you down to the ground, but know that forevermore a shard of your soul will remain in the heavens.”

Nobody spoke. Ahktena bowed low once more, and Annara held tight to Acharsis’ arm.

“Son of Ekillos,” said the lamassu. “You bear my amulet. I gift it to you as a token of my appreciation. Heed my warning and do not lose it.”

“Thank you,” said Acharsis, bowing low. “Thank you.”

“Now, Senacherib. Are you ready to meet your people?”

“I am,” said Elu. He swallowed and took hold of the lamassu’s mane. “I’m ready.”

“Then come! A new age dawns for Magan. Let it begin!” The lamassu leaped up, wings extending, and it took off into the peerless blue sky.

Annara raised her arm to shield her eyes, peering up after her son, and Acharsis saw tears running down her cheeks.

“We did it,” said Acharsis, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. “We actually pulled it off.”

Jarek joined them, watching as the white lamassu stepped up to where Kish lay. “And now the war begins. Elu’s going to have to summon his new army quickly if we’re to stop Irella.”

“He will,” said Acharsis. “I know he will. He’s got what it takes. With him as pharaoh, we can finally bring justice to the River Cities. Finally meet her on the field of battle and avenge our fallen gods.”

The sound of the crowd’s cheering erupted, a wall of rapturous acclaim.

“We’ve got an army to raise, a war to win, and nine dead gods to bring back from the dead,” said Acharsis. “Shall we get started?”

Want to know when Book 3 of

The Godsblood Trilogy

Is Published?

Sign up for my mailing list and I’ll let you know the moment Book 3 is live.

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Glossary

God

Domain

Demigod

City

Cerash

Heaven/Firmament

Amelagar

Kasha

Iritak

Air

Ahsera

Namtar

Ekillos

Male Fertility/Knowledge

Acharsis

Narubtum

Nekuul

Netherworld

Irella

Uros

Scythia

Warfare, Female Sexuality

Numias

Takurtum

Kaptiya

Sea

Hamata

Zakir

Alok

Earth

Jarek

Rekkidu

Ninsaba

Moon

Sharyukin

Jalasha

Naban

Agriculture

Kinziru

Timesh

Qun

Sun

Golden Piamat

Nusku

Acharsis: Demigod and son of Ekillos

Agash: Adept of Nekuul

Ahassuna: Seeker of Nekuul

Ahsera: Demigoddess and daughter of Iritak

Akkodaisis: Undead lord and ruler of Rekkidu

Alok: God of earth

Amelagar: Demigod and son of Cerash
ammi shalash: Divine visitation from Nekuul

Annara: Resident of Eruk, former priestess of Scythia

Apsu: Shaman and exorcist

Athite: Nomad tribe from the Golden Steppe, former conquerors of the empire

Azu: Erkuian villager

Babati: Servant of Sisu in Rekkidu

Cerash: God of the heavens

Ekillos: God of male fertility and knowledge

Eruk: Small settlement west of Rekkidu

Godsblood: Descendant of a demigod

Hagash: Erukian villager

Hamata: Demigod and son of Kaptiya

Hracka: Nomad tribe from the Golden Steppe

Illi: Pepper native to the Aloros foothills

Illoi: Nomad tribe from the Golden Steppe

Irella: Demigoddess and daughter of Nekuul

Iroku: Master of Nekuul

Iritak: God of the air

Ishkirella: Former high priestess of Ninsaba, resident of Rekkidu

Jarek: Demigod and son of Alok, god of the earth

Jasha: Kenu’s sister and Erukian villager

Kaptiva: Goddess of the sea

Kasha: City formerly devoted to Cerash

Kenu: Annara’s husband, Erukian villager

Khartis: Sea to the north west of the empire

Kinziru: Demigod and son of Naban, god of agriculture

Kishtar: Scythian godsblood

Krucefer: Leader of the Athites, led invasion of the empire 20 years ago

Lakhar: Shapeshifting predators of the steppe

Lamasu: Human-headed lion goddesses of Magan

Leech: Derogatory name for Masters of Nekuul

Leonis: Great river that runs down the length of the empire

Magan: Rival empire to the far west

Master: Head priests of Nekuul

Meluhhua: Nation to the far south of the empire

Naban: God of agriculture

Narabtum: City formerly dedicated to Ekillos

Nekuul: Goddess of the netherworld

Ninsaba: Goddess of the moon

Numias: Demigoddess and daughter of Scythia

Nusku: City formerly devoted to Qun

Owlwoman: A practitioner of dark magic

Pantagr: A flower whose dried seeds provide an aromatic smoke

Piamat: Demigod and son of Qun

Purging: Irella’s ambush and murder of the demigods

Qun: God of the sun

Regash: Small settlement to the south west of Rekkidu

Rekkidu: City formerly devoted to Alok

Rexashas: Master of Nekuul

Seeker: Elite priests of Nekuul

Sharyukin: Demigoddess and daughter of Ninsaba

Shatra: Wading bird native to the Leonis

Sillush: Head Seeker of Nekuul

Sisuthros: Nekuulite godsblood and son of Irella

Takurtum: City formerly devoted to Scythia

Timesh: City formerly devoted to Naban

Thorn Gate: Ceremonial arch that cleanses pollution

Uddish: Seeker of Nekuul

Ulmani: Distant land to the far east of the empire

Uros: City dedicated to Nekuul and capital of the empire

Warad: Seeker of Nekuul

Yesu: Master of Nekuul

Zakir: City formerly dedicated to Kaptiya

The Path of Flames

Book 1 of the Chronicles of the Black Flame

Is available now. You can get your copy here.

The first book in the new epic fantasy series readers are comparing to David Gemmell and Raymond E. Feist.

A war fueled by the dark powers of forbidden sorcery is about to engulf the Ascendant Empire. Agerastian heretics, armed with black fire and fueled by bitter hatred, seek to sever the ancient portals that unite the empire - and in so doing destroy it.

Asho--a squire with a reviled past--sees his liege, the Lady Kyferin, and her meager forces banished to an infamous ruin. Beset by tragedy and betrayal, demons and an approaching army, the fate of the Kyferins hangs by the slenderest of threads. Asho realizes that their sole hope of survival may lie hidden within the depths of his scarred soul--a secret that could reverse their fortunes and reveal the truth behind the war that wracks their empire.

Unpredictable, fast paced, and packed with unforgettable characters, The Path of Flames is the first installment in a gripping new epic fantasy series. Grab your copy today!

Copyright © 2018 Phil Tucker

All rights reserved.