The Valley of the Gods

by Phil Tucker

  Irella raised a perfectly arched black eyebrow, and the Sky Hammer exploded into a thousand fragments, chunks of meteoric stone flying in every direction but her own.

  “No!” bellowed Jarek, taking a faltering step forward and reaching out, as if he could catch the escaping essence of his ancient weapon.

  The haft hung alone in mid-air, then the green flames extinguished and it fell to rattle and bounce on the stone floor.

  “Shit,” said Acharsis.

  Irella cocked her head to one side, causing her hair to ripple over one shoulder. No longer perfectly black, it was now threaded with gray. Lines were carved into her face that had not been there before, and Jarek saw a hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her lips quirked into a smile, and her black eyes gleamed with amusement.

  “Really, Jarek, is that any way to greet your sister?”

  “Where is she?” he rasped. The loss of the hammer was making his heart race, was causing a deep pain to creep up behind his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Where is Kishtar?”

  “The cook? She’s safe. Along with all the other godsbloods I’ve acquired.”

  And like that, Jarek knew it was over. All over. They’d failed. Their ploy had been too simple, too obvious, too poorly executed. He felt his knees go weak and nearly sank to the ground. Only bitter pride held him up.

  “Hello, Irella,” said Acharsis, moving out to circle the sunken pit of cushions and rugs. “Nice ziggurat. A little ostentatious if you ask me - some might think you’re trying to compensate for something - but still, quite nice. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

  Irella smiled, the expression at once wistful and sad. “It’s good to see you, Acharsis. I’ve longed for this moment. I always thought I’d have so much to say. To explain. But now that we’ve come to it, I find that I only wish to say two things.”

  “Oh?” Acharsis reached down to snag an apple from a golden bowl. “What’s that?”

  “That I’m sorry, and thank you.”

  “Hmm,” said Acharsis, taking a bite. “Sorry for killing our brothers and sisters and steeping the River Cities in undeath and catastrophe? Might take more than a one-word apology, you know.”

  “Mother!” Sisu took a sudden step forward. “It’s me! Your son! I’ve come - I’ve—” He faltered before her cool, dismissive look.

  “Yes, Sisuthros, I know who you are. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Deal with - I’m not - you can’t just—” And with a cry of genuine pain, of loss and fury, Sisu raised both hands so that they disappeared in the hearts of twin green suns. So bright were the flames that engulfed him that Jarek had to raise a hand and watch through his fingers.

  Quicker than Jarek could follow, Sisu hurled the twin balls of flame at Irella. They roared through the air like a hundred lions, a shattering sound of mind-numbing power, only to fade away and disappear upon reaching his mother.

  “Don’t be tiresome,” said Irella. “Now, be quiet or I’ll silence you.”

  “I’m your son!” Sisu’s voice shook as he cried out at her. “Your son! You can’t dismiss me like—”

  Irella narrowed her eyes, and a ribbon of green flame wrapped around Sisu’s face, covering his chin, lips, and nose. With a muffled cry he staggered back and began to tear at the living flame.

  “I applaud your efforts, dear Acharsis,” said Irella. “First in Rekkidu - that was nicely done. Then escaping my forces at the Waystation, then - what? Turning the Maganians against my army as it emerged from the desert?”

  “How did that go?” asked Acharsis, taking another bite from the apple. “You get wiped out?”

  “Yes,” said Irella, a flicker of annoyance appearing in her tone. “The invasion proved to be a complete waste of time. No matter. Once my ritual is complete, I’ll visit Magan in person and hang the new pharaoh from his heels. After, of course, I kill those lamassu and take their power. So much to do, so little time.”

  Acharsis made a face. “I have to say I’m disappointed you didn’t eat my rotten apple. A real shame, that. How’d you figure it all out?”

  “Easy,” said Irella. She snapped her fingers, and a figure emerged from behind a beautifully painted screen.

  Istrikar.

  “Hello, Acharsis,” said the former spymaster. “Surprise.”

  “You know, I actually am surprised.” Acharsis scowled at the man. “I really thought I had you figured out with that apple of immortality. I mean, really? You’re turning down the chance to - oh. Irella’s going to give you the apple anyway as a reward?”

  “No,” said Istrikar. “I don’t want any part of your divinity. It’s a curse. I’ve seen the lives you’ve all lived - excuse me, Empress, no insult intended - and it’s nothing but blood and war and death and worship. No thank you. I’m content, Acharsis. Something a restless bastard like you will never understand. Content to just drink my wine, enjoy my wealth, and grow old and die.”

  “You’re right,” said Acharsis. “I don’t understand. Not when the future of the world is at stake. Not when you could have done something to avert the catastrophe that’s coming. How are you going to enjoy your bleeding wine when the whole world is given over to the dead?”

  “You’re wrong.” Istrikar crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his weight back onto his heels. “It’s precisely because of the future that I’m doing what I’ve done.”

  “Is it now?” asked Acharsis. “So you want to sink everything into the netherworld?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Irella with calm authority. “I’ve no intention of muddying the lines between here and Nekuul’s realm.”

  “Then… why?” Acharsis tossed the apple core over his shoulder. “Why bother opening this gate at all?”

  “Power,” she said simply. “I need Nekuul’s direct blessing if I am to save every living thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Acharsis. “Right. That makes complete sense.”

  “Oh, Acharsis. So clever, but without any wisdom. That always was your greatest shortcoming, and ultimately why I decided I couldn’t trust you. You can win your way through any short-term situation, win every battle, but always, always lose the war.”

  Jarek forced himself out of his stupor, attempted to manifest some sort of initiative. “What are you talking about? How’s the portal save the world?”

  “It’s too late now,” said Irella softly. “I thought - foolishly - that if I could capture you both after Rekkidu, that perhaps then we might talk, might find common cause. But now? No. You’re too limited, too old, too weak. You’ve cast yourselves into the heroic mold, and cannot bend enough to see the world otherwise. I know you both too well, even after all these years. Even now you’re plotting, trying to scheme and find a way to turn the situation to your advantage. You’re not listening to me. That’s the problem with men like you. You’re so convinced that only you can save the world that you can’t believe anyone else could do a better job, and might even be doing so already.”

  “You’re right,” said Acharsis. “I’ve been angling for an advantage since I stepped in here. I’d hoped Sisu could do something, but obviously he’s outmatched. No real surprise there. Destroying Jarek’s Sky Hammer? Rude. But Jarek did throw it at your head. No. You leave me no choice.”

  “No choice?” Irella raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to throw a rotten apple at me?”

  “Kind of, actually. Anscythia? Execute the commands I gave you before.”

  A whirlwind of black shadows appeared with a shriek in the center of the room. Irella cursed in the secret Nekuulite tongue and raised both hands, fingers parted in a complex pattern. Columns of green flame erupted about the whirlwind, which dispersed into a dozen spitting fragments when the columns closed in about it like the fingers of a fist.

  “What—” Jarek started forward, unsure what to do. Attack Irella while she was distracted, but how? Hurl a bowl of apples at her head? Tackle her? With a roar, he ran around the sunken pit even a
s a wave of green fire flared so brightly it blinded him, causing him to miss his step and stumble down the first of the steps into the pit, nearly pitching headlong into the morass of cushions.

  “I’m disappointed, Acharsis.” Irella’s voice was tight with displeasure. “Did you really think to best me in my own sanctum? With Nekuul all but manifest mere yards above our heads? And with a demon, no less? Have you no shame?”

  “Shame?” Acharsis sounded ridiculously at ease for having just lost his final gamble.

  Jarek climbed out of the pit, feeling lost, adrift, unsure what to do next. There had to be something. Acharsis would think of… something, wouldn’t he?

  “I guess it didn’t work,” said Acharsis. “Ah well, can’t fault a man for trying. I have to admit I’m disappointed Anscythia was defeated so quickly, but as you said. So. You explained your apology. What are you thanking us for?”

  “For your blood,” said Irella, voice growing bleak. “You’ll be joining the other godsblooded in the temple above in a few hours. I’ll harvest your divinity and use it to fuel my apotheosis to even greater heights. A pity. I’d hoped we could be partners in the great battle to come. But I simply can’t trust you. This way, at least, you’ll serve my cause still.”

  “That’s not very nice of you,” said Acharsis. “Hence the apology, I suppose? Honestly, how about this for a response: why don’t we become best friends, and you tell me what’s going on? I can probably be of great help.”

  “Acharsis!” said Jarek.

  “Oh, she knows I’m not being serious,” said his friend with a wry smile. “Don’t you, Irella?”

  “I do,” she said. “But enough. You risk polluting me further before the great moment. I must cleanse assiduously after this interruption.” So saying, she snapped her fingers, and Jarek felt his medallion tear free from his sash, rise up into the air before him, and then implode into fragments.

  The door immediately opened behind them, and the four deathless with bronze masks raced inside. Jarek didn’t even bother fighting them off when they took hold of his wrists and yanked them cruelly behind his back.

  “Take them below with the others,” said Irella. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you soon.”

  “See you soon, Irella. Take care!” Acharsis winked at Jarek and then limped back across the room toward the distant door.

  Jarek couldn’t understand what had happened. His own friend’s madness. How they’d failed so completely, so utterly, without hope of redress. Unresisting, he allowed the deathless to march him forward, head hanging low, completely and utterly defeated.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Annara emerged from the winding Path of Righteousness into the dimness of the Third Tower of Heaven. The return to that intimate path of roseate stone had been somehow even more terrifying than her first attempt, and when the final curve gave way to the vast interior of the lamassu’s temple in Magan, she crumpled to her knees in relief and pressed her brow to the cold stone floor.

  “There is no need to genuflect,” came a rumbling voice like distant summer thunder.

  “Oh, I know.” She didn’t raise her head just yet, however. The cold marble felt so delicious against her skin. “I’m just overcome with relief.”

  “Oh? You doubted the ability of the Path to bring you here?”

  “No,” she said, pushing herself up with a sigh to sit back on her heels. “I was just terrified I’d be vouchsafed a vision of Amubastis herself. Of the underworld. Of… something I’d not know how to handle.”

  The lamassu’s tail flicked up and down as it considered her from atop its carven throne, recumbent and at ease. Somehow the sight of its great leonine form was reassuring to Annara, grounding her, making her feel as if she’d left the world of ephemeral gods and philosophical pitfalls behind for a world of flesh and blood and tangible divinity.

  “You know about the Path,” said Annara.

  “Of course.”

  “Yet you don’t speak of it to the pharaoh’s, your people here in Magan.”

  “No.”

  Annara considered the great god. Cradled her hands in her lap. “How long has it been since a pharaoh both passed the Quickening and walked the Path of Righteousness?”

  “Too long,” rumbled the lamassu, and its lips curved into a smile, revealing a hint of yellowed fangs, each the size of her hand. “Too long indeed.”

  “Yet you’ve recognized the pharaohs ever since as legitimate rulers of Magan.”

  It inclined its great maned head, beads and braids stirring as it did so.

  “I wonder.” Annara rubbed her thumb across the inside of her palm. “Perhaps to so exalted and timeless a being as yourself all humans are flawed. A matter of degree, not kind. Do you feel sadness? At the lack of fulfilled potential?”

  “No,” said the lamassu, smile fading away. “That presumes ulterior goals on our part for Magan.”

  “You don’t defend this country when it is invaded. You don’t protest when its leaders fail to live up to your expectations. You don’t interfere in any way.” Annara turned the problem over in her mind. “Yet you are revered, worshipped, the focal point of every Maganian’s life. In the River Cities, the sons and daughters of the gods walk amongst the people, command them, lead them, shape their destinies. The gods themselves can be summoned in their ziggurats and questioned, petitioned - or at least, they used to be. There is no reason to not worship them. What reason is there to worship you?”

  The lamassu chuckled, the sound akin to great boulders tumbling down a rocky slope. “It has been too long since anyone has spoken to me in so brazen a manner. Yet it is a good question, one that should be asked more often. Why am I worshipped? I will not essay an answer. That you would have to put to each and every individual Maganian. Perhaps there is more than one answer. Perhaps the less a god does, the wider the number of symbolic roles he can serve in the hearts and souls of his worshippers. Perhaps our simple existence is enough to warrant devotion.”

  “Yes,” said Annara. “And your role as psychopomp, ferrying the souls of the dead to the Fields of Reflection and then on down to Amubastis herself.” She inhaled sharply and smoothed down the fabric of her robe over her thighs. “Regardless. I am come to set matters aright as I see them. You acknowledge that I’ve walked the Path of Righteousness and survived?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you then support Elu’s right to rule as pharaoh without a regent?”

  “I am willing to do so, yes.” Again that sense of amusement. A familiar tone. Annara realized with a shock it was one she had used herself many times with Elu when he’d been but a child, accepting the tenuous logic of his arguments as to why he deserved a second treat after dinner, or a new bow when he’d broken his old one. Indulgence.

  Annara smiled and stood. “I thank you. Elu plans to reveal his true identity.”

  “I wish him well with that.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  The lamassu’s smile was answer enough.

  “Then if you’re ready?”

  The lamassu prowled down from his throne, down onto the temple floor, where he extended a wing to where she stood. “An execution is about to take place. Were I a superstitious being, I might hazard to believe your arrival propitious.”

  Annara snorted as she climbed up onto the lamassu’s back. “You’re not superstitious?”

  The god crouched, lowering his stomach to the ground, sighting up at the distant exit in the ceiling. “I am.”

  And he leaped, wings snapping out, to surge up into the darkness, beating powerfully so that they rose in rapid surges, up, up and out into the night.

  Annara caught her breath at the beauty of the view. All of Magan lay spread out beside the far bank, a glittering confection of golden lights that reflected across the river’s rippling body. A great crowd had gathered in the main square before the palace, and it looked as if a hundred torches burned so as to illuminate the scene with the same clarity as day.

  The l
amassu sped over the river, his passage followed by cries of wonder from the temple priests and guards, and down low over the river so that his wing tips left V’s across the water’s surface with each downbeat. Up at the last in a sudden upsurge to rise into sight of the gathered thousands in the temple, who as one let out a great cry and fell to their knees.

  The lamassu perched upon a great column, erected, no doubt, for just such moments, and folded his wings down his back to gaze upon the people of his city.

  Annara slid down over his shoulder to the top of the column, and gazed wide-eyed at where Pebekkamen knelt, arms bound behind his back, before a great chopping block at whose side an executioner stood with a lion mask and great ax.

  Queen Nethena was caught between her urge to kneel and outraged desire to stand; by her side crouched General Pawura, face pale.

  Both Elu and Ahktena were missing.

  Annara raised a hand and curled her fingers into a fist. “If you’ve harmed a hair on his head.”

  It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t shouted. But she saw Nethena go pale as if she’d pressed a knife to her throat.

  “What - what is the meaning of this?” Pawura gathered himself, raising his head, unsure as to whether stare at the lamassu or Annara. “My lord?”

  Annara stared at him with such intensity that he recoiled. “Where is Elu? Where is my son?”

  Pawura rose, half-staggering, to his feet. “Your son? I don’t know of whom you speak -”

  “Enough!” Her voice was a whip crack, sharp enough to draw blood. “Elu! Where is he? Answer me now!”

  “His royal apartments,” said Nethena, stepping forward past her shaken general, gathering her train behind her, chin raised. “I’m sure there is no need for such anger, Lady Annara. And you humble us with your presence, lord lamassu. I did not think such activities would warrant your interest, but we are all blessed by your choice to witness this execution.”

  The lamassu was as immovable as stone. “The Lady Annara has walked the Path of Righteousness and survived. She is deemed worthy by Mother Amubastis herself.”