Heretic of Set

by J. Steven York

  The thing turned, and the light shone off the side of its shell like pearl, like polished bone.

  There was a spell, not to kill a monster, but to fell an army.

  It would have to do.

  He raised his hands. The words of the great spell were in an ancient tongue, one of the few he knew well, but even as he thought of them, he translated them into Stygian. “Enemy, strong of arm, legions against our few, your strength undiminished, yet useless without bone!”

  The power flowed from the Mark of Set, and he let it. It screamed in triumph.

  The nautilus pulled itself toward Teferi and Fallon, shell scraping across stone.

  But then shell turned to powder.

  All of it, the great spiral of it, turned to powder and collapsed to the floor. The creature shrieked. It seemed much smaller now: most of the shell had been empty space. What was left behind the head was a soft, pulpy, shapeless body that sloshed wetly as it moved.

  Fallon immediately sensed the weakness. With a whoop, she charged, leaping on top of an arched tentacle, diving over the thing’s head, plunging her sword hilt-deep in that soft and defenseless body.

  The monster screamed, trying to reach her with its arms.

  Teferi rushed past them in that moment of distraction and plunged his own sword deep into its flesh, then ripped the blade along its length.

  Bluish fluid that might have been blood or bile gushed out.

  The tentacles waved and twitched without purpose or intelligence, then fell lifeless to the floor with a leathery slap.

  They all froze, watching it for any sign of movement.

  “It’s dead,” gasped Dejal. Then a laugh. “It is dead!”

  Anok’s father looked at him. “You killed it,” he said.

  “You killed it,” said Sheriti.

  Scorpions swarmed up the side of the altar and across the dead monster. Teferi and Fallon didn’t seem to see them.

  There was another sound, stone on stone.

  They all flinched.

  Anok struggled to focus his eyes in the direction of the sound. A door in the back wall of the chamber, formerly hidden behind the monster’s shell in the wall behind the altar, was now revealed, and it was sliding open. Perhaps it had been held shut by the same spell that had animated the creature. Now that it was destroyed, the door opened. More light orbs illuminated within.

  Dejal smiled. “The tomb of Neska. We have found it!”

  The human-sized scorpion with Lord Wosret’s head scuttled up next to Anok and smiled. “Too late for you, madman! Now we can play together—forever!”

  The tail drew back, curved black stinger dripping venom, and struck deep into Anok’s chest.

  He screamed and held up his hands, trying to defend himself.

  But the stinger rose and fell.

  Plunging into him.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  25

  ANOK LAY GASPING on the floor of the pyramid, Fallon cradling his head as Teferi looked down at him with a look of grave concern.

  “Poor Anok,” said Sheriti, crouching down next to him and brushing her soft fingers across his sweating brow.

  The Wosret scorpion scuttled up behind her.

  Anok’s eyes went wide. He tried to call out a warning.

  Sheriti glanced back and saw the scorpion. She turned and waved it away. “Shoo,” she said, “shoo.”

  Wosret scowled and crawled back into the shadows.

  Teferi and Fallon seemed not to have noticed him at all.

  Sheriti looked at him seriously. “I’ll keep him away as long as I can. You have to hurry.”

  Anok struggled and sat up. “The tomb—”

  Teferi reached down and took his hand. “Can you walk?”

  Anok coughed. Every breath was agony. The Mark of Set tried to heal him, but he fought back against it. “I can walk,” he said. “Help me.”

  Teferi pulled Anok to his feet. He tried to stand, but his legs threatened to buckle. Teferi caught him, gasping.

  Anok felt a wet stickiness against his skin, and realized he had fallen on his friend’s injured arm. There was nothing he could do about it.

  “Come,” said Teferi, “let us find what it is you need here.”

  Dejal stepped in front of them. “I have him,” he said, taking Anok’s other arm.

  Teferi did not move.

  “I know what we’re looking for and how to use it to help Anok. I can get us in and out quickly. There may be other guardians, and we need you two to cover our retreat.”

  Teferi let his breath out through his teeth, then released his hold on Anok. “Hurry,” he said.

  Anok leaned against Dejal, who carried Anok’s remaining sword. It was their only defense now that Dejal’s staff was broken.

  The tunnel was narrow and sloped steeply down into the bedrock beneath the pyramid.

  Anok could see the Wosret scorpion watching them from the shadows.

  Sheriti walked along behind them. She doubled her pace to walk in front of Dejal. She studied him intently.

  “For some reason,” she said, “I don’t trust him.”

  A gaping gash opened up in her throat, and blood began to flow down the front of her silk gown, trailing along the floor as she walked. “I don’t trust him,” she said, livid bruises appearing on her beautiful face, “I don’t know why.”

  As they entered the burial chamber, more orbs illuminated. On another day, Anok would have been struck by the wonder of it.

  The walls were covered with gold. Not gold leaf, but sheets of solid gold. Alcoves and shelves were jammed with items of gold and silver, chests of jewelry overflowed, gem-stones of every color and description glittered from the floor, scattered like pebbles, riches enough for a dozen kings.

  Today, Anok glanced at it and dismissed it just as quickly. He sensed no magic in any of it. The most humble stone in the temple above held more interest to him than an emerald the size of a goose egg down here.

  No, this was only a distraction, fool’s gold for the greedy.

  The true treasure of Neska lay in the center of the small room, on a burial platform of common sandstone, among the dry bones of a sorcerer dead since long before Stygia even had a name.

  Anok pushed himself away from Dejal, stumbling and catching himself against the cool stone of the platform.

  The bones were so ancient they were nearly black. It was the size and shape of a tall and broad-shouldered man, but there was a wrongness to it, some oddness to the ribs, fingers, and especially the shapes of the eye sockets and the skull, which suggested that this was not truly a man.

  It was some other creature, a demon, a thing from before man, or perhaps from one of the cursed worlds from beyond the arch of the night sky.

  Yet, in one way, it was exactly what Anok had been expecting, and when he saw that, he knew that it was truly Neska.

  The skeleton had only one arm.

  Any clothing, any decoration that might have been on the body was long turned to dust, save a few bits of metal on the remaining arm. On the first and third fingers of the hand, there were two heavy rings of gold, and on the wrist, a simple band of some silvery metal that Anok could not identify.

  The band was small, wrapped tightly around the bone, and Anok found it hard to understand how it had fit around the living arm of the sorcerer.

  “Quickly,” said Sheriti, her features beginning to decay and putrefy. “You must act quickly!”

  The bracelet seemed to be all of one piece. He reached for it, trying to find the clasp, but as soon as he moved it, the bones within turned to black dust.

  He lifted the bracelet to examine it, feeling something tingling in his fingers, an energy, not magic, but something like contramagic.

  No, said the voice in his head, this time certainly not his own. No, no, no!

  Dejal stepped in next to him, but he turned away, keeping the bracelet to himself.

  As he held it closer to ex
amine, there was a click, and the bracelet sprang open from some hidden catch.

  “Quickly,” said Sheriti, the decayed flesh falling in chunks from her skull.

  He held the bracelet up next to his right wrist for comparison. It was far too small.

  Suddenly, it snapped closed.

  He gasped as it bit into his flesh, tighter and tighter.

  There was sizzling, and the flesh beneath the metal began to boil away like ice on a fire. He screamed in agony as the metal sank into his arm, until it finally snapped shut around a bare twig of muscle and bone.

  Then the flesh began to close, flesh and tendon restoring itself, skin stretching across the gap and knitting together.

  The pain faded, and tentatively, he flexed his right hand into a fist, then wiggled his fingers.

  He rubbed his wrist. He could feel the bracelet there beneath the flesh, a smooth circlet close to the bone. He could feel it inside as well. Even if his eyes, his senses, his mind lied to him, the band of Neska was eternal, unchanging, a point of reference that never varied, a point of leverage that never shifted.

  With this, he could fight!

  He felt the tendrils of the mark in his chest.

  He felt them, and he pushed!

  The Mark of Set moaned in his mind.

  The tendrils pulled back, shriveling.

  He fought them, inch by inch.

  Back into his shoulder.

  Back down his arm.

  Back into the Mark of Set itself.

  He gasped and slumped against the platform.

  He bumped Neska’s skull. It rolled off, fell to the floor, and shattered into dust.

  It was done!

  Sheriti stepped in front of him. Restored. Beautiful. Perfect. She leaned into his face, looked deep into his eyes.

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  Her lips brushed softly against his.

  Then they were gone.

  He let out a shuddering breath.

  “Brother,” said Dejal, a strange elation in his voice, “are you better?”

  Anok nodded. “I—”

  The words hung in his throat.

  The two gold rings that had been on Neska’s hand were gone.

  Dejal wore one on each hand. He held his arms wide, clenched his fists, and smiled. “Good luck to you, brother, to find a way to hold back the darkness. Bad luck to you that you have not, as I, chosen to embrace it.” He held his hands out before him, to admire the rings. “I am not as gifted as you in sorcery, Anok. I built my little staff of power, and these last months I have spent my time searching the ancient scrolls for clues to other magical objects. Objects that might bring me power and favor with my masters. Favor such as you have been given, and squandered!”

  He turned toward Anok and smiled a terrible smile. “Imagine my delight when, in spying on my enemy, I learned he was going to the tomb where two of the greatest of those objects lay hidden, objects I could otherwise never have dreamed of finding, the Rings of Neska!” He held them out for Anok to see. “Why do you think he needed those wrist bands, Anok? He had created the two greatest magical weapons ever created, and he feared to use them! So he made his bands to tame their evil. But I do not fear them! I spit on the Band of Neska! My magical staff is broken, but with these, I have no need of it!”

  Anok struggled to stand unsupported. The preceding magical struggles had left him drained, and the struggle to suppress the Mark of Set even more so. He was in no condition for another battle. “You have your power. Leave us then.”

  Dejal laughed. “I will leave. After I have killed you, and your barbarian whore, and that worthless Kushite trash you call a friend! I will leave satisfied that I never have to hear your mongrel name again! I will leave and claim the respect of Thoth-Amon that I so richly deserve!”

  He seemed to have a new thought. “Perhaps I will even slay him, take his place, and follow through on Ramsa Aál’s plan to rule all of Hyboria!” He cackled to himself.

  Anok considered what to do next. He was weak, but he was not helpless, and his ability to use magic had been restored. He marshaled his will, calling up a bolt of magical power.

  Dejal sensed something was happening, but too late.

  Anok raised his hands, a bolt of energy leapt from his palms, and shot toward Dejal.

  And past him, up the shaft, into the pyramid, past Teferi and Fallon, and into the stone seal that blocked the entrance to the pyramid.

  With his magical senses, Anok felt the magic merge into the stone.

  He whispered, “Shatter!”

  From above, there was a crack, a rumbling noise, and the sound of falling stone.

  Anok yelled up the shaft, “Run! Get out of the tomb!”

  Dejal cried out in anger. A blast of force hit Anok, threw him up the shaft to land amid the rubble on the pyramid floor.

  He sat up, giving the Mark of Set just enough freedom to heal his cracked bones and bruised flesh. He grimaced as he felt his flesh knit.

  A noise made him turn, and behind him, he could see Teferi in the now-opened tunnel, obviously trying to decide if he should stay or go.

  Anok locked eyes with him. “Run for your life! Don’t wait for me!”

  Teferi hesitated one more moment, then ran.

  Just in time.

  Dejal appeared walking slowly out of the shaft from the burial chamber. Glowing bolts of power danced around his hands, like elfin fire around a ship’s mast, a look of insane rage on his face.

  Feeling a calm he had not known in months, Anok pulled himself to face his attacker. He took a deep breath.

  “Those rings may be powerful, Dejal, but you are weak. You’re like a child who picks up a sword and imagines himself a warrior. Kill me—if you can—but do not ever threaten my friends again.”

  Anok felt something growing inside him, formed out of the raw ore of rage toward Dejal he had so long suppressed. But it was not rage that emerged.

  It was sadness for a friend long lost.

  Pity for a spirit too weak to stand on its own.

  It was the grim determination one feels when slaughtering a faithful dog gone rabid.

  It had to be done.

  It would be done.

  Anok called on the power of the Mark of Set as he never had before. Without fear or hesitation he slammed down a bolt of raw power against Dejal.

  The walls of the pyramid convulsed.

  The orbs of illumination toppled from their pillars and rolled across the floor, casting crazy shadows as they tumbled.

  Blocks of stone, as big as horses, dropped from the ceiling.

  Dejal was tossed violently backward, but then seemed to catch himself and stopped, floating in the air. He began to laugh manically. “Is that the best you can do, Anok? The Rings of Neska have been resting, building their power for thousands of years! Your Mark of Set is spent, as are you.” He settled lightly on the floor and threw his arms wide. “Do your best! Wear yourself out, so it will be easier to slaughter you!”

  Anok did not hesitate to respond to his invitation. He lashed out with a spell of pestilence.

  Dejal’s eyes remained fixed on him, even as his face crusted over with boils. He smiled, and just as quickly, he was whole again. “I see I have not protected myself well enough. The rings still have untapped power with which to ward off your spells.”

  The rings were strange to him, but Dejal was learning fast, and Anok realized that the longer he waited, the less likely it was that any of his spells would work.

  “Lightning!”

  Bolts of lightning flew from Anok’s fingertips and covered Dejal in a sheath of crackling blue fire.

  But when it cleared, Dejal was unharmed.

  “Fire!”

  A spectral figure of flame flew from Anok’s hand and leapt at Dejal.

  Dejal waved his hands, and the flame spirit was dispersed before it could even touch him. He laughed, raised his left hand, and flicked his fingers at Anok.

  Anok was thrown backwar
d. He smashed through one of the stone starfish and pounded into the wall behind. Again, he willed the Mark of Set to heal him, but this time it was not without cost. He could feel its tendrils growing out into his arm again, and he had no time or will to force them back. The Band of Neska helped him to fight back against the mark’s evil, but it offered no immunity.

  He looked at the other starfish around him, and, with a gasp, raised his still-healing arms, the bones crackling as he moved. “Animate!”

  The stone starfish began to move as before, slowly shifting to surround Dejal.

  Dejal laughed hysterically. “These things could not defeat me before, Anok, and I had not a hundredth of the power of these rings!

  One of the starfish reached out an arm and grabbed Dejal’s wrist. Grinning, he tightened his fist, and the arm shattered to powder. He gleefully allowed the starfish to close in around him, touch him, and then he destroyed them.

  For a moment he was distracted.

  Anok let his shattered bones heal, then scrambled to his feet. He reached out with his mystic senses, feeling the wards that surrounded Dejal’s person, like an impenetrable suit of armor. Perhaps, on a good day, with the Mark of Set at full power, and were he not himself exhausted, he might have penetrated those wards deeply enough to give Dejal a black eye or a scratch on the cheek.

  On a good day.

  This was not that day. Dejal was completely protected from any attack Anok could offer.

  That was Dejal’s mistake.

  A terrible mistake.

  He had focused all his considerable energies on protecting himself.

  Dejal had forgotten to protect the rings.

  Anok set free the last of his simmering anger, the last of his sadness for the loss of Sheriti, the last of his rage at seeing his friends endangered, and fashioned them into two bolts of power.

  It was a terrible thing to do, even to a hated enemy.

  “Rabid dog,” he said.

  Dejal’s head jerked.

  His eyes locked with Anok’s.

  He knew something was wrong.

  Anok let loose the bolts of power.

  Instinctively, Dejal tried to protect himself, not understanding that it was exactly the wrong thing to do.