by Phil Tucker
Pain kept him alert. The wounds from his altercation in the storage room had been joined by a gash across his shoulder, dealt by the leech who’d refused to stay unconscious after receiving a punch to the chin. The man had surged up like a viper, his bronze blade flashing - but a second blow had seen him to rights, dropped him full length so that Jarek could haul him to the closest corpse chute, strip him and dump him inside.
Not a pleasant way to travel, corpse chute.
Shoulders hunched, trying not to snarl, Jarek strode down the last length of the blasted ziggurat’s hall and paused before the doorway. He glowered at it, glanced left and right, then gave a soft knock, tapping three times quickly, pausing, then giving two slow raps.
The door slid open and Sisu peered out at him, face pallid like a corpse, eyes wide with fear. The Nekuulite forced his head out like a rat straining to escape a dog’s jaws, and peered up and down the hallway as if expecting to see a squadron of deathless waiting politely in the wings.
“All clear,” said Jarek, pushing the door open hard and forcing Sisu back into the gloomy interior. “Move aside.”
“Can’t be too cautious. I’m sensing all kinds of movement - energetic, mystical movement, that is - and it’s being roused, like - like a serpent awakened by a flute. It’s—” Sisu took a dragging breath and pressed his hand to his throat. “Excuse me. It’s - it has been - very hard to sit here with everything that’s going on outside.”
The room was small, lined with wooden shelves on which innocuous-looking clay jars were set by the hundreds. The air was musty and smelled of oil, and a lone rushlight burned on the ground, its dark smoke undulating up through the air to taper out just before reaching the low ceiling.
“Been hard, has it?” Jarek pulled aside the robe to examine the gash across his ribs. He’d received worse in his time, but this one was problematic; it was six inches wide and deep enough to be bleeding continuously. With a grimace, he tore off the sleeve from the leech’s robe, wadded it up and pressed it to the wound. “I feel for you, Sisu. I really do.”
“I know, I know, mock me all you want, but you couldn’t understand if I tried to explain it for a dozen years. You just charge around with your head lowered, knocking into things, breathing heavily and content with your bovine thoughts. Whereas I, I have to contend with the mysteries of life and death, have to wrestle for equilibrium when the mystical world is in such flux that I’ve as much chance of remaining balanced as a cork does on a storm-tossed ocean—”
There was no clear spot along the wall against which to lean. What he would have done for a floor cushion. Instead, Jarek lowered himself to a crouch. “What by Alok’s sacred avalanche are you blathering about?”
Sisu turned from one side to the other as if yearning to pace, and then ran his hands through his already mussed-up hair. “The ritual! You don’t understand what it feels like in here. I’m so filled with energy and power that I’m scared I’ll demolish a wall if I sneeze! The air - the air is saturated, positively greasy with potential. I feel like immolating myself in Nekuul’s sacred flame if only to burn off the excess of power that fills me—”
“We’re in a storage room filled with several hundred jars of oil,” said Jarek flatly. “I’d advise against that.”
“I know, I know, it’s just that - I’ve never felt the like. Can you not see it? We’re in the eye of the storm here. About us rises the hurricane, spinning slowly, drawing all manner of power into the ziggurat, as if the very world can sense what’s about to take place.”
“No,” said Jarek. “I can’t see it. Too caught up with my bovine thoughts.”
“Laugh, laugh,” said Sisu darkly, hugging himself as he turned back to the door. “But I won’t try to illuminate you. You’ll learn soon enough what we’re up against.”
“Kish?” asked Jarek. “She stopped by?”
“No,” said Sisu. “She hasn’t.”
Concern and fear wormed through his self-control, and it was all Jarek could do to not rise to his feet and force his way back outside to search for her. “She should have been here by now.”
“Should have,” said Sisu. “But she isn’t.” The Nekuulite eyed him sidelong. “Weren’t you supposed to have been in the kitchens, watching over her?”
Jarek grimaced. “Yes. But I ran into complications. Had to intervene to smooth things over, then - well. After that, I had to move on. Been wandering the complex ever since, staying out of trouble as best I could.”
“Hmph,” said Sisu. “Why am I not surprised? Let me guess. You smoothed over this complication with your fists?”
Jarek glowered at him. “Possibly.”
“Of course. I’m surprised you’ve made it this far. Then again, you probably just walked through every wall on your way here.”
Jarek eyed the young man, considered facing him down, forcing him to change his tone. But there was indeed something off about him. A nervous energy, a fear that flickered into view just behind his eyes every now and then. The youth was on the edge of a panic attack.
“Everything’s moving according to plan,” said Jarek. “Take it easy.”
“We think everything’s moving according to plan,” said Sisu. “But how do we know? All we can confirm is that you and I are here. Acharsis? Kish? We—”
The door opened and Acharsis stumbled inside. Jarek rose quickly to steady his friend, who nearly collapsed into his arms. The man was in bad shape: his face was battered, one eye nearly swollen shut, a thin cut running diagonally over his left eye and down to his chin. Blood soaked his slave’s garb, most of it fresh.
“Tell me those jars are full of beer,” said Acharsis, allowing Jarek to help him down to the floor. “By Ekillos’ love of female genitalia, please tell me I’m surrounded by beer.”
“What happened to you?” asked Jarek, slowly peeling aside Acharsis’ robes to reveal deep gashes and partially healed cuts. “Some of these look weeks old…”
“Ah, yes. Take it from me, old friend: don’t believe a Nekuulite when she says all she wants is hugs and cuddles.” Acharsis winced as he extended his legs before him. “They end up wanting much, much more, and get very pouty when denied.”
“Enough with this idiocy,” said Sisu, crouching before Acharsis. “Did you do it? Did you get the poison into her?”
“You mean you doubted me?” Acharsis closed his eyes. “Yes, she took the poison. No, it wasn’t fun. Well, for me, at any rate. Your aunt is fucked up, Sisu.”
“Yes,” said Sisu, drawing back, blinking rapidly. “I always avoided her when I was little. She hugged too hard.”
Acharsis let out a low laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it. Kish?”
“Nothing yet,” said Jarek. “One of the assistant cooks disobeyed his orders and showed up. I took him out, but had to flee the kitchens thereafter. I’ve not heard from her since.”
“Relax,” said Acharsis. “Drink some oil to take the edge off. Kish is a woman grown, a warrior born, a daughter of Scythia and tougher than you are. She’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” said Jarek, trying to take comfort from those words. “What do we do now?”
Acharsis lay down, curling onto his side, propping his head on his arm. “I killed Yesu, by the way. Ran into him on the way here. Dagger through the jaw. Dead, he is. Especially after the huggie daddy was done with him. Bastard. Glad he’s gone.”
“Acharsis?” Jarek stared down at his friend in dismay. “You going to sleep?”
“Can’t wait to tell Annara,” said Acharsis. “Hmph.”
“He’s asleep,” said Jarek.
“He’s probably earned it,” said Sisu. “After what he went through with my aunt.”
Jarek rose stiffly to his feet and stared at the door. Pursed his lips and willed it to open. Willed Kish to be there, grinning and with gravy in her hair, eyes alive with amusement at his obvious concern.
“C’mon,” he whispered. “Hurry up and get here.”
She never came.
/> The hours passed by with such torturous slowness that Jarek felt like he was going insane. Acharsis slept through it all, snoring lightly, while Sisu eventually sat down cross-legged to meditate, eyes closed, hands encased in subtle green flames.
Jarek forced himself to remain standing, arms crossed, ignoring the pain that rankled his body, wanting to believe on some level that by maintaining an active vigil he’d propel Kish to arrive sooner. Not wanting to sit, to settle in for a longer wait.
Time and time again he wrestled with the desire to crack open the door and peer outside. Finally, when he could stand it no more, he shook Acharsis’ shoulder.
“Wha—” His friend sat up too quickly and then hissed with pain.
“She’s not here,” said Jarek. “Something’s gone wrong. I’m going to head down to the kitchens to find her.”
“Wait, hold on.” Acharsis cracked a huge yawn and then extended his hand so that Jarek could haul him to his feet. “How long was I out?”
“Hours,” said Jarek. “I don’t know how many. The feast must be over. Irella will soon be pouring her blood into the chalice. We have to move.”
“He’s right on that front,” said Sisu, rising to his feet as well. “I can sense the energies in the ziggurat growing more feverish, more excited. The moment of bloodletting is drawing near.”
“Calm down, both of you,” said Acharsis. “Honestly. The way you’re acting you’d think the end of the world was at stake. Look, Kish inserted herself into a high-pressure position. She’s trapped under the head cook’s scrutiny. Maybe she’s been unable to get away. But barging down into the kitchens looking for her will only get us into bigger trouble. We can’t risk it.”
“Acharsis—” began Jarek, his voice heated.
“No, my friend. Listen to me. We can’t risk our entire mission on searching for her. This ziggurat is huge. We don’t know where she is. We have to continue our mission.”
“Irella’s rooms,” said Sisu.
“Precisely. We have to trust that Kish accomplished her part of the plan. We have to strike while we have the chance. You know this mission is more important than any of us. That we have to stop her. We don’t have a choice here. We have to head up and confront Irella while she’s weakened from the apple.”
“You’re right,” said Jarek, though it hurt him to say those words.
“After, we’ll find her, all right?” Acharsis placed his hand on Jarek’s shoulder. “She’s probably elbow deep in pastry batter right now, cursing the cook who won’t let her escape to the ladies’ room. But we’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Are you ready to go?” asked Sisu. “It’s seven more floors up.”
“Are we sure the feast is over?” asked Jarek.
“I am,” said Sisu. “I can’t explain it. I’m attuned to the ziggurat on some level. Perhaps… perhaps through my mother? Or Nekuul herself?”
“Works for me,” said Acharsis. “Now. You got your Sky Hammer?”
“Here,” said Jarek, reaching down to snag it from the corner where Sisu had left it.
“And you, Sisu. Got your… Nekuulite… unhallowed… green magic stuff?”
“Oh yes,” whispered Sisu. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“So we head up, all casual and confident. Anybody tries to stop us, we let Sisu bluff our way through. If that fails, we kill them, keep going. Speed is of the essence. We ready?”
Jarek nodded, guts roiling. Where isshe?
“Yes,” said Sisu.
“This is it,” said Acharsis. “The moment we’ve been striving for. Everything we’ve done, every venture, every gamble, every victory, has been moving us toward this endgame. We’ve a chance to change the fate of the world. Let’s not cock it up, shall we?”
“Follow me,” said Sisu. He took a couple of jars, then opened the door wide and stepped out into the hallway.
Jarek went next, hammer hidden in the folds of his black robes. A couple of slaves were hurrying past, carrying large plates covered in white sand. They didn’t so much as glance their way.
Sisu led them confidently down the hall and toward the stairwell. A floating eyeball passed them by without pausing; numerous deathless and dead guards ignored them with equal aplomb.
It was eerie, walking past the unseeing eyes of so many enemies. Jarek couldn’t stop his skin from crawling, could barely restrain himself from glancing back each time to make sure the dead remained at their posts. He held the haft of the Sky Hammer tightly, expecting at any moment to have to swing it into someone’s head - but they were ignored at every turn.
They reached the stairs and began to climb. Acharsis was soon breathing raggedly as he forced his way up the steps, his wounds clearly weakening him. Jarek didn’t feel much better - he’d lost more blood than he’d supposed. Still, pain and weakness were old friends. He buried them both deep and soldiered on.
Chanting echoed into the stairwell as they passed different floors, along with thick incense and the sound of laughter and voices raised in praise. Groups of leeches passed them by, slowing to examine them only to bow respectfully when they saw Sisu’s garb and the medallion he wore about his neck.
Up they went, floor after floor, climbing ever closer to Nekuul’s domain, to the raging inferno of her power at the apex of the ziggurat where soon Irella would strive to open a permanent portal to the netherworld. Jarek could feel it as a prickling sense of unease over his skin, his stomach cramping, his body breaking out in a cold sweat.
Here,” whispered Sisu. “The nineteenth floor. This whole level houses Irella’s quarters.”
“Inconvenient, isn’t it?” asked Acharsis, voice little more than a wheeze. “Living up this high? Good exercise though.”
They rounded the last turn in the stairwell and Jarek stumbled to a stop, raising the Sky Hammer despite his better intentions. The great archway at the top that led to Irella’s quarters was ringed with beaten gold, the walls here carved deeply with powerful runes, and the air fairly crackled with power. Four deathless stood guard before the portal, their masks not of bone but of hammered bronze inlaid with obsidian, their robes of the whitest Dilmanian silk, their very beings radiating lethal might.
“Keep walking!” hissed Sisu, moving toward them without breaking his stride. He didn’t so much as raise a hand in greeting, but moved between them and passed through the portal into the antechamber beyond.
Acharsis went next, giving an affable wave as he passed, and then Jarek stood alone before them.
Their masks were deeply unnerving, their eye sockets of the darkest night, their bodies utterly still.
Mouth dry, throat cramped, he lowered his hammer and stepped between them. They didn’t so much as turn to follow his passage. Two more quick steps and he was through, into the antechamber that glowed a virulent green, as if he stood within the heart of an emerald that was being held up to capture the sunlight.
“Here,” whispered Sisu, hesitating before a large door of black wood. “Beyond this are my mother’s rooms. These doors. Such power. I don’t know if…”
He extended shaking hands to the doors and pressed his palms against their surface. A shockwave of green light flooded out to sink into the boards, which parted with a groan before him, swinging open wide to reveal a large apartment within.
“Yes!” hissed Sisu, stepping inside.
Acharsis stumbled in after.
Jarek stepped up to the threshold and peered within.
The entire nineteenth floor belonged to Irella, daughter of Nekuul, empress of the River Cities and mistress of the dead. Gone was the green light, and in its place a soft, aureate glow suffused the air, coming from scores of lanterns lit by glowing chunks of golden ore. The apartment itself was vast, divided by columns but otherwise open to the eye; with a glance Jarek took in the sunken center, an inverted ziggurat of levels descending toward a pit filled with great cushions and thick carpets. A bed stood to the far side, large enough for ten to sleep in, while
a large mirror of hammered bronze covered the wall beside a pool of what had to be milk.
Soft music filled the air, a harp plucked by invisible fingers, and the scent of mint was subtle but pervasive. The walls were covered with paintings, murals depicting scenes from across the River Cities, from great hunts to stylized markets, from the Leonis with all its wildlife to silhouettes of the many cities of the empire. To one side, Jarek immediately recognized Rekkidu.
Nowhere did he see the motifs of Nekuul, the symbols of death, piles of skulls or the standing dead. The apartment was elegantly appointed, beautifully furnished, and tastefully decorated; he wouldn’t have minded spending a night or two there with Kish.
Which helped focus his thoughts wonderfully. He narrowed his eyes as a figure arose from what could best be described as a fur-draped throne set beside a glass chalice filled with blood.
Irella.
The single most powerful being in all the world. Perhaps even more so than the lamassu. Steeped in Nekuul’s blessings, in the heart of her domain, mere hours from a ritual that would tear asunder the fabric between death and life. A true godsblood, descended directly from Nekuul. The betrayer who slew their brothers and sisters twenty years ago, a force without reckoning, a being of perilous beauty and icy cold self-possession.
She didn’t look surprised.
“Acharsis,” she said, voice soft, almost nostalgic. “At long last. I’ve looked forward to this meeting. Jarek.”
Something had gone terribly wrong. Jarek swung his Sky Hammer around once and restrained the impulse to hurl it at her. Then thought: why? And exploded forward with a grunt, hurling his divine hammer with all his might, throwing it right at Irella’s head.
The Sky Hammer’s meteoric head caught fire as it flew, the crystal fragments embedded within the rough stone lighting up with a blinding corona of gold, and it smashed clean through a pillar as it flew at Irella - who didn’t so much as lift a hand or flinch.
The hammer smacked into a field of green fire. Like a ball thrown clean into a catcher’s palm, it stopped cold and hung in midair, its golden light turning fitful.