Achilles spread his feet and said, “Miracle? It was a miracle I allowed that army of horsemen to get that close to our lands at all. My men killed them—your charges, I should add—with complete ease. Horsemen, men of the plains, being run to dead ends and slaughtered while they fought from the low ground? You’re a coward and an amateur commander. It’s no wonder you fled your kingdom. You’ve always thought more of your own skin than the people you were sworn to command, but that ends here.”
Achilles charged.
A crash of metal erupted from the collision of Nectanebo and Achilles, who whirled together with slashing strikes of axe and sword and shield. A brutal strike from Achilles’ knee lifted Nectanebo off his feet, but before either man could press the issue, a backhanded strike from one of the wicked axes sprayed blood downward. Nectanebo followed through with a reverse strike that caromed off Achilles’ shield, who responded by punching forward with the pommel of his sword, a hammering blow that struck home. The thump from the impact rattled Nectanebo, who grunted in pain, and in a daze, he dropped two full steps to avoid the follow-up strike from Achilles’ swinging sword, overextending the demigod and causing him to lean forward too far. The imbalance gave Nectanebo the advantage, and he brought one, then the other axe across in sweeping strikes at Achilles’ midsection, only to reverse in mid-arc and slice both arm and stomach in a blur. It was not without cost, however, because when I looked at Nectanebo from the side, he had a vivid gash across his side and back, but very little blood. Achilles saw this as well, and knew that something was wrong.
Nectanebo smiled as they circled each other. “I’ve been improved, as well, demigod. But my constitution lacks the inherent weaknesses of yours.I can marshal my blood, just as I can force you to obey my axe. I have been touched by a goddess. She came to me in the place of dreams, and her ministrations have sanctified my status as a dragon without peer. Without blood, I will not tire. I will not weaken. But you? You are still so very human,” he cajoled, as his axes lashed out in a complex pattern, driving Achilles back.
I have never seen such speed, such power, but it began to feel like something was about to go horribly wrong, and when Risa and Wally began to reposition themselves again, trench knives extended, I caught their eyes and we moved as one. They were brave and decisive, and I felt a surge of admiration.
I went low with the long knife, high with my own, and felt the comfort of my own trusty blade sink deep into the thigh of Nectanebo, but that was all I accomplished because the flat of an axe crushed into my temple and I was thrown swooning backward to crash headlong into a stack of chairs. A long cut opened along my brow from the impact of a sharp edge, and blood sluiced into my eyes. Head wounds bleed until you’re empty, it seems, and this one was pouring down my face with abandon. The room spun, but I turned my head in time to see Achilles, Risa, and Wally attack simultaneously. Risa, shorter than Nectanebo by several inches, ducked under his strike and slashed his biceps with the point of her blade, a foot long shallow cut that enraged him to action. His foot lashed out, striking her in the knee, even as he parried Achilles’ overhand thrust.
Nectanebo, however, did not avoid Wally. Her aim was true and she drove her knife home with a scream, sinking her blade to the handle into his kidney. Nectanebo whirled with incredible grace, flinging the trench knife free and rending Wally across the abdomen with the head of an axe. Only her inertia saved her from spilling her innards, but she rolled down and away, clutching her stomach and gamely kicking out at him to keep him at bay. Achilles howled with anger and renewed his offensive, launching a series of blistering attacks that came in threes from overhead, sideways, and looping up from the floor. Through the red mist in my eyes I could see hits landing and having no effect on Nectanebo, who defended his space with enough vigor to slowly, inexorably begin wearing Achilles down.
Risa was down and would not raise again, a dislocated kneecap folding her leg under her at an odd angle. She shrieked in fury as Nectanebo spun away from Achilles and slammed the butt of an axe into the top of her skull, pulling hair and sending a fine mist of blood outward from the impact site. Wally tried to rise but Achilles pushed her away and I saw the shape of Suma run across the battle zone with a rolled bandage in her hand. She slide across the floor to Wally and began pressing against her midsection, looking stricken at such wanton bloodshed all around her. The air stank of blood and other fluids and yet, they fought on. Achilles was masterful, a true god in the flesh as he his sword rose and fell, relentless and without pity, slicing into Nectanebo, who still refused to go down.
Achilles’ sword licked forward in a silver blur, striking in the soft gap under the burly right arm of Nectanebo, who tried to turn into the blow only to sink the blade further. A gasp of fear exploded from his lungs and Achilles swung his shield downward in a blow that would crush any skull it met.
The shield never arrived. Nectanebo brought his other axe upward in a wicked slice that buried the head in the ribs of the demigod. Stunned by the shock of the wound, Achilles dropped his shield and pushed weakly at the gash, trying in vain to keep the wound’s edges bound together.
He failed. The legend, Achilles, bellowed in agony and shame, and toppled to his side with a crash. Silence descended on the room, save the breathing of the combatants. Blue exploded from the bar area with her pistol in hand, only to be taken in the chest by Nectanebo’s second axe, which he hurled at the first hint of her motion. The pick side took her in the nape of her collarbone and stood her upright, a look of shock spreading across her face as the gun slumped downward. She fell, wheezing, and Patroclus, who had been tending to me, rose and snatched up my weapons, glaring at Nectanebo with murderous intent.
“Patroclus, help me up, let’s both take him. Help me up!” I was shouting and he slowed his angry walk. I took the hesitation as his acceptance of my help, however pitiful it might be. “Help me to my feet, Patroclus.” He turned, pale with anger, and shook his head violently.
“No, this is for me alone, now. Take your family and go. Tend to them. If nothing else I will slow his pursuit. You must save who you can.” He gripped the knives with new purpose. “Nectanebo, you are not finished with your work, coward.” He stepped past the tangle of chairs that collapsed from my ungainly landing and raised the blades, his lips pressed into a grim line.
“I think that’s just about enough of that, Bishop,” said a bored female voice as the front door crashed open, and there could be no doubt she was addressing Nectanebo, who was poised over Achilles with a triumphal leer distorting his face. At the entrance of the interloper, the remaining axe in Nectanebo’s blood-slicked hand drooped downward as disbelief colored his face. We collectively gasped, and for a moment, our thoughts were pried away from the individual shock and pain we were all experiencing. Standing in the reception area, Meredith Ruston began to stalk forward, but paused and looked down in surprise at her exterior.
“My apologies for the deception, Ring, but the evening I visited this lovely restaurant with that young vampire? Well, I may have been aware of his actual nature. So, too, must I use other human forms on occasion to move freely among your kind.” She laughed warmly and her voice began to change, drifting lower and acquiring a lilting accent. It was ancient and visceral, a tongue from a fallen kingdom. A language of the builders of monuments, hailing from the depths of time.
The woman I had known as Meredith Ruston, wealthy near-victim of a stupid, newly minted vampire, and a lonely dancer, began to morph into a darker, shorter being of radiant power and beauty. Her skin tightened, becoming coppery, and her bones shortened as she grew sleek and youthful before our eyes. Her eyes shifted seamlessly from blue to black as her hair grew long, ebon in hue, and beaded with ivory and gems. Kohl lined her eyes and the angular planes of her face were exotically sculpted, a kind of beauty that was beyond modern definition. Her teeth were very white against her dusky skin, and a powerful aroma of storms wafted past me, heavy with the scent of a riverbed, reeds, and antiquity. A si
mple, plaited-white shift of boiled cotton, shot through with silver threads swirled at her bare legs. In one hand she carried a short staff, curled at the end and painted in alternating bands of cobalt and gold. It seemed to flex in her hand as she whipped it downward, and the end elongated in a living motion, finally becoming stable when it was a lethal-looking spike. The transformed staff dripped moisture onto the floor, and where her feet stepped, perfect wet outlines remained. This must be a goddess, I thought, but whom?
She addressed me patiently, since all motion in the room had ceased, save a light groan that escaped from Suma. Even Patroclus ceased movement of any kind, regarding her with a quizzical expression that drew his lips into a ghostly smile.
“There are two beings hated more than all others, Ring. The first is immortals who kill immortals, which you are technically becoming, but that is a matter better left for the future. The second, most offensive creature, is the profligate Undying who hunts his brethren without hope of actual gain, but kills his kin without grasping the nature of consequence. These beasts, one of which you have been fighting tonight, are seen as stupid, shortsighted vermin, unable to control their own base appetites. Creatures of their ilk will soon find themselves the victim of a complex, Gordian plot that will lead them to delusions of glory, a brush with power, and deliverance into the hands of those who would wear their guts for sandals. All of this deception will be crafted without the offending Undying ever catching the slightest whiff of who has crafted their fall. Or at least”—she gave another low laugh—“until just before the blade slips home. That is the true nature of evil. That is the response brought about by the capriciousness of their kind, and their willingness to eat their own. They stupidly bare the breast of a brutish foe to an enemy, all for the sake of holding their own power, and they naively believe the only effect of their action is the elimination of a potential usurper. It is about status, and hate, and the thrill that results from a lie taken to its fullest conclusion, ending in death.”
She stared openly at Nectanebo as if examining an insect, and he bowed up, his axe smeared with the blood from me, and Achilles. A gruesome clot of Risa’s dark hair hung from the wickedly scored pommel of his weapon. The hairs waved with each twitch of his hands as he prepared to attack this woman who regarded him with a mirthless smile. She drew a deep breath through her nose, her eyes lidded with anticipation, and her mouth curled anew, this time with the unfiltered pleasure of victory.
“Come, boy. Meet your end.” One finger crooked at him lazily and his nostrils flared like a mad bull at her derision.
He swung the axe lightly, still fresh even after the orgy of violence that had nearly destroyed the room. “I am the dragon. I am made new from the blood of the demi-god and his foundlings. I am your Master. Your service in my name begins now.”
He rushed her with the speed of a mongoose, his feet touching the floor only once as he twisted in mid stride and punched his axe outward in a strike that blurred the metal before my eyes. It was an inhuman motion, and a fatal attack for every soul in the room, save the one to whom it was directed. Her laugh began even as she turned his blade aside with her staff and drove a fist into his chest with enough force to stop him instantly. His ribs shattered and his legs flew forward in a comical ragdoll motion, as the immovable object of her strike crushed his chest and will in the same instant. Blood, previously hidden deep within him, shot skyward in a viscous, thick ribbon, and he coughed with the deep struggle of an animal that had been mortally wounded. Her feet never moved except for one delicate flick of her small toes, which sent his axe airborne to bury itself in an overturned table. Before he could settle, she flipped Nectanebo over like a turtle and placed a small, shapely foot on his chest, leaning ever-so-slightly forward to collapse the remaining wind from his ruined lungs that heaved like a worn-out bellows.
She regarded him with frigid study, looking up and down his body and then fixing her gaze on his eyes, which rounded with terror as he realized who she was. I could see the cognition in his face and it left him gasping even deeper. Spittle foamed on his lips and she eased the pressure of her foot, but placed the point of her staff in his navel and began to draw languorous circles around the indentation. Droplets of blood sprang forth but he remained utterly frozen with fear.
“Do you know”—she began, addressing all of us—“that when Kemet fell to the Persians, the first thing they did was send an enormous navy up the Nile, the most sacred water that has even been?”
We remained silent. It seemed prudent, given her performance thus far.
“Thousands of violators in my water, desecrating the very lifeblood created by me, given by me, and using the very channels that allowed our land to live as an abattoir for the murder of my people. And do you know, Nectanebo, why that hideous defilement of the waters occurred?” When Nectanebo made to turn his eyes, she snapped, “Attend your goddess. I am Satet, and I will have your attention or you will die screaming where you lie, but only after I have exhausted my considerable imagination,” she thundered at him in the voice of the river, and I smelled the Nile as if it flowed through my own skull, so intense was the scent.
He could barely speak. He worked his jaw and whispered, “I had no choice, goddess.”
She nodded at his admission of failure, couched as it was in a lie, but she removed the staff’s point from his skin and brought her gaze towards us. It was electrifying and laden with a scrutiny I did not know existed. Her examination was painful, but I returned her glare evenly. She was a goddess, but we were innocent, and after seeing the night’s bloodshed, I would take my chances fighting before I accepted blame for an ancient act of cowardice.
“We always have choices. You chose poorly, Nectanebo. You condemned yourself at the very instant your cowardice caused you to flee south and leave my river to the predations of a foreign army. But that offense was a miniscule error in comparison to your more recent . . . decisions.”
His eyes rounded. “Goddess?” The word invoked a world of inquiry.
A peal of laughter sprang from her lips and she smiled, slowly and with great satisfaction as confusion ran amok on his pained face. “The goddess visits her subjects where she will. In the water. On the river’s bank, or a vessel. Or . . . a dream.”
“It was you? While I slept, during my transformation? I—why? Is that why I began to hunger for things? he asked as the enormity of his betrayal became known.
“Yesss,” she trilled, as her eyes continued to measure him. “Such strange desires. You went from a rising arc of power, moving through the basic needs of any ruffian, and oh, I watched you, boy, and marked each stage of your descent as surely as I note the floods of my waters. From your need of flesh, to blood, and then your desire to kill with reckless delight, but never truly understanding why you were compelled to act. Then, your fevered thrashing in that bed, a week of waking each day and looking with false hope to ask if that was the time of your ascension.” She laughed a bitter, charmless noise that gelded him even as he lay helpless. “You are a simple creature, a beast, truly, so I knew that you would confuse ritual with desecration, content to remain obediently still while I crafted the canopic vessels in which I would place your heart. Your brain. Your organs, all in tidy rows, all where I can see them. All while your shade serves me in eternal drudgery, raising and sloughing the waters of the very river that you dared to abandon. I did everything but wrap you in the sacred linen that so many worthy regents have been bound in through time, but you? You are not deserving of such care. Such treatment is . . . excessive, given your character, and it is disrespectful to the memories of those before you whose bodies were preserved with honor and love.” As she spoke, she removed small clay pots from the folds of her garment, arranging them in a semicircle around Nectanebo’s twitching body.
“No, goddess, I can serve you better now! I beg of you! Let me be your sword, your shield, let me die in service to you!” All pride vanished as his eyes were filled with the looming presence of tiny jars
, painted and inscribed with a single hieroglyph. I could guess their meaning.
She laughed. “Nectanebo, what you propose is anathema to my wishes. You are going to serve me, of course, but I can assure you that you will never die while doing so. In fact, you are never going to know death at all, though I am confident that you will seek it for the rest of eternity.”
She placed a small palm on his stomach, and her fingers began to move, probing the expanse of his coppery skin. Stiffening her hand, she pushed gently, smiling all the while. Her fingers slipped easily inside him as if his flesh were clay, and his ribs wax. She pulled gamely at something and he screamed a long, merciless howl that waned only when her hand withdrew, holding an object that caused me to turn my eyes. Satet placed the organ in one of the jars and twisted the lid snugly in place. The reek of bile crowded the room and I deduced what just occurred, but kept my eyes averted. There’s only so much torture I can see without growing dizzy. I kill, but this type of dedicated sadism was best left to the gods. Or Wally and Risa.
“One offering is complete, loyal servant. See? No effort on your part whatsoever, just like your defense of my river. You need only lie still, and let the goddess command you.” At Nectanebo’s whimper, Satet patted his leg in a motherly gesture, then wiped perspiration from his brow. “Now then, little soldier, do not fear. We have much to learn, my friend, and nothing but time. Trust in your goddess, just as I”—her fingers slipped into his chest, searching delicately—“trust in you.” She moved them upward in the cavity, as his gasp of purest horror filled the room, “To give me your heart and soul.” His head snapped back in a paroxysm of agony, and she smiled at him, tender as a lover. Her hand moved slowly upward. “Heart first.”
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