Scion of the Serpent Page 15

  He heard something else. Footsteps, many of them, running toward them from both directions.

  Wosret grinned. “I thought four good men would be enough to take you. I was wrong. But I had made allowances for error.” Wosret faded back as half a dozen armed and armored men brushed past him. A like number appeared from the other direction. Doubtless Wosret had held them back for fear of spooking Anok before the trap closed.

  The three Ravens and their new barbarian companion fell together in the middle, guarding each other’s backs. There was only the briefest pause before the White Scorpions pressed their attack.

  The market echoed with the clashing of swords and the shouts of battle. The only advantage the Ravens had was that there wasn’t room for the entire dozen warriors to attack them all at once.

  They were holding their own, but Anok knew it wouldn’t last. They were already tiring, and their new attackers were fresh. Sooner or later they would start to fall. Probably sooner.

  Between the attacking men, he caught a glimpse of Wosret’s smiling face.

  Anok growled. It would not end like this!

  Anok felt his fear, his reason, his very humanity slipping off him like a snake shedding its skin. His swords flashed, again and again. He slogged forward into the attackers like a man wading into mud.

  Swords clashed, mouths, faces contorted as the attackers shouted and screamed, but Anok heard only the pounding of his own heart in his ears. Time seemed to slow as one man fell, then two.

  A sword sliced across his biceps, but he felt nothing but rage.

  The Scorpions were falling back now, out of fear as much as any physical challenge.

  Anok saw Wosret again, his smile gone. The gang lord’s mouth hung open with concern. He began to back away.

  I can’t let him escape!

  Anok slammed his right sword down on the nearest attacker’s helmet, where it struck like a hammer on a bell. The White Scorpion fell forward, and as he did, Anok leapt over his head, landing on his back, using him as a human springboard.

  Anok dived through the air, somersaulting over the next few attackers, until nothing stood between him and Wosret.

  Wosret’s eyes went wide with terror. He turned to run, but Anok caught him.

  Wosret swung his sword weakly, and Anok knocked it aside with a mighty blow, then hooked the guard with his other sword and yanked the blade from Wosret’s hand.

  Wosret tried to run, but again, Anok was too fast. He found himself blocked by a blade at his throat. He tried to turn, but a second blade swung in front of him. The blades slid against each other, boxing in Wosret’s neck, pulling him back against Anok’s chest, until Wosret finally couldn’t move at all.

  He yelled, “Scorpions! Watch as I slice off your leader’s head and feed it to his neck!”

  Anok saw Teferi look over at him, a look of concern on his blood-spattered features.

  Anok didn’t care.

  The old man had to die!

  He saw Sheriti, her fine gown covered with blood and gore, the long, curved blade held in her two hands. The look in her eyes.

  All this danger.

  She was worried only for him.

  Anok roared in rage, then sighed loudly.

  “Drop your swords, back away, and he will live! I pledge my friends will not harm you.”

  “I am not your friend,” yelled Fallon, still lusting for the fight.

  “You’ll leave them be, Fallon!”

  Something in his tone of voice gave even the barbarian woman pause. She lowered her sword slightly, frowning.

  Wosret grunted. “Do as he says. His word is usually good.”

  So you’d think! But Anok said nothing.

  The men dropped their swords and began to back away.

  “This isn’t over,” said Wosret.

  “Yes,” said Anok, “it is.” The words hung in his throat, but he forced them out. “I’m going to join my old friend Dejal, as an acolyte in the Cult of Set.”

  Sheriti gasped.

  Teferi looked grim but held his tongue.

  “Even the White Scorpions wouldn’t want to cross the Temple of Set, would they?”

  “No,” said Wosret, reluctantly, “we wouldn’t. Assuming you’re not bluffing.”

  “I’m not. But hear me now. You are through with me and mine. If you come after me again, there aren’t enough strong arms in the White Scorpions, in all of Odji, to protect you from my wrath! Do you understand?” He tightened his blades across Wosret’s throat until blood began to ooze from the contact points.

  “I understand,” Wosret gasped. “Now let me go!”

  Anok uncrossed the swords and pushed Wosret away. The old man bent to reach for his sword, but Anok barked at him, “Leave it!”

  Wosret stood slowly, trying to maintain his dignity. He stepped over the body of one of his fallen men and walked away.

  Anok watched him go.

  Sheriti ran up, grabbing his arm, her fingers cutting into his aching flesh. “You didn’t mean that, did you? You’d never join the cult!”

  He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I’m doing what has to be done for the safety of us all.”

  His friends were right there with him, Sheriti actually touching him, but Anok had never felt more alone.

  13

  THERE REMAINED, BEYOND Sheriti’s distress, one other problem with Anok’s plan to join the cult. Dejal had failed to respond to his messages.

  Doubtless, Dejal was deeply involved in his initiation into the cult. Perhaps the messages were not reaching him. Perhaps he was too busy to respond, or did not take Anok’s intentions seriously. It didn’t matter. Without Dejal’s sponsorship, Anok, as one of mixed Stygian blood, he had little chance of being taken into the temple as an acolyte.

  Adding to his impatience was the fact that he was largely confined to the Nest. He didn’t dare let Lord Wosret or any of the White Scorpions see him on the street without acolyte robes. He had even considered stealing some, though that would likely lead to all the wrong kind of attention from the cult. So he sent Teferi to do his errands, and waited.

  If ever there was a time when he could have used female company, it was then. But Fallon had gone her own way when it became clear he wasn’t interested in her dubious trade venture, and Sheriti had vanished upstairs and was apparently avoiding him.

  Well, if so, good. Perhaps she was packing to return to the Temple of Scribes. That was what he wanted after all.

  Wasn’t it?

  A knock came at the Nest’s outside door, and Anok immediately took up his swords. Only after a series of other knocks—a code they’d worked out beforehand—was Anok sure it was Teferi. Anok opened the door cautiously, careful not to expose himself to the street, and allowed Teferi to slip inside. He carried a large basket, which he put down on the table in the middle of the room.

  “I’ve sent another message to Dejal. This time I bribed a cook who works in the temple kitchens. If all goes well, Dejal will get the note you wrote with his noon meal.”

  Anok nodded. He wasn’t hopeful. He was relatively sure at least one or two of the previous messages had gotten through, but there had been no response.

  “You’re sure he can read well enough to understand what you wrote?” Teferi was illiterate, at least in Stygian, and had shown little interest when Anok had offered to teach him to read and write along with Sheriti.

  “A certain skill in reading is necessary for acolytes to the cult. Acolytes are required to study the books of Set, and those who would advance to the priesthood must study various books of magic.”

  Teferi grimaced. “Reading. It never leads to anything good. Anyway, you seem to know a lot about the cult.”

  “Dejal used to talk about it sometimes. He’d learned quite a bit about the cult from spying on his father.”

  “Spying. Probably a required activity of Stygian nobles.”

  “Careful, Teferi. I’m half-Stygian, too.”

  “That’s what worries me, An
ok. Your blood is—pardon, there’s no better way to say it—tainted with corruption and dark magic. I’ve watched Dejal, seen what Stygian blood can do to a man. I’ve heard my grandfather tell stories of what happened to my own people, those who did not escape Kush before the Sikugiza—the dark time. For my ancestors, even coming to Stygia as slaves may have been better, for now we are free, and those whose blood is corrupted will never be free, until the end of time.”

  “Thanks, old friend,” Anok said sarcastically, “I feel so much better.”

  Teferi removed a large bundle from the top of the basket. “I appeal to that part of you that is not Stygian. Turn your back on this insanity, brother. The Cult of Set will destroy you.”

  “Or I will destroy it.”

  Teferi laughed. “They say the Cult of Set has lasted since the first Stygians rose up and destroyed the Old Ones. And brave Anok will end it all in a day?”

  Anok sat heavily on the bench next to the table and watched Teferi unwrapping the bundle. “Then perhaps I can wound it a little, or at least those responsible for the death of my father. Perhaps I can at least learn why he was killed.”

  “And that will help you how? He will be just as dead. Leave Stygia with me, or go to the Temple of Scribes with Sheriti. Or go adventuring with the barbarian woman if that is what you wish. But forget the cult.”

  “I can never forget them, Teferi. Not if I travel to the edge of the world, not if I live a thousand lifetimes. And I can’t leave Stygia either. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. It’s in my blood.”

  “We’re back to that again, then. Well, here—” He removed a jug of wine from the bundle, followed by bread, dried fruit, dried fish, nuts, a small jar of honey, and flaky pastries from the market. “At least you won’t starve while waiting.”

  Teferi reached back into the basket and brought out a bundle of dark brown clothing made of coarse, foreign cloth. “I bought these from a caravan driver. This is what nomads from the Eastern Desert wear. The headcloth and face wraps will disguise you enough to travel the streets, if you’re careful.”

  Anok reached for a piece of flatbread, ripped off a hunk, and put it in his mouth. “Thank you, brother. You are better to me than I deserve.”

  Teferi grinned just a little. “Of that I am certain.”

  As Anok chewed, he thought back to what Dejal had told him of the cult. There had been a time when he’d taken great pride in his forbidden knowledge and enjoyed the even greater sin of sharing it with an outsider like Anok. Unfortunately, Anok had shown only a little interest at the time. He’d been trying to forget about the cult and his father’s death, and Dejal’s gleeful stories had only been a painful reminder.

  Anok stopped eating and looked up in surprise. “The things you forget,” he said, tossing the rest of the bread on the table and rushing to an old trunk that sat in the corner of the room. The lid opened with a groan of its leather hinges, and Anok began to root around inside. It was full of clothing, trinkets, scrolls, and bits of parchment and papyrus. Finally, he found one of the latter, a piece of papyrus as long as his forearm, twisted into a cylinder and tied with a red piece of silk ribbon.

  He brought the sheet to the table, pulled off the ribbon, and carefully unrolled the crackling papyrus.

  Teferi glanced down at it. It was covered with crudely inked lines. “That’s not writing. Is it a map?”

  “Of a sort. This shows the layout of the Temple of Set. It’s a copy Dejal long ago made of one he ‘borrowed’ from his father. He once plotted, not very seriously I think, to break into the temple and abscond with some of the cult’s minor treasures. The map is old, but I doubt the temple has changed significantly in the last twenty generations. With this, assuming that it’s accurate—and that Dejal copied it faithfully—I should be able to find my way to the quarters where the acolytes-in-training live.”

  Teferi looked alarmed. “You can’t just walk into the Temple of Set, Anok, at least beyond the public areas.”

  Anok grinned. “I won’t walk. I’ll sneak.” He ran his hand over the sheet. “In any case, that would be a last resort if Dejal doesn’t respond to our latest message.”

  Teferi sighed. “Then it seems virtually a certainty.”

  Anok sighed and nodded. “I wish I could say otherwise. Still, there is a chance. This note is different. I thought perhaps Dejal was reluctant to return to the Nest alone. Perhaps he suspects there are hard feelings here—”

  “Could be,” said Teferi.

  Anok gave him a disapproving frown, then continued, “—and suspects he might be walking into some kind of trap. Or perhaps at this stage of his initiation into the cult he is unable to travel freely. This one asks him only to scratch a cross mark into the curbstones in front of the temple, near the great statue of the snake. If you find such a mark, it will indicate that he has read my note and is willing to communicate. We can go from there.”

  Teferi sighed. “I suppose you want me, to go check for the mark now?”

  “Yes, and tomorrow as well if you find nothing today.” He produced another rolled piece of papyrus and handed it to Teferi. “This note has more specific instructions on how we can communicate indirectly. If you find the mark, bribe your contact to deliver it to him, then let me know at once.”

  Teferi plucked a dried date from the food bundle and took a bite before heading toward the door. “As you say, then.” He paused at the door, looking at the assortment of tools and weapons leaning there. He reached out and took a long shaft of wood tipped with a stone head.

  It was the spear Anok had found in the desert. He hadn’t noticed it there before, but given the clutter, that was hardly surprising.

  Teferi turned. “We found you with this in the Sea of Sand. I have been meaning to ask you; where did you get it?”

  “I found it along the caravan road. It was probably dropped there by accident.”

  “Perhaps. But this is not just a spear, Anok. It is a Usafiri spear, like the one made by the young men of my tribe before going on their own journeys into the wilderness.”

  Anok shrugged. “You did say that—Jangwa, was it?—would provide what I needed? Perhaps he was watching out for me after all.” Anok didn’t seriously believe that for a moment, but he thought perhaps that it would humor Teferi.

  Teferi only frowned and held the spear up, pointing at the band of carvings in the shaft, just below the bindings that held the stone point. “These are the traditional markings carved into every such spear. They invoke Jangwa, and are said to bring luck to the traveler.” But then he flipped the spear around and pointed to another ring of carvings near the other end of the shaft.

  Anok stared and blinked in surprise. “Those weren’t there. Only the first ring of carvings was on the spear when I found it.”

  Teferi frowned. “I was afraid of that. No young man of my people would carve anything into the back of his spear. To do so would bring only bad luck. And these symbols represent Bovutupu, Jangwa’s enemy, a trickster who leads travelers to their doom.”

  “Well then,” said Anok smugly, “he failed.”

  “Do not scoff, Anok. You took off the face paint, didn’t you? You were visited by other spirits in the desert.”

  “No,” he said, lying, “of course not!”

  Teferi just stared at him.

  “Look, I was sweating, falling, and crawling through the sand for three days. After a time, it rubbed off.”

  “You did not consort with evil spirits?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Teferi took a deep breath and let it out as a sign. “Very well then. But think carefully on what you may have seen out there, Anok. Visions, they are not always what they seem.” He slipped out the door, and Anok bolted it behind him.

  “And sometimes,” Anok said to the empty room, “visions are exactly what they appear to be.”

  A sudden knocking startled him. It took Anok a moment to realize that it came not from the door he’d just locked but from the trapdo
or leading upstairs. It was followed by a clattering of the latch and a squeak as the trapdoor was pulled back.

  Sheriti padded softly down the stairs on bare feet. She wore a simple shift made of white silk, belted at the waist. The thin silk fluttered as she moved, the bottom of it fell just below her hips. It made her look younger and more innocent than she’d seemed in a long time. She was a woman now, and her appearance only made his heart ache for an earlier, simpler time.

  She tilted her head, looking at him. “Do you mind company?”

  Anok shrugged and sat on a padded reclining couch near the front wall. “I thought you were angry with me.”

  She chewed her lip. “I’m confused, Anok. I’m worried about you. I am not angry.” She walked over and sat next to him on the couch, quite near, in fact. He was aware of the spicy perfume she wore in her hair. “This is our fault, Anok. I have been convinced it was so since you went to the desert. We, Teferi and I, made ready to move on to new lives, foolishly confident that Anok, who had always cared for us, would just as easily care for himself.”

  “I will care for myself,” he said, trying not to let the annoyance he felt creep into his voice. “I am caring for myself.”

  “Really?” She put her hand softly on his shoulder. “You’ve nearly killed yourself in the desert. You’ve picked a fight with one of the most powerful gang lords on the streets of Odji. And now you’ve announced your intention to join a cult you have professed to hate as long as I’ve known you. How is that caring for yourself?”

  He had no answer for that. Instead, he just looked away.

  She was silent for a time as well. Then she said, “Anok, perhaps I shouldn’t ask this, and you don’t have to answer. But since the night Dejal left us, I’ve wondered. You spent the night hidden with the Cimmerian woman.”

  Anok glanced at her. She’d said quite a bit, none of which added up to a question. “Yes?”

  “Did you lie with her that night?”

  He considered. Should he answer? Or should he just lie? What would one more falsehood be at that point, if it preserved her feelings?