by Phil Tucker
Right, thought Acharsis. He stared at the demon. How he had loathed its appearance all these long years. Lived in fear of its curses. He’d had endless nightmares about it at first, to the point where the threat of its manifestation had been almost as onerous as its actual appearances. Now here it stood - well, hovered - visible and trapped. Could Ekillos rid him of it? Free him of his madness? Wild hope grew within Acharsis, and he glanced sidelong at his father, not daring to interrupt his study, holding completely still all the while.
Finally, Ekillos sighed. “Alas. In this diminished state I can’t undo the bonds you willingly tied without doing great damage to you and your soul. Too much time has passed.”
Acharsis exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I understand. It’s my burden to bear. I—”
“But,” said Ekillos, “There are other options. It desired to be by your side, did it not? To haunt your days till you died? We can accommodate it.”
“I - what?” Acharsis raised his hands in protest. “Accommodate it?”
“It looks like it corrupted your bargain. Undid your treaty even as you sought to solidify your bond. I can reach here… and here… and push elements back into place. Like so. And add, perhaps, a few more provisions. Ensuring that it does no harm to you and yours… yes. And that it takes a figure pleasing to the eye. No sense in traveling with a mound of maggots.”
Ekillos plucked and sewed at the air, and Acharsis felt his soul tremble like a chord that was being violently struck; tears filled his eyes and he grated his teeth, but that was as nothing compared to the demon’s fury.
It surged forward, tendrils of shadow reaching for them all like black spears, only to slam to a halt mid-air and then jerk back against the wall. It screamed, its very substance boiling, and attempted to flee, only to be pulled savagely back into the room.
Then its form began to coalesce, sinking into an ever more solid shape, shrinking and smoothing out until it stood before them in the shape of a woman. Her skin was perfectly black, black as a river stone, black as the space between the skies, and her features were breathtakingly beautiful. High cheekbones, slanted eyes, thick hair falling down nearly to her waist, she stood before them with a warrior’s savage grace, chin raised defiantly, trembling with fury and clad in a belted tunic that reached her midthigh.
Acharsis knew her face. Had seen it carved on countless murals during his youth, venerated by thousands.
But it was Kish who stepped forward in confusion and dismay. “Scythia?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You’re dead,” said Acharsis, taking a step back from the goddess of warfare and female sexuality. Confusion and panic arose within his heart like a storm, but her face, that regal disdain, that callous beauty and alien majesty were undeniably that of the fallen goddess.
“No, no,” said Ekillos, waving his hand. “Stop with that nonsense. That’s no more Scythia than my slippers are me. That’s one of her reflections, created at the dawn of time. One of our mistakes.” He stared soberly at the jet-skinned Scythia, who glared at them all.
“Your mistakes?” asked Acharsis, forcing himself to calm down.
“Yes. In our pride we deemed it necessary to have servants. To be served, and so we took our reflections and gave them animus, breathed life into them so they could adore us and serve us as we saw fit. And for a time, all was well. Or so we thought. But just as our reflections were our obverse in appearance, so, too, did they come to hate all that we loved.”
Ekillos sagged back in his chair. “They rose up, caused confusion and destruction, and we were forced to cast them down and lock them within the valley of Gog and Magog. But even though we had rid ourselves of them, the experience soured us on the pleasures of the garden, and so we went our separate ways.”
“I thought…” Acharsis trailed off. “I always learned that demons were the personifications of the world’s greatest evils.”
“And in a sense, they were, were they not? The follies of the gods themselves.” Ekillos gazed at the demon with something akin to sorrow. “Our first attempt at creation. No wonder they desire and revel in all that is base. They cannot do otherwise. It is how we made them.”
Kish reached out to the demon and then pulled her hand back. “And this one? She was truly made from Scythia’s reflection?”
“Aye,” said Ekillos. “One of many. Though the true Scythia lies dead not far from here.”
“And she will now serve me?” Such was the demon’s perilous beauty that Acharsis was having trouble looking upon her face. Even if she was a perverted reflection, hers was still the kind of face that set hearts to hammering and filled men with foolish yearnings. To think of war as a means to earn glory, to impress, to earn the right to mate.
“She will resist, of course. You must be wary. My powers are greatly limited, so my handiwork here is far from perfect. But yes, she shall refrain from actively seeking your harm, and when you come to the valley of Gog and Magog, she may prove invaluable. I would count on her for one or two favors before she breaks free. Demon, by what name do you answer?”
The demon hissed through her perfect lips, knees flexing, hips lowering, as if preparing to leap. “I am Scythia.”
“Cease this foolishness,” said Ekillos. “Give me your name or I shall imprint one upon you.”
Her eyes flashed and she swiped at the air before her like a panther reaching through the bars of a cage. “Anscythia.”
“Clever. Very well. Your bargain with my son is now in effect. Obey him in all matters, and be civil.”
Anscythia bowed her head, as graceful and poised as any dancer, but with a shudder Acharsis recalled the maggots, the bloated dead, the dancing, idiotic woman in chains who had so bedeviled him all these years.
“Now,” said Ekillos, “she can escort you from this place. Take them to the entrance to the valley of Gog and Magog, Anscythia.”
She lifted her head and screamed at them, a shriek of such volume and violence that Acharsis threw up his arms in self-protection.
“Command her, my son,” said Ekillos, voice hard.
Again she shrieked, head whipping to and fro, an utterly inhuman sound, more like the cruel wind of the netherworld than any sound made by a woman. She dug her nails into the flesh just above her knee and tore free a strip of muscle from her thigh. This she hurled at Acharsis, black and dripping with blood, but it disappeared only inches from his face and she screamed again in fury.
“Take my companions and I to where Jarek awaits us,” said Acharsis, forcing his voice to sound firm. “I command you, Anscythia, by the vows you made to me seventeen years ago.”
The wound in her thigh disappeared, replaced by firm, smooth flesh, and she stood up, composed and at ease. A cruel smile crooked the corner of her lips, and then she gave him a mocking bow.
“She cannot be trusted, my son,” said Ekillos. “And so I shall diminish myself further by gifting you with one final fragment of my power.” And so saying, he cupped both hands to his mouth and breathed into his fingers, kindling therein a fiery glow. When he parted them, a small bird whose wings glowed as if each feather were an ember hopped up onto his thumb and there regarded Acharsis with intelligent, jet black eyes.
“An epiphling, a guide, a way to wisdom,” said Ekillos fondly. “Once I was served by thousands of them, and sent them winging toward my chosen, granting them insights and understanding beyond mortal ken. Now only this one remains. He shall remain with you and guide you, and ensure that the demon does not lead you astray.”
Acharsis extended his hand and the epiphling flew forward to perch upon his knuckles. It was light, its little claws like heated pinpricks, and endlessly beautiful to gaze upon.
“Thank you, father,” said Acharsis, heartened by the bold cheeriness of the bird’s plumage and what it portended.
“Goodbye, my son,” said Ekillos. “My thoughts are with you. May fortune favor your quest.”
“Father,” began Acharsis, but then the world swam before his eyes and everythin
g grew vague and blurred. There was a great sense of movement, and he became aware of Kish and Sisu flying alongside him, all of them borne forward by a great ball of shadows that hurtled over the landscape. It took but a moment to retrace their steps, and then they came upon a curtain of falling ash, shot through with smoldering cinders and giving off curls of smoke. They flew toward it faster and faster, and Acharsis barely had time to yell before they smashed into it and were through.
His yell died and turned into a racking cough as he stumbled out upon the watery black plain, their tilted island tree just off to the side, Jarek rising to his feet from where he’d been sitting against the trunk. Waving his hands as if to clear smoke, Acharsis wheeled and saw Sisu and Kish also stumbling forward, and behind them, his demon. Anscythia. She followed slowly, one foot placed elegantly before the other, carriage proud, that wicked smile still playing about her features.
The epiphling fluttered down from the sky above and landed on his shoulder.
“Who is that?” asked Jarek, leaping down to land with a splash and moving forward, Sky Hammer in hand.
Acharsis felt a burst of relief at the sight of him. Jarek still had the features of his youthful self, but retained the presence and solidity of a lifetime lived. Shock blossomed on Jarek’s face, and Acharsis hurried to explain.
“No, it isn’t her. It’s my demon, Jarek. Whom we’ve discovered was created from Scythia’s reflection. One of many. We’ve much to tell you. But know that Anscythia, as she styles herself, is now mine to command, if only for awhile, and we are to use her to complete our quest.”
“Quest?” asked Jarek, wrapping an arm around Kish as he continued to study the demon.
So Acharsis told him. Of their discoveries, of Ekillos, of their god-given quest to topple the queen of the dead and save the River Cities from her dominion. Of the demon’s approach and apprehension.
“She’s to take us to the peak of God’s Mountain?” asked Jarek, struggling to master his surprise. “We can trust her?”
“I think so,” said Acharsis. “And if she plays us false, this little guy should be able to warn us.”
Jarek gave a controlled exhalation. “You think so. That doesn’t comfort me much. Especially when we’re depending on a… fire chickadee for warning?”.”
“Epiphling. And we have Ekillos’ word that she has to obey me for awhile, if not forever. That, and we have no other choice. How else are we to get to the highest peak in the world?”
Jarek grimaced. “A fair point. Still.” He studied Anscythia, who smiled and ran a hand suggestively down her body. “This is going to really try my patience.”
“Fair enough,” said Acharsis. “But compared to the many impossible challenges that lie ahead of us, having your patience tested isn’t so bad.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Kish, looking at Sisu.
He was staring at the mirrored wall. “So short a visit. I had thought - hoped - that we might stay a little longer… after all the time we spent in the ridiculous Maganian netherworld, to leave my realm so quickly…”
“Cheer up, Sisu,” said Acharsis. “You’ll be going back someday soon enough. Now, unless there’s anything else that needs addressing?”
“One moment,” said Kish, and turned to face Jarek. She took his face in both her hands and drank in the sight of him, then rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him fiercely on the lips. “There. Now I’m ready.”
“Trying to remember what he looks like while young?” asked Sisu. “Awfully superficial of you, Kish.”
Her glare actually made him step back, but before anything more could come of it Acharsis stepped forward, both hands raised. “Enough. We’re about to embark on a divine mission to save the world from your mother, Sisu. Let’s show a little reverence, yes?”
“Fine,” said Sisu. “Nobody’s got a sense of humor anymore.”
“There are so many things I could say,” said Kish. “But if pressed, I’d rather make my point with my hammer. So watch your tongue, little brother. You’re not amusing anybody.”
Anscythia cocked her head to one side in much the same manner as a bird, and her smile grew a fraction wider.
“At least she enjoys my humor,” said Sisu, scuffing his toe in the black water.
“Says more than I ever could,” said Kish. “Now, Acharsis. We’re ready.”
“Good.” Acharsis squared his shoulders. Only then did he truly come to terms with where they were headed. To a realm where no mortal human could hope to survive. To a height beyond any other normal peak. To the very apex of the legendary God’s Mountain itself.
“Anscythia,” he said, voice loud and firm. “Take us all directly to the gates of Gog and Magog, and set us down out of harm’s way.”
Anscythia considered his request, cocked her head in the other direction, then, horrifically, shrieked at him, a blast of such raw, unmodulated sound that they all staggered back, hands going to their ears. The scream cut off as quickly as it had begun.
“By Alok’s stones,” cursed Jarek, lowering his hands. “Is that your idea of obedience?”
“Wait,” said Acharsis. “Are you refusing because there’s no way to comply with my command?”
Anscythia smiled.
“No way to take us to the gate without putting us in harm’s way? Ah. Then let us try again. Take us to the safest place that is within sight of the gate of Gog and Magog.”
This time Anscythia bowed, ever mocking, and then the air was filled with roaring and Acharsis’ body shook and vibrated within the dark thunderbolt that took them all up into the void. Acharsis could dimly sense the others by his side, pale shapes in the roiling dark.
Up they flew, ever up, his bones thrumming in his flesh, his teeth shaking in his head, the epiphling once more a fiery spark by his shoulder, and then there was a burst of light like the world’s most glorious dawn, the skies revolved with nauseating speed, and then the ground slammed up beneath them with such force that Acharsis fell over.
He threw out both hands to arrest his fall, only to realize too late that his left one was gone once more; he turned his stump at the last moment, caught his weight on his elbow, and toppled onto his side in the snow.
It was piercingly cold. Lying on the rocks, Acharsis looked out over a bluff of raw blue stone covered in thin drifts of snow at a cloudscape of soft grandeur. It stretched away like the Golden Steppe toward the far horizon, an infinite plain of undulating humps and drifts of white, every part of which was slowly moving, drifting and unfurling and curling upon itself toward the west.
“Everyone all right?” Jarek’s voice, coming from somewhere behind him.
Acharsis levered himself onto his forearms and gazed out over the clouds. He was back in his body, and it felt old. Worn. He didn’t want to look at his stump. There were deep aches in his feet and knees that he’d not noticed, or perhaps simply learned to live with. Gone was the buoyant energy, the confidence that came from a youthful body with all its vigor. He turned his sole hand over to examine the old calluses, the nicks and cuts, the grime ingrained in the whorls of his skin, and slowly exhaled.
“She did it,” he heard Sisu say. “She really brought us here.”
Acharsis knew he should turn, climb to his feet, resume their quest. But all he wanted to do was lie on the harsh, cold rocks and lose himself in the infinitude of the clouds. Weariness stole over his soul.
He was old once more. The bitter injustice of it brought tears to his eyes.
“There, look.” Kish. Wonder and awe in her voice.
“Acharsis!” Jarek calling his name. “Come see!”
He didn’t want to rise. Wanted to rest his head on the frigid rocks for just a moment. Or an eternity.
But then the epiphling landed beside his hand and ruffled its little feathers so that a puff of smoke arose into the air. It peered at him, eyes mercurial and bright.
“I guess you’re not a big fan of the cold either, are you little guy?”
The epiphling l
et out a little chirp, and something about its tiny size and pluck cheered Acharsis just enough that he was able to sigh and rise to his feet. With a sigh, Acharsis pushed himself upright. It felt as hard as tearing a large stone free of a sucking swamp. The air was thin and painfully cold, the sunlight bright but with no warmth to it. Acharsis turned to where his friends stood, arrayed upon an outcropping of land and staring up the mountain’s steep slope to where a pair of gates rose glittering into the sky.
Deeply entrenched in the mountain’s face, the gates were made of bronze and gold and taller than the tallest trees. They were slender, however, perhaps no more than ten yards across, and looked delicate and built for decoration, not war. Their surface was covered in curlicues of gold over the deeper, impossibly smooth bronze, and their peaks culminated in curling tongues of metal like flames leaping into the endless sky.
“Where’s Anscythia?” Acharsis asked, his voice a croak. With effort he tore his eyes away and searched the rocky outcropping on which they’d landed. Had she slipped away? Evaded his father’s bindings so easily? No. There she was, crouched under an overhang so that her black form melted into the shadows, barely visible, her eyes glittering as she stared at him with unadulterated hatred.
“Don’t blame me,” he said, rising to his feet. “You’re the one who messed this all up from the beginning.”
She didn’t answer, but instead worked her jaw from side to side as if trying to pop it, her tongue wriggling and as black as the rest of her.
Unnerved, Acharsis stepped up alongside his friends, the epiphling flying up to his shoulder. They made room for him, and together they studied the distant gate. It was impossible to miss the two guardians who stood at its base, in full view now that he had a better vantage. They were massive, as large as Dilmanian elephants, their human torsos rising from scorpion bodies complete with articulated legs and segmented tails. Each held a spear in one hand, and they gazed unmoving out over the world.
“They’re beautiful,” said Kish, and Acharsis supposed they were; their scorpion bodies gleamed as blackly as Anscythia, and their human torsos were perfectly sculpted, a fan of crimson rising up from their abdomens to darken as it reached their sides and shoulders, turning bronze along the backs of their arms and golden on their handsome faces.