3
“But how…?” Sereb-Meloch attempted to say.
Jack Sigler, the man once known by the callsign ‘King’ and now by the Greek name ‘Achelous’ said, “Step away from the boy. Now.”
The time for the charade was over.
King had bided his time with this lot long enough. He’d wormed his way closer and closer into their inner circle, just to get close enough to the prince that he could affect a rescue when the time was right. He’d been at it for weeks, watching and waiting. Of course, he could have taken the kid any time he’d wanted, but he’d had a secondary goal as well. He wanted to know exactly what had gotten the priest all hot and bothered about this particular excavation. He’d heard rumors from the other men, of course, but he had to see it with his own eyes. Had to see the Scorpion Men for himself. He’d hoped he might learn what Sereb-Meloch’s long game was, as well. After all, if he couldn’t stop the priest right here and now, the intel would come in useful later on.
But things had started to get a bit hairy once he’d been forced to open the gate. He knew his time for recon was over and that a hasty retreat, with the Babylonian king’s grandson in tow, was going to be the better part of valor.
Before anyone could process the supposed-dead man’s resurrection, King dashed to the altar, drew his sword and sliced through the leather bonds for the second time in fifteen minutes. Taking the boy by the hand, he helped him off the stone slab. Before they could break for freedom, however, an enormous armored tail shot out from the right, nearly taking King’s head off.
“Run!” he shouted, shoving Belshazzar away and pointing southeast. “Run as far away as you can. I’ll catch up.”
Without waiting to see whether the prince complied, he turned to face the two enormous arachnids, his sword gripped tightly in hand. He wished the weapon was an M4 with an attached grenade launcher. Even better, he longed for his old team. His friends. In his past, the world’s future, King had faced monsters and madmen along with his team of Delta operators, using the best technology and weapons the United States government could buy.
But that was ages ago. Or ages from now, depending on how one looked at it. Still, during the two-hundred-plus years that King had been stranded in the past, wandering the world, he’d fought his share of gruesome, truck-sized monsters all on his own. He’d learned a thing or two about how to handle himself against such things.
One of the creatures swung a twelve-foot-long arm at him with blinding speed. Matching the speed, he rolled to the left, came up and struck at the appendage with his sword. The bronze blade did little more than rattle in his grip.
That’s Lesson #2, he chided himself. Find some iron weapons. When fighting giant monsters, swords made of bronze rarely ever do anything more than piss them off.
He knew from his studies of history, before he’d come to the past, that he was sometime in the early iron age, but that didn’t mean that lowly mercenaries had access to the best weapons. Bronze swords were still widely in use.
But he should have been paying more attention to Lesson #1. The first and key lesson he’d learned over all his time was: never let them hit you.
A second creature’s tail whipped wildly through the air, its two-foot-long stinger impaling him in the gut, just inches from where Zaidu’s sword had pierced him only minutes before. King’s body was lifted off the ground. His feet dangled uselessly, nearly two feet from the snow-covered earth.
“Ah, shit.”
He looked down at his abdomen, the stinger twitching rhythmically as it injected its poison into his system. He could feel the stuff shooting forcefully through his veins. His muscles constricted and convulsed as the organs of his body began to shut down.
No matter how many times he died, he never got used to it. Death hurt. Plain and simple. And this time was no different. The only thing he hoped for as he drifted off into oblivion was that the kid had managed to clear out and find safety. He would find the kid when he awoke again and got himself out of this mess.
Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait. Mere seconds after being flung from the scorpion’s stinger, he felt his heart beating once more. He savored the sweet rush of air as it began filling his lungs. He tensed as his punctured flesh began knitting itself back together. When he opened his eyes, the Scorpion Men towered over him, their vaguely human faces scowling down at him.
4
The good news, from what King could determine from where he laid, was that Sereb-Meloch and his men were standing clear. They hadn’t dared to approach the angry monsters, their sacrifice lost.
Slowly, he raised himself up onto his elbows and looked up at the monstrous brutes hulking over him. The sound of gasps from all around told him the crowd was once more surprised with his inexplicable return to life. Still, as long as the scorpion twins stood their ground, he was in little danger from Zaidu or his men. Which gave him a little time to think.
The creatures—King thought he’d heard Sereb-Meloch refer to them as Namtar and Tiamba—leaned closer, their nearly two-dozen eyes fixed atop their heads seeming to burn a hole straight through him. They appeared just as confused at his resurrection as the rest of the audience, which implied they were also sentient. Intelligent. Not monsters at all, but rather some sort of human-arachnid hybrid?
King had run across a few animal-human hybrids during his time in the past, the most well known being the mythical Minotaur in Crete a few decades ago. That one had been a mindless beast. Tortured through genetic experimentation by a madman claiming to be one of the gods of Olympus. A little pyrotechnics and a whole lot of good timing had taken care of it. But Namtar and Tiamba were different. They’d apparently inhabited that cave for over two thousand years, but despite their gruesome appearance, they didn’t strike King as feral. Angry, yes. But not wild. They’d understood Sereb-Meloch’s strange summoning. Had come forth when the priest had called them. Perhaps I can reason with them?
“Okay, let’s take it easy for a second,” he said.
Though their facial expressions were nearly non-existent, King could have sworn they flinched at his words. A better way of putting it was that they appeared startled. Had they understood him?
“I’m going to stand up now. I’m hoping we can have a conversation like three rational...people. Alright?”
Namtar and Tiamba growled a clear warning, glanced at each other and then took a single step back.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the two arachnids, King climbed to his feet, dusted himself off and gave a slight nod in their direction.
They launched into another attack, simultaneously slinging their tails in a clothesline that would have made any Red Rover line proud. But King had been ready for it. The instant they moved, he dove backwards into the snow, rolled and came to his feet with his sword in hand. Then he eyed the nearest creature carefully, scrutinizing every inch of its armored body. A determined focus spread across his bearded face, and he ran full force in his opponents’ direction, dropped to the ground and slid between Tiamba’s legs. Timing the move just right, he thrust his sword upward, slicing through a seam in the armor, between its right thigh and groin. His aim was true, and the blade cut deeply into the creature’s flesh, eliciting a terrible shriek.
He yanked the sword free as his momentum propelled him past the howling beast. Once clear, he rolled to his side and scrambled up to his feet. The giant arachnid-men were already turning to face him; their shark-like teeth bared in angry grimaces. Black liquid gushed from between Tiamba’s legs, covering the ground in tar-like blood.
“Kill him!” Sereb-Meloch screamed from a safe distance. King risked a glance in the priest’s direction. A dozen archers were raising their bows.
They won’t risk the priest’s big prize, King thought, turning his attention once more to the greater threat, though he kept the creatures between him and Sereb-Meloch’s men, just in case. I just need a few more minutes...
With a screeching howl, the injured and enraged Tiamba leapt,
reaching ten feet into the air, and plummeting toward King with its deadly tail extended straight for his chest. There was no time to dive out of the away. King thrashed his blade in a leftward arc, deflecting the stinger. The creature’s weight plowed King to the ground, but the stinger plunged harmlessly into the snow-covered rocky soil, just to his right.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” King shouted as he batted his sword against the creature’s carapace. He was quickly losing his patience in this fight. The more time he wasted, the more likely the prince would be recaptured, and he just couldn’t afford that.
Tiamba, having learned from their last encounter, pinned King to the ground with four of its spindly legs, being sure to keep the seams of its armor clear of his flashing sword. With a flick of its claw, it swatted the blade from King’s hand, then leaned in to sniff curiously at King’s face and neck.
King twisted his head away from the putrid stench emanating from the beast’s mouth.
The creature raised its spear-like forearm and let it hover just inches above King’s groin. Then, it cast him what could be described only as a malicious grin and let the serrated edge of the arm drop down into the upper portion of King’s right thigh—near the exact same spot King’s blade had pierced the creature.
King screamed. The pain was even more unbearable than when the other creature’s stinger had pierced him through the gut. The serrated blade twisted, grinding inside his leg and cutting deeply into the bone. Tiamba’s grin widened.
This is vengeance for the wound I inflicted. The thought erased all doubt about the monsters’ sentience and chilled him to the bone. Fighting mindless monsters wasn’t easy, but brains always trumped brawn. Brawn with brains...that was a different problem. A much more deadly problem. The realization turned his mouth and throat to cotton.
Or that could just be dehydration from rapid blood loss, he thought, as he writhed at the monster’s prolonged torture.
A moment later, the pressure of the arm lightened, and the creature leaned even closer.
“KIIIIINNNNGGG,” it hissed, being sure each expulsion of breath wafted directly into its prey’s face.
King froze. His frantic struggling completely ceased, as his entire body went rigid. It had spoken. Had actually said his name. Hadn’t it? But not just his name, his modern callsign.
“W-what did you just say?”
The creature’s grin broadened, then it lifted itself from King and scuttled over to its companion. King’s hand instantly shot down to his leg, trying to ease the pain of the wound, as he struggled to his feet.
“What did you just say?” he repeated, being sure to keep his eyes fixed on the two arachnids, while he scooped his discarded sword off the ground.
But the two terrifying creatures only stared at him vacantly, without reply.
“You really can understand me, can’t you?” he asked in English. “How do you know my name?” Still, the scorpion men refused to answer.
Cautiously, he glanced around. Sereb-Meloch’s men were all gawking at the strange confrontation. Even the high priest appeared transfixed. Though King hated to admit it—hated to give up an opportunity to discover more about the scorpion men’s secrets—now was the best time to bug out and live to fight another day.
He would likely survive a prolonged encounter, but the prince might not. And the prince was what was important. The prince was everything.
He could already feel his injured thigh mending. The deep cuts to his bone had already healed over. He should be fine to run. At least, if the giant circus freaks allowed it. That was the big question. As they stood there, their shiny black carapaces gleaming from the moonlight bouncing up off snow, they merely looked at him. Curious. Their rage and malice sated.
But why?
King figured he best not look a gift-horse in the proverbial mouth. It was time to get out and find the kid. He’d worry about the why and the how some other time. The prince was his mission, and he never strayed from the mission. It was how things got done. He had to get Belshazzar back to Babylon and his grandfather—and not just because it was the right thing to do. After his little pirating adventure the previous year in China, he could use the reward money. Jian Zhou was not going to let his debt go any time soon, so the sooner he paid the pirate back, the sooner he wouldn’t have to worry about the Chinese assassins following him across Asia.
Without warning, King turned to run. Neither Namtar nor Tiamba appeared interested in stopping him. He could hear no sounds of any pursuit as he bolted in the direction in which he’d told the prince to run. His sudden movements had, however, rallied the mercenaries to action. Shouts erupted from Zaidu, his harsh commands to his men to stop King echoing across the mountain top. Despite that, King kept running. Ignoring the cries for his surrender.
“Foreigner!” he heard Sereb-Meloch shout from fifty yards behind him. “Do not think for one moment there is any place on this Earth you can run to escape me. I will find a way to end your life forever.”
Realizing he would soon be surrounded by Zaidu’s men, King stopped, turned to face his enemy and drew his sword in preparation for what was to come. “You can try,” he answered in Aramaic.
Without another word, he took off. Sprinting up the nearest incline, his blade was already in full swing before he reached the first squad of soldiers awaiting him on the apex. With three swift strokes, his opponents collapsed, their blood staining the pristine snow.
“After him!” cried Zaidu, as he huffed his way up the hill. “Do not let him escape!”
Twelve more men ran out from the tree line, their swords and spears leveled at King. The first man to reach him, a spear-wielder, feinted to the left, swiping the shaft of his weapon upward, in an attempt to impale King from the groin up. King dove away from the strike and directly into the path of three more men. Ducking a swinging blade, he rolled forward and came up again in a dead sprint. He didn’t have time to play around with these guys. Every second he spent in combat was time wasted in finding the prince. His best plan of attack was simply to avoid fighting altogether, and that meant retreating as fast as his legs would carry him.
He could hear the soldiers pursuing him. Their fur-shod feet crunched in the six-inch-deep snow behind him, followed by cries of anger and dismay. King had had a few centuries to improve his conditioning. As a Delta operator and later as the leader of a special ops unit known as Chess Team, King had always been in top physical condition. But two hundred years of fighting his way through the ancient world had nearly perfected him physically. He was faster and could run longer than any human he’d ever encountered, as was evidenced by the fact that the sound of pursuit was growing fainter with every step he took.
He allowed himself a brief smile. He could see a rather gentle slope just over the horizon. Once he made it there, it would be a simple task to make his way down the mountainside and hopefully catch up with the prince.
For a moment, facing the scorpion men, King had wondered whether he was going to survive the encounter, but he now felt a measure of calm assurance return.
When his keen ears picked up the whistling sound coming from directly behind him, he knew his relief had come too soon. Before he could understand the sound’s threat, his entire back side was bombarded with the blinding hot tips of nearly two dozen arrows. He plunged face down into the snow and died. Again.
5
“Hey daddy?”
“Yeah?” King asked, looking into the wide, brown eyes of his adopted daughter, Fiona.
“How many times can a guy die in one day?”
“What?” King felt a strange twist in his gut. They were sitting at a breakfast table. Somewhere familiar, but not. Was this Rome? The Coliseum filled the background view, but it looked restored.
“She’s right, baby,” said a soft voice. Sara, King’s fiancée, slid up beside him, wrapping one arm around his chest and placing a plate on the table in front of him with her free hand. Her voice was like honey, but wrong. Different than he remembered. She
was speaking Aramaic. “How many times can you die in one day?” She patted his chest. “Now, eat.”
King looked down to see his own head resting atop the plate, staring back.
The dream snapped to black as King awoke, but he didn’t open his eyes or even move. The dream was a hard one, but he’d had enough just like it that he no longer woke up violently. They’re right, King thought, how many times can a guy die in one day? It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered that, and he doubted it would be the last. Extreme situations seemed to seek him out. Or maybe it was the other way around? He did, however, hope it would be the last time he asked the question for a while.
Though his body had the uncanny ability to heal with almost instantaneous efficiency, making him practically immortal, it didn’t change the fact that arrows—or swords or spears or falling off a cliff, for that matter—hurt like hell. And that was just the physical aspect of his condition. He shuddered to think of the psychological damage that was being done to him, every time he faced the cadaverous breath of the Grim Reaper.
First things first. Time to see how bad it is, he thought.
He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He wasn’t eager to see whatever dire circumstances awaited him. He presumed that Sereb-Meloch’s men had caught up to him, and probably dragged him back to the campsite. Maybe even laid him out on the sacrificial altar for good measure. Time to face the music.
Before taking a look around, he decided to let his other senses pick up on a few things first. A habit he had long since cultivated. The first thing he noticed was the intense light burning into his eyelids. The sun had risen. And from the position of the light, he guessed it was close to noon.
He could also make out the crackling of a campfire just off to his right. From the severe warmth on his face, he was pretty sure he was laying fairly close to it, because it was too chilly out for the sun to warm him that much. He could also discern that he was on his back, which meant that the arrows must have been removed. A shuffling sound a short distance away told him that someone was nearby, possibly keeping watch over him, waiting for signs of life to return, so the high priest could be notified. And finally, he caught the slightest whiff of something foul in the air. Excrement. From some sort of animal. A horse maybe. It didn’t really surprise him. Zaidu’s mercenaries had managed to get a few pack animals safely up to the summit of Mount Mashu. It stood to reason they’d be nearby, grazing on what little vegetation was not frozen by the eternal winter here.
Jack Sigler Continuum 1: Guardian Page 3