by R. E. Vance
Astarte does not know what to do. It has been so many years since she has seen him. Maybe she does not desire the man, but rather the memory of the man. She must know. Reaching into the well of unlimited magic, Astarte summons Gilgamesh. It takes several minutes, but in the distance Astarte can hear a horse-drawn carriage approach.
They are speeding towards the city center. Astarte turns herself into a little girl and stands in the road. The horses nearly trample her as they pass. A voice from within the carriage calls for a halt. Astarte watches as the door swings out, and from it emerges Gilgamesh. But he is not the doe-eyed, naïve boy Astarte once knew and loved, but rather a man with premature crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and deep thought wrinkles across his brow. Although he is older, he is not old. This man, this king, stands stronger than ever.
Astarte will never admit this, not even to herself, but seeing her former lover causes her heart to stand still, if only for a moment.
He reaches his hand to the little girl, not knowing that she is Astarte, and asks if she is hurt. The girl shakes her head. That alone is common decency, hardly enough to show if Gilgamesh is a good man who has fallen to evil or just an evil man. He bends down, asks her if she was frightened. The girl nods. He tells her that fear is but the mind trying to protect the body. It is nothing to be ashamed of.
“Do you understand?” he asks. Again the girl nods. He removes a necklace and puts it around her neck. There is an insignia pendant attached it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for frightening you so. Take this pendant … Wear it, so all know that you are now and forever under my personal protection.”
He stands, calling the driver before him. Then, without warning or hesitation, he punches the driver so hard that he is thrown several meters back. “Stand up,” the king says. “Next time you run through my streets, remember to take care.”
And with that, Astarte knows that he is a good man fallen to evil ways. Astarte returns to her normal form, no longer disguised as a little girl. She rolls the pendant he gave her between her fingers as she makes up her mind.
She will help this wayward king.
↔
Atargatis’ vengeance comes in the form of a man. But not any man—a beast, coming in from the west. He is unkempt and wild. He approaches the city of Uruk, terrorizing the local farmers as he calls out their great king for a one-on-one battle. It is only a matter of time until Gilgamesh answers his call. And then he will surely die.
Astarte, drawn by the power of this WildMan, goes to the fields where he has taken shelter. He lives with the animals, suckling from their teats, grazing in their meadows and eating their flesh. He is both lamb and lion. His name is Enkidu, and he is the Avatar of Chaos. Well, one of them, at least. Chaos has many guises, and the gods call upon them when needed.
Atargatis called forth Enkidu because he is the opposite of Gilgamesh. Whereas Gilgamesh is educated, Enkidu only knows what his instincts and senses tell him. Whereas Gilgamesh calculates, Enkidu acts. Whereas Gilgamesh is civilized, Enkidu is tempestuous.
And what better way to destroy civilization than to send a devastating, unstoppable storm.
Gilgamesh will not be able to defeat Enkidu with reason. And the king, despite having studied the art of war, will not be able to devise a plan that will overcome Enkidu’s chaotic nature. Of this much, Astarte is sure.
But Gilgamesh can defeat any civilized man.
And Astarte is, after all, the great tamer of men.
↔
Three days and three nights is the time it takes Astarte to tame Enkidu. Once done, Astarte slips away. She knows that her seduction has only dimmed this WildMan’s fire, not extinguished it. She also knows that if Gilgamesh is to strike, it is now. Tonight, if possible.
With limitless time to burn, she whisks away to where the king sleeps.
Seeing him sleeping there, she slides on top of him, straddling him under her powerful, experienced thighs. What is that old expression? “Fun habits never die.” Gilgamesh stirs as Astarte nibbles on his ear, and he wakes to her lips on his.
“What? Is this a dream?” the king asks in the haze of slow waking.
“No, but it can be.” Astarte’s nature takes over as she seeks to have him. What harm can an hour or two of delay be? she thinks.
Gilgamesh takes her into his arms before waking fully, but then reason and caution return to him, and he pushes the succubus off. “You left me,” he says with prideful scorn. “You don’t get to return so easily.”
He is so strong, Astarte thinks. Patting the bed next to her, she says, “Not even if I’ve come to save your life?”
“Bahh … Nothing can kill me.” Gilgamesh stands and robes himself.
“Oh, lover … Don’t cover the best part of you.”
“What do you want, succubus?” His words may have spewed from his lips, but try as he might, Gilgamesh cannot hide the desire in them.
Astarte’s lips curl. “My sister wants you dead. My family wants you dead. And by association, so should I. But I don’t, and for the immortal life of me, I cannot understand why.” Then it comes out in a torrent of information: Chaos and Nature’s war, his role in ushering in the New Ways, Enkidu and the prayers that Gilgamesh’s people have done against their king. Everything, save two little details: her betrothal to Poseidon and her seduction of Enkidu. Why cloud his mind with thoughts of other men?
Gilgamesh takes this all in, showing neither fear nor anger. “And where is this WildMan now?” he asks.
“Sleeping in the fields beyond the north wall.”
“You say he is at his weakest.”
Astarte gets to her knees on Gilgamesh’s bed and crouches. She is almost eye-to-eye with the standing king. “Yes. Take out your army, cut him down and end this threat.”
“No,” Gilgamesh says.
“But tonight is your best chance. To do nothing means death.”
“But, oh dear Astarte, I plan on doing much more than nothing.”
↔
Gilgamesh’s plan is simple: meet Enkidu in the field for a one-on-one battle—but not before setting a few traps to slow him down. After all, Gilgamesh is a man who uses calculation and study as his sword and shield. The right plan can destroy the world, should it be designed correctly.
Astarte, on the other hand, knows that even in Enkidu’s tamed state, despite Gilgamesh’s tricks, he will be nearly impossible to defeat.
But Gilgamesh, twenty years older than the man she knew and a thousand times more stubborn, confident and resolute, says she cannot argue against him. “If I cannot fight the gods’ assassin and win, then what will stop them from attacking me again and again?” It is true—if he hides behind his army, he will show himself as weak, and Atargatis will send assassin after assassin. But if he wins and manages to kill the WildMan, then she will have to think about her next move. And in the world of gods and immortality, contemplation and calculation can take years. Often a lifetime in mortal terms.
Gilgamesh is right.
Still, Astarte is not comforted. She vows that, should the WildMan start winning, she will intervene—not with seduction but with a dagger.
↔
It is dawn. Gilgamesh stands with his back to the sun. “Enkidu,” he says, like a father to a waking child. “Enkidu, come … Wake up. You have a job to do.”
Enkidu stirs, rubbing his eyes lazily. Seeing his enemy before him, he is immediately alert—a sleeping mongrel turned attack dog. Enkidu readies himself, but Gilgamesh raises a hand. “Wait,” he says. “Surely you would like a minute to wake up, before we start. Perhaps stretch, take a piss … Do whatever you need to be comfortable. After all, I don’t want the legend to tell that I unfairly attacked you.” The king’s voice is soft, caring and so full of concern that even Astarte wonders if Gilgamesh is sincere.
The WildMan narrows his eyes in confusion. Angling his gaze does little to unravel the mystery before him. And so Enkidu does what he was made to do: he attacks. But he lacks the ferocit
y he once possessed, his fury dulled by Astarte’s embrace.
Gilgamesh tilts his head, and the sun hits Enkidu’s eyes, blinding him just enough for the king to connect his fist with the WildMan’s nose. It splits open and blood pours out of it. A normal man would have fallen, the fight taken out of him as tears blurred his vision. But Enkidu returns Gilgamesh’s blow with his own, hitting the king on the collarbone with a crackling effect.
The king screams, pivots to one side. Enkidu sees this as an attempt to retreat and takes a step forward—and he realizes that a metal spike has gone through his foot. Gilgamesh tricked him—he maneuvered him into one of his many traps.
Enkidu steps off the spike and grapples with the king. Gilgamesh is strong. Enkidu is stronger. The two of them tumble on the earth and wrestle until Enkidu rolls onto a bed of glass—Gilgamesh’s second trap. The only problem is that the king rolls onto it too.
Both warriors scream in pain as their skin is sliced, but Gilgamesh is a modern man who wears leather armor that protects him from most of the shards. Enkidu, on the other hand, is not. His naked body, although weathered by the elements and hardened by the sun, does not fare as well. The WildMan is hurt badly, his body a pincushion of blood.
And still he fights.
Staggering forward, he swings wildly at Gilgamesh, but his fists do not find their target. Drip by drip, the WildMan is losing blood. As though life is literally flowing out of him, he falls to one knee.
Gilgamesh takes Enkidu by the hair, and the WildMan barely struggles. All that is left is for Gilgamesh to take his life.
He does not draw his knife to slit Enkidu’s throat, nor does he bring his heel close to crush his skull. Instead, he gently puts the man on the grass and starts to dab his cuts with a salve he brought for his own wounds.
Enkidu is confused. Is this a trick? Some act of final cruelty to lull him into a false sense of security, only to take his life? But Gilgamesh is not acting out of cruelty or malice, rather out of respect.
“Come now,” the king says through bloodstained lips. “Any man who can make me bleed deserves my respect.”
Astarte is awed and confused. “But he’s your assassin.”
“Was,” Gilgamesh says. “No more.” Gilgamesh extends a hand.
Enkidu hesitates before taking Gilgamesh’s hand—the WildMan of Chaos and the King of Reason standing, bloodied face to bloodied face.
Astarte is amazed by the wisdom and the compassion of the man. She once led him astray—but he has found his way back to himself.
And with that Astarte vows that she will never hurt him again. She will stand by his side and help him build a kingdom worthy of his legacy. She will not marry Poseidon. She will not ensure that her kin remain gods. What would be the point? Gilgamesh and his ways are inevitable—to fight what is coming would be akin to fighting the tide or the wind. If her kin want to hold on to their dying legacy, so be it. But they will have to do so without her.
She is with Gilgamesh now. That is where she belongs. That is who she is.
Chapter 1
Jedi Are Not the Only 1980s Troupes
The attack on the Being Human Salon reminded me of the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. Of course, we weren’t the three little piggies—they lived on the south side of Paradise Lot—and as for the mob outside, they weren’t the big bad wolf either. They weren’t even a wolf pack working together to hunt us down. They were far worse.
Still, we did manage to run into the only brick house in Paradise Lot.
Sally’s reinforced salon was the brick house, and it withstood everything they threw at us. For the moment, at least, we were safe.
The Others pounded and banged on the armor-plated walls of the salon. Bang!—a minotaur threw his weight against the wall.
Boom!—a valkyrie dropped a dumpster on the roof from an unGoneGodly height.
Buzz!—a dozen pixies, no bigger than hummingbirds, crammed into a crack in the wall, their wings whizzing.
The combined noise was terrifying. For the most part, everyone managed to keep calm. Most of us had been in a situation like this before. I had spent years in the Army; Astarte had faced more assaults on her temples than most Others; and Penemue … well, he used to live in Hell. Literally. I was worried about EightBall, but he was monitoring the security cameras and constantly updating us as to what was going on outside. Even when it was obvious and unnecessary.
BAM!—something big and strong thudded against the exterior of the salon, and EightBall looked up nervously.
“Ahhh … A giant just punched the wall. A big one, too.”
It was not necessary to know what was hitting us. And as for informing us that we’d been hit—the reverberations that shook the ground told us everything we needed to know. But at least the kid was doing something. And the one thing I learned when facing insurmountable odds was it was always good to be doing something, even if that something served no real purpose.
Bang!
“A white, hairy monster just threw a dumpster at us.”
“Wendigo,” Penemue said.
“What?” EightBall wore a confused expression.
“The only white, hairy beast is a wendigo. They’re the only beasts strong enough to throw a dumpster.”
“OK, fine. A wendigo just threw a dumpster at us.” The kid got back a bit of his defiance as he scowled at the angel. Then another explosion sounded from outside and his worried look repainted his face. “Will it hold?” he asked nervously.
“It will hold,” I reassured him, looking at Sally for reassurance myself.
Penemue walked over to EightBall. “It will hold,” he said. The twice-fallen angel Penemue was determined to keep the boy safe—he felt he owed him. “This does remind me of the assault on Heaven. Few know this, but the walls of the Great Hall were laced with steel. They were designed to withstand an assault of archangels. It stands to reason that these reinforced steel walls should do the same against the lesser creatures of ancient Greek, Mesopotamian and Sumerian cultures.”
I narrowed my eyes at Penemue and mouthed, “Really?”
The angel shrugged. Evidently, it was not beneath angels to tell little white lies to calm the nerves of terrified teenagers.
Sally nodded. “The angel is right. It will hold.” She spoke in a calm, even tone, and unlike Penemue who had been trying to make EightBall feel better, Sally wasn’t. She fully believed that her walls would hold.
Of all the people in this room, she was the one I couldn’t figure out. She was calmer than the rest of us. She was tough, sure, but I’ve seen plenty of tough and resolved people crumble under less than this. She was completely without fear, which means that either she had an unwavering faith in her security system—something only a fool would believe in without question—or she knew something I didn’t. That or she was batshit crazy. Never underestimate insanity—it can be quite useful in the right situations.
Sally picked up her control panel and pushed a few buttons, which caused an air elemental who was trying to find a way in to yelp in pain. A few more pushes were followed by more cries.
“Besides,” Penemue said, “they only want Astarte and Jean-Luc. You and I are relatively safe. We may get trampled in their attempt to capture them, but we’re not actually under any threat of being directly attacked.”
I thought about what Penemue said. Had this been a human mob, I might not have agreed with him. Humans tend to get carried away in the frenzy of the moment, ripping away at whatever and whoever is in their way.
Others weren’t like that. I’d seen a squadron of hsigo flying monkeys carry out rescue missions without killing a single soldier in the raid. In my time in the Army, I’d faced Others whose orders were to attack human soldiers and only human soldiers. The result was a surgical strike with zero civilian casualties. Of course, I’d also been there when the objective was mayhem and carnage. A “kill ’em all” order issued by some demon commander or Fanatic or Other driven insane by the world it now liv
ed in.
Those were rare. But when they did happen, humans were sure to broadcast the carnage all over the news.
There was clacking against ground that sounded like someOther was trying to dig up the cement sidewalk in front of the salon. EightBall looked at the screen in horror, and this time he didn’t try to report what kind of Other was doing what. Instead, he gulped and asked, “So we are safe?” It was clear from the way he hit the word “we” he was referring to himself and Penemue, and not Astarte and I.
Penemue peered outside through the metal slits in the shutters. “As long as we are not too close to those two,” he pointed at us, “we should be safe. Trouble is that I spotted a couple minotaurs and a centaur outside. They are inclined to trample. And as for that dragoon … it tends to wag its spike-riddled tail when mauling. So there’s that to worry about …”
“Penemue,” I said.
The angel groaned. “My apologizes. It is just that I am without my bottle, and the world is always so much bleaker without my bottle.”
“Bleaker?” Astarte made the word sound as if it were an invitation rather than the unhappy word that it actually was. “Your world is bleaker? Mine is positively shattering and you complain that you do not have a bottle, while describing our evisceration?”
“Indeed.” Penemue held up an imaginary bottle.
“You would let us be eviscerated and do nothing to help?” Astarte pushed out her lips as she pouted. She took a stride toward the angel and ran a finger down his tweed vest before stopping at the bottom button, her finger swirling around the cross-indented brown fasten. EightBall gulped and adjusted his pants.
I gulped and adjusted my pants.
Sally gulped and adjusted her pants.