by Phil Tucker
The sun crept above the horizon. Rays of light stretched suddenly across the land, and the Sky Hammer incandesced, burning brighter than any star, a conflagration of yellow fire that had not been seen in more than twenty years.
The earth shook. The very bones of the ziggurat heaved, and the crowd shrieked as they tottered and fell. Statues of Nekuul on every corner of the ziggurat toppled and smashed. Great carvings of Irella along the inside of the compound walls slipped free and crashed to the ground. Across Rekkidu, the sound of breaking stone filled the air as countless effigies were knocked down and broken.
Jarek never so much as lost his balance. He rode the waves that shook the earth, hammer held aloft. Each breath brought him more power, and he felt his skin harden, thicken, and crack. When he gazed down at his palm, he saw that a thin veneer of yellow rock now covered his skin, a shell that no blade could pierce, no hammer could sunder.
His divine warform. The blessing of Alok, the shape of stone.
Jarek turned slowly.
Golden light was burning above the altar. The carvings in the wall, once sacred to Nekuul, had been effaced. The altar itself had transformed from bone-white to the buttery yellow of rough sandstone. Great drafts of air were pouring past him.
A form manifested in the golden fire, broad-shouldered and ponderous, redolent of power and ancient might. It was a face both striking and familiar, indelibly etched into Jarek’s memory.
The visage of a god. The face of his father.
He saw movement in the corner of his vision. The deathless, he realized. He turned slowly, burning hammer in hand. There were a dozen of them, their masks burnished to copper by the altar’s light. Their movements were uneasy. They all had their blades out.
Twelve deathless.
Jarek grinned and inhaled deeply. He felt his chest expand, felt his stone skin crack and then settle as he exhaled. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
They attacked him all at once, darting forward like snakes. Jarek leaped high and soared up above them, spinning as he rose into the air. The cries of the crowd below lifted in wonder, and then he fell into the knot of deathless, his Sky Hammer lashing out in a circle that left aftertrails of golden streaks in the air.
And where his burning hammer connected, the deathless died. Their robes didn’t so much as catch fire as smolder away, eaten by an intense heat that shriveled them as their heads were pulverized by the force of his blows.
He killed three with his first swing. They were moving as fast as they could, almost blurring in their attempts to avoid his blows, and he knew with absolute assurance that he’d never have been able to keep up with them before.
But now? He laughed, reversed his great hammer, and backhanded it through their ranks.
Blades scored his hide and skittered off, leaving not a mark. It would take a divine weapon to wound him now, and no matter how powerful these creations of Irella’s were, they didn’t have a chance.
Three more swings, and eight of them were down. The remnants of their bodies were strewn across the platform.
The other four drew back, exchanged a look, and fled over the platform’s edge, as fleet as shadows as they coursed down the steps into the masses below.
Jarek raised his hammer, exultant, with power and savage joy suffusing him. The crowd roared its approval, and the sound was like rain on a desert floor. He could feel Alok growing more solid behind him, rousing himself from his decades-long death, fed and anointed by the worship and faith that was streaming up to them.
Jarek lifted his gaze toward the rising sun and froze. Beyond the walls of the city, an army was approaching. And such an army it was! In perfect ranks, they marched across the fields toward Rekkidu, their spears forming a forest above them.
The dead.
Chariots ranged along their flanks and rumbled before them, their massive wheels blurring as they raced forward, pulled by teams of four horses each. Living archers were marching behind the spearmen in blocks so wide that Jarek knew the flight of their arrows would darken the skies.
And in their center was a great palanquin, glittering golden in the dawn, ornate and vast, carried on the shoulders of nearly fifty slaves.
Golden Piamat, the fallen demigod of the sun god Qun, undead lord of Nusku.
Chapter 21
Chaos erupted. The death watch guards stood in confusion, some throwing down their weapons, others backing away into tight knots, many racing into the ziggurat through its numerous entrances. The leeches gaped up at Jarek and their chanting stopped; they seemed unable to comprehend what had taken place. The dead were slowing, stopping, standing in place, staring out with slack-jawed indifference at anything and everything.
They’d won, Acharsis realized. As Jarek lifted his Sky Hammer so that it coruscated in the dawn, he felt a thrill that banished his fear and exhaustion. They’d won!
He let out a cry of joy and thrust his arm into the air. Elu was saved, Annara would hold him once more, and they weren’t all about to die horrifically in a matter of moments.
Victory!
Kish stood with her hands on her hips, head thrown back, staring up at Jarek, a wide smile plastered across her face. She didn’t seem to care that she was scored with dozens of shallow cuts, and some not so shallow. Her hammer was crusted with hair and blood, but she seemed to have forgotten it altogether, along with the guards who were backing away from her.
“Sisu!”
Acharsis spun around. The youth had sunk to the floor and lay with his eyelids fluttering, blood splashed around him. Green mist rose from his wounds.
“Sisu?” Acharsis knelt beside him with a grimace. He didn’t know what to do for the boy. His body was riddled with injuries, and several of them looked mortal. He should be a corpse. “Kish!”
The young woman ran over, then covered her mouth in shock.
“Hurry,” said Acharsis. “Pick him up.”
Kish knelt and scooped him up in her arms. Sisu’s head lolled. “What do we do?”
“Take him to Jarek.”
“Jarek?” She stared at him in incomprehension.
“Go! There’s a god up there - it’s his only hope!”
Kish ran toward the steps and began to race up. Thank Ekillos, she was as healthy as a horse. He watched her charge up, taking the steps two at a time, then turned his eye toward the crowd.
The people packed into the complex were watching, yelling and arguing with each other, some of them calling out praises to Alok, others defending Nekuul. Most of them were simply staring up at the demigod, their old ruler come anew.
What should he do? They’d listened to him well enough in the moment of crisis, but now they were casting about for anybody to lead them, anybody who could talk sense. He had as much chance of catching their attention and directing them as he would leading a herd of grazing cattle.
“Annara,” he said, and hobbled into the ziggurat. Damn that deathless for cutting his crutch in twain. But they’d won! The realization hit him all over again, and, away from everybody’s gaze, hidden inside the mouth of the tunnel, he felt tears spring to his eyes, and his whole body shook. He pressed the crook of his elbow to his eyes and simply breathed, relishing the fact that he was alive, marveling at their success.
“I knew we’d do it,” he muttered to himself, pushing away from the wall. “There was never a doubt in my mind. Easy, really.”
He limped on, his whole leg throbbing with pain, leaning on the wall and hopping as best he could. From the amount of abuse he’d given the leg, he doubted it would ever heal right.
“Limping, hobbling, glorious fool I’ll be,” he whispered.
Inside the ziggurat, voices were raised in alarm. People were shouting at each other, the bureaucrats and scribes and priests, all of them seized by the kind of madness that led them to rush back and forth, some with their arms filled with clay tablets, others clutching jeweled statues and precious objects, some shoving at each other, others just wa
ndering as if they were trapped in a daze.
“Sorry,” Acharsis said to each of them as they passed him. “Bad luck.” But he didn’t feel very sorry.
Grinning wolfishly, he turned into a small room. Ishi was lying on a bed of rough sacks, and Annara was crouched at her side, a dagger in her hand.
Annara rose smoothly as he entered. “The yelling. Did we - did Jarek –?”
“Yes,” Acharsis said. “He took his sweet time, but he did.”
“Elu -?”
“Safe.”
His leg gave out. and he toppled. Annara lunged forward and caught him, then lowered him onto her lap, turning him so he could look up at her face. Some of her hair escaped her braid and cascaded down around her face, an ebon curtain that isolated them from the world.
“You’re still beautiful, you know,” he said, reaching up to trace her cheek with the back of his finger.
“And you’re delirious.” Tears filled her eyes.
“Your son’s waiting for you.”
She bit her lower lip, then smiled. “He’s your son too.”
“I know,” Acharsis said. “I saw the resemblance right off.”
“No,” she said. “You idiot. I mean -”
He curled his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled himself up to kiss her. Their lips touched, and he closed his eyes. An old wound in his soul that he’d grown so used to that he’d stopped noticing it began to heal like a flower furling its petals.
Annara pulled back, her breathing husky, and curled her hair behind her ear.
“Acharsis,” she said.
“Yes, yes. You can tell me how much you love me later. Right now, we’ve got to see to Ishi.” The pain was getting to him. His thoughts were like mud. That should have been his first priority. “We need to get her to Jarek.”
“She’s gone,” Annara said, her voice soft.
Acharsis twisted in her lap and stared at the frail body. “No, there’s still a chance. Come on. We’ll get someone to carry her -”
Annara shook her head. “She’s gone. It was gentle. She said she was glad she was able to help. Told me to enjoy every minute with Elu.”
“Damn.”
Annara rose to her feet. “Come. I would see my son.”
Acharsis took her hand and followed her. The world swam around him. “I might need some help getting to the top.”
“I’ll help you. Here.” She slid her arm around his waist. “We’ll come back for her with Sisu and Kish.”
They stepped out into the hallway and made it perhaps a dozen steps before a group of death watch guards came running up.
“Acharsis? Stop!”
“Oh, come on,” Acharsis said, patting his hip until he realized he’d lost his knife. Even his bent bronze sword was gone. “Seriously? It’s over. Do you really want to do this?”
“Jarek sent us, sir. He’s asked us to search the ziggurat and bring you to him.”
That gave him pause. “You’re working for Jarek now?”
The lead soldier gave him a wry smile. “The stone guard obeys him in all matters with absolute loyalty.”
“Stone guard?” Acharsis laughed. “Since when?”
“As of now, really. I like getting paid and having a nice house with its own well. I mean to keep it that way. Do you need help?”
“No,” said Acharsis.
“Yes, he does,” Annara said.
“All right. Let’s hurry. Help him up.” The leader half-turned toward the stairs. “There’s something Jarek wants you to see.”
“He’s going to be insufferable now,” Acharsis said, letting two of them men lift him up, his arms around their shoulders, their hands locked beneath him. “Just you watch. Bringing his father back is going to go right to his head.”
They climbed the ziggurat, the soldiers brushing aside all the frantic questions from harried followers of Akkodaisis. Acharsis focused on simply moving forward, but Annara’s cry caused him to snap his head up.
A dozen yards away a servant had frozen, staring right back at her, several sacks filled with heavy objects thrown over his bony shoulders.
Yesu.
Annara moved before Acharsis could act. She drew and hurled a dagger, a swift overarm shot, and the blade spun through the air and punched into Yesu’s upraised arm.
“Kill him!” cried Annara to the stone guard.
Yesu dropped his sacks with a pained cry. Gold and gems spilled forth. He turned, panicked, and ran away down the hall. The stone guards rushed after him, drawing their weapons as they went.
Acharsis watched, fascinated, as Yesu staggered to a stop. He turned, face haggard with fear and pain, and abruptly lunged sideways and disappeared with an ululating cry down a chute in the wall.
The corpse chute.
“Bastard stole my move,” said Acharsis.
The stone guard stopped at the chute’s mouth and looked back to Annara.
“Want us to check the charnel pit for him?” asked the captain with great reluctance.
“We’re on the seventh floor,” said Acharsis. “There’s no way he could have survived that fall.”
“I don’t care,” said Annara. “I want to see his corpse.”
The stone guard exchanged a look and then the captain nodded. “Very well. You four head down. Bring us the body.”
The four guards visibly steeled themselves for the gruesome ordeal to come. The charnel pit was no doubt still flooded. Still, they saluted and jogged briskly enough down the hall and around the corner.
“Poor sods,” said Acharsis. “Welcome to the stone guard.”
Annara inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, then gave a brisk nod. “All right. Take us to Jarek.”
They resumed climbing. Up they went, and up, until finally they stepped out onto the penultimate level so they could ascend the exterior steps instead of emerging into the heart of the sanctum.
His escorts were breathing heavily by the time they deposited Acharsis on the platform in front of the temple. The bowls were no longer burning with green flame, and the remnants of the deathless had been cleared away.
Acharsis hopped, laid an arm over Annara’s shoulders, and grinned at Sisu, who was standing, completely healed, beside Kish.
“I knew you’d pull through,” Acharsis said with a wink. “Tough young man.”
“Elu!” Annara slipped out from under his arm and ran to where Elu was standing to one side with three strangers.
Acharsis cursed as he waved his arms, fighting for balance, and was only saved by Kish stepping forward and taking his hand. “Thank you.” He wanted to watch Annara and Elu, but Kish’s expression caught his attention. She looked strangely grave. “What is it?”
She pointed behind him.
Acharsis turned and saw the army. It was enveloping Rekkidu, pouring around its walls, blocking each gate. An army the likes of which he’d never seen before. A field of barley didn’t have as many stalks as these dead had spears.
“Damn,” he said. “How?”
“We don’t know,” Sisu said, stepping up beside them. “But it could be as simple as Nekuul warning Irella personally that Jarek has returned.”
“No,” Jarek said, emerging from the sanctum. He stood taller now, and his skin had lost its stony crust. He had reverted to his normal form, but he was indelibly changed. He radiated power, a primal might that came directly from the earth. Gone were the lines of exhaustion and concern. An aura of power crackled around him, and Acharsis felt a harsh pang of grief as he thought of his own dead father, Ekillos, still immured in Nekuul’s netherworld.
“They’d not have come for me, not in such numbers.” Jarek stopped beside Kish and gazed out at the army. “The seekers told me Irella was preparing for an invasion, gathering an army at Nusku that was to roll down toward Uros, gathering force as it went.”
“Still,” said Kish. “We’re fucked.”
Acharsis took a deep breath. “Well, maybe. Jarek?”
Jarek rubbed at his jaw
. “I can’t hold them off, not by myself. From what I’ve learned from talking with the former death watch guards, most of Rekkidu’s standing army has been replaced with the dead.”
“Sisu?”
The young man looked dazed. He frowned, focusing on the conversation. “Pardon?”
“The dead. Can you command an army to confront Golden Piamat?”
Sisu blinked. “Take control? No. I’m - I’m powerful. Maybe more than I had dreamed. But my mother is exerting her power here through Nekuul. She’d simply have to stretch out her hand and take control of our forces right out from under me.”
“Damn.” Acharsis scratched at his chin. “Well, we had a good run. I say we find some beer and musicians and enjoy ourselves as much as possible before they break into the ziggurat.”
They all stared at him.
“It’s his leg,” said Annara. “He’s becoming delirious.”
“No,” Acharsis said, though things were swaying in a very strange way. “It’s a serious suggestion. Beer would be good. Comfortable bed, too.”
“This way,” Jarek said, taking him by the elbow.
“I - wait, what?”
But he had no choice in the matter. Jarek guided him into the sanctum, and suddenly that was the very last place Acharsis wanted to go. He tried to pull back, but to no avail.
“Wait. No. I’m fine. Don’t -”
But he was already inside.
The altar was large and bare, a great block of golden stone. The walls were without adornment, rough sandstone without seam or crack.
“Father,” Jarek said, his voice deep and firm. “A friend is in need of your blessing. Will you aid him?”
“No need, Alok,” Acharsis said, calling out with a quaver in his voice. “There’s no need. I’m feeling fine. I’m quite - quite -”
The air above the altar shimmered, as if heat were rising from the stone. The shimmers turned into seams in the air like rents in a fine curtain, revealing red rock. These cuts widened, and then a presence washed over Acharsis that stilled his words and caused a knot to rise in his throat.
It was a familiar presence akin to something he’d not felt in decades. The presence of a god.