The Valley of the Gods

by Phil Tucker

  He studied them with distaste. Such poor specimens. Only the oldest and weakest of the undead were sent out in such manner. A last task before they collapsed and were used as manure in the fields. But they would do.

  With a sigh, Sisu turned and allowed himself to fall back into their arms. They caught him with hard, bony hands, and lifted him up, their strength as reassuring as that of brittle branches. Which meant: not very.

  Trying to relax, Sisu willed them on, toward the gate, and when they turned the corner he lolled as expertly as only a child raised in Nekuul’s ziggurat could do. Eyes half-lidded, he stared at nothing as the corpses trudged forward, passed by the guards, through the gate, and into the courtyard beyond.

  He fought to hide a grin. Voices around him, movement, people moving to and fro. A busy square, but no matter. Nobody would think to check the vital signs of a corpse-born corpse. On they took him, right up to the side of the ziggurat, to heave him up and toss him into a square of darkness.

  Rough clay brick made slick by decomposed skin fragments, smearing’s of fat, noxious with the sweet and sour reek of the dead. Down he slid, spreading his legs and arms to control his descent, down at a sharp angle so that he went quicker and quicker until at last the walls and floor vanished and he fell through the void.

  A short fall, fortunately. Despite being prepared, he still grunted as he collided with the fleshy rotten floor, rolled, smearing himself with foulness, and then fetched up in a crevasse of the dead.

  It was a simple matter to lie still. Many, Sisu knew, would have trouble with such a simple act. How most people hated to be in close proximity with the dead! His foot, for example, had sunken into a stomach. Most people would retch and gag and haul themselves free.

  But not Sisu. He lay still upon the mound of the dead, waiting, listening, making sure nobody came over to investigate him.

  Dull voices from a far. Murmurs of workers sorting through the corpses, determining freshness and quality, sorting them for different purposes. Nobody had noted his fall. Perfect.

  Blinking, Sisu looked up at the distant ceiling. It was perforated with a score of chutes, all of them leading up into the ziggurat proper. There was no way he could reach them. No way he could climb all the way up there without being noticed. Even rising to his feet or crawling to the edge of the corpse pit would drawn notice.

  No.

  Time to flex his magical muscles. Time to work a miracle.

  Sisu inhaled and closed his eyes. Drew of the ambient Nekuulite energy. After so much time spent crossing the Golden Steppe, time spent in Magan, far, far from Nekuul’s power, it was delicious to be so steeped in it. He drank in of her magic, her power, and then, when he felt as if he would burst, reached out and wove tendrils into the corpses around him, imposing his will upon flesh and bone, crafting and forcing them to assume a familiar and comforting pattern.

  The bodies around him began to writhe. He could feel purple lines of energy flowing into them, tightening sinews, pulling the fibers of muscles apart. Bones popped free of loosened joints, cartilage flowed, and unnecessary body parts rolled away. He pulled more bodies into the mix, causing them to stir and slough and rise about him. Six corpses. Ten. Melding them, smoothing their muscles into each other, discarding internal organs, heads, genitalia.

  Shouts from afar. No matter. The lonely workers here wouldn’t dare to get any closer when they saw what was arising from the pit.

  At the very last Sisu willed the huggie daddy to squat over him, irising open a fleshy orifice into which he could squirm up and inside it. How long since he’d taken a ride inside one of these guys?

  Too long.

  Elbows and knees buckled into the hollow core as he willed it to move, scrambling with spider-like agility over the corpses, quick and agile, bolstered by perhaps an excess of power, tightly knit and wondrously strong.

  Shouts that quickly turned into cries of surprise.

  That’s right, thought Sisu with a grin. Shut your damn traps and get back.

  The huggie daddy scampered over to the closest wall, and then countless appendages burst forth to grasp the rough rock, nails and talons scoring deep as it began to roll and climb up toward the sloping roof, causing a shower of stone fragments to fall through the cracks in its spherical corpus.

  Sisu looked down and away, loving each moment of his climb. Up then across the oblique angle of the roof, toward the right hole.

  It was so good to be home.

  Their destination chute was wider than most, which made sense of course given how much more usage it had, and the huggie daddy squeezed its way up inside it like a gore-slicked rat shouldering its way between ribs into a chest cavity.

  Up they climbed. The fleshy walls around Sisu undulated and pressed into him from every side. Up they scuttled, past entrance after entrance, until they reached the seventh floor. Sisu willed the huggie daddy to squeeze its way out into the lab, and there disgorge him upon the floor like some messy abortion.

  “Hello,” he said, picking himself up and wiping blood and what might have been rendered fat away from his face. Not rendered fat. Sebum? The lab was just as he remembered it - well, mostly. That archway with runes inscribed over the top was new, and the number of operating tables had doubled.

  “Who are - what in Nekuul’s name -”

  The man was gaping at him, the splayed corpse on the table before him completely forgotten, bloody chisel and mallet forgotten in his gloved hands.

  “Relax, relax, my name is Sakked, a new recruit in the Seekers’ infiltration group.” He raked his hair back all the way, and of course it stuck to his scalp because of the blood. “This is a new experiment in security holes that our organization is undergoing. Operatives such as myself with an affinity for the dead and risen are tasked with finding ways into and out of the ziggurat in anticipation of possible attacks following the unrest in Rekkidu.” Abruptly he changed his demeanor and barked, “Your name?!”

  “My - I’m Akkan, priest of -”

  “Did I ask your rank? Do you take me for a fool?” Sisu felt drunk with power. He ordered the huggie daddy to loom large behind him. “Do you seek to lie to me?”

  “Lie? But - about what - I haven’t -”

  “Unconvincing. Unconvincing! What are you hiding? Where are you keeping it? I know you have it here somewhere!”

  “What?” The man was shaking now, voice higher than before. “Hiding what? I’m not hiding -”

  “One more lie,” hissed Sisu, stepping in close to glare at the man. “And I will have you passed through that huggie daddy until you resemble nothing so much as pureed slime.”

  “I - I apologize, Seeker.” The man finally gathered his wits enough to fall to his knees and press his brow to the floor. “Whatever you desire, I shall provide. I revere Nekuul, live for Queen Irella, and am eager to be of any service that you require.”

  Sisu stood over the man. Ah, but it was easy to enjoy power. To let it go to one’s head. The temptation to push the situation further, to discover the man’s breaking point, was extreme.

  But no. He’d matured over the past few months. Become a man. Wise. Restrained. So he sniffed instead. “Four of the new security amulets. Give them to me.”

  “The…?”

  “The security amulets!” screamed Sisu, bending down so as to thrust his face into the man’s upturned one. “Are you deaf? Huggie daddy, put him inside you!”

  The huggie daddy thrilled back to life and scuttled forward, a great, intimate crevasse appearing in its side, arms extending out to claw at the man’s legs.

  “No! I understand! Yes! Here! I have - many - prepared, but untethered - here, please!”

  Sisu crossed his arms and turned away, ordering the huggie to release the man. He fingered a hole in the corpse that lay on the operating table’s side, and then gave a sharp nod. “Very well. Four. Can you count that high?”

  “Yes, yes, here, here!” The man scrambled to his feet and rushed across the lab to where a set
of ebon boxes were carefully set on a table. He gathered four of them in his arms and rushed back, almost tripping over his feet as he did so. “Here!”

  Sisu opened the first box and let out a low whistle. The amulets had changed dramatically since he’d seen them last. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Who made this?”

  The man ran his hands over his face as if checking to make sure all of his features were still accounted for. “I did, Seeker.”

  Immediately Sisu felt a bout of remorse. To have treated an artisan so callously! “My apologies, I had not known…”

  He drew the amulet forth by its silver chain. The black stone glistened as if freshly dipped in water, and fine green chips of precious stone glimmered as if containing their own filament of fire. “Beautiful.”

  “Thank you, seeker, thank you. I’ve worked to scrupulous standards on each one.”

  “Yes, I can tell. You are to be commended! I salute you, crafter. Now. I must be on my way. And remember. This is sacred Seeker business. No speaking of this to anybody.”

  The man simply stared as Sisu retreated back into the huggie daddy, which he commanded to return into the chute and then descend to one of the lower levels and pause.

  Sisu took a moment examining the amulet. Simply beautiful work. Its capacity for embedding energy was unparalleled, and the emeralds were of a unique configuration. Once attuned, it would only work for its bearer. Ingenious. Outrageously expensive. Sisu loved it.

  Closing his fist over the amulet, he poured his power into the emerald shards, and felt their resonance align with the very fabric of his being. Felt it become an extension of his soul, and once done, hung it around his neck.

  He grinned. What took most seekers and leeches decades of training to accomplish he’d done in minutes. Ah! Such was the nature of his unique power and soul!

  That done, he ordered the huggie daddy to disgorge him into the third floor. His self-assurance and amulet allowed him to stride directly to the portal that led to the ziggurat’s exterior, the other three boxes hidden in a sack, and back toward his erstwhile companions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jarek reached the far wall and turned. Was that seventy-five times he’d walked the cellar’s length, or seventy-six? He grimaced and pushed his thumbs into his eyes till he saw lurid red and blue stars exploding across the inside of his eyelids.

  “Relax,” said Kish.

  “That didn’t help the first time you suggested it,” said Jarek, dropping his hands. “Nor the tenth.”

  “Well, pacing like a caged steppe cat isn’t going to make time go by any faster.”

  Jarek strode over to the rickety wooden ladder that led up to Kheresh’s backroom. He could hear the distant chatter of patrons in the front. “I’m going to take a look around.”

  “You are not,” said Kish. She was stretched out on a bed she’d made from six bags of ground millet, fingers interlaced behind her head, ankles crossed. “You’re going to wait down here with me till either Sisu or Acharsis return.”

  “You going to stop me?”

  She cracked open an eye. “You want me to?”

  Despite himself, Jarek smiled. “Depends on your tactics.”

  Kish rolled over onto one side, propping her chin on one hand and looking him up and down. “I’ve got ways to pass the time.”

  “Suddenly it feels like we don’t have much time left at all.” He studied her. “I don’t want you going into those kitchens alone tonight.”

  “Oh? I fully welcome your employing the same stratagems to stop me from going.”

  “Seriously,” he said, moving to crouch beside her. “I don’t want you going in there alone.”

  She sat up. “What choice do we have? Istrikar’s found an opening for one cook: me.”

  “I’ll go in as your assistant.”

  “Assistants don’t get assistants.”

  “We can claim there was a mistake. That we were both hired.”

  “Jarek.” She took his hand in her own. “Nobody would believe you were a cook.”

  He pulled his hand free, rose and resumed pacing. “There’s got to be a way. I can’t just wait with Sisu till it’s time to attack.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Kish said. “Honestly. Irella’s kitchens are probably the least lethal area in the ziggurat.”

  “No where’s safe in there,” said Jarek.

  The trapdoor opened and Acharsis descended. “Istrikar’s done what he can.”

  “He’d better have,” said Jarek. “He’s getting a damn apple of immortality out of this.”

  “Divinity,” said Acharsis. “And he’s done well. Here. Something to cheer you up.” He pulled free a bundle wrapped in rushes and tossed it underhand to Jarek, then a second to Kish. “Spiced skewers of wild chicken. Peppers from Dilman, and a sweet sauce that I’ve never tasted before. Delicious.”

  Jarek caught the bundle and resisted the urge to toss it aside. Instead, he sat on a crate and began to unwrap it. “So tell us. What’s the final plan?”

  “Thank you, Acharsis,” growled Acharsis in a passable imitation of Jarek’s voice. “You are so thoughtful, so kind, so considerate. Truly the stuff that—”

  Jarek fixed him with a glare.

  “Fine, fine. So Irella’s food is prepared in a private kitchen, as surmised. It’s close to the main kitchen for practical purposes, and guarded by a deathless. There is a principal cook and three assistants. They have unique amulets that get them past the deathless, and these amulets are changed weekly. The cook accompanies the dishes to Irella’s table and there tastes them himself before returning below to work on the next course. He’s accompanied to the feast room and back by the deathless.”

  “So I sneak in while he’s delivering the first meal,” said Kish.

  “Exactly,” said Acharsis. “Sisu is trying to fashion a master amulet that will supersede the weekly changed ones. He says there’s no guarantee it’ll work, however.”

  “I’ll go with Kish,” said Jarek. “I’ll knock out the assistants and tip their bodies into the corpse chutes. When the cook returns, Kish, you tell him that the assistants were called away and you’ve been asked to take their place. Your amulet will be your proof.”

  Acharsis rocked his head from side to side. “Passable. But I doubt the cook would simply take that lie in stride on the night of the great ritual. No, I thought we could take it one step further.”

  Jarek grunted and finished unwrapping the skewers. The smell caused his mouth to flood with saliva. “Yeah?”

  “Istrikar is a very, very talented man. He’s identified the three assistants. A pair of sisters and an older Maganian. We’re going to make sure they don’t show tomorrow. Then we have Kish brought into the kitchen as an elite cook from… I don’t know, Rekkidu I suppose. When Irella’s head cook panics, we’ll have the head cook of the regular kitchen nominate you to assist him.”

  Kish hissed as she gulped down a steaming morsel of meat, waving her hand ineffectually by her mouth, then wiped her lips on some rushes. “Why would he do that? Why not nominate someone he knows and trusts?”

  Acharsis shrugged. “Istrikar says he’s taken care of it. A combination of threats and bribery, he said. The head cook is willing to promote you as a result.”

  “Convenient,” said Jarek.

  “Like I said, he’s earning that apple.”

  “I want to go with Kish.”

  “Hmm?” Acharsis blinked. “Impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible. I want to watch her back.”

  “I see you’re serious. Well. You won’t be needed till the strike on Irella’s sanctum later in the night, so very well. Perhaps we can outfit you in a leech’s robes and give you an appropriate amulet. You then stay close to the private kitchen, and if there’s trouble you can intercede.”

  “Thank you,” said Jarek.

  “I can handle this situation on my own,” said Kish.

  “I know you can. But Jarek would pout through the rest of the
night, and that would be terrible for our image. Pouting saboteurs? Perish the thought.”

  Jarek grinned. “The man knows me after all.”

  “Fine,” said Kish. “Can’t say I mind too much. What about you? Got the head priestess angle figured out?”

  “I’m working on it.” Acharsis claimed his own crate and lowered his head to his hand. “I’ve secured a particular poison that should adequately scramble her wits while leaving her sufficiently lucid to conduct the ritual. She won’t be casting any spells, however.”

  “That’s good news,” said Jarek around a cheek filled with chicken. “Why so morose?”

  “It comes in a paste. She has to ingest it.”

  “So?” Jarek took another large bite from the skewered meat. “Put it in her wine. Slather it on her dinner at the feast.”

  “She’s fasting for purification purposes,” said Acharsis.

  Kish tapped her lips. “Does it work if burnt? Make a special candle.”

  “Burning it renders the poison ineffective.”

  Jarek searched for a solution. “She won’t eat. She won’t drink. You’ve got to get it inside her. Knock her out and slip it in her mouth?”

  “That,” said Acharsis, “is the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “What?” Jarek sat up straight as Kish collapsed into a fit of giggles. “What? No! That’s not—”

  “I see only one solution,” said Acharsis. “I must hope she wears make-up for the ceremony, and swap a poisoned lip paste for her own.”

  “Ooh,” said Kish. “I like it. But women aren’t in the habit of taking bites out of their lip paste, as you call it.”

  “I only need a little to enter her mouth,” said Acharsis. “And honestly, I can’t think of any other way.”

  “So what’s your plan? Break into her quarters?”

  “No. Istrikar is going to help me out once more. I’m going to masquerade as one of the slaves assigned to clean her rooms. It should be a barrel of laughs. I’ll simply have to find her make-up, identify her lip… paint?…and then swap it without any of the other slaves or the overseer noticing.”