Trial of Kings

by Phil Tucker

  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 limp
ing. 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.”