The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery
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Shocked and horrified, Thoros grabbed Varanus and, with some struggle, forced her away. He retched and gagged, trying to spit out the offending poison, but it was too late. A few moments later, he clutched at his stomach and fell back onto the floor, writhing in pain. His body convulsed, and he screamed as his flesh began to boil from the inside. Soon the burning poison had forced its way to the surface, and it began to tear holes in Thoros’s flesh up and down his body. It was like the touch of the sun, only worse. Soon Thoros’s writhing slowed as his own strength gave out. He lay there unmoving, possibly dead or at least close to it, as what remained of his flesh corroded away, leaving behind little but ash and bone.
Varanus smiled at the sight. She had killed Thoros of Yerevan, one of the Living many times her senior. Vaclav’s death was avenged. That was something to be proud of.
And so, it was with great satisfaction that Varanus allowed herself to slip away into the darkness as her body gave out, finally succumbing to its injuries. The last thing she heard before oblivion was Ekaterine screaming her name.
And then there was silence.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
•
Christmas Day (Julian Calendar)
Turkestan
Iosef’s party reached the tomb in the small hours of Christmas morning, in the stifling darkness before dawn. There were no stars in the sky to supplement the new moon, and the darkness left even the Living almost blind. Iosef could sense to some degree the lay of the land just before each footfall, and both Sophio and Olga walked with what seemed to be no difficulty at all, never stumbling once; but all the same, Olga had made torches for them during the daylight hours so that they might see the tomb when they reached it.
While dark nights were not a rarity in winter, Iosef could not help but feel unnerved by the utter blackness that shrouded the land. It seemed somehow unnatural, like a cloud of ink suspended somewhere just above his head. The stars were there, but he was not allowed to see them.
By the flickering torchlight, Iosef saw the tomb of Arslan Khan as he came over a small rise in the land. It sat upon the shore, only a short distance from the cresting waves. It was a great pile of stones and earth that formed a dome perhaps two-dozen feet in every direction. It was certainly not the anonymous gravesite that Iosef had imagined. Something so large could not have been missed by passers by, and yet its location had somehow been lost to history. It seemed a miraculous thing.
“Here it is,” Sophio said, approaching the tomb. “For centuries I have dreamed of finding it.”
“The lost tomb of the failed conqueror,” Iosef agreed, joining her. He felt a hint of unease as he neared the tumble of stones, and he scolded himself for harboring such superstition. The dead were the dead, and that was all. “And yet, Arslan Khan’s very failure makes it all the more enticing. A man who by his very death caused one of the greatest armies in history to crumble....”
“Imagine how the world would be shaped if the Kara Keçi had won the day,” Sophio said softly. “The Mongols were horrifying in their brutality, but they granted liberty of faith, and they allowed commerce to flourish. In the wake of their bloodshed, there was a time of peace.”
“And it would not have been so with the Kara Keçi,” Olga said, approaching the two of them. “The horsemen of the Black Goat knew nothing but violence and death. Had Arslan Khan won the day, his empire would have stretched as far, if not further, and it would have witnessed nothing but the horrors of Kiev and Baghdad repeated again and again across the world. For the Black Goat desires nothing but blood, and so do its children.”
The way that Olga spoke unnerved Iosef, and he turned to look at her. The woman’s expression was serious, but her eyes flitted about, looking everywhere and never fixing upon one thing. Iosef knew that the very old were often peculiar in their habits, easily given to distraction, but distraction was not far from madness.
“Thank God such a thing does not exist,” he said, and waited to measure Olga’s reply.
Olga looked back at him with a “Hmm?” She seemed distracted as if she had only half heard him. But after a moment she smiled and said:
“Whether the demon exists or not is irrelevant. The history of the world is one endless litany of crimes committed by men who believe that something is true without any proof that it is. I do not fear the Black Goat, for I do not believe in it. But I think it is right to fear men who do believe in it, for when men believe in a thing, there is little they are not capable of doing in its name.”
She knelt down and picked up the skull of some horned animal that had been left upon the ground. The birds had picked it clean of flesh sometime in the past, though it must have been ages ago, for now the place was quiet and empty, shunned by all living things.
“We are in a place of death,” Olga mused, gazing at the skull. “We speak of mortals walking in the Shadow of Death, but this...this place is surely in its darkness.”
“Indeed,” Iosef said.
“Come,” Sophio said to them, taking them each by the arm, “let us find the door and open it. After seven hundred years, the Khan will no doubt enjoy a private audience again.”
There was a brief silence, and suddenly Olga began to laugh, though the sound was muffled by the heavy salt air.
“I have missed your company, Sophio,” she said, dropping the skull and walking with them around the tomb. “You are refreshing after so long in the world.”
“And yet, you do not tell me who you are,” Sophio replied.
“I am Olga,” Olga said. “And I shall tell you more presently.” She paused and looked over her shoulder into the darkness. “Once our business is concluded and we are on our way again.”
“And what if we are to remain for some time?” Iosef asked.
Olga glanced toward the dark sky and said, “I think that is unlikely.”
They found the entrance on the eastern side of the tomb, facing the sea. An archway of stones framed the doorway, but this was blocked by a single massive boulder that had been rolled into place in front of it.
“I see now why the Mongols were never able to open it,” Sophio said. “Twenty strong men could not manage it, I think.”
“Twenty men would not be able to push it at once,” Iosef noted. “However, I daresay the three of us can manage it well enough.”
Olga looked at him and said, “I like you, Young Iosef. Your boundless optimism is most inspiring.”
* * * *
It took them almost an hour, but working together, the three of them managed to pry the boulder loose from the doorway and push it onto its side a short distance away. As the tomb was opened, the air inside rushed out with a hiss. It held a foul odor, which made Iosef shudder. There was something unwholesome about it, a kind of corruption made stale by ages of abandonment.
The sea wind suddenly picked up again, blowing hard across the shore and making the torch flames flicker violently. Thankfully, it also cleared the air and dissipated the stench of the tomb. Iosef took a deep breath and exhaled.
“Shall we venture inside?” he asked.
“I think we shall,” Sophio told him. “One does not often have an opportunity such as this. We must take proper advantage of it.”
In the flickering torchlight, Olga sniffed the air and looked into the darkness, her eyes darting about again.
“Go ahead without me,” she said. “I must...see to something. I shall return before long.”
Sophio tilted her head and gazed off into the darkness. After a moment, she nodded and said, “Of course.”
Olga set her torch down on the ground and walked off into the darkness, staff in hand, sniffing the air and looking in all directions with a peering gaze.
“What was that about?” Iosef asked, when Olga had finally vanished.
“There is someone else here,” Sophio said. “Another one of the Living. And very o
ld. Our new friend Olga has gone to find whoever it may be.”
Iosef shuddered at Sophio’s words. He had known that there was another Shashavani lurking near the tomb—both Sophio and Olga had agreed on that point weeks ago—but to hear it said with so little concern unnerved him more than he had anticipated. And again he wondered at Olga’s true identity.
Was she Edith? Or was Edith the one waiting for them?
“Ah, but is she going to catch it or to join it against us?” he asked aloud.
“That remains to be seen,” Sophio answered. She looked at Iosef and smiled. “But whatever occurs, I will protect you. Have no fear.”
“I am only ever fearful for you, beloved,” Iosef told her. “Though I know there is no cause for it.”
Sophio touched her forehead to Iosef’s and murmured, “Truly, my love. Certainly less cause than for me to worry about you.” She kissed him tenderly and then said, “Come, let us see how Arslan Khan was put to rest.”
They laid their walking sticks against the doorway and went inside, holding their torches out for illumination. The burial chamber was a sort of long oval with an arched ceiling high enough that Iosef could stand without striking his head. It was a tremendous piece of engineering for a nomadic civilization, and Iosef wondered how long Arslan Khan’s subjects had labored to build it.
The tomb held a veritable treasure hoard; it was filled with chests of gold and precious stones, statues and silks, and other things looted from the trade caravans of the Silk Road. There were helmets and shields, shirts of armor, swords, bows, and spears propped against the walls, all proclaiming the Khan’s glory in life by their presence in death. Iosef examined one of the spears and found, to his great amazement, that it showed no signs of rust or decay. The other weapons and the armor pieces were the same, each perfectly preserved in defiance of time. But surely that was impossible.
At the far end of the tomb sat a long sarcophagus carved from stone and decorated with intricate images. Behind it, pressed against the wall, was the statue of some profane creature with the body of a man and the head of a four-horned goat. The workmanship was excellent and the statue almost lifelike, which made Iosef momentarily hesitant to approach.
But approach he did, with Sophio at his side. After all, carved stone and dead things could do no harm. Iosef knelt at the sarcophagus and lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in fine silks, lay a desiccated body, a corpse so withered that it was little more than bones wrapped in its own leather. This was surely Arslan Khan, for the body was dressed in expensive armor, and its hands clutched a finely made sword.
“Incredible,” Sophio whispered. “No attempts at mummification and yet flesh remains. Truly, we should be observing an ossuary, not this.”
“Given the state of the other relics, I am surprised not to find him wholly preserved,” Iosef said, only half joking. “I wonder what the secret of this can be.”
Sophio looked at him, smiled softly, and pulled Iosef’s hood up over his head.
“You will wonder longer if you remember to conceal yourself before the coming of sunlight,” she said. “It is almost dawn, and the doorway faces the rising sun. Be kind to me, and do not burn yourself to death in your excitement.”
Iosef chuckled and said, “As you wish, my love.”
He turned his eyes back toward the body and noticed a glint of metal that came from neither sword nor armor. Reaching down, he drew a small amulet made of a silvery metal from the folds of silk that wrapped the corpse.
“Now then, what do we have here...?” he mused. He tested the weight of the amulet and found it to be very light. “Aluminium?” He looked at Sophio. “I think that this is aluminium.”
“Impossible,” said Sophio. “How could a medieval people have obtained such a metal?”
Iosef pondered the question and raised the amulet into the light. On one side he saw a series of markings that may have been writing, though he did not recognize them as letters. On the reverse was a curious emblem: a lidless eye surrounded by the ouroboros, a serpent devouring its own tail. It had not been carved or forged, but rather cast and then stamped with such precision and cleanliness of detail that it could only have been done by machine. Even the lettering on the back was clearly marked like the work of a typewriter, not some artisan scratching at hot metal.
Iosef sighed and shook his head, disappointed by the realization that the amulet could only be a forgery.
“You are correct,” he said to Sophio. “This was not made by a medieval people. It must have been placed here by someone in recent years.”
“Then we are not the first to open the tomb,” Sophio noted, her tone ever so slightly disappointed. “That is unfortunate.”
“Still, everything else appears to be untouched,” Iosef reminded her. “Whoever left this trinket for us to find seems not to have disturbed anything else.”
That particular realization made him uncomfortable.
“It could only be one of the Living,” Sophio said.
“Perhaps our new friend,” Iosef suggested, his tone emphasizing that he remained skeptical regarding Olga’s motives.
“Perhaps.” Sophio frowned. “Or perhaps it was Teimuraz, playing some manner of trick upon us. He claims not to have entered, but we know that he was here.”
Sophio might have said more, but she suddenly stopped and raised her head like a wolf scenting something.
“Teimuraz has indeed played a trick upon you,” called a voice from behind them, “but it has nothing to do with that bauble. At my instruction, he has induced you to come to me, Little Sophio, that there might be a reckoning for past sins.”
Alarmed, Sophio stood and turned toward the doorway. Iosef did likewise and saw the figure of a man standing there, clad in the dusty robes of a pilgrim, illuminated by the murky gray light of pre-dawn. The man stood some five and a half feet tall, and his body was broad and powerful, though he was clearly suffering from starvation and privation of the road. His hair was dark and curly, and he wore a thick, if neatly tended, beard.
“You!” Sophio gasped. “I killed you! I cut off your head myself! You are dead!”
“I am far from dead,” replied Basileios the Accursed, “despite your best efforts. I learned that night so very long ago—the night that you betrayed me to my enemies—that by a certain age, we Living become quite...resilient. A beheading, which is so efficacious in the young, becomes a mere inconvenience to the old. There is but one way to kill us, Little Sophio, and it is a trick I intend to show you firsthand....”
Sophio stepped forward and held a hand out in front of Iosef.
“Stay behind me, Iosef,” she said, as she slowly advanced toward Basileios.
“My love, no...” Iosef protested, advancing with her. “Let us face him together.”
Sophio placed two fingertips against Iosef’s chest and stopped him in place with but a little effort. Having made her point, she looked into Iosef’s eyes and said, “Stay behind me, please. I cannot fight well if I must worry about you.”
Iosef nodded reluctantly and stepped back. Sophio touched his cheek and smiled. Then she turned again and walked toward Basileios, her long braids writhing behind her like serpents.
Basileios smiled as she approached and said, “Come to me, child. Come to your death.”
“I have already killed you once, Basileios,” Sophio answered, flexing her fingers. “I will do so again. And this time, I will let the birds of the air and the fish of the sea feast upon your bones.”
Sophio reached Basileios, and they fell upon each other, clawing and striking like wild animals, landing blows that bruised flesh and cracked bone. Iosef watched from the other side of the tomb, forcing himself not to join the fight. It was his instinct to rush to Sophio’s protection, but that instinct was foolish. Sophio was so much stronger that Iosef would only be a distraction, and one that might prove fatal.
It was difficult to keep track of the fighting, for Sophio and Basileios moved with unnatural speed and precision, striking, countering, advancing, retreating, all with thousands upon thousands of tiny calculated movements that together formed an attack. They seemed almost to flicker as they fought, their limbs moving and working independently but somehow achieving a greater purpose.
Then Basileios took an opening and grabbed Sophio by the throat. Before Sophio could break free, Basileios bounded toward the nearest wall and slammed her repeatedly into the stone, striking hard enough to stun her, if only for the moment.
In his mind, Iosef knew that it was not the end, that Sophio would break free and carry on fighting, but in his heart, he was overpowered by fear for her.
“No!” he shouted, and against Sophio’s orders and his own better judgment, he rushed at Basileios, grabbing one of the swords in passing.
Basileios glanced toward Iosef in surprise, and Sophio took the moment to strike her arms against the joint of Basileios’s elbow, forcing him to drop her. Snarling, Basileios kicked Sophio savagely in the stomach and then fell back, forcing the dislocated joint back into place so that it would heal.
“Iosef, no!” Sophio cried, looking toward him. “Stay back!”
“I think perhaps a distraction is in order,” Basileios said.
He grabbed one of the spears that lay against the wall, turned, and threw it at Iosef in one fluid motion. In the blink of an eye, Iosef felt pain in his chest as he was hurtled backward. His back struck the statue that stood over the sarcophagus, and the spear drove deep into the stone, pinning him in place.
“No!” Sophio shouted, her tone the same desperate one that Iosef had used only moments before. “Iosef!”