The Valley of the Gods

by Phil Tucker

  “I’ve no idea. And Ekillos will still have to contend with Irella in all her strength, with Nekuul standing at her shoulder. I’m not saying it’s a done deal. But…” He forced himself to grin once more. “I think everything’s going to turn out just fine.”

  “Amazing. And you didn’t tell us.” Jarek frowned. “Why didn’t you tell us? I nearly had a heart attack up above!”

  “Simple,” said Acharsis. “Imagine, for example, that Kish were to fall into the enemy’s hands, and be forced to reveal our plan, rotten apple and all. Imagine, further, that she knew of this ploy of mine.”

  “Ah,” said Jarek. “I see.”

  “A secret is only a secret when nobody knows it. The next best thing is one person alone being privy to the details, if that person be of the utmost discretion, handsome, charming, and phenomenal in bed.”

  Jarek raised an eyebrow.

  “Fine. Only some of those qualities pertain. Still, with a little luck we should all be laughing over goblets of beer in about…six hours’ time. Irella, I can only imagine, will be greatly put out.”

  “Yes,” whispered Jarek. “By Alok’s groaning zones of subduction, that’s a relief to hear.” He lapsed into thought, lower lip jutting out. “My Sky Hammer.”

  “Yes,” said Acharsis, wincing. “Sorry about that.”

  “That hammer’s been in my family for… well, forever. Alok crafted it himself when he first molded the world. Used it to hammer out the first sword, and gifted it to my great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Acosos.”

  “Yes,” said Acharsis. “Unique. A relic of glory. I’m sorry, Jarek.”

  Jarek grimaced and looked away. “And it was on my watch that it was destroyed. Some legacy I’m leaving.”

  “If we defeat Irella and avert the end of the world?” Acharsis raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be all the legacy you or anybody else could want. We’ll be the greatest of heroes. Immortalized in song and tale. Our names will live forever.”

  “Maybe,” said Jarek. “What do you think she was going on about? Irella? That whole business about a great battle to come, and how she’d hoped you’d join her in it?”

  Acharsis frowned. “I don’t know. A battle with Magan? No. She’d made the conquest of Magan seem a prelude to this great battle.” The thought annoyed him. He had no idea what it could be. “With Magan defeated, she’ll be the most powerful force in the living world. What could she have to worry about?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jarek.

  “Never mind,” said Acharsis. “Her dreams of conquest are as important to me as any number of other unimportant things.”

  Jarek raised an eyebrow. “Nice simile.”

  “I know.” Acharsis closed his eyes. The urge to fall asleep was nigh overwhelming. To escape the pain, the exhaustion, to rest— “Having but recently excelled in the realm of wit, I can afford to fall slightly short in other areas for awhile.”

  He heard Jarek grunt. “Fair enough.”

  “You know, I take it back. These stone walls and floor are surprisingly comfortable.”

  “You’re going to sleep?” Was that incredulity in Jarek’s voice?

  “Hmm. We’ve a big hour or two coming up. A little rest. Not as young… not as young as I used to be.”

  Acharsis allowed his chin to drop, crossed his ankles, and fell asleep.

  * * *

  He awoke with a start as the door crashed open and a dozen black-clad guards came rushing in, torches held aloft, hands grabbing for Acharsis’ arms. He was hauled to his feet before he could formulate a cutting greeting, and then hustled out of the holding cell in the center of a mass of shoulders and blades.

  The sleep hadn’t restored him as he’d hoped; he felt his age, felt the aches deep down to his bones, the slurried pain of wet, weeping wounds across his chest and back. Trying not to trip, Acharsis hurried along with the guards, down the hall, into a stairwell, then up, up, up.

  Hands gripped his arms cruelly and forced him to climb with unwelcome speed; around and around, the sound of the ocean growing louder as they came closer to the apex, the confines of the stairwell reeking of smoke, the sound of the guards’ heavy breathing and the stomp of their sandaled feet echoing all about him.

  Then they burst free of the ziggurat, into the night air, the skies glorious overhead, a field of endless stars sprayed across the heavens, matched only by the endless ocean of torches that glittered down the flanks of the ziggurat and across the vast crowd that had gathered to witness the changing of the world. The pinpricks of glittering crimson light were without number, tens of thousands of the living and dead staring up at them from all around. Braziers were placed in a great circle around the top of the ziggurat, illuminating the many wooden stakes that were erected but one step down from Nekuul’s private sanctum and upon which scores of men and women were bound, all of them oriented so that they gazed up at the green flames that leaped into the sky.

  Acharsis’ heart thundered in his breast, and he resisted not at all as he was led toward his own stake, and there lashed cruelly to it. He didn’t recognize any of the other godsbloods around him - until he espied Kish bound at the far side, her face bruised but her scowl showing she’d not been broken.

  Chanting filled the air, a low drone that got under his skin and set his teeth on edge. As the guards tied him to his stake, Acharsis looked down and saw a breathtaking medley of deathless, leeches, and Seekers assembled on the steps below, their ranks so thick that they draped the flanks of the ziggurat, hundreds upon hundreds of them kneeling with their brows pressed to the clay bricks.

  And above them…

  By Ekillos’ sweet grace and gentle wisdom, the sight was terrifying. The temple sanctum dedicated to Nekuul was aflame, wreathed in green fire that spired and curled up into the night, the entirety of it burning like a Khartisian lighthouse, pulsing with such terrible power it made Acharsis nauseous.

  A promontory extended out above the lower levels, its far end illuminated by twin spikes of twisted black metal from whose tips green light pulsed. Between them stood a tall, wizened figure in a tattered black robe, his gold mask affixed to his skull by black nails that extended an inch out all around the rim.

  “From the shadows of Rekkidu,” the figure said, and somehow, impossibly, his voice reverberated out over the massed crowds below, rolling like thunder with supernatural force. “Dragged by the loyal, the righteous, the pure, comes a figure from the dark, terrible past: a monster now clad in chains, who sought to raise his fists and defy the heavens! You may have heard of his brief rebellion, but now we present the fallen man, the squalid ruin of a godsblood: Jarek, son of Alok, former ruler of Rekkidu!”

  The crowd below cheered wildly as Jarek was hauled forth, shoulders hunched, brow lowered in a truculent glower.

  “Wait!” said Acharsis, annoyance bidding him raise his voice. “Why wasn’t I announced? Hey! I’m Acharsis, son of Ekillos—”

  “The relic of a bygone age, the blood of Jarek, son of Alok, shall now be put to its greatest, most glorious use: to engorge the might of our undying queen, and to ensure—”

  “Hey!” Acharsis wished he could hurl a boot at the orator. “You! Nail head! You forgot to mention me, Acharsis, that’s pronounced Ah-char-sis—”

  The skeletally thin deathless turned, shoulders hunched, and though his mask remained frozen, Acharsis could sense the waves of fury rolling off the figure.

  “Hey there!” Acharsis put on his best grin. “Finally. Could you ask these guys to bring me back in so we can do a proper introduction?”

  “And here,” said the deathless, his whisper somehow sweeping out over the world, intimate and cruel, “We have Acharsis the Betrayer.”

  “Wait, what?” Acharsis did his best to straighten up against his bonds. “No, it’s ‘son of Ekillos’—”

  “The godsblood who lured his brothers and sisters to their doom, twenty years ago. The fool who allowed himself to be manipulated by Irella’s effortless
brilliance. The dunce who caused the collapse of the old order, only to flee with his tail between his legs, yelping and pissing himself to hide in shadows until now—”

  Acharsis glared at the deathless. “So that’s how you want to play it? All right. I’ll remember.”

  The orator turned back to the huge crowd and resumed his narration, doing his best to whip the masses into a fervor, but even given Acharsis’ dislike of the creature he could tell the crowd wasn’t being very responsive; the cheers felt mostly forced, the applause dying out quicker than true fervor should have allowed.

  Jarek was bound too far away to be spoken to, so Acharsis sighed and settled in to wait. He’d always hated ceremonies that weren’t focused on him. Endless rounds of purifications, animals being sacrificed, pleas to the gods, more purifications, priests of increasing importance enacting their rituals, more sacrifices, more purifications. This would take hours.

  “Can anybody slacken my bonds there a little? I’m starting to lose circulation in my feet,” he said, but nobody listened.

  The closest godsblood was a youth with curly golden hair. He stared at Acharsis with a mixture of shock, horror, and dismay.

  “Hey there,” said Acharsis. “Acharsis, son of Ekillos.”

  “Are you mad?” hissed the youth. “Don’t you know what’s going to happen?”

  “Yeah,” said Acharsis, leaning his head back against the stake. “So much purifying we’ll be holier than Nekuul’s bony rear end by the time this is done.”

  The youth blanched, shook his head, and looked away.

  It took two hours before Irella even showed herself. The rituals were impressively executed, Acharsis gave them that, what with all the pyrotechnics and displays of raw power, but even so, he found his attention drifting. He thought of Annara. Of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her in the small village of Eruk. Thought of his son, Elu. Thought of his years spent in Khartis. Of his many travels. He’d almost sunken into reverie when the crowd below exploded into screams.

  Starting, Acharsis stood up straight and looked around. Had a rescue been mounted? Forces from Magan - no. Ah.

  He sagged back and glowered up at the temple atop the peak of the ziggurat. Irella had emerged. She stood resplendent in robes of green, purple, and black, power playing about her brow like an immortal diadem, her arms extended as if to encompass the world.

  She was attended by a dozen servants who busied themselves with accoutering her with crown, staff, belt and other items of office.

  Other slaves hurried out, heads bowed low, each of them holding a roughly cut crystal rock the size of two fists pressed next to each other. These they affixed to cunningly carved notches in the stakes just above the heads of the bound godsbloods.

  “Soulstone?” Acharsis asked the young woman who was busy inserting his crystal rock into the notch above his head.

  She didn’t respond, hurrying away instead as soon as she was done.

  Craning his head back, Acharsis peered up at his stone. It was hollow, he saw, with a hole carved into its top into which blood could be poured.

  “Nice craftsmanship,” he said.

  “You are mad,” said the golden-haired youth.

  Hephesa emerged as if by magic to appear before Irella, the blood-filled chalice in her hands. Over this she prayed and waved her hands for about half an hour, long enough that Acharsis started to grow bored again. Hephesa finally took up the chalice at Irella’s nod and moved to the first soulstone. A slave set a carved ladder before her, and up this she stepped to then pour the blood into the gem.

  Acharsis couldn’t help it. He grinned and stood up straight again.

  From one gem to the other moved Hephesa, ever pouring the blood from within the chalice. Her expression was regal, distant, detached, but when she reached Acharsis he saw the blood drain from her face.

  “You,” she whispered.

  Acharsis gave her a wink. “Miss me?”

  He saw her calculate. An instant in which she weighed the dangers at hand. She should denounce him, turn to Irella and explain what had happened, how she’d run into Acharsis before - but in doing so she would ruin her own reputation, expose her weakness and how she was damaging the ritual by performing it while inhibited.

  No. Her expression became distant and cold once more, and ignoring his smile she stepped up to pour blood into the gem above his head.

  “I will see you after the ritual,” she hissed. “And then I shall visit torments upon you without reckoning.”

  “It’s a date,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

  She swept away, moving to the next godsblood, and Acharsis caught the disbelieving stare of the golden-haired youth who appeared to be almost in tears with rage and confusion. “She’s… she’s—”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Acharsis. “We’ve already hooked up once.”

  The youth groaned and looked away in despair.

  Finally, everything was done. The last cry of supplication died away. Hephesa handed the chalice to an underling, bowed low to Irella, and moved aside. The crowd grew silent. After weeks of preparation, after a day of feasting and purification, after endless hours of worship and prayer, the moment had finally arrived.

  Irella raised her hands, and awful power swirled about her like a vortex. Acharsis gasped, fought the urge to cough violently, and then convulsed, his chest jerking forward and up as if a great fishhook had caught in his ribs and yanked him nearly off his feet.

  Cries of pain rose up around him as the other godsbloods writhed against their bonds, and to Acharsis’ horror he saw a faint, misty blue light begin to emerge from his chest like fog rising from the surface of a lake at dawn.

  “A new age dawns upon the world,” said Irella softly, and yet somehow her words carried so that Acharsis heard them whispered in his ear. “A time of prosperity and growth, where the dead shall walk hand in hand with the living, and the old dichotomy of existence will collapse like ash before the new fires of truth. No longer shall reality be divided by Nekuul’s curtain, but instead all shall march as one to deliver this world from evil. By the power of the old dead gods, by the vestiges that still flicker in these descendants of their primacy, so shall I tear the veil apart and usher in a time of immortality and greatness for all.”

  Sweat streaked down Acharsis’ brow, and it was all he could do to not scream as more of the blue mist boiled forth from his chest to stream up into the soulstone. Unable to breathe, to even think, he watched as the gem began to glow with that blue light, a beacon against the madness, and then with a cry he flopped back against the stake, the last of his power stolen from his soul.

  Around him he heard weeping, broken curses, the hacking coughs of the other godsbloods. Above each head glowed a gem.

  A faint flicker of crimson flew between the stakes, but before Acharsis could focus, it was gone.

  “The moment I have been waiting for is at hand,” said Irella. “The moment toward which I have bent my will and striven these many years. With the power contained within the gems I now summon forth my mother and patron, my master and source of power, the queen of the netherworld and mistress of all dust. Arise, Nekuul, and part the ashen veil forevermore!”

  Irella brought her hands together with a cataclysmic clap. A shockwave passed through Acharsis, knocking him back, and the light from his soulstone streamed forth as if unleashed, joining with the others into a sphere of coruscating light above all their heads.

  Now! Thought Acharsis. Father! Come! Restore our power, bring us fresh glory—

  Irella had noticed something was awry. She was glaring at the ball of power with a look of confusion that quickly passed over into fury; immediately she began to mutter and gesture, and streams of green flame rose up to encircle the sphere, much like the bars of a burning cage.

  Voices rose in confusion, cries of alarm as Irella strode to the very edge of the sanctum and wrestled with that ball of fire. It was all Acharsis could do to not laugh and call out encouragemen
t.

  A dark shadow arose behind the sphere of power, a dancing, leaping flame of ebon. It extended two arms toward the sphere, which sluiced between the bars of green to flow and sink into its chest.

  Anscythia.

  “Wait,” whispered Acharsis, voice hoarse. “That’s… that’s not how…”

  Anscythia laughed. Her laughter was the diamond edge of Ninsaba’s scythe being drawn across pale flesh. It was a seed of madness buried deep in the mind of an innocent child growing forth in foul bloom to ruin a life. It was filth and degradation, and a delight in such travesties. It made Acharsis’ skin crawl, made him feel polluted, and all around the ziggurat he saw protective charms go up in flames.

  There could be only one explanation. Acharsis’ mind shied away from the thought, but as he watched Anscythia grow in size, filling the night sky so that she bent over Irella as a distorted shadow might climb a wall and loom over its caster, he couldn’t deny the thought: in that crucial moment when he’d ordered her to switch his blood for Irella’s, the demon had disobeyed him. Had switched her own blood into the chalice, and now drunk her fill of all that divine might and power.

  “Acharsis!” screamed Irella, straining as if leaning into a hurricane, seeking to close her web of green fire about the demon. “What have you done?”

  Anscythia threw back her head and laughed, a peal of such terrifying glee that moans of terror rose from countless godsblood throats. The demon’s hands distended into vast, spidery claws, and with them she slashed Irella’s green bands apart, so that they fell upon the upturned faces of the onlookers like fading ribbons of dying light.

  “Cut me free!” barked Acharsis. “Anscythia! I command you to stop! By the bond forged in my youth and the power of my father Ekillos—”

  With viper-like swiftness the demon whipped down to thrust her massive, grinning face into Acharsis’ own, though hers was now several yards tall and a horror to behold. Gone were her lips, her nose, so that she appeared a creature of Nekuul; her skin had darkened to an ashen blackness, her hair a great morass of shifting, undulating black weeds that extended out behind her, eyes burning with a savage, annihilating pleasure.