The Empire of the Dead (The Godsblood Trilogy Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  He closed his fingers around her fist and trapped it. She tried to yank it free to no avail, then instead launched herself up and in, slamming her knee into his stomach.

  Jarek didn’t even feel it.

  Kishtar cursed and walloped the side of his head three times in quick succession, stopping only when he closed his hand around her forearm.

  “Give up,” he said.

  “Never,” she snapped. She leaned against his hands, trying to break free. Sweat glistened on her skin, striations rippled into view in the muscles of her shoulders, and her lip curled back in a snarl as she fought him.

  Even in his cold fury, he was impressed.

  He twisted her hand, forcing her down to one knee. She fought every inch, eyes narrowing with effort and pain. He kept twisting, pressing her down.

  In her eyes blazed a furious desperation. With a grunt, she dropped to her ass and lashed up with her foot, smashing it between his legs.

  Jarek grunted and let go.

  Kishtar scrambled to her feet, panting, shaking out her hands, and was about to attack him again when Annara stepped between them.

  “Enough.” Her eyes flashed. “You’ve proven yourself a dozen times over already, Kishtar. Enough, now. Let’s call this a draw and move on.”

  Kishtar looked past Annara at Jarek. He focused on breathing slowly, on keeping his temper truly in check.

  Her grin was flippant. “All right. A draw. For now.”

  “Fine,” Jarek growled. He straightened, ignoring the dull pain between his legs. Thank Alok, it was already fading. He took a deep breath. She’d come very close to being thrown through the wall.

  Easy, he told himself. You want her on your team, not dead.

  Acharsis clapped a hand against his beer jar. Where the hell had he gotten that? Jarek wondered. “Impressive.”

  Kishtar sketched a mock bow. “Thank you.” She looked over at Jarek. “And not bad for an old man, either.”

  Acharsis slid between them. “All right, let’s leave the rematch till after we’ve pulled off the impossible, shall we?”

  Jarek glared at Kishtar, who was grinning up at him. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

  “I do?” She frowned. “I would have thought you were more masculine.”

  “No,” said Jarek. “Dumb. Strong. With no idea when to stop.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Kishtar. She raked her hair back and tied it in a fresh knot, then picked up her apron. “So. This impossible task we’re about to do. Are we starting now?”

  Ishi blew out her candle and stowed it in her bag. “Kish, aren’t you even going to ask some questions?”

  “Why?” Kishtar bent down to pick up her gloves, and Jarek averted his eyes. “You obviously think it’s a good idea, or you wouldn’t have brought them here. And if the former demigod of Rekkidu wants my help, then, by Nekuul’s sagging tits, I’m going to say yes.” She flashed her white teeth at Ishi, and Jarek realized she was needling Ishi on purpose. “Why? You think I should say no?”

  “Oh, Ninsaba grant me patience,” Ishi said, looking up at the sky. “No, but you should always ask questions. Learn as much as you can before making such a perilous decision.”

  “Nah,” said Kishtar. “I’ve heard all I need to know. Adventure, excitement, violence, a chance to fight alongside very, very old legends - I’m in.” She turned to Acharsis and beamed at him. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Very, very old legends?” he asked.

  “I thought saying ‘ancient’ might offend you.”

  Acharsis looked up at Jarek. “How about that rematch right now?”

  “Our plan,” Annara said, cutting in, “is to recruit one other godsblood. Then, we’re going to look at our abilities and the challenges ahead of us and formulate our approach.”

  “Another godsblood?” Kishtar looked to Ishi. “Are they talking about Sisu?”

  “Yes,” sighed Ishi.

  “Well, that should be fun.” But Kishtar didn’t sound like she believed that. “Good luck on that one.”

  “Should I expect him to kick me between the legs, too?” asked Jarek.

  “Well - probably not,” said Kishtar.

  “Then we’re good.” Jarek stooped under the lintel and walked back into the smithy. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 9

  “Sisuthros is a difficult boy. He’s always thought very highly of himself,” Ishi said over her shoulder as she bustled forward through the crowd.

  Acharsis nodded, but he was having a hard time paying attention. It felt so good to be back in a real city, to be surrounded by the sights and sounds of civilization, even though they were distorted by Nekuul’s and Irella’s obsession with themselves.

  Years spent on the frigid shores of the Khartis, drinking acrid berry wine and coughing in the smoky longhouses while he watched the pale-skinned Khartisians play devil-finger and wrestle had left him decimated. Here, though, beneath Qun’s glorious, roiling sun, surrounded by people of his own ilk, hearing at long last his own language spoken casually at every corner, inhaling that unique and indelible confection of silt, Leonis’ waters, the dusty kiss of clay bricks, and food that made sense - he felt at long last that he was where he ought to be.

  He felt alive.

  He winked at Annara, who rolled her eyes and looked away, but that didn’t bother him. Here, he was part of something. He was matching his wits against a worthy foe, risking himself in an endeavor that meant something. No, he wasn’t fighting for the independence of his own home city, but that didn’t matter. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt something that he might risk calling happiness.

  “He’s strong-willed,” said Ishi.

  She was moving quickly, insinuating herself through the press of the crowd, surprisingly agile for her age. Acharsis allowed his body to slip along after her, trusting his instincts to turn his shoulders just so, to step quickly to the left and then into a new gap that opened to the right. Judging from Jarek’s muttered curses, however, the other demigod wasn’t having as easy a time of it.

  “Strong-willed?” asked Kishtar. She’d switched her leather apron for a thigh-length tunic which she had cinched tight at the waist with a tooled leather band. “‘An insufferable ass’ is more like it.”

  “Will he at least listen to us?” asked Annara.

  Kishtar laughed. “Oh, Sisu loves nothing better than to hold court. He’ll listen for as long as you’re willing to grovel.” She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, “I’m not groveling, Ishi. Got it?”

  “No groveling. Nobody is groveling,” said the old woman, waving a hand as if she were brushing a fly away. “I’ve spoken to him about that. No, he’ll listen. But whether he’ll agree to help, I have no idea.”

  “Court?” rumbled Jarek from behind them.

  “You’ll see,” said Kishtar, then she turned and walked backwards for a dozen paces, rolling her eyes as she did so. “He’s like my little brother in that I spend most of my time wanting to punch him.”

  “Did you grow up together?” asked Annara.

  She’d been exceedingly cool toward Kishtar, but Acharsis could tell that her curiosity was getting the better of her reserve.

  “Kind of.” Kishtar shrugged a shoulder. “Ishi’s raised me since I was little, and Sisu showed up maybe four years ago. So, more like an adopted brother. He was a worm when he first showed up, and he’s grown up to be a snake.”

  “Kishtar!” Ishi stopped and thwapped the young woman on the shoulder. “You will not speak of Sisu in such a manner.”

  “Fine, fine,” Kishtar said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “But you have to agree, Ishi, he’s a bit strange.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And very, very annoying.”

  “Enough.” Ishi resumed walking. “He’s grown powerful with Nekuul’s dominion. He’s yet to learn humility, that’s all.”

  “I’m willing to teach him,” said Kisht
ar, but Ishi didn’t deign to answer.

  Acharsis looked to Annara with a raised eyebrow, but all she could do was shrug.

  There were few straight roads in Rekkidu beyond the Way of Stone. To a bird, the city had to look like a tablet of clay that had been dropped onto a flat rock, hundreds of alleys like a collection of cracks snaking between the buildings. Occasionally, a street extended a few blocks as straight as an arrow, but those were so thronged with people that moving through them took even longer than winnowing one’s way through the alleys.

  “We’re headed toward the covered market,” Jarek said with some surprise, and Acharsis saw that his friend was right.

  The street dipped up ahead, sloping down a shallow ramp to disappear through a broad gate into what looked like a larger version of Eruk. A wall composed of buildings erected shoulder to shoulder rose before them, a solid mass that disappeared from their line of sight to the left and right.

  “He’s under the market,” Ishi said over her shoulder, and then she joined the stream of merchants, slaves, servants and traders as they flowed through the gate.

  “Under the market?” Acharsis looked back to Jarek. “There’s an under-market?”

  “Not that I know of.” Jarek ducked his head as they entered the market. Out of habit, Acharsis supposed, despite the gate’s lintel being a yard above his head. “Unless they’re speaking metaphorically about a black market?”

  The street became a tunnel. Overhead, arches of petrified wood supported a roof that connected the buildings. The ground floors on both sides were open, each lit by oil lanterns and candles, many with gleaming dishes of copper behind them to capture and reflect their light, illuminating all manner of different wares set out for display.

  Acharsis recalled visiting this market twenty years ago, remembered spending a whole evening walking through its warren of tunnels and side tunnels with Kinziru, demigod of Naban. He’d loved it. Loved the abundance, the heaped spices, the rolled-up rugs, the dried fish and congealed honey cubes. The sculptures and jewelry, the colored lanterns and vegetables, the endless array of wares that begged to be sampled, fingered, tasted and enjoyed.

  “Watch out for pickpockets,” Kishtar said over her shoulder, and, almost as if she’d summoned them, Acharsis saw three dirty-looking children watching him from the shadows beside a store. Looking around, he saw more and more of them; they were tailing his little group as well.

  Now that he was looking, he also noted that the vivacity of the market was missing. In his memory, it was a realm of wonder and alluring cries, vendors standing outside their shops trying to cajole the passersby into the light of their lanterns. No longer. Instead, the vendors were standing silently by, watching his group with glittering eyes.

  Business was still being transacted, but gone was the joy, the fervor of haggling, the enthusiasm of trade. People looked haggard in the light of the candles, not magical. Their cheeks were hollowed, their lips pursed.

  “Why does everyone look so dour?” he asked Kishtar.

  The young woman frowned. “Hunger will do that.”

  “Hunger?” He scratched the back of his head. “But I saw hundreds of dead working the fields of Eruk. It looked like thousands left this morning to work outside Rekkidu.”

  “There’s plenty of dead to do the work,” Kishtar said with a shrug. “Despite that, they’re not bringing in much barley. Crops are down, prices are up. There’s not much reason for cheer.”

  “Here,” Ishi said, turning down a narrow tunnel that was poorly lit.

  The buildings that flanked it leaned in toward each other so that their tops almost touched, like elders reminiscing over the old days. A young boy was kicking a ball of rags against a wall, but at the sight of Acharsis’ group, he turned and darted down a second side tunnel.

  “Babati, his lookout,” said Ishi. “Sometimes it’s good to be paranoid.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Acharsis, “why don’t we wait here for a bit?”

  “What, in this alley?” Kishtar blinked. “Why?”

  Jarek crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “In case we were followed, is why.”

  Ishi smiled approvingly. “See, Kish? There’s lots for you to learn. Just pay attention.”

  “Who would be following us?” Kishtar took three steps and kicked the small rag ball with her toes. It shot off into the gloom. “We’ve not done anything yet.”

  Acharsis watched the alley mouth, looking for a particular kind of person: someone who would dart a glance down the alleyway as they walked by, but struggle to appear disinterested. Probably a couple of people. Nothing so obvious as death watch guards, but you never knew.

  Five minutes passed. They waited in silence, and then, finally, the young boy appeared again from the second alley. He looked nervously at Jarek, then rubbed his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Master Sisuthros wants to know what’s taking so long.”

  Acharsis laughed. “Impatient, is he?”

  Babati ducked his head. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Kishtar grinned. “You mean he’s getting annoyed at posing with nobody coming in to admire him?”

  Babati grinned. “Something like that, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

  The others looked to Acharsis, who nodded. “If we’re being followed, it’s a talented spy. Let’s go.”

  The second alley was so cramped and narrow that Acharsis had to traverse it sideways, and what little light filtered into its depths from behind them did nothing more than give a subtle texture to the darkness.

  “Here,” said Babati. “Door’s to your left. Mind your head.”

  Then a slit of faint light appeared as the boy pushed the door open, and Acharsis saw a set of crude wooden steps descending below.

  “Huh,” he said, turning to look back at Jarek. “He really is under the market.”

  Acharsis ducked his head and stepped inside, then went down the steps carefully. They were solidly built, the planks inserted into gaps into the stonework. It was a short descent, perhaps ten steps in all, but the air grew noticeably cooler.

  Babati was waiting at the bottom, where a stub of candle was shedding a soft opalescent glow. “It’s a bit crooked, the next few bits, so mind your step. Master Sisuthros said he’s going to clean it out soon, but he’s not gotten to it yet.”

  They were in a cramped room. The walls were made of clay bricks so old, they’d compressed into narrow wedges. Acharsis reached out and brushed his finger against them, and dust cascaded down to the floor.

  “What is this place?” he asked the boy.

  “It’s the old city,” Babati replied, stepping aside to make room for the others as they came down the steps. Their breath and footsteps echoed loudly in the small room. “Master Sisuthros said there was another city here before Rekkidu, much smaller, and it sank for some reason. Or the earth went up around it. Either way, he says Rekkidu’s built on top of it. The market, especially.”

  “Did you know that, Jarek?”

  Jarek was hunched over, clearly not happy with the cramped quarters. “Yes. Old Rekkidu. But it’s not supposed to have rooms like this underground. It’s all supposed to be flat and filled in, like the foundations of a building. There were some large old cellars under the ziggurat, but that’s all.”

  “Master Sisuthros has had his dead digging it out,” Babati said helpfully. “All day and night, they’re at it. He’s building his own netherworld, he says.” The boy raised his candle and looked around the meager room. “I think he’s got a ways to go yet, but don’t tell him I said that. Now, he’s this way.”

  Babati walked through a narrow archway and led them through a series of small rooms, all of them bare of furnishings and exuding an air of great antiquity. Finally, they stepped out into a moderately larger room where Jarek was able to finally straighten up with a sigh.

  The roof was an old barrel vault, thousands of bricks peeking through patches of plaster on which faded images could almost be
made out. The walls were better preserved, and in the light of the dozens of candles burning on bronze platters scattered across the floor, Acharsis could make out lions leaping at hunters, dozens of people bowing down before a lamasu, and armies going to war against each other.

  At the back of the room, lounging atop a stone throne, was a young man looking down at them with a mixture of disdain and nervousness. He was slender, with a long neck and sharp features. His hair was long and combed over to one side so that it fell down to his chin, while his clothing was of an expensive cut, a strangely fashionable robe in Nekuul’s grays and blacks that was open down his chest.

  “Welcome to the netherworld,” he said, perhaps too loudly. “You’ve come seeking an audience with Sisuthros?”

  Kishtar burped into her hand. “Oh. Excuse me,” she said. “Lunch is settling a little heavily.”

  Sisuthros scowled at her. “Be wary, Kish.”

  “What?” She rubbed her stomach. “Too much pepper.”

  “You are within my dread realm. Behave, or I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “Yeah? You look as scrawny as ever. I’m not too worried.”

  “Children,” said Ishi.

  Sisuthros stood and snapped his fingers. From shadowed recesses, the dead stepped forward. A dozen of them, each the animated figure of a once-strong man, but their muscles were now sagging, and their eyes were sunken. Maces and clubs hung from their hands, and each was wearing a surcoat of Nekuul’s colors.

  “I told you,” said Sisuthros with obvious pleasure. “You’re in my world here. So, watch that tongue or I’ll order my dead to tear it free.”

  “Sisuthros!” Ishi stepped forward, bristling with indignation. “That is no -”

  “Ishi, I’m sorry.” Sisu darted a look at Acharsis and his companions as if to check how they were reacting to this display. “But I’ve had enough. If she still insists on treating me like a child, she’ll have to learn the error of her ways.”

  Annara elbowed Acharsis in the side. He changed his grunt into a cough and stepped forward. “Well, I hate to interrupt, but I guess that’s just what I’m going to do right now.”