The Venom of Luxur

by J. Steven York

  Around them shields were raised over heads to protect the column of soldiers, like scales on a snake, and swords were drawn. Anok instinctively reached for his blades as well, though it did not seem that they were in immediate danger.

  There was a battle cry from some hidden voice, and all around them, doors were thrown open. From every hut and hovel, armored men poured out, armed with swords, axes, and warhammers.

  They were surrounded!

  16

  INSTANTLY THEY FOUND themselves in the middle of fierce, hand-to-hand fighting against which the deflection spell offered no protection.

  The savagery around him inflamed Anok’s sensibilities. These were brutal mercenaries who sold their loyalties to the highest bidder. They would not offer mercy, nor did they deserve any. He was eager to enter the fray, but his horse could not move without trampling their own soldiers.

  He watched a bowman moving along a nearby rooftop and decided not to wait.

  He sheathed one sword to increase his mobility. Startling Ramsa Aál, he leapt from his horse, landing with his feet astride two of the upraised shields. Instantly they began to give way under his unexpected weight, but he was already moving, running rapidly from one shield to another, like a man crossing a pond by dancing over giant lily pads.

  He jumped onto a stack of barrels leaning against the wall of a brick building. Using the tops of the barrels like a stair, he dashed up to roll over the top of the wall and landed in a crouch on the flat roof.

  He kept low, seeing the bowman, who now was moving along the roof of the next building, loosing arrows on the guardian troops trapped in the narrow street below.

  Anok instantly wished he had his own bow. Well, if I want a bow, I will need to take one. He reached for his dagger, and, crouching low, came as close to the man as he could before calling out to him.

  The archer spun, just as Anok threw his dagger.

  Guide me, Sheriti!

  His dead lover’s countless hours training him in the use of knives had not left him. The archer’s eyes went wide, and he spat blood as the dagger buried itself up to the bolster in his throat. Anok was upon him, even as the man fell dying, sheathing his other sword and taking up the man’s bow and quiver.

  It was a lighter Shemite bow, not the more powerful Stygian bow that he was used to, but it would do. Almost as an afterthought, he reached down and yanked his dagger from the archer’s gushing neck, wiping the blood on his robes and returning it to its sheath.

  Then he scanned the rooftops for targets, and saw too many. Fortunately, they were all focused on the invaders in the streets below. He had not yet been noticed, but that would not last long unless he took action.

  He sighed and called on the power of the Mark of Set, whispering a long-unused spell, the Walk of Shadows. It would not render him invisible, but it would help protect him from notice by the unwary. It was the sort of spell priests tried to avoid, one that used much magical power for a small result, but it would best serve him here.

  He crept quietly across the rooftops, drawing closer to the next archer. He took out an arrow, drew back the bow, and let the string slip from his fingers.

  It missed its intended mark but struck the man in the back of his left shoulder. He flailed madly, trying to reach the embedded arrow, and tripped, falling backward off the roof.

  One of the other bowman turned at the sound of the man’s cry, but did not see Anok, who was already prepared with another arrow. He pulled and shot. The man screamed as an arrow bloomed from his chest, plunging deep into his heart.

  Several of the archers were suddenly aware they were under attack.

  Anok moved swiftly. Though the spell might protect him from being noticed directly, his opponents would instinctively seek the source of the arrows that were felling their friends.

  He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, firing as he moved. Another archer fell dead. Another was gravely wounded. One on a more distant rooftop suffered only an arrow through his draw arm before ducking out of sight, but it would take him from the battle.

  The remaining archers were spooked, now more concerned with their own safety than the troops below, which was Anok’s goal. He shot one more, then drew back on another, who suddenly began to move.

  Anok tracked him with his aim as he ran, but held the bow too long, pulled too hard. It parted with a loud snap.

  The archer instantly turned and fired at the sound.

  Anok turned and leaned back, just in time to see an arrow fly by a thumb’s length in front of his nose.

  The man searched frantically for him, bow at the ready. Clearly the spell was not broken. The man fired wildly at every sound.

  Anok drew his sword and ran at the man, dashing from side to side. An arrow jabbed through the hem of his robe, barely nicking his leg. He kept silent, despite the sting, and came on the man just as he was drawing another arrow.

  Anok knocked the arrow aside, putting the archer off-balance, then jabbed his sword deep into his chest, yanking it back as the man fell with a groan off the edge of the roof, to land among a penful of terrified goats below.

  He looked around. There had been more archers, but they had all gone into hiding or had dropped to street level in fear. He realized he had allowed himself to become separated from the guardian troops and had no idea what direction they had gone.

  To the north, he could hear sounds of heavy fighting, and could see clouds of dust rolling up into the sky. That was as good a direction as any.

  As he glanced down at his arm, he saw the Mark of Set, dripping with blood. He had awakened it from its slumber and drenched it in heart blood. Already he could hear its voice whispering in his ear, the bloodlust burning at him.

  He growled in frustration as he made his way toward the battle. Teferi could help him in his dreams, but awake and in the heat of battle, when he needed help most, he was alone.

  He steered his mind toward the calming anchor of the Band of Neska, about his right wrist. It alone was immune to the influence of the Mark of Set, the corruption of the magic.

  In his imagination, he took that cool firmament, shaped it into a shield, and held it up against the evil influence of the Mark. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  He came to the edge of a roof, looking down onto one of the wider streets, and found it littered with bodies, dead, dying, or badly wounded, a good two-thirds of them guardians. Ramsa Aál has led them into a slaughter!

  Yet he felt a pang of guilt for himself, as well. If he had entered the battle with the full force of his magic, and not merely his swords, he might have saved many guardian lives. Though they served evil, it did not mean they were all evil themselves. Certainly, they deserved to die standing and fighting like men, not sacrificed in an ambush.

  A confused, riderless horse staggered through the carnage below. It was not Anok’s mount, but it would do. He jumped onto a canvas awning, slid down it, then jumped into the saddle.

  The startled horse reared, and Anok held on for dear life as it first pawed madly at the air, bucked once, then sprinted headlong toward the battle.

  He could see the fighting just ahead. He drew his second sword, holding both high, as the horse waded into the confusion. Anok began to swing his swords, jabbing and slashing as fast as he could sort mercenary from guardian.

  Around him, the tide of the battle was turning. Though the guardian casualties had been grievous in the beginning, they had greatly outnumbered the defenders.

  Now that the numbers were more even, the element of surprise was gone, and the terms of battle more balanced, the superior skill and training of the guardians were beginning to show.

  Worse, for the defenders, some of their ranks had already judged the battle lost and were beginning to run for their lives.

  Only so much loyalty can be bought.

  Suddenly an arrow plunged into his horse’s chest, and the animal fell forward, its front legs giving way. Anok jumped out of the saddle, sliding down the horse’s neck to land o
n his feet, swords at the ready.

  He ducked as an axe was swung at his head, then jabbed the attacker in the chest with his left sword.

  He sidestepped as a spear jabbed at him, watched as that attacker was stabbed through from behind by a guardian, then turned, looking for other quarry.

  They were all engaged, man to man, sometimes two on one. The battle was nearly won.

  The Mark of Set urged him to end it with some great spell, but with the enemy mingled with their own troops, he had not the skill to do so without slaughtering both.

  He saw a horse and rider approach from the other direction, and immediately recognized the priest’s robe and yoke.

  Ramsa Aál!

  The horse stopped, reared. Anok saw Ramsa Aál’s left hand over his head, gesturing, as his lips formed some spell.

  For a moment, he thought the priest intended to sacrifice them all. Then the mercenaries began to stagger back and drop their weapons. Many were quickly felled by the guardians, but there was no need.

  The defenders’ faces began to draw in upon themselves, turning wrinkled and brown, like apples going rotten. They seemed to shrink in upon themselves, their bodies crumbling to dust and bone inside their clothing and armor. In the span of a minute, nothing was left that could be identified as ever having been human. Just brown dust that flowed away with the wind.

  The surviving troops cheered, and the real purpose of Ramsa Aál’s spell was apparent. Instantly, his questionable leadership bringing them into this place was forgotten. He had been at the heart of the battle, and he had ended it for them.

  They would have followed him into the infernal pits if he had asked it of them.

  “Spread out,” he called to them. “Capture anyone left so they can be tortured for information.” There was a roar of affirmation from the men at the word “tortured.” “Look for any sign of Ibis, his priests, or his temple.”

  The soldiers began to fan out, a few staying to tend the wounded.

  Anok looked up at Ramsa Aál. The priest’s eyes were wide, with a strange, intoxicated look. He laughed, then glanced down at Anok. “I may not have your raw power, acolyte, but remember that skill, training, and experience still count for much!” He laughed again, joyfully, almost manically. “Too long I have left such magics to my followers. It is good to taste the great spells again!”

  Anok felt a twisting in his gut, of envy, of frustration, of rage. The battle had ended too soon, the Mark of Set was still not satisfied.

  Seeming to regain some of his calm and reserve, Ramsa Aál climbed from his mount and looked around. They were but a few houses away from the central square with its well, and he began to walk purposefully toward it.

  Curious, Anok followed him.

  The square was small, far smaller than the courtyard at the Temple of Set in Kheshatta. In the center, a low stone wall topped with a wooden cover marked the well. A heavy wooden archway over the well supported two wooden pulleys with matching ropes, one small, with a bucket attached, and one much heavier, ending in an iron hook. A small round opening in the center of the lid allowed for passage of the bucket.

  Ramsa Aál walked around the well, examining the hoists and rigging. Then he picked up a stone from the ground and carefully dropped it through the opening. After what seemed like a long time, there was a splash far below.

  Still, he did not seem satisfied. He dropped the bucket down into the darkness, letting out its rope till they heard it splash at the bottom. He pulled the bucket up, dipped his fingers in the water, tasted it.

  Anok stepped up next to him and did the same. The water was cool and sweet. He dipped a double handful and drank, then splashed his face and hair, casually washing the blood from the Mark of Set as he did.

  The maddening voices in his head grew a bit quieter.

  He looked at Ramsa Aál, who was too distracted to notice. The priest ran his fingers along the edge of the lid, which Anok noticed, was not precisely round. At the four points of the compass, there were small projections, which rested just offset from four matching grooves in the wall of the well. He also noticed four stout iron rings attached to the wood around the center opening. The purpose of it all was not readily apparent to him.

  Ramsa Aál walked around the well again, now paying notice to what seemed to be a water barrel, also with a wooden lid, set up against one side of it. He removed the lid, reached inside, and removed a pair of short, iron chains with hooks on each end. He smiled as though some secret had been revealed.

  “Gather the men,” he said, “as many as you can find. We will need both ready swords and strong backs, but”—he jumped onto the lid of the well and looked down into the hole—“I have found the temple of Ibis!”

  17

  RAMSA AÁL WATCHED with intent interest as the guardians followed his instructions. Anok watched as well, puzzled by the goings-on.

  The two lengths of chain had been attached to the four rings around the center hole of the lid. These in turn had been attached to the hook on the larger hoist. Clearly the intent was to lift the large lid off the well, but the purpose of it escaped him.

  A horse was harnessed to the end of the rope, and a dozen men took up the line. At Ramsa Aál’s command, they pulled. The rope creaked and groaned, but the lid lifted a handbreadth above the stone lip of the well and swung free. Rather than allowing it to be lifted completely clear, the priest called a halt. Then, following his instruction, two men rotated the lid so the four tabs projecting from the sides lined up with the four grooves on the side of the well as the top was lowered back slightly below the rim.

  Anok’s eyes widened with understanding. “The lid can be lowered into the well!”

  Ramsa Aál stepped up onto the lid, testing its stability first with one foot, then putting his entire weight on it. “When I was a young acolyte, I served at the Prison of Gems at the base of the Mountains of Fire. Lifts not unlike this one were used to lower slaves and prisoners into its hellish pits, to collect precious stones for Set’s troves.”

  “Then you believe there are tunnels below?”

  “Or caves, or catacombs. But the temple we seek is below.” He inspected the rope. “I expect this will take the weight of ten men.” He rounded up two of their best acolytes to maintain a protection spell, and six guardians with armor, much of it salvaged from fallen mercenaries, since the guardian force had traveled light and fast.

  The acolytes, Anok, and Ramsa Aál positioned themselves closest to the center of the platform, with the guardians around the outside, swords drawn, shields raised. The rope creaked ominously under their weight, and though the platform was a tight fit in the well, it still shifted slightly with each movement.

  Two more squads of ten men each stood ready to follow them in as reinforcements. The mood was tense, with only Ramsa Aál seeming comfortable, even gleeful, about the impending descent. He shouted the command, and men and horses began to lower them into the unknown depths.

  Anok drew his swords and stood with his feet wide apart for balance. His heart was pounding harder than when the battle had begun. That enemy he could see, he could fight. He did not like the helplessness of the descent, or the confinement.

  He could smell the guardians pressed tight around him, and he could smell their fear.

  Down and down they went, so far that Anok had time to admire the masonry in the wall, so precise that the lid never caught on any projection, nor became so loose that it would be free to tip. The four grooves that guided them ran down the well with such precision, they might have been cut into the wall with a great knife.

  The rope groaned and crackled. Occasionally, the edge of the platform would bump noisily against the wall, scraping along for a time until it bounced away, only to strike against the other side. Anok looked at Ramsa Aál. “This will not be a surprise,” he said in a low voice.

  “Again,” said Ramsa Aál, “we will hope for their overconfidence.”

  It grew darker, the top of the well now a circle of l
ight far above, bisected by the top bar of the hoist. Around them, four openings began to rise up the platform, the grooves now set into four columns. Beyond the opening, Anok could dimly see a much larger room, illuminated by a few hanging lamps.

  They looked around, but there were no guards, nothing that suggested they were expected at all. Yet Anok knew that was impossible. “Perhaps they are hiding,” he said.

  Ramsa Aál knelt and put his hand through the hole in the center of the platform. There was a splash as his hand entered water. “Ingenious. We are on top of a cistern, or perhaps even an actual well. Anyone looking down the well, or dropping something in, as I did, would be fooled.”

  The highest ranking of the guardians looked nervously at the priest. “What shall we do, lord?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Step off the platform. But slowly and carefully.”

  The officer nodded to his men, and they hesitantly began to move.

  One, braver, or perhaps more foolish than the rest, stepped down first. The stone under his feet sank slightly, and there was a clanking sound, followed by the twang of a dozen or more bowstrings.

  Anok had a flashing image of a large, steel-pointed arrow coming right for his face, when suddenly it was torn from its line of flight and vanished to the side.

  Instantly, they were surrounded by a swarm of arrows, circling like angry bees until, one by one, their energy was spent, and they clattered harmlessly to the floor.

  The man who had triggered the trap laughed nervously.

  Ramsa Aál nodded. “Well done, acolytes.”

  Anok glanced over at the young acolyte next to him and noticed the mad look in his eyes, the trace of drool coming from the corner of his mouth, and the drop of blood just crawling down out of his nose. His companion looked little better. “I fear, master, they will not serve us again.”

  “It matters little. The next trap, if there is one, will be different. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the darkness; I see a passage that way.” He pointed.