The Venom of Luxur

by J. Steven York

  Seti Aasi! Dejal’s father!

  Anok reached for his dagger, but there was no anger in the man’s voice. He seemed sad and broken. “Now his body is finally at rest, but my son was lost to me long ago. I thought for a while he might be restored to me, but I was mistaken.” He shook his head. “My fault, all my fault.”

  His heart pounding, Anok jumped to his feet with renewed energy, grabbed the man, twisting his arm behind him and putting the point of his dagger to his throat.

  Seta Aasi seemed genuinely terrified, no evil mastermind.

  “What are you?” Anok growled. “Whom do you serve?”

  “I am—” He swallowed, and seemed to force his voice to work. “I am only a loyal and humble worshiper of Set. It has always been so. I tried to gain the favor of the cult, of the priests like Ramsa Aál. I never suspected that the masters I served were—heretics—who would betray our god. I never understood.”

  Anok released him and pushed him away, quickly replacing the dagger in his hand with his sword.

  “I only wanted to destroy the Ibis worshipers who rotted Khemi within. I took it on myself to kill them—”

  “You killed my father!”

  The man was childlike in his lack of guilt. He spoke as though he had killed only a few annoying flies. “They served Ibis. I had no choice.”

  His face was a mask of confusion. “I never understood why the priests were so angry, never understood what your father had that they could want. They kept saying, ‘the Scale, the Scale,’ but it meant nothing to me. Then we learned you had escaped, and I was ordered to find you. I tricked my son into joining you, to gain your trust and aid you in coming to manhood.”

  “You killed my father before your masters found the Golden Scale they suspected my father kept. My father’s death was for nothing more than your misguided faith in an empty god!”

  There was more contempt than rage in his heart. It was as though his father had been killed by a falling stone: useless and without meaning.

  But there was someone at fault.

  Anok pointed into the pit. “Look at your son!”

  The man complied sadly.

  “Look on him, know what you have done, and let that be the last sight you see, before you begin your journey to the pits of fire!”

  He drove his sword deep into the man’s chest, twisting the blade to be certain the wound was mortal. Blood showered over him as he pulled the blade free.

  Seta Aasi toppled like a felled tree and landed below with a thud. Anok looked down, and saw him draped across his son’s lifeless body.

  “Now, at least, you are together, father and son. That is more than I shall ever be able to say.”

  He turned and walked away from the pit, fresh blood tingling as it ran down his left wrist.

  He found the hidden switch Ramsa Aál had used and watched as the trapdoor swung shut.

  28

  SABÉ HUNG SO still in his chains that Anok thought he might already be dead. Only as he touched the old man’s face did he stir and, with difficulty, lift his head.

  Sabé smiled weakly. “Anok, is it you? I was just talking to Teferi. He is coming here, you know—”

  Though his magic was weak, with considerable effort, Anok was able to release the locks on Sabé’s chains. He lowered the old man to the floor and leaned him against the wall. Wet streaks of blood marked where he had slid down.

  “Yes, Sabé, I know. I will take you to him, and you will be away from this evil place.”

  Sabé coughed weakly, and a pink froth appeared on his lips. He reached up and grabbed Anok’s wrist, his fingers still surprisingly strong. “Anok, I did not tell you the full truth about the sword I gave you. It’s magic is faded, yes, but the Sword of Wisdom can be restored—” He coughed. “It can be restored, only if it is bathed in the living heart blood of a wise and just man.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He laughed. “Listen to my words, Anok! With my last breath I flatter myself! But I am already dead. You cannot save me. Let my death mean something.”

  “No! I will not do it.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Anok. You will need the Sword of Wisdom’s power. Neither of us has a choice. But, if you cannot kill me, then kill the serpent.” He reached up and ripped away the cloth wrappings over his face, uncovering the cold, hateful eyes of a reptile.

  “Heretic!” Sabé called, in a voice not his own. “The heretic must die!” He swung his arm, knocking Anok backward with shocking force.

  He was, Anok realized, making no attempt to restrain the evil creature with which he had coexisted these centuries. The old man was weak and broken, but the beast was still strong.

  Sabé leapt to his feet, and Anok realized he had a dagger in his hand. He felt for his own scabbard, and found it empty. Sabé had stolen his blade as he knocked him away.

  He rolled to his feet, pulling his swords as he did.

  “Sabé! Stop this! I do not wish to harm you.”

  But Sabé charged with shocking swiftness, the dagger outstretched in his hand.

  Instinctively, Anok stabbed his sword out defensively.

  Sabé threw himself onto the Sword of Wisdom, running himself through until he struck the guard and fell against Anok’s chest.

  Sabé looked up, the life fading from his now-human eyes.

  The old man smiled at him. “I see you—as you are—for the first time. I wish—you were my son.”

  Then he was gone.

  Anok pulled back his blood-soaked blade and lowered him gently to the floor. He reached down and closed the old man’s eyes. They were brown, he noticed.

  He stood, and as he did, he realized that the sword felt different in his hand. He looked at it. The blood coating the blade began to glow with a strange, nebulous fire, then seemed to be drawn into the metal.

  The grip became hot in his hand, and the gemstone eye below the hilt changed, becoming wet, almost lifelike. Then, suddenly, golden eyelids snapped shut over the eye, and the handle cooled.

  But the sword was still different. It seemed to tingle and vibrate as he moved it, resisting travel in one direction but not another, as though guided by some unseen hand. “Sabé, my friend. You are gone, but your spirit still guides me, does it not?”

  ANOK PULLED DOWN several of the lamps from the walls, doused Sabé’s body with oil, and set it aflame. It was both the only funeral the old man was likely to have and a useful distraction, as Anok began to make his way through the interior of the pyramid.

  As he moved away from the heart of the pyramid, he felt the magic return to him, and with it, a growing unease.

  The Mark of Set paced through his mind like a cat in a cage, restless and ever seeking escape. It had tasted powerful blood this day, several times over, and he had many times called on its power.

  He still did not feel recovered from the priesthood ceremony, and he was beginning to think he never would be. There was no “getting better.” He was changed, and he would have to live with that for the rest of his days. The Kamen-wati was now attached to him like his own shadow.

  He wandered through a series of passages, hitting several blind alleys. He thought he might be hopelessly lost, when from down a hallway he heard a familiar noise: a clanking of metal plates, a hissing of steam, a soft roar of flame.

  The brass serpent!

  He slipped into an alcove and flattened himself against the cold stone of the wall.

  The noise grew louder, and he heard footsteps and voices as well. Two priests, dressed in long, ceremonial robes, walked past, and following them, Parath.

  They must be going to the ceremony of joining.

  The priests did not see him, but as it passed, the great metal snake turned and briefly looked directly at him.

  Anok felt a warmth flow through him, a sense of purpose and belonging. Then the snake looked away, and it was gone, fading so that within a few seconds, he could hardly remember the feeling.

  What was that?


  He shook his head to clear it, then peered around the corner after the strange procession. As he did, he saw the tip of the brass serpent’s tail vanish around a corner. Knowing they would be headed for the ceremony, he followed.

  As he had hoped, he found himself in a series of inclined corridors climbing up through the pyramid. There were no side passages, no way to get lost.

  He was headed for the altar of Set, and his destiny.

  He moved slowly and carefully, allowing the priests and Parath to remain well ahead of him. He could tell they were nearing the top because he could hear the cheering and chanting of thousands of voices.

  The ceremony had begun.

  “Set, Set, Set,” they chanted, again and again, “glorious Set!”

  Then the chanting collapsed, as though in surprise, and they broke into a mad cheering.

  They have seen the brass serpent.

  Above him, the ramp opened, and he could see the light of many lamps shining on a stone ceiling twenty or more feet above. The cheering was quite loud.

  Cautiously, he poked his head about the lip of the opening.

  The ramp emerged at the rear of the platform. In front of him was a row of stone pillars, with one of the captive priests or priestesses bound to each one. Their chains were all engraved with mystic symbols, a binding spell to prevent them from using their own sorcery. He looked for his sister and saw her chained to the farthest post to his left.

  Beyond the captives, he could see Parath, Ramsa Aál, and a group of other priests and acolytes in ceremonial garb. Finally, at the front of the platform stood the sacrificial altar. Next to it waited a wooden table draped with a red silk cloth, and on its top, a row of shining sacrificial knives, one for each prisoner.

  As he turned, Anok now saw that Ramsa Aál openly wore the Scales of Set over his robe. Then he turned away, and while keeping the chain around his neck, held up the Scales so that those assembled below could see.

  Again, they cheered. He held his arms up and waited for them to quiet. “For the first time in recorded time, the Scales of Set are reunited, their power now in service of your cult! Soon all shall turn their backs on their lesser gods and worship as you do! Behold, the instrument of our god that we have created! Tremble before its power! Worship it as the embodiment of your god!”

  In his hiding place Anok sneered.

  Fools! You know not what god you worship.

  “And now,” shouted Ramsa Aál, “is the ceremony of joining. It is the night of ascension!” He turned and looked up at Parath looming over him.

  The great snake bowed before him, but only to expose the three blank spots on his forehead, where the Scales of Set would fit. “Now, my servant, give me the Scales!”

  Ramsa Aál made a signal with his hand, and several of the acolytes began chanting a spell. Suddenly, the sounds of the crowd were silenced, and it became eerily quiet.

  Anok could hear the groaning of the prisoners, the wind as it whistled past the stone columns.

  He could clearly hear Ramsa Aál, as he said, “No.”

  The brass serpent reared back. “So, you renege on our bargain?”

  Ramsa Aál laughed. “As would you have, if you had the Scales. You would have made yourself god of all the world and would have had no use for such as I. I cannot summon the power of the Scales of Set to rule all men, but I can use enough of it to rule you, and through me you can use the greater power to rule men. Have comfort. You might have no use for me in your plan, but at least I have use for you in mine!”

  The great snake hissed, and a puff of fire emerged from its mouth and curled around its head. “I should slay you!”

  Ramsa Aál laughed again. He spread his arms, taunting Parath. “Try!”

  He stood thusly for a moment, but Parath did nothing. Again Ramsa Aál laughed. “You see? You will be their god, and I will be yours!”

  Again Parath hissed his anger. But then he seemed, to relax. “I knew you would betray me. I have been betrayed by gods, little man. Did you not think I would prepare?” He raised his voice. “My servant! Come forth and destroy the priest!”

  No one was more surprised than Anok when, through no will of his own, he stepped suddenly from the shadows, the Sword of Wisdom in his hand.

  “Come to me, my servant,” said Parath. “Come to me, my Kamenwati!”

  29

  THERE WAS A stairway up the back side of the Pyramid of Set as well, though it had been unused for centuries, and was in poor repair.

  Often, in the darkness, Teferi and Fallon stepped into holes created by missing stones, or had loose stones crumble and fall away beneath them.

  Several times they had held their breath as blocks of sandstone tumbled loudly away into the darkness below, sure that the noise would bring the guardians down upon them. But in every case, the cheering and chanting of the masses assembled on the far side of the structure had saved them.

  They were startled when, with the torches of the upper temple just a few dozen paces above them, the crowd suddenly fell silent.

  Fallon grabbed Teferi’s arm, and they stood, motionless, waiting for something to happen. When it did not, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “What could have happened?”

  “This is not natural,” he whispered back. “Such a large assembly cannot be silent. It is not possible. We would hear them breathing. If they had been killed, we would hear them fall. This is magic at work, I am sure of it.”

  Then they heard voices from above, and were just able to make out what was going on. As Parath called Kamenwati as his servant, Fallon could not help but let out a tiny gasp of shock.

  Teferi frowned grimly. “If our brother is fallen, it falls to us to prevent the ascension of Parath, and to free his sister.”

  But Fallon found herself trembling in a most un-Cimmerian fashion. “If we can,” she said.

  ANOK STEPPED BOLDLY forward, even as guardians and priests closed protectively around Ramsa Aál. He felt strange, as though a passenger in the chariot of his own body. But for the moment, Parath’s wishes and his own were the same.

  Kill Ramsa Aál. Take the Scales.

  The guardians were the first to charge.

  In his mind, Anok heard the Mark of Set shriek with delight, as he waved his right hand forcefully.

  The first wave of four soldiers were thrown backward through the air, over the edge of the platform, to land far down the side of the pyramid.

  The second wave charged, swords held high.

  He sliced his hand through the air, and they were sliced in half at the waist, their torsos flopping to the floor, spurting blood, their severed lower bodies toppling more slowly.

  He smiled. He laughed.

  No! Not him!

  It was someone else—something else—that exulted in the carnage.

  “You see,” said Parath, “he is bound to the power of the Scales, as soon will you all be. But you are bound by your worship of Set. Not this heretic. For he, and only he, once believed in me! Part of him still does. The Kamenwati!”

  He saw fear in the acolytes’ faces as they closed in front of Ramsa Aál. One called up a spell, and a blue bolt of lightning shot out from his hands.

  Anok swatted it away with the sword.

  The sword has other powers!

  More spells were cast, and he deftly deflected them, as he would have blows from a blade.

  The Sword of Wisdom is defense against magic. Sabé has delivered this weapon into the hand of our enemy, as have I!

  Yet even as he thought that, it seemed wrong. Sabé had known much of what would happen today. Could he have made such a dire mistake without some good cause?

  I must have the sword for a reason.

  He struggled to regain control of himself, but it was as though his mind was gripped in bands of iron. He watched, helplessly, as he waved his hand, and one of the acolytes was ripped to pieces, arms, legs, flying in all directions.

  He was striking at the Cult of Set, destroying its servants
. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

  Another acolyte stared at him, eyes wide with fear, then turned to run.

  He waved his hand, and the man burst into flames. Engulfed in them, he ran over the edge of the temple and fell out of sight.

  He looked at the other acolytes. The Spell of Silence collapsed, and he could again hear those watching below. What he heard were gasps, moans, the occasional scream of fear or hysteria.

  He gestured. Their skin shriveled, fell in on their bones, turning them into dried mummies before they could hit the stones of the floor.

  One of the priests clutched at his chest and fell dead, not from magic, but from fear. Another tried to crawl away, sobbing, begging mercy. A third simply stood, eyes closed, waiting to die.

  Parath watched approvingly.

  Ramsa Aál stood, his hands clutched around the Scales of Set, his face white, backed against the altar. “Stay back,” he said. “Stay back! Obey me! Stay back!”

  Anok reached out with his free hand and grabbed the priest by the throat, lifting him into the air, then slamming him down upon the altar, his head landing with a crack, so that he lay still.

  Anok picked up the first sacrificial knife and drew it swiftly across his throat, hot blood spurting into his face.

  He took the chain in his hand, snapped it from around the dead priest’s neck, then turned and walked with the Scales to where Parath waited.

  He removed the chain, and snapped the three scales into the gap in Parath’s forehead.

  The great brass serpent reared back. “Yes! The power of the Golden Scales is mine! By this fool priest’s blood, all who worship Set belong to me! Bow now to your new god!”

  Then, as one, the throngs assembled below bowed down, as did the surviving priests. They moved like puppets.

  They move like me!

  “Next shall be the worshipers of my hated enemy, Ibis!” Parath turned toward the prisoners. “Go to the priestess, my Kamenwati! Kill her in my name!”

  Anok returned to the altar, selected a fresh blade, and walked toward the pillar where his sister was bound. As he walked, he struggled to control even some small part of his actions, without success.