by Phil Tucker
Contents
The Empire of the Dead
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Book 2
Glossary
The Path of Flames
Copyright
The Empire of the Dead
Book 1 of the
GODSBLOOD TRILOGY
By Phil Tucker
© 2017 Phil Tucker
Cover art by Andreas Zafeiratos
All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
The dead approached the crossroads. Their numbers filled the dusty lane, a veritable army of desiccated flesh and taut, leathery skin. They were unhurried, the carts amongst them creaking, the decaying oxen plodding at much the same speed they had moved at in life. The sun was dying slowly behind them, causing the tips of the barley sheaves that covered the fields to incandesce in the last of the day’s light.
Acharsis leaned on his gnarled walking stick and watched the dead. They were a shadowed horde. Occasionally, a bronze sickle blade flashed crimson in the waning light. Their numbers had more than tripled in the seventeen years since last he’d passed this way. He looked up to where the village of Eruk crouched atop the rocky bluffs. Did any of the living now tend to the farming at all?
He’d no desire to lead the dead home, so instead he packed his pipe with pantagr seeds, unslung his fire horn and lit the pipe from the coal within. The dead drew abreast as he blew out his first plume of smoke, and he bowed low in the old courtly style as he did so, gesturing grandly with his pipe, and smiled.
“Age before beauty,” he said. Perhaps the only time he could so with a straight face.
The dead didn’t spare him so much as a glance. They marched on woodenly, and Acharsis’ smile became a pensive frown. He searched their withered faces for her countenance, not knowing what he’d do if he saw her marching in their midst, and was relieved when the last of them passed him by.
“Well Annara,” he said, looking up at Eruk. “Here I come to ruin your day.”
The cliffs below Eruk smoldered in the dusk, and the furze and gorse were dark against the weathered stone. The icy peaks of the Aloros range rose to challenge the heavens far beyond, the ice and snow glimmering like heated iron. The rhythmic beat of a hammer echoed down from the heights, and he could make out the bleats of goats being herded somewhere close.
Acharsis followed the dead, his legs weary, his feet sore. The road wound its way steeply up the bluffs like an insidious argument. The dead turned off halfway to the top onto a large, fenced-in ledge. Acharsis slowed as he passed them by, watching as some moved to stand at the back against the cliff, sickles still in hand, while others unloaded the bales of barley and carried them into the small barn set against the red rocks of the bluffs. A couple of apsus tallied their goods on clay tablets. Another blessed the dead, shriving them after their day’s work. Acharsis raised a hand in greeting as the man noticed him, and hurried on.
When he reached the top, Acharsis turned, not yet ready to face the village, and looked out past the fields to the great Golden Steppe beyond. The ocean of grass that he had once believed descended into the netherworld. He knew better now.
His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet but distinct cracking sound as his protective amulet twitched under his shirt. He felt a spasm of fear as it shattered and pieces of lapis lazuli slid down his stomach. By reflex, he clasped his hand over his chest, but it was too late.
The shadows roiled in a cleft below him. A figure was there, skeletally thin, its skin dusty and black as soot. An old woman, an iron collar around her throat, her form filthy, her clothing little more than rags. Everything about her was foul, and when she looked up at him with her cat’s eyes, he couldn’t help but recoil.
She opened her mouth in silent laughter and began a jagged dance, without rhythm, without grace, jerking and shaking as she rattled the chains that hung from her wrists and ankles. Acharsis couldn’t tear his eyes away, horror rising within him. The old woman danced in the shadowed cleft, grinning her sharp teeth and rolling her eyes, and then she was gone.
Acharsis whispered a prayer to Ekillos and touched his brow, heart and crotch. Chilled, he reached up and tore the amulet from his neck. He stared at its cracked face, impotent rage filling him. Useless. He cast it aside and turned to gaze up at the settlement. What horror did his demon’s appearance portend for Eruk?
He rubbed his face. A month he’d been traveling, and now, his destination but a stone’s throw away, he was cursed and polluted by what he’d seen. Acharsis took up his walking stick and with a cry smashed it down on a rock, then hurled it with both hands over the cliff. He watched it spin and disappear and felt like a fool.
It had been a good walking stick.
He sighed and lowered himself into a crouch. A good man, a decent man, would turn and walk away. Find an apsu somewhere and go through all the rituals. It’d be the height of irony, of course, for him to do so, being the son of Ekillos. He caught himself rubbing the raised flecks of scar tissue on his neck and snatched his hand away.
Well, he wasn’t a good man. Nobody had thought that of him before the Purge, and definitely not after.
He cursed and rose to his feet. He’d been putting this visit off for more than a decade. Ten whole years it had taken him to muster enough courage. If he turned back now, he’d never return. Was that what his demon wanted? Well, he’d be damned if he’d let himself be manipulated. That, and he was tired. And hungry. And he wanted to see Annara’s face.
Acharsis took a deep breath and climbed the rest of the road to the plateau.
Eruk was one great sprawling building, a flat-roofed complex made of mud brick that housed the entirety of the village. Ladders were leaning against the walls here and there, and he saw a group of children scamper up one of them, laughing as they chased each other. The sounds of village life filtered down to him, and slowly his horror receded.
Acharsis stepped up to the Thorn Gate. One such was positioned outside every village in the empire. He gazed up at the desiccated branches that were woven about the archway, at the long, cruel thorns that were meant to trap his sins and cleanse him as he passed through. Somehow, he doubted this one would. If anything, he might break it.
Closing his eyes, Acharsis stepped through. He felt nothing. Ah, well. He approached one of the ladders, nodding to an elder sitting off to one side smoking a spindly pipe, and then ladled water over each foot from the shallow bowl, muttering the words of purification. That probably wouldn’t help much, either.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself. “Cheer up, hey? You’re about to see a woman you spurned sixteen years ago. What more could go wrong?”
Gathering himself, he climbed the closest ladder.
Some seventy individuals were sitting on the sprawling flat roof, each family or group of friends beneath a striped awning, resting on threadbare cushions or wooden stools. Tendrils of soft smoke rose through the trapdoors that led down to their homes. Ac
harsis’ stomach rumbled at the scent of barley cakes seared to perfection, and the rich tang of melting goat cheese caused his mouth to flood with spit. People were chatting easily, their laughter rising occasionally here and there, all of them sitting in knots around their trapdoors, weaving or repairing tools, their hands never idle.
Those closest to him ceased their conversation as they turned to regard him with hard, bright eyes. Acharsis smiled and bobbed his head, mouthing the greeting prayer, and picked his way with care between the family groups as he headed across the roof. Though gazes followed him, no one rose to challenge him.
Even though he’d not seen her marching with the dead below, it was possible that she had died. Probable, even. She’d be old now, as old as he was, and the odds that disease or misfortune or violence or magic had taken her into the netherworld were high. Casting around the unfamiliar faces, Acharsis felt the fool. No, not high. Certain. Such was his luck, had always been his luck, to have waited too long, to have wasted the years, and only come now when she was no doubt long gone.
“Acharsis?”
A woman had risen to her feet, conversation stilling around her. Tall, square-shouldered, her black hair threaded with gray but lustrous still, the sight of Annara hit him like a fist to the chest. Her burgundy temple tattoos were visible where they emerged from the hems of her sleeves, their geometric lines unfaded by the passage of the years. He summoned his old smile but found himself unable to step forward. Even if one allowed that the last vestiges of the sunlight were kind to her, painting her in a rosy, luminous glow, there was no denying that she was still strikingly beautiful.
“Annara,” he managed at last. He felt a ridiculous urge to cry, a storm of emotions whirling within his breast. Where was his famed silver tongue? Why was he just standing there with this hangdog smile?
She strode around those who were examining him, moving slowly as if he were an apparition that might fade if stared at too closely. “Acharsis?” There was a tone of wonder in her voice. Disbelief.
“In the flesh,” he said, and resisted giving his mocking bow. Was that wonder or shock on her face? “Surely, I don’t look that bad?”
She stopped before him, and he could feel the silence spreading out around them like ripples from a dropped pebble. Heads turned to gauge and measure. He forced himself to stand a little straighter as she swept him with her gaze, from his torn sandals to his travel-stained robes.
“You look like you’ve been out working with the dead.”
“Whereas you... oh, Annara.” His smile became genuine for the first time. “You almost make walking those thousand miles worth it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It really is you.”
They stood in silence, simply regarding each other, and he knew she was being battered by a similar storm of memories, recollections of a romance that had lasted but five months but haunted him ever since
A man rose and stepped up beside her, and when she reached out in reflex to take his arm, Acharsis felt a welcome bitterness that caused him to smile crookedly.
“Acharsis, this is Kenu,” she said. “My husband.”
Kenu was strong, good-looking, younger than them both and what was more, there was a kindness in his stolid face. Boring, thought Acharsis even as he smiled, oh by the gods he’s got to bore you to tears.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” said Kenu. He almost sounded like he meant it. “Annara has told me much of her old friend.”
He quelled the urge to say something crass, something that would drive Kenu to strike him. “That’s remarkably generous of her,” he said instead. “Though after sixteen years, I’m surprised she even remembers me.”
Annara snorted. “You are nothing if not memorable. Now, come, sit. You’re practically swaying where you stand.” She turned, ushering him toward the small group of people who were still watching them. “And meet the rest of my family.”
Acharsis felt his regret mount as he was introduced to Kenu’s sisters and aunts and uncles, as he bowed and clasped forearms, spoke trivial greetings, smiled with all the genuineness of a lakhar. What was he doing here?
One of the family members caught his eye. Elu, a youth, Annara’s only son, with an easy smile and a warm laugh. Something about him looked familiar.
They sat in a circle, and Acharsis did his best to deflect questions, accepting the simple if sparse fare of barley cakes, salted fish and a mash of lentils with chickpeas and fresh lettuce. There wasn’t much, and nobody seemed to eat their fill. The sun set as they dined, and as the darkness descended on the village, the ruddy light of the hearth fires beneath each trapdoor became visible, illuminating the striped awnings overhead such that each group of people seemed to have trapped the last of the dying light amongst themselves.
When the food was finished, Acharsis handed over his clay bowl and cup and then watched as people rose and set to visiting each other’s groups. Kenu, with generous sensitivity, rose and walked away with Elu, leaving Acharsis at long last alone with Annara.
They sat, knees almost touching, gazing out over the edge of the settlement toward the vast and darkened steppe. A cold wind was blowing down from the Aloros mountains behind them, and Acharsis had to fight the urge to shiver.
“So what have you been doing all these years?” asked Annara.
Acharsis leaned back on one arm. “Making money. Losing money. Trying to entertain myself.” He felt a tide of bitterness arise within him. Seventeen years had passed, and while he could recount petty victories here and there, isolated moments of bravery, a few romances that had gone nowhere, he really had nothing worth the recounting.
“The son of Ekillos, playing at being merchant.”
He bit back a sharp retort. “Yes. It helped pass the time.”
Silence grew between them.
“Did you ever apologize to him?” Annara’s voice was soft.
Acharsis sat up again, suddenly uneasy. “Not so much as - well. No.”
“No?” She snorted. “That was the one reason I could come up with to justify your disappearing on me like that. And you didn’t even go talk to him. I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”
An old pain came back to life. “Yes, well. I’ve never claimed to be… what’s the word?”
“Honest? Forthright? Brave? Virtuous?” said Annara. “I could go on.”
“Yes, all right, easy there. But - well. It’s why I came back. To go speak to him. Let him crush my head in with his Sky Hammer if he wants.”
“It’s been twenty years since the Purge,” she said. “Do you honestly think he’ll still want to kill you?”
“Jarek?” Acharsis sucked on his teeth as he pretended to think it over. “Yes. Definitely.”
“He was a better man than you, Acharsis. Maybe he’s let go of the past.”
“He thinks - not completely incorrectly - that I was responsible for the death of his father.” Acharsis raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty certain he’s still upset.”
“Then why did you come? Has Acharsis the Unquenchable finally grown tired of life?”
Acharsis regarded her in the dim light of dusk. There was no give in her expression, nothing but fierce intensity. Almost an anger. “I’ve really missed these comforting little chats of ours, you know.”
“Answer the question.” Her gaze was unswerving. “Why did you come back? To Eruk? Why now?”
Annara had been a priestess for the first half of her life, a worshiper of Scythia. Right up until Scythia herself had been killed. He could still see it. The lithe, almost predatory manner in which she sat, as if ready to spring at him.
“How did you do it?” he asked, looking past her at the families and fires. “Twenty years you’ve been here. Raising a child, being the dutiful wife. Living in a village one hundredth the size of Tarkuktum. How have you not gone mad?”
“I still know how to use knife and spear, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. “Keep going like this and I’ll be more than happy to demons
trate.”
Acharsis waved a hand lazily. “It’s bad luck to kill a guest.” He looked past her to where Kenu was squatting beside a group of elders. His son stood off to one side, talking animatedly with an attractive young woman. “How old is he? Your boy?”
Annara stiffened. “Fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” Acharsis considered the youth. “No. I’d guess a little older than that. Maybe a couple of years more.”
“Even if he was,” said Annara, “that would mean nothing, change nothing.”
Acharsis nodded. “I know.”
“No, you don’t know. Though you’ve always believed you did, and that’s been your weakness and everyone else’s curse.”
Acharsis blew out his cheeks. “I… have clearly lost the knack for small talk. I should have gone straight on to Jarek’s. My apologies.”
Annara searched his face, and he saw pain in her eyes, confusion. “Why did you come back, Acharsis? After all these years? Did you think you’d find me waiting for you, ready to pick up where you left me?”
“I - yes?” Acharsis felt his face flush and quickly raised his hands. “Which is madness, I know, selfish and immature and all the other words I’m sure you could provide. I know I’m a fool. But it’s good to see you happy, Annara. To see that you’ve made a life for yourself. Family, friends, finally cooking delicious food…”
“Jana did the cooking,” said Annara. “I’m still burning pots.”
“Burning them exquisitely,” said Acharsis. “I’m sure. But regardless. My immaturity has had one benefit. It’s brought me here, and given me the chance to apologize. For what I did. Seventeen years ago, I mean. It might not mean much, but if Jarek really is going to kill me, I’m glad I at least had the chance to say so.”
A young voice cut through the conversations. “Death wagons! Death wagons coming!”
Annara cursed and rose to her feet. Acharsis followed after her as she strode away across the roof to where everybody was gathering at the western edge. Death wagons? It was a neat explanation for his demon. Perhaps too neat.