by Dyrk Ashton
“I think not,” says Kleron. “Out, all of you.” They retreat from the hole. Kleron holds his hand over the pit and speaks. The men have no idea what he’s saying, but they cringe at the abhorrent words, as if hearing them causes physical pain.
A ball of fire ignites in the center of the blockage, burning hot and white. The ice melts as the fireball drops. Smaller hunks of rock glow orange, melting the ice further. Steam rises like a cloud over a nuclear power plant on a chill day. Soon all the ice and snow in the hole is gone, the remaining rocks settling in a floor of rubble fifty feet below.
“Luc,” Kleron shouts.
Another of the soldiers runs up, carrying a reinforced metal briefcase in each hand. “I am here, Master!” Unlike the others, he doesn’t wear a mask, and though he has no mustache, his beard is frosted with ice.
“It’s all yours,” says Kleron. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Luc sets the cases down and opens one of them, revealing packets of C-4 explosive and coils of detonation cord. He grins up at Kleron and speaks with his Alsatian accent. “Zees vill be a piece of cake.”
* * *
“Kleron has never had honor, but a nuclear bomb... this is a new low.” Mac spits at the floor in disdain.
“We must hurry,” says Kabir.
“Yes, we must,” says Akhu. “Again, and always, it seems.” She communicates to the cobra and they pick up speed until they’re running through the halls.
Finally they come to a peaked arch, forty feet tall, with golden doors that meet in the center. Inscribed on their surface is a tree. “Yggdrasil,” says Kabir.
“All have revered The Tree,” Akhu responds. “Even Naga.”
The cobra taps a series of chimes with her nose. The doors ease open.
The group turns in alarm as a soft boom echoes to them through the cavernous halls.
“They’re trying to break through,” Kabir says.
“And they will succeed.”
The snakes, alerted by the sounds, slither back toward the entrance, more quickly than one would imagine they could move. The cobra stays where she is.
“You must call them back,” Akhu says to her, allowing the others to hear her as well. “Only death awaits them at the door.”
“That is their will.” The cobra’s sibilant voice surprises Kabir and Cù Sìth. They weren’t sure she could speak at all. “It is their choice to make, and theirs alone.” Considering the matter closed, she leads them into the Hall of The Snake.
* * *
Luc climbs a rope and scrambles out of the pit, trailing det-cord from a reel clipped to his hip. He jogs to one of the cases and hooks the cord to an electronic initiator. Soldiers retreat to the rocks while some take refuge behind Ziz.
“Now, Master?” Luc asks Kleron.
“Yes Luc,” Kleron answers. “Now would be good.”
Luc shouts, “Fire in zee hole!” and twists the knob.
The pit erupts like a mini volcano. Snow and smoke waft away in the wind as the men come out of hiding and Luc approaches the pit. He peers in, then turns to Kleron. “All clear, Master!”
The men shout in surprise, whipping their rifles off their shoulders. The wampyr policeman cries out, “Luc!”
Luc says, “What? Eez clear. For real.” Then he sees the men pointing their guns at him. The wampyr policeman jabs a finger over Luc’s shoulder, indicating behind him. Luc turns around.
The rattlesnake has squirmed out of the hole and is poised to strike, its hippo-sized head held several feet above his.
“Putain,” Luc says. The snake rattles its tail and strikes, its mouth covering Luc’s head and shoulders. It shakes him, snapping his back, and swallows him whole, while four of its sister-snakes come shooting out of the pit. The soldiers open up with a barrage of automatic gunfire.
* * *
As they enter, in spite of the circumstances, Kabir and Cù Sìth pause at the sight. Entirely of white marble, the hall is circular in shape, over one hundred yards in diameter. Lamps flame to life along the walls, following the curve, and in rows that rise nearly to the domed ceiling sixty feet above. Smaller lamps flicker to life in the ceiling in crystal sconces, glittering like stars in the shape of constellations.
Mac says, “Magnificent, aye laddies?”
On the far side of the hall is an expansive circular dais, five feet high. On the far side, carved out of the marble wall itself, is what looks like the back of a throne, forty feet tall. Its shape is that of a cobra’s hood, engraved with a “U” symbol with eyes at the top, similar to the markings seen on the hoods of cobras today.
Four golden braziers at the foot of the dais burst into flame, casting an eerie glow on what lies upon it—Naga, in repose. He appears to be another carving, like those seen throughout the palace, but far more massive in scale. He’s coiled, like a rounded stepped pyramid, though his head is tucked somewhere within.
Naga’s largest coils at the base are at least six feet tall—meaning The Snake is that big in diameter. Though the rest of the palace is immaculately clean, Naga’s surface is dull and white, caked with millennia of dust, as if his children fear to touch him in his slumber. So still does he lie, he looks like he truly is a statue carved of stone.
Kabir has seen Naga before, many times, but he never ceases to amaze—or cause a feeling of dread. Naga has always fought for the Deva when called upon, but he values his independence. Which includes the freedom to eat whatever he pleases.
All sensible Firstborn stayed away from wherever Naga took to the battlefield. Only True Ancients dared face him—and some of them didn’t last long. Not only is his strength incredible, his size significant, his movement swift, and his venom deadly, he also carries two Astra swords into battle, and he knows how to use them.
Cù Sìth has only seen Naga from a distance, and he liked it that way. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”
“Naga can sense fear like a natural snake feels the sun,” Mac cautions. “Smell friend from foe like a pit viper locates prey from their heat. Any friend of Akhu is safe from harm in Nagalok.” Mac steps closer, looking up into Cù’s eyes. “The question is, Moddey Dhoo, are you a friend?” Cù Sìth licks his lips, but stands up straight.
Kabir says to Mac, “Looks like maybe we’re going to find out.”
Akhu, who didn’t pause when they entered, has reached the dais and is waving Kabir forward. “We have often communicated, Naga and I, but my connection with him is currently suspended. Will you do the honors?”
Kabir is tentative at the thought of rousing the King of Snakes. Or speaking with him. Actually, just being this close gives him the willies. Mac places a hand on his back, gives him a nod of support, then shoves him forward.
Kabir approaches the dais, takes a deep breath and shouts, “Lord Naga!” His deep crunchy voice resounds throughout the hall. No reaction. He looks back over his shoulder, noticing that Cù Sìth is conspicuously keeping his distance behind Mac. Old Shuck is smarter than he looks. Akhu waves him on in encouragement. Kabir faces the giant pile of snake once again and shouts with the loudest voice he can muster—which is pretty damned loud. “Your Majesty! King of All Serpents! High Lord of Snakes! ARISE!”
Still nothing.
Mac says, “Screw this,” and lets out a rooster’s crow, the volume of which puts Kabir’s voice to shame. But Naga doesn’t move.
Kabir asks Akhu, “How long has he been sleeping?”
“Not that long. Perhaps a thousand years.”
“A thousand years? You said you’ve visited recently.”
“I have, but I never said we spoke. He doesn’t wake easily.”
“I can see that.” Kabir yells again, getting closer, “Naga!” Then with full force, “Hey Snake!”
Mac crows again, flying up and landing on Naga’s coils to smack him with his wings and peck him with his sharp nose-beak. Akhu climbs over the lip of the platform and pushes on Naga’s massive scales, which yield as much as iron. She pokes him with her staf
f, but the result is only that the coating of dust crumbles to reveal shining green scales.
Encouraged by the antics of the others, Cù Sìth finds his voice in the presence of The Snake and howls. Eventually he joins Akhu and pounds at Naga’s side, cracking more of the caked dust that covers his scales.
After several minutes of this, to absolutely no effect, they turn at the sound of squeaking wheels. The cobra who escorted them comes through the door pushing a gong, twenty feet tall, on a rolling frame. She moves to the face of the gong, raises her head to the center of it, and strikes. The din of it vibrates the circular wall, then fades.
The pyramid of snake begins to stir. Naga’s body expands and contracts as he takes a breath, sloughing much of the dust, and his coils begin to slide over one another. Mac takes frantic flight from where he was perched on the highest coils. The others scurry to a safe distance. Naga’s tail flops over the lip of the dais and they retreat further.
The head of The Snake rises, facing away from them, up the back of his throne. He stretches his neck, his hood retracted, clenches his hands, clawed like a lizard’s, into fists, then flexes his arms, corded with muscle. His scales ripple from his head down, loosing the remaining residue of ten centuries of dust, all the way to his tail, which he vibrates like a rattlesnake’s. His green scales shine like satin.
Then he speaks, his voice filling the chamber as if coming from all around. “Dog and cat, chicken and rat. Smells like... breakfast.”
His words are in a long-lost Indic language, which the other Firstborn instinctively understand, but there’s a sinister hiss behind them.
Kabir looks to Cù Sìth because he could swear he heard him gulp.
Naga’s breaths are incredibly long and deep, like a titanic blacksmith’s bellows. Still facing his throne, he says, “Lady Akhu. Speak to me,” giving her permission to use her telepathic ability.
“Great Sheshanag, Magnificent Ahi, My Lord Naga,” Akhu addresses him, allowing the others to hear as well. “We have news of critical importance, or we would not presume to disturb your slumber. Kleron has returned. The Asura are on the move.” He remains silent. “The Deva have been called to war.”
Naga angles his head so the shiny transparent dome of one of his eyes, olive green with round pupil, can be seen. “And The Pater?”
Kabir answers, “He is actively engaged, Lord Naga.” Naga exhales, drawn out like the wind. Kabir continues, “It was he who made the call.”
Naga turns to face them, sliding his coils over and through one another as he moves. The group steps back again as one coil overflows the lip of his throne. All except for Akhu, who stands her ground. Naga’s mammoth snake-head hovers no less than fifteen feet high before them. His scale-lined lips articulate to form his words. “And where was Father when my world turned to ice?” His voice seethes with resentment, the menace palpable behind it. “Where were the Deva when my children and my people died?” He dips his massive snake-face closer to Akhu. “Where was your sifu, who could have saved us all? And where were you, my friend, Akhu?” He raises up again and expresses a huff of a hiss. “This is not Naga’s war.”
Akhu bows her head. “None of us knew what happened here until it was too late, My Lord. I am sorry.” She looks him in the eye. “But now, time is of the essence. The war has come to you.” Naga’s pupils contract. “Xecotcovach, as well as Ziz, The Beast of the Sky.” Naga growls at the mention of Ziz. “Kleron leads them.”
Naga hisses, parts jaws rimmed with dagger-like teeth, and extends fangs like curved swords. “You led him here. You brought Ahriman to my home.” Kabir and the others are familiar with the term ‘Ahriman’ as the name by which Kleron was known to the tribes of people who would later become the Zoroastrians.
As they’d dug their way to the door to Naga’s palace, with Ziz circling in the distance, it occurred to Kabir in a rush of regret—the locusts who didn’t attack, the presence of Hugin, the arctic gear of the soldiers—they were waiting for someone to come to Nagalok. Kleron was after Naga all along. And they brought him right to him.
Akhu knows it too. “That was not our intention, My Lord, but yes, unfortunately, we did. In our haste to find you, and then to escape when they attacked, we sought protection from the only one we knew could save us. The gracious, mighty and most noble Lord of All Serpents.”
“Ever the diplomat, The Rat,” Naga says. He moves closer to study the group, his tongue slinking out of a groove in his upper lip. Nearly five feet long and forked, it flickers only inches from their faces, tasting the air. Only Akhu doesn’t flinch. “And you are accompanied by Phanuel-Seval,” Naga says, using Mac’s Truename, the one bestowed upon him by Father when he was hatched. Mac bows with a low sweep of his wings. “And Zadkiel,” Naga continues. “The Guardian. A fine warrior, and true. You are welcome here.”
“Thank you, Lord Naga,” Kabir says with a respectful bow of his head.
“But this.” Naga’s coils slide closer as he raises his head until it looms thirty feet above them—and he spreads his hood, nearly fifteen feet wide, darkening the lights of the ceiling behind it. He leans down, straight toward Cù Sìth, until they are nose to nose. Naga’s face dwarfs Cù, and the hood adds dramatically to the effect.
Cù fights the urge to run, channeling his fear into defiance. His red eyes flare.
“Cù Sìth,” Akhu warns Cù in his mind.
“One of the Cerberi, if I am not mistaken,” Naga observes. His tongue flicks out again, nearly brushing Cù’s face. “Smells foul, and tasty.” Cù’s distress manifests in a defensive growl.
“Cù,” Akhu cautions again. “Do not move.”
Naga is unaffected by Cù’s boldness. “I can only imagine you bring him as an offering, Lady Akhu.” Cù suppresses the urge to strike out, as ineffectual as he knows that would be.
“He is with us, My Lord,” says Kabir.
“Is that right?”
“He has proven his loyalty, as far as I can tell.”
“Shame.” He flicks his tongue over Cù again.
“If he slips up, though,” says Mac, “you’re welcome to him.”
“Then who am I, most humble Naga, to question the honorable Akhu, valiant Phanuel-Seval, and noble Zadkiel?” He retracts his hood. “I shall not pleasure my palate with Cerberus this day.” In spite of his previous bravado, Cù Sìth is visibly relieved. Naga smirks, a terrible sight on his huge scaled mouth. “Tomorrow, however, is another day.”
A boom and crash echoes to them through the halls. The sound is distant, but the implications significant.
Kabir says, “They’ve broken through.”
Naga seems excited after so long with nothing to do but sleep. “Let us fetch Gan-jiang and Mo-ye, and we will give Ahriman a proper welcome.” He starts toward the open doors.
“No!” shouts Kabir.
Naga halts, turning his head and raising the scaled arch of an eyebrow. “No?”
Kabir balks.
“What he means, Your Lordship,” Akhu intercedes, “is we do not recommend that course of action.”
“Why?” Naga asks.
Kabir says, “They have a bomb.”
“What is a ‘bomb’?” Naga asks. His access to language and terms old and new, through World Memory, gives him a pretty good idea what a bomb is, but he isn’t going to make it easy on Kabir.
“An explosive device.” Naga’s expression is blank. Kabir holds his fists together then splays his fingers and makes a sound like an explosion.
“I will crush it. I will swallow it whole.”
Akhu says, “Not a good idea, My Lord.”
“How powerful is this bomb?”
“Brahmastra class. Maybe higher.”
Naga considers the significance of that. “We will use the lake entrance, then circle around to engage them. Follow me.” And he’s off, slithering out the door.
The others exchange glances but say nothing. They wait for his full length to pass, which doesn’t take long considerin
g how fast he moves. Ninety feet long he would be if stretched nose to tail, and his back rises higher than the top of Akhu’s head before tapering down to his tail.
Not far from the circular hall where Naga slept, they come to another round door. Naga rises twenty feet and turns a golden knob with each hand simultaneously in different combinations, then slides his forked tongue into a hole at the height of his face, feels around inside, and pulls. There’s a soft click and the door rolls aside.
Naga leads them through his armory, a long room with rack upon rack of swords with wavy blades, glaive polearms, and even what appear to be tubes of scale mail armor with short sleeves, fitted for snakes of various sizes and all quite large. None are sizable enough for Naga, however. These were made for his children.
* * *
Kleron has one of the snakes in a crushing embrace with his wings, his mouth clamped onto its neck. It emits a gasp of a hiss and goes limp. Kleron withdraws his fangs, allowing it to flop to the ground where its blood pools in the trampled snow.
Behind him, Ziz has a snake in his beak. He raises his head and gulps it down, alive and wriggling as it disappears down his gullet. Nearby, Xeco is plucking the eyes from the dead body of a third snake and tossing them into his mouth. A dozen locusts feed on the shredded remains of another.
The icy ground around the shaft entrance is spattered with blood and entrails, of snakes and men alike. All of the snakes are dead, and of the soldiers, only the wampyr policeman and nuclear weapons specialist remain alive.
Kleron wipes steaming snake blood from his mouth. “Arm the device,” he says, as if nothing has happened. The specialist looks at him with wide eyes, but the wampyr policeman shoves him toward the case.
* * *
In the center aisle of Naga’s armory is a rack in which hangs a harness with straps made of chain mail. Naga slithers through, slipping his arms into the harness, and pulls a lever on the far side. Such is the design of the device that the straps tighten and clasps snap into place. He slides further through, the harness detaching itself, then reverses direction, his head traveling along his body as only a snake can move, and rises before them.