Eater of souls lm-4

by Lynda S. Robinson

  "You're correct so far," Meren said.

  "The evil one always kills in concealed places, at night, taking the victims by surprise."

  "So this criminal is good at stalking," Meren said, following Bener's reasoning. "He's a hunter. Like pharaoh's huntsmen and fowlers, like fishermen. But not like unguent makers, scribes of the treasury, slaves."

  Bener peered at him over her wine cup. "Noblemen hunt. They have time to do it."

  "I know, but anyone can use the night to do evil."

  "Therefore, there's no mark or sign connected with the killer," Bener concluded.

  They shared a comfortable silence. Meren reflected upon how easily he explored possibilities of great evil with this amazing daughter.

  Bener finished her wine and set her cup on the tray. Turning to him, she furrowed her brow. "We don't know enough, do we, Father?"

  "No, my dear, we don't. Not yet." Something Bener had said bothered him, but he wasn't sure what. He felt faintly uneasy that he might have missed something, but Bener slipped her hand into his.

  "Are we safe?" she asked. "General Labarnas was able to steal into the house."

  "I sent most of the charioteers with him. He's not coming back. He's a Hittite general, Bener. This killer isn't. Of that I'm certain. And the evil one prowls another part of the city."

  "Reia's going to increase the night guards?"

  "Of course, when he returns."

  "Then I can sleep. Will you?"

  "Not at once. The voice of my heart is still loud."

  Bener picked up another wine cup and handed it to him. "I put one of Aunt Idut's sleep remedies in this. It's too mild to rob you of consciousness, but it soothes frenzied thoughts."

  When Bener had gone, Meren set his wine cup aside. He detested potions. The trouble was that his sister Idut had taught his daughters the wisdom of herbs and medicines passed down by the women in the family for generations. Both were developing great skill, but Bener had taken to practicing on the household, especially him. She grew quite excited talking about herb harvesting and drying. Tinctures, infusions, and decoctions fascinated her. He was afraid she was more interested in them than in the young men who tried to attract her attention by driving their chariots back and forth in front of the house.

  However, she was right about sleep. He needed it, and he wasn't going to get it if he allowed his heart's thoughts to wander from worry to worry. Having sent everyone to bed, and with Reia away escorting the Hittites, he might be able to seek the peace he usually found in his garden.

  Meren retrieved his juggling balls. The one ruined by the water he tossed in one hand. Each time it hit his palm, it made a splat instead of a pat. Shaking his head, Meren began walking toward a grove of sycamores. He could hear the toad he'd nearly squashed serenading the reflection pool with hollow, watery croaks. An owl soared into the garden, landed on a sycamore branch, and whirred an accompaniment. Leaving behind the smell of water and reeds, he came to the pavilion where a couch was always ready for his use.

  Meren sank down on the linen-covered mattress.

  Sighing, he removed his jewels. Nearly being eviscerated by a Hittite had exhausted him. Zar would be annoyed that he hadn't come in for bathing, but his eyelids felt as heavy as altar stones. He didn't even bother to pull down the reed shades to keep out the west wind. He lay down and realized he had picked up the wet juggling ball again. He dropped it and his dagger beside the couch and closed his eyes.

  Soon he was drifting in a world of peaceful darkness and enveloped in night sounds that always brought tranquillity. Breathing deeply, he tried to inhale the sounds of the owl and the toad, the lapping of water against the sides of the pool, the rising wind that caused tree limbs to undulate and their leaves to shiver.

  But underneath this euphony he heard something else. It was another toad, one encouraged to join its fellow by the absence of people. Meren turned on his side to face away from the pavilion steps and the pool, his thoughts growing fuzzy. One toad was soothing, a group could wake an embalmed one. When he was settled and drifting in his tranquil world of sound, he nearly fell asleep. He could feel his busy thoughts fade, his cares sail away on clouds of familiar, comforting sounds. He was drifting in a mist of peace, like the ba bird, the form of one's ka that had a bird body but a human head. But something was wrong. One of the toads seemed to have hopped onto the top rail of the balustrade and was blaring its call into Meren's face.

  Without opening his eyes, he frowned. Odd conduct for a toad, and this one's croak wasn't soothing. It sounded like a grunt.

  A wave of comprehension rushed over Meren so that he was wrenched into vigilance. The speed of the change brought pain, which in turn jolted him into battle wariness. He tried not to alter his breathing, even when the breeze brought an incomprehensible scent, a mixture of decaying hide, sweat, half-dried blood, and… something else. Something sweet that when mixed with the other smells made him want to vomit. Lying still yet tensed to repel an attack, Meren tried to make sense of the sweetness. Not decaying reeds, not rotting animal flesh, not even rotting human flesh. No, something that had once been pleasant, like perfume.

  Balanos oil, that was it. Balanos oil and myrrh? Decaying hide, blood-and perfume oil? His stomach twisted even as Meren heard that grunt again. This time it didn't stop. It repeated itself, growing faster and louder until it was one long, groaning roar. When the sound moved, Meren opened his eyes and rolled across the bed at the same time.

  He hit the pavilion floor as something leaped at him and landed on the couch. All he saw was a crouched, deformed shape and a fanged maw. He kept his gaze on the thing above him and grabbed for his dagger. The shape rose from a squatting position as Meren's hand hit the wet leather ball.

  His ears filled with the creature's bawling roar when it sprang at him. He caught a glimpse of an ax and curved, razorlike claws. Meren hurled himself into another roll. The ax missed his head and bit into the floorboards. He tumbled over the floor and hit the balustrade. The thing followed, reaching him as he jumped to his feet.

  His back to a support post, Meren straightened in time to dodge a slash from those claws. He turned his head to get a look at his attacker's other arm, only to spring backward to avoid another cutting swipe. His foot caught on the pavilion steps. He flew over the stairs to land on his back. His head hit a buried rock.

  Meren cried out, but forced his eyes open. He shouldn't have, for the face of a crocodile filled his vision. The reversed end of the ax hurtled at him at the same time that bronze claws clamped onto his arm and began to incise his flesh.

  Chapter 14

  Eater of Souls hesitated, confused by the rapid movements of her quarry. This one was harder to kill than the others. First the foreigners had intruded, forcing her to wait until they were gone. Then the wait had brought back the pleasures of the Hall of Judgment. There the unjust quivered before her, and she found that anticipating the satisfaction of appetite rivaled the pleasure itself. This creature was the font of the favored one's pain. Killing it would bring more pleasure, more relief from the emptiness, than any of the others.

  She should have resisted the urge to savor the moment before the kill. She'd tasted it too long, and the evil one had awakened. The mortal hadn't been asleep at all. It was clever, and it moved with scorpion speed. Scorpions could be caught, though.

  Eater of Souls launched herself after it as the mortal fell out of the pavilion. She raised the reversed ax over her flat, mud-green head as she clamped an arm. As had happened countless times, her victim was caught between pain and horror at the sight of the Devouress, frightened into stillness. In that motionless instant, she tasted the grandeur, the beauty and power, embodied in this transgressor. Destroy this mortal, and all that it had gathered to itself would flow to the favored one.

  Eater of Souls felt a demon howl build in her gut. It rumbled up her throat as she brought the ax down-on bare earth. The evil one had twisted like a crocodile suffocating its prey, wrenching from he
r grasp. Eater of Souls lashed out with blood-painted claws and missed yet again. She bellowed her fury at being robbed of the kill.

  The blow had to be delivered, or the evil one would get to its feet. The bronze ax head soared back and up, high over her mane, as she uttered the bellow that always turned her victims' legs to marsh mud. At the same time, a terrible noise assaulted her. High, piercing, like the shriek of a thousand burning cats, the sound stabbed into her head.

  Eater of Souls spun around on a grunt and drew her head down between her shoulders. There, near the reflection pool, stood the daughter who had brought wine. The girl's mouth formed a black cave of noise. The screams rose several notes and drove hot spikes of agony behind her eyes. Eater of Souls tried to ignore the pain. She turned back to her victim, but the evil one had vanished.

  No, there it was, at the pavilion. And it had a dagger. Eater of Souls cringed under a renewed barrage of shrieks and snarled at the daughter as the girl threw a volley of rocks. At the same time, Eater of Souls heard men shouting.

  More mortals approached. The Devouress launched herself at the evil one, claws spread, ax blade biting the air. At the last moment, as the victim braced for her attack, she swerved and hurtled past it into the grove of trees. Leaving the mortals stunned, the Devouress clawed her way up a tree and leaped over the garden wall. On the other side she darted quickly into the shadows and pounded through the streets, rage building with each stride.

  The evil one had escaped; no one escaped Eater of Souls. She had failed the favored one. Now the emptiness would be renewed, increased by humiliation and time. Pausing, the Devouress lifted her snout and waved it through the air. She caught the scent of the transgressor, still fresh. She could smell its fear, but mixed with it was rage and a hint of cold reason.

  Eater of Souls did not inspire anger; inspiring anger meant that the angry one felt equal. None equaled the Devouress. For this reason as much as for the favored one, she would hunt down this quarry and destroy it. And she must do it quickly, before word spread among the living that an evil one had survived Eater of Souls.

  He was desperate to protect Bener. Meren raced after the creature that had attacked him in darkness, not thinking of the folly of pursuing it into the black shadows of the trees. Streams of sweat emptied into his eyes, blurring his sight and stinging his eyes. He dashed an arm across his face as he nearly ran into a palm. What stopped him was a rock.

  It soared past his head and smacked into the palm tree. He whirled around, shouting. "Bener, get back!"

  Of course, she didn't listen. While shouts of charioteers filled the garden, she charged through the trees and landed beside him, with a fistful of stones, ready to hurl another. Meren hardly glanced at her. His lungs worked; his body tensed in readiness while his heart emptied of all but the need to protect Bener and to hunt down and kill the creature. He searched the grove, strained to hear the slightest grunt or scrape of metal claws. Above them, the limbs of an acacia rasped and squeaked. Bener started, and her movement caused Meren to grab her arm and begin backing out of the grove.

  They hadn't gone far before they were surrounded by charioteers. He gave them a brief description of what had happened and sent them after the intruder. He wanted to go with them, but he was afraid to leave Bener. She wasn't crying or frantic, but her body trembled, and she had a dazed look. His men left, but dozens of servants crowded around them.

  He gave answers and reassurances he didn't feel, but the chatter and the demands rose anew, fed by darkness and fear. The voices grew louder and louder until he could hear nothing else. Something stung his forearm. He glanced down to see four red slices in his flesh. He turned his arm over and found another, deeper cut. Five, five cuts. He tried to concentrate on them, on Bener, but the wails and entreaties of the servants resounded inside his head, battered his skull.

  "Be silent!"

  His roar cut through the din and shut even the most importunate of mouths. "Everyone out. Not you, Bener." When they were alone, he asked, "Are you hurt?"

  "No, Father."

  She said nothing more, and he knew better than to press her. Leading her to the reflection pool, he knelt and stuck his arm in the water.

  She sat beside him. "Was that…? Who was- what…?" Bener caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  "That, my dear, foolish daughter, was Eater of Souls."

  "It was the Devouress."

  "It was what people are calling Eater of Souls."

  Meren scooped water into his hand and allowed it to trickle over the cuts on his arm.

  "A demon," Bener repeated in a harsh voice. Her fists were clenched, and they pressed into her stomach.

  "Perhaps." Meren looked up to find her staring at him. "Perhaps it was a demon."

  "What else could it be?"

  "I don't know."

  "How could you not know?" Bener's voice rose and carried over the water. "It attacked you! I saw the-the head, the long snout. Even in the dark I saw the claws. I thought I was going to perish of terror."

  Meren rounded on her. "But you didn't. You threw rocks."

  "It was going to kill you!"

  "Next time run for help," he snapped.

  Half closing her eyes, Bener said carefully, "If I'd run for help, you might have been killed." She glanced at the cuts on his arm.

  "I'd rather risk death than see you in danger."

  "But, Father, I feel the same way."

  Startled, Meren was about to retort when Bener's courageous air vanished and she burst into tears. She threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly, having learned in the raising of three daughters that this wasn't the time to attempt comfort by spouting reason and wisdom. Then, as suddenly as the tears appeared, they ebbed. Bener lifted her head to glower at him.

  "I saved your life."

  "You're a brave young woman," he replied. He was too exhausted to quarrel, his ka filled with trepidation and disquiet.

  Bener gave him a suspicious look, but he only smiled at her. "Your maid will be waiting for you. Go to your chamber and try to sleep. The hunt for this creature may take the rest of the night."

  "Can you hunt a demon?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you don't think it was Eater of Souls, or you wouldn't have sent men after it."

  "Bener, I tell you I don't know!" Even to him his voice sounded rough, like split wood. He stood with her. "Forgive me. I'm weary."

  "Aren't you frightened of the-the-"

  "Go to bed, daughter. We'll talk upon the morrow."

  He watched her leave and wished suddenly that the gods hadn't given her so much cleverness and bravery. The garden gate shut. He had a little time now, with no one to see. Dropping to his knees, he sank back on his heels. He cupped his hands, dipped them into the water, and splashed his face. Then he stuck his injured arm into the water again. The coolness eased the sting of the cuts. But it didn't stop the trembling. He made a fist and stared at the liquid blackness.

  Someone had lit the lamps that rested in tall stands around the pool. He could see his fist, a distorted stump beneath the surface. Cursing, he swept his arm up and sent a spray of water into his face. The shock against his skin didn't help.

  When the thing had attacked and he saw it for the first time, the sight had caused a brief moment of terror so extreme that he'd felt a jagged bolt of pain reverberate through his body, and he'd torn his attention from the terror and pain just as he did in battle. But now he was paying the price. Every muscle, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, ached. The bones in his arms and legs had become hot, formless sand. The voice of his heart pounded in his ears.

  Changing his position, he drew his knees to his chest, rested his arms on them, and lowered his head. "What was it? A good question. What was it? Unfortunately, I don't know."

  The attack had happened too quickly. He'd been startled, and there had been no time to think, no opportunity to get a good look at the-thing. All he remembered were flashes in which a yellow eye
, a long, fanged snout, or slashing claws dominated. A half-hysterical chuckle erupted from his chest. The mighty warrior, Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, had been struck helpless, blind, and deaf at last.

  Hearing his own laughter, he clamped down on it. Allowing it free rein would invite a loss of control he couldn't afford. He must harness himself before Kysen or the searchers returned. Lifting his head, he bent his neck back and exposed his face to the breeze.

  Face what's really bothering you. Face it now, before the fear grows.

  His dread arose from a suspicion that Eater of Souls had been sent by the gods to avenge the murder of a man who had been a living god-Akhenaten. For years he'd lived with the knowledge that Akhenaten had been murdered. Over a decade had passed, but he still suffered from the burden of the sin. He had allowed Ay to send him away, knowing that when he returned, pharaoh would be dead. No word had been said to lead him to believe that this was so, but words hadn't been necessary.

  And in all the years since then, he'd tried to justify his sin by helping to restore divine order to Egypt. The work of undoing Akhenaten's ravages had been difficult. It would take many more years. Yet still he felt the weight of sin within his ka. And now Eater of Souls had come.

  He'd refused to believe it. He knew men's hearts. The heart of a man was capable of conceiving a plan in which killings were disguised as judgments from the gods. He had trusted in this possibility. All the while, hovering like a vulture, suspicion waited. Suspicion that nothing could assuage the wrath of the gods at the murder of one who had been born of a god and a queen.

  He had always expected retribution. He had feared that, in the Hall of Judgment, his heart would crash to the ground when weighed on the scales against the feather of truth. Had the gods judged him already for his role in a pharaoh's death?