The Empire of the Dead (The Godsblood Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “The nine gods are dead,” said Jarek.

  “No, they are merely asleep.” She pointed at him. “Look at your shoulder. Where are the cuts from last night? Healed. By you? No, by Alok! Tell me he’s dead when your flesh still knits itself whole!”

  Jarek growled. “His voice has been silenced in the golden sanctum of Rekkidu, and his images have been buried head-down beneath Uros’ Golden Way. They’re stepped on by all as they come and go. No one raises their voice in his praise, no one sacrifices in his honor, no one prays for his mercy. He is dead – dead in my heart, in my mind, in my spirit! If anyone could feel him, it would be me, his son, but it has been two decades since I last heard his voice.” He loomed over Annara, fists closing and opening. “So, don’t presume to lecture me about my god.”

  “Blind, both of you.” She glared right back up at Jarek. “Blinded by your pride, sulking like children.”

  “Annara,” said Acharsis, but she cut him off.

  “No. Listen to me, both of you. You think I’m furious because you’re abandoning my son. Yes, of course I am, but it’s not just that. I’m furious because you’re recoiling from a chance to prove yourselves, to serve your gods! You say they’re dead, but if they are, it’s only because you, their champions, have turned your backs on them.”

  Jarek started walking back to his horse. “I’ll not be lectured. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” She ran forward and interposed herself between him and his mount, then pulled back her sleeve to reveal her maroon tattoos. “Do you know who I was before Irella cast down the gods? I was a priestess of Scythia, raised from birth in her mysteries, and while her blood doesn’t run through mine, I learned enough to recognize the gods’ work when I see it.”

  She stabbed a finger at Jarek’s chest. “And I see it now. Both of you have been as dead as your gods these past years. Skulking and hiding and wasting your lives. Waiting for what? For this moment! Here you are again, two demigods drawn together for the first time in decades, given a purpose, set on a path. And you refuse?”

  She raked both Jarek and Acharsis with her gaze. “For fear of what? Death? You’re already as good as dead! But it’s not death you’re afraid of, is it? You’d have died happily killing a few dozen raiders.” She slowed down, figuring it out, and Acharsis wanted to leap onto his mount and kick it into a gallop before she could speak further.

  “Yesu said that he was headed to Rekkidu. Which isn’t Uros, but close enough. You’re afraid of Irella herself. Of your past. Of facing your failures.” She nodded as she spoke.

  Jarek snarled and stepped around her, crouching to undo his mount’s hobble.

  “Don’t you see?” Desperation entered her voice for the first time. “This is your chance to do something, to act in your god’s honor, to redeem the years you lost in the wilderness.”

  Jarek stood and hoisted himself onto the saddle. His horse sidestepped, then turned around as he pulled on the reins. He didn’t even bother responding, but instead kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks and began to ride away.

  “Acharsis, say something!” She swung toward him.

  “Say what?” He felt like a dried well, the depths of which were arid and barren.

  She cursed and ran a dozen steps after Jarek. “If you ride away from this, you’re a coward! You don’t fail Elu; you fail your god!”

  Jarek kept riding.

  Acharsis knew he had to silence her, stop her from yelling and drawing attention, but he couldn’t move. He felt trapped in amber, frozen by her words, by the horror and self-loathing she had laid bare.

  Had the dead gods drawn him back? Was Ekillos behind his movements? Once, he would have said yes without hesitation, but it had been so long since he’d felt his god close by, so many years that he’d been so terribly alone…

  Annara slumped, then fell to her knees, shoulders rounded.

  Irella, he thought. Her pale, lithesome body had haunted his nightmares all these years: her high breasts, her ebon hair, her black eyes like those of a bird. He thought of drawing her attention, impinging upon her awareness, and his skin crawled. With the kingship safely ensconced in Nekuul’s ziggurat in Uros, there would be no limit to her power. She could snuff him out without trying.

  What Annara was proposing was madness. They had tried and almost succeeded to rescue her son, a truly valiant effort. Nothing worth turning into a song, but, then, the world was no longer fit for songs. It was best to fade away once more, to start a new business somewhere, to watch the gold coins pile up, to use the ragged remains of his charm to draw warm bodies to his bed and while away the last of his years in comfort and anonymity.

  “Fuck,” he said fiercely, and ran over to his horse. He undid the hobble, then leaped up awkwardly, swung a leg over, grabbed the reins and kicked the horse in the ribs. It broke into a gallop, nearly casting him off, but he held on and rode up to where Jarek was cantering, pounding after the man for all he was worth till he was abreast with him and could reach out and grab his reins and pull their horses to a stop.

  “Let go,” said Jarek. His eyes were murderous.

  “Come,” said Acharsis. “Come die with me.”

  “She’s tainted you with her madness,” said Jarek.

  “Perhaps,” grinned Acharsis. “But, what of it? It’s been too long since I savored a little craziness. Too long since I’ve really lived. I barely know how to do it anymore. So, come.”

  “There’s no hope of succeeding, even if we kill Yesu and his men. We’ll be hunted down like rats, brought back before Irella, humiliated, tortured, and then murdered and raised to rule our cities like she’s wanted all along.”

  “Probably,” said Acharsis, and a wild humor surged through him – that old, irrepressible joy that had led him and his followers into so many wars and battles and disasters.

  “Then, why go?” Jarek scowled at him. “Why deliver ourselves to her? Why face an eternity of slavery?”

  “Why? Because it’ll be fun.” Acharsis’ grin widened. “Fun to live again, to scheme, to plot, to act on a stage greater than our own. And because I feel like spitting in her eye, even if it’s just once. Even if she barely notices. Fuck her, Jarek. Fuck her and her empire, her armies of the dead, her slave cities and her power. She killed our brothers and sisters. Amelagar and Numias, Kinziru and Golden Piamat. We owe it to them. We owe it to ourselves.”

  Jarek sat back. “You mean this. You mean to go and get yourself caught and killed and enslaved.”

  “Nothing’s certain. She doesn’t know we’re alive. Who knows, maybe we can surprise her.”

  “How?”

  “That, we can discuss. But, yes, I mean to do this. Come with me, brother. Let’s get what little revenge we can carve out of her flesh.”

  Jarek stared down at his hands.

  “Come,” said Acharsis one last time, his voice almost a whisper. “I tire of pretending to be dead. Let’s live, even if it’s just for a little while.”

  Jarek scowled. “You and your damned silver tongue. I trusted it once, and I lost everything.”

  Acharsis nodded. “True. But now we both have nothing left to lose. So, what do you risk? Nothing.”

  Jarek stared out over the undulating steppe. With his shoulders hunched and the reins clenched in his fists, he looked as if he were peering into a storm. Finally, he sighed and turned his horse around.

  They rode back to Annara in silence, and as she watched them approach, she covered her mouth and nose with both hands, and tears ran down her cheeks. They rode slowly, so that she would have time to gather herself. When they finally dismounted, she was wiping the last tears away and stood stern and fierce once more.

  “So,” she said. “Do we strike Yesu tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” Acharsis said as he dismounted. “Yes, we could descend upon him in a storm of fury, and slaughter them all - maybe - but that might not be the best option.”

  “No? Then, what?”
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  Acharsis rubbed at his jaw, feeling the stubble that had grown over the past few days. He limped a small distance away, picturing the route to Rekkidu.

  “What do you think?” he heard Annara whisper.

  “I think we should give him a moment,” Jarek rumbled in response. “That glib bastard once convinced a demon to dance with him. Let’s see what he comes up with.”

  Acharsis stopped, hands on hips, and stared out at nothing, allowing his thoughts to ramble, to drift. Their odds of taking Yesu without a casualty on their side were slim.

  The leech would be taking the wagons to Rekkidu, Jarek’s former city, where Alok, the god of the earth and stone, had once ruled supreme. It was too convenient a stop for Yesu to avoid it. He would deposit his dead at Nekuul’s temple, and then prepare to continue on, to Uros, perhaps, to present Elu to Irella.

  “Perhaps,” he said, turning around to regard his companions. “Perhaps we can be a little more subtle. What if we trail Yesu to Rekkidu and then steal Elu out from under his nose when he thinks himself the safest?”

  “No,” said Jarek. “I’m not going back into my city.”

  “Right now, he’s on the alert, wary of unaligned raiders, beasts of the steppe, even demons. But once he’s within Rekkidu’s golden walls, he’ll relax. His vigilance will grow lax. We wait till he’s spent, till he’s been beaten down by one too many orgies, and then we’ll slip in and out, taking Elu from his care without his being the wiser.”

  “How is that easier than just attacking them on the road?” asked Annara.

  “It’s not easier, but the nature of the challenge is in our favor. Right now, even with Jarek’s talents, we’re at a grave disadvantage against a priest of Nekuul and twelve alert death watch guards. But in the city? There, they’ll relax, drink some wine, grow confident of Irella’s protection. That’s when we strike, and when we’re gone? They won’t know whom to track, whom to blame! We’ll be one amongst thousands, as opposed to being out here all alone on the steppe. We’ll disappear into the crowd and flee in safety.”

  “No,” said Jarek. “Don’t ask me to go back.”

  “Why not?” Acharsis cocked his head to one side. “It’s not the city you once knew. Most of those people have died of old age. Alok is gone. Yes, I’ve heard that your Akkodaisis rules in Irella’s name, which is awkward, given that he’s your brother, but everything else has changed. You’ll barely recognize it.”

  Jarek ground his teeth and pressed his palm against his forehead. “You don’t understand. Would you march back into your old city?”

  Acharsis pretended to consider it. “Yes.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Not even you. To pass through the Basalt Gate, to walk the Way of Stone, to gaze up at Alok’s ziggurat and know that my dead brother rules in my stead, that his presence has defiled the sacred spaces -”

  Jarek turned away, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he fought for breath.

  “Jarek?” Annara took two steps forward and stopped.

  “I’m fine,” said Jarek.

  He fell into a squat, balancing on the balls of his feet, face buried in his hands. He ground his forehead against the bases of his palms, eyes squeezed shut. His breath came in shallow pants, the muscles of his broad back and shoulders clenching and writhing as if he were fighting himself.

  They stood in awkward silence until finally Jarek lowered his hands. He blinked and grimaced up at the sky, then shook his head as if to clear it and rose. His breathing grew more regular, and with a sigh he stared down at his hands. “Perhaps you should both go on without me. I’m more broken than you know.”

  Acharsis hesitated. “Is it Alassa who hurts you so?”

  “Perhaps,” said Jarek. “I buried her and performed the rites. But ever since she died, I’ve had these attacks.”

  “She was your wife, wasn’t she?” asked Annara.

  Jarek nodded.

  “Ekillos no longer blesses me with his power,” said Acharsis. “But he was the god of the apsus, the father of knowledge and exorcism. True, I might have been better known in my time for enjoying his powers of sexual prowess, but I know the rites. I could try to send her spirit to the netherworld if you ask me to.”

  Annara stepped around Jarek and reached up to take his head in both her hands, cupping his face even as he averted his gaze. “You saved us when the lakhar attacked. You came down from your mountain. You turned your horse around just now and agreed to continue. That marks you as brave, and all the more so for the spirits and wounds you wrestle against.”

  Jarek went to protest, but she cut in softly. “We need you, Jarek.”

  “I’m not the man I once was.”

  “No matter. We need you, the man who stands here before me. Please. I have faith in you, even if you lack it yourself.”

  Jarek sighed and reached up, removing her hands gently. “All right. Acharsis, attempt your exorcism. But I’ll come.”

  “Very well,” said Acharsis. “We’ll do it at the edge of the first field we find. Exorcisms are more powerful when performed at boundaries, so we’ll do it at dusk as well. Do you have anything of hers on you?”

  Jarek reached under his shirt and pulled out his amulets, selected one and pulled it off. “She made this one for me when we were married. It has a lock of her hair within the clay.”

  It was beautifully crafted, beaded with lapis lazuli and amber. “This will do. I can’t -” Acharsis paused and took a deep breath, then continued. “I can’t promise my rite will work, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you,” said Jarek.

  Acharsis shook himself as if rousing from a slumber. “And who knows what we’ll find in Rekkidu afterwards? Besides Elu, that is. It’s been decades since I’ve visited as well. With a little luck, we might find some redemption.”

  Jarek cracked a broken smile and shook his head. “Unlikely.”

  “But within the realm of possibility?” asked Acharsis.

  “Fine. Within the realm.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Annara. She unhobbled her horse and swung up onto the seat with more grace than either of the men could muster. “Now, enough talk. Let’s hurry ahead so we can perform this rite and reach Rekkidu when Yesu does. I want to be there when the bastard rides to his doom.”

  Chapter 6

  The golden walls of Rekkidu rose before them, burnished by the setting sun, an endless parade of low, blocky towers connected by recessed battlements. Even as the sight caused Jarek’s heart to tighten, he saw the changes. The river Leonis, which had always flowed slowly past the right flank of the city as if stunned by its own majesty, had been suborned to the city’s defenses such that Rekkidu was now surrounded by a broad moat of placid water. Flat bridges crossed this moat to the ancient gates, and it was over one such that Yesu’s wagons were now rolling.

  Jarek and his companions led their mounts slowly in the midst of the crowd that had thickened as they drew close to the great city, no longer riding miles behind the death wagons but drawing ever closer so as not to lose them once they’d entered the city. Jarek’s jaw ached from how tightly he had been clenching it. Though he’d not slept the night before – he’d sat up with Acharsis as he performed the lengthy ritual – watching Yesu enter his former city felt like a personal affront and buried his exhaustion beneath a wave of anger.

  A flock of shatra birds flew slowly across the evening sky, their desolate cries bringing goosebumps to his skin and reminding him of dusks spent on the palace terraces. Most of the traffic was leaving the city, merchants and farmers returning home after a day spent in the markets, and it was against this tide that they were walking.

  Oh, Alok, endless in your depths and slow in your fury, hear me now. I am returned, flesh of your flesh, shard of your spirit. Hear me, Alok, and know my contrition, my misery, my despair.

  There was no response, just as he’d felt nothing the night before, at the culmination of Acharsis’ exorcism.

  Of course there wa
s none. Alok had been dead these past twenty years. Still, Jarek bit down the bitter disappointment, the pain, the acute sting of bereavement, all over again. This city was but a shell. Gone was its sacred heart. Gone was its righteousness. The dead ruled over the teeming thousands, and Jarek was not returning home, for his home was forever gone.

  The bridge was broad and creaked underfoot, the boards protesting and dipping under the weight of the pedestrians and carts, revealing the still green water of the moat in which floated a collection of ordure and trash. Palm trees lined the banks, their fronds an almost shocking green after the endless duns and browns of the landscape.

  More, the press of bodies was discomforting. After decades spent alone or visiting the fifty residents of Shan, Jarek found this sudden immersion in humanity overwhelming. A number of Rekkiduan porters were laboring over the bridge, bowed down under heavy crates, while the bearers of a sedan chair bedecked with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli waited impatiently behind them; a dark-skinned Meluhhuan lady was peering out through the curtains to see what was holding her up. A half-dozen Hracka nomads were passing her by, wrapped in their white capes, and an Urosian youth trotted past them all, followed by his dragoman. All of them were forced aside as an elderly priest of Nekuul emerged from the great gate, his entourage composed of the dead.

  Jarek rose to his tiptoes to watch the death wagons roll through the Basalt Gate, only to have his view blocked by a banner borne by a regiment of Irella’s death watch. He immediately shrank back down and looked away, elbowing Acharsis as he did. Luckily, the other caught on quickly and ducked his head as the guards marched by.

  They finally reached the Basalt Gate, and Jarek couldn’t repress a shiver as he passed beneath its arching grandeur. Two massive banners were hung on each side, pitch black but for the gray symbol of Nekuul, each at least five yards in height. Towering statues of Irella had been placed along the entrance, her right palm raised to block the entrance of evil influences into the city. Then they passed beneath the arch, and Jarek was shocked to see that the old mosaics had either been torn down or covered over; in their place were scenes depicting the netherworld and Nekuul’s reign. Rubbing at his face, he realized that he might be the only one here who still thought of it as the Basalt Gate at all; he’d have to watch his tongue lest he give himself away.