The Venom of Luxur

by J. Steven York

  “A wise friend of mine told me that he puts little faith in prophecy, and I am inclined to agree.” He stood. “Do you still refuse to let me help you escape?”

  “Not without the Golden Scales.”

  He shook his head. “Then we will see this play out. If this has all happened for some reason, then let us hope it is one we will like.”

  He climbed out the window, barred the shutters behind him, and was quickly gone.

  A CHARIOT ARRIVED and took Anok to the pyramid at dusk.

  When he got there, he found the base of the pyramid swarming with workers, guardians, acolytes, and priests. A large tent had been set up to hide the focus of their activities, but a crowd of elders and curious locals gathered, kept at some distance by a line of guardians, which parted to admit Anok’s chariot.

  As they passed through the crowd, he looked down and was surprised to see one person he recognized, Seti Aasi, Dejal’s father, a rich merchant who had bought his son’s way into acolyte training and unknowingly set him on the path to madness and death.

  Anok quickly looked away and was relieved as they passed through the crowd and the guardians closed in behind them.

  It was unlikely Seti Aasi knew Anok had killed his son in a magical duel. There had been no witnesses, and Anok had been less than precise even in his report to Ramsa Aál. In any case, the man was still a source of tribute, and so the priests had likely reported that his son had tragically, yet heroically, been killed in the noble service of Set.

  Still, Anok had always intensely disliked the man, and wanted no contact, even if it were only the fawning attentions of an elder seeking favor in the cult.

  As Anok approached the tent, he saw the long wagon Rami had described as having been made to transport the bones of Parath sitting empty nearby.

  So, it is certain they intend to raise Parath.

  That was confirmed as he stepped inside and was treated to a strange sight. Inside the tent were two long parallel tables, as though set for a great banquet. On one table lay the bones of Parath, and on the other, matching armor in the shape of a brass serpent, intricately articulated into individual plates to allow for the sinuous movement of a serpent.

  Though the bulk had doubtless been extended by alloying it with more conventional metals, there could be no doubt this metallic shell had been forged from the melted metal of the Armor of Mocioun.

  Each piece of the armor was individually bound to the table with tightly wound cords connected to hooks in the table. As he watched, he could see the brass serpent kink and shake as it struggled weakly against its bonds.

  But even more strange was the transformation taking place. Starting at the tail, piece by piece, the armor was being disassembled.

  Workers would first cut the cords holding one segment of the armor. It would be removed and reassembled around the skeleton of Parath. Smiths, equipped with a movable brazier, stood ready to hammer red-hot rivets, sparks arcing through the air, until each new piece was connected to the previous and again bound to the table with cords.

  Anok watched in wonderment, as the brass serpent rapidly re-formed around the bones of Parath.

  Parath had no skin, so they have made him one. But what of his flesh? What of his heart?

  Seeing Anok, Ramsa Aál walked over, greeting him warmly.

  Anok looked at him with a coldness he hoped the man could not detect.

  You were plotting to kill me but last night, or have you forgotten?

  But Ramsa Aál’s mood was light, almost giddy, as he watched the many workers and craftsmen finish their task. Now, the back wall and far slant of the tent roof were being rolled back to expose the assembled Parath to the sun. Just beyond, he could see the entrance at the base of the pyramid, with its heavy columns supporting the landing above. If he leaned back, he could look up the long stair to the covered altar at the top.

  The air was gritty with sand from the desert beyond, the great dunes always threatening to sweep around the bases of the pyramids, to swallow the narrow riverside greenbelt beyond.

  “Are you not curious, priest, what it is we do here?”

  “I can see,” he said, “that you have made use of the Armor of Mocioun, which we claimed from the Tomb of the Lost King. But what purpose can there be in armoring the bones of some long-dead temple serpent?”

  Ramsa Aál smiled coyly. “This is not one of the greater Sons of Set. This is something far older, and far more dangerous. These are the bones of Parath!”

  Anok tried to look surprised. “An ancient god?”

  Ramsa Aál look at him curiously. “God? No, but a powerful demon, an enemy of Ibis and—others.”

  So, he does not know of my connection to Parath! Perhaps as he plots to control the lost god, so the lost god plots against him as well!

  Ramsa Aál continued. “Long banished, he will live again, in service of our cult, and our master Thoth-Amon.”

  Say it! And in service of yourself!

  But he said nothing of the sort. Instead, he beckoned Anok and walked along the length of the brass serpent. “I hope you have remembered well the spells I taught you in Khemi.”

  Anok almost didn’t hear him. As they walked along, he was looking at the skin of the brass serpent, which was covered with thin, overlapping plates cut in the shape of scales, scales that were, as they neared the front of the false beast, identical in both shape and size to the Scales of Set.

  “Spells? Yes, I’m sure I remember them all.”

  “One in particular, the Ward of Anigmus?”

  “The ward against demon fire? We studied it, but as acolytes we never had the power to carry it out, even in practice.”

  Ramsa Aál glanced down at Anok’s wrist and the Mark of Set.

  “Well, priest, you wield the power now, and our magic must work in unison or we will both die.”

  As they reached the head of the serpent, they found a priest of high rank waiting for them. Ramsa Aál introduced him as Buiku-Ra, High Priest of Luxur and his oldest friend.

  Anok could hardly look at the man. He kept staring at the metal skull that had been made for Parath’s bones, and the cold eyes of crystal that stared back at him blankly.

  But Ramsa Aál remained focused on the task at hand. “Are you prepared with your spell, Buiku?”

  The priest nodded. “The spell of summoning will bring forth the spirit of Parath to join his bones, but its completion will require a most potent blood sacrifice for its completion.”

  Ramsa Aál glanced casually at Anok. “Have no fear. I have prepared for this matter.”

  Anok’s breath caught in his throat. Was he the sacrifice? He would be distracted by the warding spell, and his magical abilities, great as they were, would be fully engaged. Could he do all this and defend himself against Ramsa’s knife as well?

  “It is time,” said Ramsa Aál. “Let us begin!”

  25

  HIGH PRIEST BUIKU-RA reached into a silk bag, and removed a handful of pungent magical herbs, dried and ground to small flakes. He tossed them into the mouth of the brass serpent and began an incantation. “Sacred messengers of the wind, bring forth from lands beyond, the spirit of the mighty one long exiled, back from the wilderness, into this great vessel.”

  Within the mouth of the serpent, a bluish fog began to appear, glowing weakly within its inner depths.

  Anok saw, from the movement of Ramsa Aál’s lips, that he was silently reciting his own spell.

  He glanced at Anok. “Now, Anok! We must have the Ward of Anigmus!”

  Anok held up his hands, ready to shape the forces he was about to unleash, and recited the words of the spell. They were written in an ancient tongue that he did not understand, but that made them no less effective.

  Buiku looked at his friend. “Ramsa, we need the blood sacrifice soon, or the spell will fail!”

  Visible as a slight distortion in the air, as though a bubble of some barely visible liquid surrounded them, energy projected out from Anok’s hands. It
required great concentration to shape and maintain the bubble, yet from the corner of his eye, he watched Ramsa Aál, still whispering his spell, reach for the sacrificial dagger at his belt. Anok tensed himself for the attack.

  “Ramsa!” Buiku’s voice was urgent.

  Ramsa Aál paused his spell and smiled. “It is like old times, is it not, my friend?”

  The he moved with blinding swiftness.

  He uttered the final word of his spell as his blade slashed through the air, making flesh rip like ragged cloth.

  A burst of orange flame appeared in the brass serpent’s mouth. It seemed to ignite the blue fog and flashed explosively down the length of its body. Anok nearly lost control of the spell, which would have doomed them all.

  But then his control was restored. He was able to look over and see the lifeblood of Buiku-Ra spurting from his sliced jugular vein, passing through the ward, which stopped only flame, and seemed to feed the strange fire that grew within. Ramsa Aál supported the High Priest, one hand holding the back of his robe, the other holding his head back to direct the weakening flow of blood. “I am sorry, Buiku, but the blood of a friend betrayed is a most powerful sacrifice indeed.”

  Within the brass serpent, the orange flames twisted and danced, almost like a living thing. Tongues of flame shot from the open mouth and smashed against his ward, shaking Anok as though someone had slammed into his body. Still, he was able to keep his focus, and they remained safe.

  He felt Ramsa Aál’s hand on his elbow, and he was led back away from the serpent. Finally, they stepped beyond the apparent range of the shooting flame, and he was able to drop the ward.

  Anok saw now why the fabric of the tent had been rolled back. Even so, some of the poles and ropes were beginning to smoke and smolder, and wide-eyed servants stood by, waiting fearfully with buckets and jars of water to douse unwanted flames.

  The brass serpent began to emit a strange hissing sound. Not the hissing of a snake, but a sound like steam escaping from a boiling pot with a tight-fitting lid. Behind the crystal eyes, a glowing, as from hot coals, appeared.

  Though restrained by countless cords, a shudder passed down the length of the serpent. The long table itself twisted and bucked, its legs lifting from the ground in turn as the ripple passed down the body.

  Then another spasm, more powerful. With a sound like a Khitan firework spell, the cords snapped rapidly, one after the other.

  The brass serpent reared up, small puffs of steam escaping the joints in its body, its head above the level of the old canvas roof, the rear of the table collapsing under its weight.

  Ramsa Aál stepped closer, his arms over his head, as though to make himself large enough to warrant the monster’s attention. “Great Parath, it is I, your humble servant Ramsa Aál, who has delivered you back from your eternal exile!”

  The snake looked down at him. “I am Parath! Behold me, and know fear!”

  Anok just stood and watched as Ramsa Aál dropped to one knee and bowed his head before the false god. Then he stood and gestured toward the entrance of the pyramid. “Behold, Great Parath, the pyramid of your enemy, soon to be yours. Enter and await my coming, for tomorrow is the day of your ascension, and we must prepare!”

  Parath looked at the entrance. “Yes! I will defile the pyramid of my hated enemy with my presence!” He seemed ready to move, but then looked down at the fallen and bloodied form of Buiku lying on the ground before him. He opened his mouth, and a wave of flame shot out to engulf the body.

  “A funeral pyre for he who gave me his life.” The great serpent began to move gracefully, but, with a soft clanking of moving plates and the low hiss of steam. “Let it never be said”—he crawled toward the darkness of the entry—“that Parath is not a generous god.”

  Anok watched it go in wonder. It was indeed the voice he knew as Parath, but there had been not a single word directed to him, not a single hint of recognition. Had he served his purpose? Was he now simply beneath the fallen god’s notice, or had it forgotten him?

  But as it crawled between the great pillars, Parath hesitated, stopped, and turned his head back.

  For just a moment, Anok was sure that the glowing crystal eyes were fixed on him.

  And in that moment, he felt a tugging. It was as though, for a moment, both will and ego had simply faded out, and he was directed by another force.

  Then Parath turned and crawled into the shadow. Though he caught only a glimpse as it passed into darkness, Anok wondered—could a brass serpent smile?

  ANOK HAD RETURNED home an hour after dusk, just as his companions were preparing to eat.

  Now they sat quietly around the villa’s dining table, the four of them. The evening meal was done, the table cleared, the servants gone. Around them candles burned low, and the frogs serenaded them loudly through every window. Anok had even spotted a tiny one, walking across the ceiling on sucker feet. He was gone from sight now, having found shelter in some crack or recess, but Anok could hear him still, his voice loudest of all.

  “It is hard to believe,” said Anok, finally. “It is—the end of the world.”

  Sabé made a sound of disgust. “You exaggerate. It is no such thing! The world changes, it does not end. Empires fall, mountains crumble, continents slide into the sea, but the world goes on.”

  “Your pardon, sage,” said Teferi dryly, “but I do not care to be around when any of those things happens. When empires fall, people like us are crushed, and in great quantity.”

  “Then,” said Sabé, “the empire must not fall.”

  Anok grunted unhappily. “You are saying, that to protect my friends, I must aid the Cult of Set?”

  “Cults may be evil, gods may be evil, but without men, they are like Parath. Just dry bones in the desert. You must choose your greatest enemy, Anok Wati, and you must decide just what it is you wish to protect. The world is not your responsibility. What do you care about?”

  Anok looked around the table at his friends. The world be damned. He cared about them, and yes, his sister as well, but as for the rest . . .

  Yet from the kind of magic Ramsa Aál planned to unleash, there would be no escape. Not in Stygia. Not in Hyboria to the north, or the Dark Kingdoms to the south, or even across the Southern Sea.

  “We will face this danger,” he said. “We will face it, and we will thwart the plans of man and god, and we will leave this place, if we can, forever.”

  Fallon looked into his eyes. “What of your past, Anok? What of your father’s killer?”

  He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If those things were not meant for me to know, then let them rest. I am prepared to leave them behind. Let them lie with my father in his grave, and I will accept this failure.”

  Sabé’s mouth twisted into a curious expression, a smirk less than the aspect of a smile. “I did not tell you earlier, as I did not want it to influence your decision, but if you go to the temple tomorrow to face Parath and Ramsa Aál, the truth of your father’s death will be revealed to you. No matter what else happens, for good or ill, of this thing I am certain. If you had chosen otherwise, that secret would have ever been closed to you.”

  There was a strange certainty in Sabé’s voice that blotted out any doubts Anok might have had in his words. “I thought, Sabé, that you did not believe in prophecy and that you had no gift of foresight.”

  “Just this once, in just this matter, I am certain. That is my gift to you. If you fail, you will not die in ignorance.”

  “That, then, is some small favor.”

  26

  WITH THE MORNING meal, the servants delivered to Anok a note from Ramsa Aál with instructions for the day. He was summoned after breakfast to some gathering at the temple gates. Anok could not imagine what this would be, since the main ceremony, which the note called “the ceremony of joining,” would be held at nightfall at the Pyramid of Set. The name was sufficiently vague to offer little information. Who was joining what? Perhaps, he thought grimly, the joining of th
e three Scales.

  While eating they held a quick council, and a plan was decided. Since the ceremony of joining was scheduled for nightfall, Fallon and Teferi would circle around and approach the pyramid from the desert side after dark and attempt to scale the ziggurat from the back side.

  “Given the prisoners, it appears there will be a sacrifice, and that will likely take place at the altar on top of the Pyramid of Set. It is also the place where it is most likely I can disrupt the ceremony, but that is my concern. Do not worry after me. Rescue my sister if you can, free the other prisoners if you wish. If I do not come after you immediately, escape by the desert.”

  Teferi nodded. “This morning I will secure enough camels and provisions for the five of us to make our flight. If we must leave without you, we will leave a provisioned mount for your escape.”

  “For four,” corrected Sabé. “I am too old and slow for such theatrics.”

  Fallon looked at him in shock. “Sabé, we cannot leave you here! I shudder to imagine what the Cult of Set might do to you in revenge for what we are about to do.”

  “I am old and slow, but I am not helpless. I will give you a few of my most precious things for safekeeping, then I will secure a boat passage to Kheshatta this afternoon. With all the travelers arriving, there are many empty boats leaving.

  “Travel downstream is quite rapid, and I shall be well away before your treachery is known. When you are safe, you can send me word via any of the dealers of ancient books and scrolls in Khemi, if that is your wish. I am known to them all.”

  Anok nodded sadly. That would be the safest thing for the old scholar. It seemed a shame that he had come so far, for so little, but they had little control over events.

  After breakfast Anok returned to his chambers to dress in his temple finery.

  When he emerged a short time later and left the villa, he was surprised to find Fallon in front, brushing a great white camel.

  He blinked in amazement, and Fallon grinned at him.

  “Fenola! I thought you’d left her in Kheshatta!”