Steampunk World

by Sarah Hans (ed)

  Akhu sprinted across the grass toward the monolithic ball. Fusii and Gahs galloped forward close upon his heels, sending chunks of rent earth flying behind them. Akhu closed within two yards of the massive ball and then exploded into the air, the Steamsword raised above his head.

  The ball unfolded into a spiked, black titan, which towered over the party of stunned would-be liberators. The creature stood as tall as an elder eucalyptus tree and twice as wide as the great tree’s trunk.

  Akhu thrust his sword into the creature’s foot.

  The monstrosity snatched him with a claw and lifted him skyward. He screamed in agony as the crushing pressure of the creature’s claw threatened to shatter his ribcage. Akhu thrust the Steamsword into the giant beetle’s claw. The creature screamed a series of quick clicks and then released its grip, allowing Akhu to plummet toward the ground far below.

  Akhu stabbed the Steamsword through the monster’s armored torso and sank the weapon deep into the giant’s chest, halting his descent. The creature clicked loudly, reeling backward from the pain in its chest.

  “I pray you’re ready, Umat!” Akhu shouted as he dangled from the hilt of the Steamsword.

  “Ready, my Neb!” Umat replied.

  Akhu twisted the hilt of the sword.

  A hissing sound rose from inside the monster’s chest. The creature roared in anguish and a cloud of steam billowed from its mouth.

  “Now, Umat! Now!” Akhu shouted as he released the Steamsword’s hilt. Akhu’s fall toward the earth resumed.

  Umat pulled the release lever on Ra’s Rain and a volley of fist-sized iron balls erupted from the weapon’s barrel. The balls flew into the monster’s mouth. A moment later, holes burst open in the colossus’ neck, chest and belly as the iron balls exploded, releasing hundreds of smaller, exploding balls.

  Akhu closed his eyes and whispered a quick prayer as the earth drew closer. A powerful force snatched him out of the air and held him aloft. He opened his eyes. Fusii was holding him in her massive trunk. Akhu leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you, big sister!”

  Fusii gently lowered Akhu to the ground and patted the top of his head with her trunk.

  Gahs raised his thick proboscis toward his sister. Fusii slapped the tip of Gahs’ trunk with her own in the elephantine equivalent of a “high-five”.

  Akhu perused his surroundings. The ground was littered with thousands of smoldering beetles.

  “Good job, everyone!” He shouted as he jogged off. “Meet me at the tomb. If I have not come out within a half hour, use Ra’s Rain to raze Sa-Seti’s tomb to the ground!”

  * * *

  The interior of Sa-Seti’s tomb was, surprisingly, well-lit by some mystic form of illumination and the monument smelled pleasantly of frankincense and myrrh.

  “Strange,” Akhu whispered.

  “What did you expect,” a rich, baritone voice asked. “Something akin to a vampire’s rectum?”

  Akhu whirled toward the voice. Sitting upon a golden stool was a beautiful, cinnamon-skinned woman with curly brown locks that fell past her shoulders.

  “Ta-Sut!”

  “Well…sort of,” the woman giggled.

  “Sa-Seti.”

  “You are a smart boy!”

  Akhu pointed the Steamsword at Ta-Sut’s chest. “Release her, demon, or I will…”

  “You’ll what?” Sa-Seti asked, interrupting him. “Murder the daughter of your Shekhem?” Ta-Sut’s mouth moved, but it was Sa-Seti’s voice that continued to escape it.

  “The Shekhem will not negotiate with demons! He will not relinquish the hand,” Akhu said.

  “I knew he would not,” Sa-Seti replied. “That’s fine. I have no use for it anymore.”

  “Then, why kidnap his daughter?”

  “To lure you here.”

  Akhu frowned. “Me? Why?”

  “Because you are the only man in Menu-Kash with the wits to defy him.”

  “I would never betray my Shekhem!” Akhu spat.

  “Your Shekhem will, one day, crush this world beneath his boot-heel if he is not stopped!” Sa-Seti hissed.

  “What?” Akhu asked, confused. “Why do you say such things?”

  “Although my physical form is long gone, I still maintain much of my power,” Sa-Seti began. “Recently, I had a vision of Shekhem Tehuti Ur-Amun. He had five faces. Each face ordered its own army to rape, murder and pillage all the lands of Ki-Khanga. I knew, then, that he must be stopped.”

  “And how do you know I will come against him? How do you know I won’t tell the Shekhem what you have told me?”

  “Shekhem Tehuti needs my hand to see the future,” Sa-Seti replied. “I, myself, do not. Besides, your test against my scarab-warriors confirmed that you are more than capable.”

  “And what of my uncle?” Akhu inquired. “He is dying because of your ‘test’.”

  “He is dying because I cursed him with a rot spell when he fought his way into my tomb and nearly foiled my plans,” Sa-Seti replied. “The antidote is the ichor of a white dove. He must fully drain a dove of its blood every three days for the rest of his life or his condition will worsen and he will die. If he does this, however, his health will stabilize rapidly.”

  “And what of Ta-Sut?”

  “She is free to return home with you,” Sa-Seti replied. “She will not remember this conversation. Just tell her and everyone else that you destroyed me.”

  Akhu paced back and forth, rubbing the crest of his head with his moist palm. His hand tightened its grip on the hilt of his sword. I cannot kill a spirit, he thought. His grip loosened and he lowered his sword. .

  “I will leave you now,” Sa-Seti said. “Oh…one last thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “That apprentice of yours will make a fine wife and a great Shekhem one day.”

  With that, Ta-Sut fell limp. Akhu caught her in his arms.

  “Wait,” Akhu shouted. “Umat…wife? Shekhem?”

  * * *

  “The citizens of Menu-Kash salute you, Akhu Ankh-Kara!” Shekhem Tehuti bellowed as he thrust a golden scepter toward Akhu, who knelt before him. General Mu – whose strength had returned – knelt beside him.

  Akhu took the scepter in his hands. It felt somehow wrong. He felt somehow wrong and naked before his people. He forced a smile, stood and raised the scepter high into the air. The sea of citizens cheered wildly for their hero, who defeated the most powerful sorcerer that ever lived and rescued the Shekhem’s daughter from the monster’s clutches.

  General Mu embraced his nephew, lifting him off his feet.

  He shot a glance toward the Shekhem, who beamed with pride. Perhaps Sa-Seti was wrong…or lying on our beloved Shekhem. But, to what end?

  “I now promote you to the rank of Lieutenant, under the command of your uncle, the mighty General Mu!” The Shekhem shouted.

  The crowd roared excitedly once more.

  “Celebrate well tonight, gentlemen,” he continued. “For tomorrow, you will have the privilege of retrieving a powerful relic for your Shekhem from the exotic lands to the west!”

  The hairs stood on the back of Akhu’s neck and a chill clawed its way up his spine. “A relic, your Majesty?”

  Shekhem Tehuti placed his crimson gloved right hand on Akhu’s shoulder. A wave of disgust washed over Akhu.

  “You will find – and bring to me – the mask of Aru-Nasunata-Mo,” the Shekhem said. “The Five-Faced One.”

  The Omai Gods

  Alex Bledsoe

  The island, low and heavily jungled, beckoned the men on the storm-battered ship Tiger’s Claw. They’d been drifting for days, unable to repair their mast and raise sail, at the mercy of the tides. Now that the storms had all passed, and the brutal tropical sun had begun to take its toll, they couldn’t believe their luck in spotting this little knot of land where their charts said there should not be one. Most of them assumed they were hallucinating.

  But one part of the vista kept them from the weary el
ation they so desperately wanted to feel.

  “What are those?” the warlord Shang said, mostly to himself. But he spoke for everyone.

  Arranged along the shore, just above the sand, stood a row of enormous stone statues. They seemed to be mainly heads, with long, flat noses and prominent chins. They faced away from the ocean toward the interior, implacable and imposing.

  “No idea,” Teng, the second in command said. “Could they be gods?”

  “They could,” Shang agreed. “But not strong ones. They have no weapons. They’re the gods of farmers, and women.”

  “The island’s got trees,” Teng said. “That means it’s got water.”

  Shang nodded. Their water casks were almost empty, their food supplies practically gone, and the men were desperate for relief from the blazing tropical sun. “Then it could be the storm was our gods’ way of bringing us here,” the warlord said.

  “That storm was a warrior god’s bellow, all right,” Teng agreed. He nodded contemptuously at the statues. “Not the whimper of them.”

  “Of course,” Shang said. They had barely escaped with their lives after Shang’s rebellion failed, but now they had a means to repair their ship, resupply it and return to finish the battle. The men, his most loyal warriors, would see that their leader could turn defeat into victory, and was so strong even the gods conspired to help him. Once they returned and word spread of his power, even more would rally to his standard. The old king wouldn’t stand a chance. “Get the men to the oars and let’s make landfall.”

  Teng nodded. The crew were testy, short-tempered and starving, and he looked forward to leading them through the streets of any villages that might be unlucky enough to be on the island. He yelled orders, and the men hurried to obey because they knew it would get them off the ship that much sooner.

  * * *

  Shang stood in the center of the village, pacing before the male captives. The women were locked in one of the few remaining, pathetic huts, awaiting his men’s pleasure. That would come tonight, along with drink from the jugs of whatever these savages fermented. But for now, he wanted them to understand how beaten they truly were.

  Smoke filled the air from the other burning huts. The village held about a hundred people, but most of the children had run off into the surrounding jungle. The warlord did not worry about them; children were useful only as hostages, and he had no need for them now. He could wipe out every human on the island with a word.

  “Bring me the leader,” he said.

  Shang’s men pushed an old man, his hands bound tightly before him, out of the crowd and to his knees before the warlord. Like the rest of these vermin, the elder wore a long loin cloth, and his dark, reddish skin was painted with elaborate designs. Some of them were smeared where he’d been manhandled.

  Shang glared down at him and said, “You speak my language, I understand.”

  The old man nodded. “A sailor from your people lived with my family for years. He washed up here and we gave him shelter. He lived and died as one of us.”

  “That’s lucky. Otherwise, I’d have no use for you. What’s your name, old man?”

  “Arto.”

  “I want you to tell your people what I say to you, Arto.”

  “I think you’ve made yourself clear,” the old man said.

  Shang slapped him hard, and he fell to the dirt. The other tribal men, bound painfully and tightly together, glared at Shang but kept silent. They had been completely unprepared for the attack, so secure in their isolation that they had weapons only useful for hunting birds. The battle had taken mere minutes.

  “I am Shang. I am a warrior, and you are either allies or enemies.” Then to the old man, he barked, “Tell them!”

  Arto rose painfully to his knees and repeated the words in his own language.

  “We have no intention of staying on this miserable island any longer than necessary. We will repair our ship, fill it with food and water, and then return to civilization. While we are here, you are our slaves. Some of you will resist, but I’m not speaking to them right now. To the ones sensible enough to understand your new roles, I will only say this once: disobey or hesitate when I give you an order, and I will castrate you. Do it a second time, I will take your tongue. A third time, your eyes.” He smiled as the old man relayed the information, and enjoyed the change in the prisoners’ faces.

  One young man, clearly the defiant kind, said something. The warlord looked at Arto, who said, “He asks how many times they must fail before you kill them.”

  “I won’t,” Shang said. “I’ll just keep lopping off pieces of you until you cease to amuse me.”

  Arto translated, and the men looked even more terrified.

  Shang continued, “Soon we will return to our kingdom, and some of you will come with us. The strongest men…and the most beautiful women. The rest of you, if you’re lucky, may remain here with your lives. If you cause us difficulty, I will leave this island a smoking husk. That is your only warning.”

  The men cowered away from Shang, and pressed tightly together. A couple of them began to cry.

  The warlord shook his head. He despised men who blubbered like women or children. “Whip them,” he said to one of his men. “Give them something to cry about.”

  As his commands were obeyed, Teng joined him and said, “They won’t make warriors.”

  “Perhaps not, but we can use their muscles just the same. And the wombs of their women will produce a fresh generation, one we can teach in the ways of the sword. I expect the belly of every woman in that hut to swell with our seed. Am I clear?”

  “As the sky after a storm,” Teng said.

  * * *

  “That’s my father,” Rito whispered. She was thirteen years old, tall for her age but still thin and wiry with youth. She hunched in the bushes at the edge of the village and watched the stranger whip the men where they knelt. Her father had been the one who asked when they would be killed.

  “My father is in there, too,” her best friend Eru said. He was twelve, shorter, muscular, and yet preferred to practice painting on rocks rather than play any games or learn the skills of the hunter. Rito was far better versed in the tasks adults would need, but their friendship survived despite this; their parents assumed they would one day marry.

  “And our mothers and sisters are in that hut, waiting to be taken,” Rito hissed angrily. Her fists clenched in fury. “I would rather die trying to rescue them than watch that happen.”

  “If you rush in there like a silly furo bird, then you’ll get your wish,” Eru said. “Or you’ll be forced to join them.”

  “So we should just do nothing, then?” she almost yelled.

  “Quiet! If they hear us, they’ll come after us, and we have no weapons to kill anything bigger than a dakulo.” He held up the little stone knife he used to carve figures from wood. “This is all I have. Do you have anything?”

  Rito shook with the effort of controlling her anger. She knew Eru was right. She blinked away the hot tears that burned their way from her eyes with every distant crack of the whip.

  At last, the whipping stopped. The bound men lay on the ground, bloodied and whimpering. No one moved to help them. In fact, the invaders laughed. From within the hut women sobbed, and the children too small to run away cried as they sensed their mothers’ terror.

  Rito could barely contain her rage. Only the certainty that she’d be cut down within moments of showing herself kept her from charging out of her hiding place. Then she felt Eru’s hand on her shoulder.

  “We have to get away from here,” he said into her ear.

  “I can’t—”

  “I have something important to tell you, but not here.”

  She turned and looked into his eyes. They were dark and kind, without the arrogance of the other boys. Eru had never done stupid things to impress her, the way the rest had done; he’d never attempted to steal a kiss or watched her bathe from the jungle shadows. Perhaps for that reason, Rito never r
eally thought of him as a boy, just as her friend, despite her parents’ knowing smiles and chuckles. But now there was a stern determination in his eyes, a new glimmer of manhood. She nodded.

  One of Shang’s men caught a hint of movement, and strode over to jab a spear into the bushes where they’d been hiding. When nothing emerged or cried out in pain, he rejoined the others.

  The two youngsters moved through the jungle without making a sound, leaving the village behind and climbing the slight hills that formed the ridge separating the jungle from the beach. When they were safely over it, huddled against the rocks and with the open plain and beach before them, she said, “All right, we can talk now. What’s so important?”

  “Rito…” Eru said, then trailed off. He looked guilty and uncertain, as if he had a secret.

  “What?” she said.

  “There might be…something we can do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I sort of…well…discovered something a while ago. I haven’t told anyone.”

  “Is this the right time to bring this up?” she almost yelled. All their lives, Eru had been “discovering” things, from whale bones on the beach to the secret nests of the okoluchika.

  “Oh, it definitely is,” he assured her. “Do you remember the stories we were told as children about the omai?”

  Rito’s head snapped around and she gazed at the statues across the plain, lined up at the edge of the sand. It was considered bad luck at best, curse-worthy at worst, for anyone but the elders to speak of their gods. “I remember we shouldn’t talk about them.”

  “But the stories? How they came down from the skies, destroyed the evil beings who first lived here and brought us into existence? Remember those?”

  “Of course, I do! But Eru, what does this have to do with—”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder how that could be true? They’re just rocks, right? Just images carved by our ancestors.”

  “Eru!”

  “But I mean, they are. I’ve touched them. I’ve struck them, and nothing happened.”