The Valley of the Gods

by Phil Tucker

  Thwack!

  This time Acharsis couldn’t help himself; he reared up to his knees with a curse, pinching his shoulder blades together in an attempt to squeeze the pain away, the large muscles of his back spasming.

  Thwack!

  The third blow took him across the face. Red lightning filled his vision and he dropped his brush, cupping his hand to his eye as he fell over onto his side, the pain in his back forgotten.

  “I find that first we must instill a sense of respect,” said Peruthros, voice still calm. “Once you learn to respect me, you will understand what is required of you. That you cannot get away with lazing about or losing yourself in daydreams. I care not that you have only one hand. You must still work as hard as the others. Respect, slave. Say the word.”

  Am I blinded? Acharsis pulled his hand away tentatively and blinked. No - not blinded. His eye was already swelling up, however, and his vision was badly blurred.

  “Respect,” he said.

  “Yes. I’ll be keeping my eye on you. If I see you lost in thought or mooning about like a pregnant cow at pasture, I’ll use other methods of earning your regard. Now. Back to work.”

  The sandaled feet and swollen calves walked away, and with utmost effort Acharsis picked up his brush and got back to work. He wanted to simply lie on his side and cradle his face, but that way lay disaster. One more blow from that puffed-up monster and he’d wrest the lash away from him and yank his head back so he could shove the quirt straight down his nose and into his throat.

  The other slaves were doing their best to ignore Acharsis. Not wanting to be contaminated by association, perhaps. No matter. His panic and bewilderment gave way before a bloody-minded determination, and he began to scrub with longer, harder strokes. Slowly he made his way down the length of the hall, leaving a wet streak of foam behind him, which a second group of slaves washed away with buckets of clean water. By the time he reached the far wall, the others had finished and were waiting in a sullen group by the door.

  “Now,” said Peruthros, moving to stand before them with his legs set wide apart. “We’re going to clean Head Priestess Hephesa’s quarters. We have little time to accomplish this task, so you will be as quick as you will be diligent. Punishments for any transgressions will be far harsher than the norm. You will follow.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Acharsis could tell that nobody else was looking up. Everyone studied the floor, so he did the same. Peruthros marched through their ranks and out the door. The slaves followed, heads bowed, brushes and buckets in hand. They were on the fourth level of the ziggurat, an area reserved for nobles and important visitors from the other cities; the patrols here were composed of the dead in neat formations and in new armor. Lanterns lit the hallways from wall sconces, and a roll of interwoven reeds painted blood red ran down the center of each hall like a tongue. Laughter came through open doorways, along with the smell of food, of smoke, of revelry in all its guises.

  They passed a corpse chute, its circumference limned in bronze, and then ascended a narrow stairwell that revolved around and around like the tight curlicues of Annara’s hair wrapped around Acharsis’ finger. Fifth floor. Sixth. The air grew chill and the sound of revelry fell away. Seventh floor. Eighth.

  Peruthros led them out into the hallway. Acharsis studied the man from behind. The slave master was as broad of back as a bull, his hair shorn to the scalp, his ears twisted as if they’d been tweaked too often and too viciously as a child. His quirt was pressed against his thigh, and he moved here with swift nervousness, glancing about with the alertness of a mouse stealing forth from its hidey hole.

  Acharsis soon saw why. A floating eyeball crossed Peruthros’ path and then turned to regard the slave master. It sat upon a bed of fleshy red tongues, all of which floated with eerie silence through the air.

  Peruthros stiffened under its regard and quickly held aloft his amulet. The other slaves pulled theirs free, and Acharsis fumbled at his own. The eyeball looked larger than it should have, swollen to the size of a plum, and its iris was marbled black with a glowing crimson pupil.

  Acharsis didn’t breathe as it scanned them, and then fought to restrain his sigh of relief when it floated on. Peruthros wiped at his brow and pressed deeper into the complex. They passed several deathless and something that looked to be composed of old, weathered brown ropes. Acharsis caught but a glimpse of it before it disappeared around a corner, but still he received a vivid impression of wrongness, of its moving in a manner wholly inhuman, limbs bending where no joints should have been, its head little more than a massive series of knots without features or eyes.

  Peruthros paused before a grand entranceway. Two deathless stood guard before the door, hands resting lightly on their curved blades. Neither glanced at Peruthros as the man fell to his knees and pressed his brow to the ground. In this manner he crawled forward into the priestess’ quarters, the slaves imitating his approach.

  Sweat running down his back and causing his switch marks to burn, Acharsis did the same, doing his best not to spill his bucket as he crawled between the guards and into an opulent antechamber.

  There was definitely a Nekuul-death motif going on here. Rising to his knees, unsure as to what would get him switched, Acharsis took in the stacked skulls along the shelves, the candles as thick as his arms that were impaled on bronze spikes, the massive rune of Nekuul painted on the center wall and the braziers that were dying down if not dead already. The stone floor was covered with three rugs for extra comfort, and low furniture was set in the center of the room for guests to gather.

  “We have little time. Jaros, Liran, Amasu, and Rani, set to replenishing the braziers. Arol, Timas, replace the candles that are more than halfway spent. Usum, Nazok, clean the table and wipe it down. The rest of you set to washing the floors.”

  The slaves sprang into action. Most ran to a narrow doorway where they took turns filing into a storeroom of sorts, and from which they emerged with candles, sacks, and clay jars. Acharsis felt Peruthros’ gaze settle on him a mere moment before he dropped to his knees and took his brush from the bucket. Time to get scrubbing.

  This was but the antechamber, however. He needed to pass through one of the two archways that led deeper into the priestess’ sanctum. How? He could work his way toward a doorway, then wait for Peruthros to grow distracted so he could slip beyond…

  No. Damnit! The man was watching him again. Waiting for a reason to whip him. Should he rise up and knock him out cold? No. The slaves might cry out in alarm, leading to the entrance of the deathless.

  Thinking furiously, Acharsis scrubbed his way across the room, cleaning the already spotless floor with vigor as he worked his way around the reed carpets. The other slaves worked with similar alacrity, replenishing, restocking, and otherwise preparing the room for the priestess’ return.

  Acharsis reached the doorway to the inner sanctum and there began to wash in ever growing circles. Peruthros stood in the center of the antechamber, observing the proceedings with crossed arms.

  Were they not going to be ordered inside to clean the inner rooms? Frustration mounted within Acharsis as he was forced to scrub ever further from the archway. Did the priestess’ room not need new candles? To be washed?

  He couldn’t ask. Such impertinence would result in his being flayed. How then to slip within? Peruthros watched them all with the eyes of a hawk, gaze constantly scanning. In theory, timing Acharsis’ sidestepping out of sight sounded doable, but in practice? The slave master would notice him the moment he began scurrying out of sight.

  The candles were replaced and lit. The braziers were soon blazing high. Dirty plates and cups were removed and the table set clean. Were new cups to be set out? Perhaps he could poison her cup with - no, no, she was in a state of ritual cleansing and wouldn’t be eating or drinking anything till after the ceremony was complete.

  Footsteps.

  “You are not a quick learner, are you?”

  Peruthros stopped beside Acharsis
. In the moment the lash was raised, that moment before the lightning flash of pain, a plan sprung fully formed into Acharsis’ mind.

  He reared up with a roar, hand going for Peruthros’ throat. He caught a glimpse of the startled man’s expression and then the lash caught him full across the face once more.

  With a cry, Acharsis stumbled back and fell, twisting himself so that he collapsed against the low table and cracked his head against its edge with an audible crunch.

  He lay still on the reed carpet, slumped over on his side. His face crawled with agony, and he felt hot blood seeping down his cheek to pool under his head. His head felt split open, and he wanted nothing so much as to curl into a ball and cradle his wounds, to shiver and groan in an ecstasy of pain.

  Instead, he forced himself to lie absolutely still.

  A stunned silence filled the room, and then Peruthros stepped up beside him, the single footstep indicating the length of his stride, and let out a scream of inarticulate rage.

  “You dare? You dare?”

  The slave master brought his lash down across Acharsis’ chest, then again on his shoulder, over his stomach, over and over again with a near hysterical fury.

  Despite his resolve, Acharsis found himself twitching, his muscles leaping at each blow, so that he jittered and shivered on the ground. But in his mind he cast himself far away, sending his thoughts to a secluded orchard high atop the God’s Mountain.

  His body was a river of blood and pain, but in his mind’s eye he walked through those apple trees once more, pressed their blossom-heavy branches aside, searching for the inner glade.

  His blood roared in his ears. His body stung and ached as if he’d been laid face down over a bed of live coals. Acharsis lay still, frozen in a near rapture of physical sensation, countless cuts opened across his bare skin.

  Distantly, he could hear Peruthros gasping for breath. Beyond that? The silence of the other slaves, something palpable and equal parts horror and fascination.

  Pain exploded in Acharsis’ side as Peruthros kicked him for good measure. Acharsis didn’t so much as grunt, but flopped with the blow, allowing his head to loll, his eyes remaining closed.

  “Bastard,” snarled Peruthros. “Scum. Jaros, Liran. Take this filth to the corpse chute. Then return to clean up his blood. The rest of you, follow me.”

  Footsteps. From deep behind his closed eyes Acharsis sensed the room emptying. Two presences hovered above him, their footsteps muffled in comparison to Peruthros’ sandaled feet.

  A hand slipped under his arm. “Well? Come on. Before he bleeds all over the mat and makes our job that much harder.”

  Acharsis cracked open an eye. Liran was crouched beside him, staring up at Jaros, who stood frozen, eyes wide as he studied Acharsis’ ruined figure.

  They made eye contact and Jaros yelped, stepping back. “He’s not dead!”

  “No, not dead,” said Acharsis, forcing himself to sit up with a rueful smile. He gazed down at his body. His simple slave’s shift was lacerated and soaked in blood. A dozen cuts scored his chest, stomach and arms, and his face stung and throbbed as if a great hand were trying to push his brains out through his nose. Blood ran everywhere, and each beat of his pulse sent a fresh wave of agony coursing through him.

  “Ouch,” he said. “You’d think Peruthros didn’t like me.”

  The two slaves stood frozen, mouths gaping.

  “Now,” said Acharsis, “you have a choice before you.” It took all his will to keep his voice even, his tone conversational. To not press his hand to his temples and cry out in pain. “You can wrestle me into the corpse chute as you were told, or you can take this pouch of coins here and figure out some exciting new future for yourselves.”

  With difficulty, he dug out the small pouch from inside his waist sash. He hefted it to make it sing.

  “We can’t do that,” said Jaros. “Can we?”

  “Sure you can,” said Acharsis. Was he slurring? He had to move. Had to make their decision a foregone conclusion. Biting back his groan, he levered himself to his feet. The other two men fell back before him as if he had the plague. “Here.”

  Liran caught the blood-smeared pouch with both hands and stared down at it. “Coin? But - how?”

  “The detailsh aren’t really important,” said Acharsis. He fought to not sway. He had to get them out of here before he collapsed. “What mattersh is that you can actshually plan an eshcape now, can’t you? That’s not… it’sh not a fortune, but it’ll buy you… clothing and transhport down the Leonish. Freedom, my friendsh. It’sh… it’sh worth fighting for. Now, if you’ll excushe me.”

  And with that, he turned and walked into Hephesa’s inner sanctum.

  Once within the shadowed room, he stopped and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to control his nausea. He stood, knees almost buckling, and listened. The seconds passed with agonizing slowness. If the two slaves were going to give him up, they’d have to do it now, scream to the deathless to attend.

  Nothing.

  He could imagine them standing there, pouch held out in Liran’s hands. Staring into each other’s eyes. Trying to get a sense if the other was going to call out. If they could trust each other with this secret. With this new hope.

  After perhaps a minute, Acharsis allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. Blinking, his eyelashes gummed up with blood, he tried to make out the contours of the room. It was too dark to see much more than the outline of a large bed, several hard-backed chairs against the walls, the gleam of bronze shapes against the walls. Were those… flails? Whips? Manacles?

  His head was pounding. The cuts across his back were as nothing compared to the deep slashes across his front, which in turn paled in comparison to the pain in his head.

  Perhaps… perhaps he’d overdone the whole ‘head hitting the table’ aspect of the plan. His gorge rose again and he found it hard to focus. He needed to sit down. Just for a moment.

  Acharsis stumbled over to the bed and sat on its edge. It was large enough for five people to sleep in without touching. Perfect for orgies.

  A wisp of flame flew about his head. A bright streak of crimson, a fluttering of wings. He smelled a faint hint of smoke, thought he heard the crackle of logs being consumed by fire. The vision pulled at his attention, infused him with a slight jolt of energy.

  He had to get up. Had to move. But his mind was spinning. His pulse was a clamorous reverberation in the temple of his head, drowning out all reason.

  The crimson apparition hovered before him, rapidly beating its wings. Urging him to get up, insistent, demanding.

  Acharsis’ focus grew blurred. Just one moment to rest. To get his bearings back. He closed his eyes, then fell back slowly as he passed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Annara stood before a rose colored cliff of sandstone, a thousand men and women at her back, a vast silence lying over them all like a suffocating hand, and gazed upon the narrow entrance to the Path of Righteousness.

  Its exterior gave no sign of the wonders it contained. An undulating crack in the short cliff, the contours soft as if worn by water, the narrow path leading into its shaded interior barely wide enough for one. No markings, no signs of devotion, no voices raised in song, no hints as to the impossibilities that awaited her within.

  The inevitable death.

  It was late afternoon, and a soft sunlight filtered down to them from the cloud cover overhead. Her body ached. Her mind was as softly contoured as the liquid curves of the canyon itself, robbed of all sharpness by too many sleepless nights filled with worry and doubt.

  But the moment had finally come. Their procession to the Path had swelled, gathering curious onlookers, other former kings, their tribes, itinerant nomads, until a veritable throng had followed her to this moment.

  It was their very silence that spoke of their awe, their reverence for what she gazed up. Not a whisper. Not a word. Just the collective weight of their regard as they waited for her to set forward, enter the canyon, and
never be seen again.

  Annara took a deep breath, rousing herself from lethargy, and turned to Sennefer and Wehemka. If this was to be her final hour, then these two men were the closest she had to friends. In their eyes she saw pity and something akin to respect. They bowed as she stepped closer.

  For a moment she wanted to tell them what to tell Elu, tell Acharsis, when she failed to return. A goodbye message. A missive of love. But no. It was less a matter of her needing to have faith in her own success and more that she felt removed from those she professed to love; this deep in Kusuj, before a gateway to the underworld, she felt finally and truly alone. Self sufficient. Hardened and free.

  So instead she inclined her head to the two men, then turned to Talakhamani, who pressed his palm to his chest and bowed in turn. She’d grown fond of him over the course of these past two nights; his subtle wisdom, his gentle humor, his seemingly inexhaustible patience and restraint.

  She bowed deeply to him, feeling an unexpected upsurge of affection, then gazed out over the crowd. Everybody was staring at her, but their faces were as solemn as their silence. No, she would not wave nor greet them not speak words.

  The time had come to act.

  So thinking, Annara turned, walked across the soft white sand, and entered the narrow canyon.

  And it was… beautiful. A narrow, obliquely angled chasm of rose-colored rock that swelled and receded like walls of vertical waves, pale white striations marking their forms, and making of the canyon a dream-like progression of intimate spaces that waxed and waned with the walls.

  She moved forward slowly, allowing her gaze to drift here and there. She was glad for the canyon’s feminine form; felt in her bones the rightness of its intimations of returning to some womb, the end of a life mimicking the passage that had given it birth.

  Stillness. Sunlight glimmered down from overhead, lost between the undulations of stone, barely glimpsed as she walked forward, a blank, golden nullity into which the canyon’s top faded away. No sun, no sight of clouds, no sky, no outer world; just a white-gold infinity that her eye could not brave for long.