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  “You honor me,” Himilco whispered.

  She laughed softly.

  “Only a jackal could think so, a shifty-eyed rat.” She nodded. “Despite all, your perceptions are rare and keen. I will take you with me to Bel Ruk. I will let you quiver in terror as you watch a desert waif tell a god how he can become the mightiest deity in the world. He yearns to speak with me. This I know. And since I cannot grant you any of your sullied desires, I will let you witness the correctness of your words, at least concerning my greatness. That will be my gift to you, your reward for your services.”

  “This is more than I deserve,” Himilco forced himself to say.

  “In your heart you lie. Yet once again, you speak the truth. Perhaps in your tangled dishonesty you, too, are an oracle. If only the rulers of Karchedon realized what they had in you.”

  The Prophetess let out a full-throated laugh and motioned to the slaves as she swept past him.

  Before Himilco could say another word, the muscled Almodads turned him and marched after the shouting Prophetess, his toes barely touching down with every step they took.

  -6-

  Along with the Prophetess, Himilco marched past the gargantuan pillars that upheld the great portico of the temple. As Elissa had some time ago, Himilco noticed the bas-relief images carved onto the cedar-like pillar. One showed a flying dragon entwined around a luckless merchant. The dragon, he saw, was swallowing the man. What it signified, Himilco had no idea.

  Himilco only had a moment to glance at the dragon before the Almodad slaves gripping his arms shoved him into the temple. Himilco’s arms had gone numb as they had marched up the Grand Stairs of the Temple Mount. His two slave guards seemed more like legendary automatons than men of flesh and blood. According to ancient texts, the automatons had been metallic creatures consisting of cogs, wheels and clicking levers, powered by some alchemic sorcery. With buzz-swords and witch-fire axes of crackling energy, the automatons had clanked victoriously wherever the controlling sorcerers had commanded.

  Himilco snarled, exposing his yellow teeth, making him seem even more like a lean, murderous rat. Under his breath, he cursed the unnatural vitality of the two slaves as they squeezed his flesh into insensibility. He would kill them someday. Today, however, he would focus solely on the Prophetess. Once she died, everything else would fall into place.

  The party’s footsteps echoed in the corridors as if they moved through a deep mountain tunnel. There were attendants—pretty girls in white—and old crones who no doubted acted as advisors, along with Nasamon guards. The way was dimly lit by small terracotta lamps resting on shelves. The wicks sat on olive oil, hardly providing enough light for him to see, although once Himilco glimpsed his shadow on the wall.

  To Himilco they all seemed like mice. He could feel the weight of the stone above them pressing down. It was oppressive, a weight on his spirit. This was an ominous moment of time, pregnant with possibilities and peril. He took secret pleasure in the ignorance of the Prophetess and her party. They failed to provide the needed genuflections and humbly spoken words that temple protocol required. Forgoing the rituals was a deadly insult to Bel Ruk.

  “Granter of deep desires,” Himilco whispered, using the god’s ancient title demanded at this locale. He managed to shift up, surprising the two Almodads. The Prophetess and the attendants had ducked under the stooping lintel. As Himilco passed, he kissed the lintel as required.

  “Stand aside!” the leading nomad shouted. The warrior held a metal-shod staff, which he struck against the floor. Behind him marched the Prophetess in her spotted-hyena robe.

  The party soon entered a great oval chamber. After the dim corridors, the blazing lanterns made Himilco blink.

  This was the outer sanctum, and it held a large painting of the god standing on two thunderclouds as if riding a chariot. In his right hand was a lightning bolt. He had wild hair and entirely red eyes.

  Possessed of the higher knowledge, Himilco knew this was a false representation of Bel Ruk. The old legends told of something much darker and more inhuman. The red eyes only hinted at that.

  A great bronze basin ten feet in diameter rested on the hunched shoulders of nine granite slaves. The statue nearest Himilco showed a barbarian in mortal agony, his mouth twisted in pain.

  A single door was shut at the other end of the chamber. Compared to the outer sanctum, the door seemed small and insignificant. Yet, that door led into the inner sanctum. The temple guards who had remained on duty stood well away from the door.

  “Is that the entrance?” the Prophetess demanded as she studied the door.

  “Yes,” Himilco said through gritted teeth. His poor shoulder—

  The Prophetess turned toward him as she peered through her skull-mask. “Release him,” she ordered.

  The two slaves peeled their huge fingers from his arms. Himilco staggered in relief, moving his arms, flexing his numbed hands. A premonition caused him to look up.

  Through her skull mask, the Prophetess studied him.

  Himilco froze, and bowed. He didn’t like the way she stared at him as if he were a piece of carrion.

  “Follow me,” she said, as she started toward the door.

  Her hyena-skin robe trailed across the tiles, and the lower wired-on jaw on the skull-baton clacked rhythmically.

  In a rustle of garments, the Nasamon attendants, crones and warriors knelt. The Karchedonian temple guards hurriedly followed the example of the desert sons.

  “They may leave,” the Prophetess said over her shoulder.

  Himilco spoke to the Karchedonian guards. “Await her glory in the outer bastion. Allow no one but our Nasamon conquerors to enter the temple. On no account may any of you unsheathe a weapon in the presence of a Nasamon or dare to suggest the idea of striking one.”

  The wide-eyed, frightened guards acknowledged his words with nods and hurried from the chamber.

  “I can feel him,” the Prophetess said in an awed tone. “The Lord of Dragons watches us. The god awaits my coming.”

  Many of the kneeling Nasamons moaned as they pressed their foreheads against the floor. Many lay prostrate and squeezed their eyes shut in fear.

  Himilco also felt a grim presence, finding the sensation troubling. The wooden entrance felt like the maw of a beast. To walk through the door was to walk into the jaws of death. In all his years as a priest, Himilco had never felt such a powerful manifestation of the Lord of Dragons.

  “Open the door,” the Prophetess said. “Tell the god I have arrived.”

  She wants me to go in first, Himilco realized. She’s using me to take the brunt of the god’s possible wrath.

  “Great One,” Himilco said, dropping to one knee. “I dare not profane this moment by preceding you.”

  The Prophetess turned to him and raised the skull baton. “Open the door and announce me, or I swear by the gemmed skulls in my tent that my torturers will slit your belly, pull out your intestines and nail the end to a post for the hyenas to chase. By my arts, I’ll keep you alive as they feast on each limb in turn.”

  Himilco’s hatred of her grew as his fear increased. It was clear the Prophetess didn’t know how to make idle boasts. Trying to maintain his dignity, he walked toward the door even as he yearned to plunge a dagger in her belly. He gripped the door’s brass handle. It was warm, too warm. He hesitated, and realized he had no choice. He pulled. The hinges creaked as the heavy door opened. With trepidation, he stepped within.

  The sole source of light was a large tripod brazier. Hieroglyphic symbols were etched along the sides of the bronze basin. Within were stones that burned. The stones glowed with heat, casting a hellish color throughout the inner sanctum.

  Unlike the temple’s outer corridors and quite unlike the dragon statue on the roof, the inner sanctum was a study in simplicity. The walls were great slabs of granite. The high granite ceiling gave the chamber the feeling of a cave.

  A quarter of the way into the chamber stood an altar half the height of a man
. It was made of thirteen stones, each crudely chiseled with hieroglyphic symbols that matched those on the bronze basin. Long ago, priests had poured molten gold upon the stones. The thousands of bloody offerings had uncannily changed the gold. Now, red-speckled gold bound the stones together into a permanent shape.

  The altar faced a massive block of glassy volcanic rock fifty tons in weight. It was perfectly square, a giant cube. At first, the surface seemed smooth and still. As one gazed at the block, however, strange and sinister swirls like slow-motion whirlpools eddied and churned within the stone, creating a hypnotic effect. Himilco began to believe he could wade into the rock to reach realms unknown.

  For a moment, the fifty-ton block seemed as if it were part of a great machine. How this could be or why Himilco felt it, he couldn’t explain. The massive cube seemed alien, unhealthy for Karchedon and for Dar Sai. It seemed to Himilco that powers beyond his understanding had created the giant cube, using it for hidden reasons.

  “Announce me,” the Prophetess said.

  Himilco moved with a start, her words causing him to shiver. At that moment, the glowing stones in the basin blazed with flames. Himilco barely stifled a scream. That had never happened before. It seemed terribly ominous.

  “I have come as promised,” the Prophetess told Bel Ruk, no longer waiting for Himilco to speak. “Now, you must show yourself.”

  The swirling, eddying surface of the cube churned faster than ever.

  At that, Himilco’s eyes widened even as his senses prickled with warning.

  The Prophetess raised her skull-topped baton.

  Himilco retreated as his stomach clenched. Fear boiled in him. He mentally raced through possible spells to defend himself. Legend held that sorcery often failed in this chamber. Therefore, the simpler the spell, the greater chance it might work.

  The Prophetess turned toward him. Through the ancient skull-mask, her eyes glittered with malice. She showed her teeth as a shark might to a minnow.

  “What is that?” she asked, indicating the giant cube.

  The direction of her question threw Himilco off. He said before thinking, “It is our god.”

  She chuckled. “You priests are more foolish than I realized. I did not ask out of ignorance as you suppose. I asked in order to see how far your understanding had fallen. The block is not Bel Ruk. Rather, it is the anchoring stone to a gateway.”

  Himilco’s eyes narrowed. Why had she brought him here? He needed to understand her before he stumbled in some unrecoverable fashion.

  “The god travels,” the Prophetess was saying. “I know because I spoke with him at the desert shrine. He told me about the anchoring stone, the great portal in Karchedon. In this chamber is where untold power will flow into our god and bloat him into fierce potency.”

  The Prophetess raised her baton higher. She began to deliberately clack the lower jaw and she swayed in a snake-like rhythm. “Hear me, Great One. I have achieved a miracle. I have broken through Karchedon’s mighty walls and stand before you as a conqueror. It is fitting that in my train is a traitorous priest of the heretical sect that has polluted your name these many centuries.”

  “I’m your ally,” Himilco said. “Because of me, you broke through Karchedon’s walls. I gave you the means for your miracle.”

  “Bel Ruk!” she called, ignoring him. “I hold the ancient scepter of the leather-winged dragon of a bygone era. The scepter is pregnant with power. It seethes to unleash the ancient spells. I call to you, Great One. I seek your grace. I ask you to partake of my gift, a life-loving schemer, a thief and a traitor.”

  Himilco’s heart thudded as the cube began to vibrate, to whine with an eerie noise. He dragged the back of a hand across his lips. Should he bolt for the door? He flinched as the cedar door boomed shut, closing his means of escape.

  “Bel Ruk?” Himilco whispered.

  What was happening? This can’t be happening to me.

  Himilco cleared his throat. “Great One, I have long—” His words quit as if cut by a razor.

  Strange currents churned in the glassy volcanic cube. To the priest’s horror, a beam shined out of it, creating a ghostly warrior wearing an enclosed helm, chainmail and greaves. The warrior held a spear with a great bronze head. The eyes within the helmet glowed with a red-hot color.

  “Bel Ruk,” Himilco whispered, fear clogging his senses. This most certainly had never happened before. He had never even heard of this happening in here.

  The ghostly image turned toward him.

  Himilco blinked as a rabbit might. Moisture fled his mouth. “Prophetess,” he whispered. “You need me. There are secrets I can still reveal to you.”

  “Those of Karchedon have failed their god,” the Prophetess told the shimmering warrior. “They have misused your glory for material gain. They have sought earthly status instead of seeking your pleasure. This small worm, a priest of dubious morals, will be a sweet treat, Great One.”

  The warrior took a step toward Himilco as the red eyes took on a deeper crimson color.

  Himilco blinked in dread as an unfair lethargy sank upon his limbs. Despite that, his devious mind whirled at hyper-speed. He had to act now or he was dead.

  “Great One,” Himilco whispered. “Only I remembered the proper rituals. This succubus neither kissed the lintel nor uttered your praises as she approached your greatness. You should feed off her unworthy carcass, not mine. I’ll take up her scepter and bring you cities of flesh to devour.”

  The ethereal warrior paused, glancing at the Prophetess in a speculative manner.

  “I bid you to slay him, Great One,” the Prophetess said. “I have done as you—”

  “She’s a treacherous liar!” Himilco shouted, interrupting her.

  Only one of us will leave the chamber alive, he realized. A fierce resolve for life filled Himilco. He would do whatever he had to in order to live.

  “I gave her the city and now she sacrifices me because she fears my loyalty to you, Great One. Choose me, and I will build you a two-hundred-foot statute of gold in your likeness.”

  “Faithless jackal,” the Prophetess spat. “You sold out your own people. How much quicker will you sell out your god?”

  “Great and Glorious One,” Himilco said, as sweat beaded his narrow face. “How she gloats about herself and boastfully brays how she can lead a god to do her bidding. She thinks of you as a servant, Most Glorious One. She believes she can tame you into doing her bidding, into—”

  “You will never yap again, you jackal!” the Prophetess shrieked. She entered a sorcery stance, aiming her baton at him.

  Himilco entered a formal basilisk stance. His agile mind ran through possibilities and implications. The Prophetess had dared enter the inner sanctum without her guards or slaves. That bespoke her arrogance. Yet, there was a reason for her bloated confidence. Twice during the siege, she had fought off Zarius Magonid’s sorcery. The suffete had cast his spells from the walls and she had stood at the entrance of her tent. That she had survived meant she possessed powerful defensive spells.

  “Accept your miserable fate,” the Prophetess told him. “Try to die with dignity.”

  Himilco needed to breech her confidence. Even a sliver of doubt would aid him. “There is a reason why Zarius Magonid feared me,” he said.

  “What is this you spout? Do you think yourself a match for me?”

  Himilco gnawed his lower lip. A sorcerous duel in the inner sanctum with this crazed bitch…with the god looking on…. I must trick her.

  “Prophetess,” he said. “Let us be reasonable. If you will lower your—”

  The Prophetess spoke a word. Scintillating and awful brilliance flared from the baton in a flash of agonizing blinding light.

  Himilco cried out. Dazzling spots flared before his eyes, blinding him. He heard the Prophetess chanting, and he recognized the next spell. Frantically, with his fingers fumbling through the motions, he attempted a ward. Before he could achieve the needed calm, a force like a fist cracked
against his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He crashed onto the floor, gasping. How could she cast her spells one right after the other?

  Himilco lacked Zarius Magonid’s breadth of knowledge and force of power. He had quickness, however, and nimbleness of mind. Still dazzled from the first spell, Himilco rolled. A force like a fist swished past him and cracked against the granite wall. It sounded like a mallet striking.

  Himilco understood that he was hopelessly outclassed. Her spells worked perfectly in this chamber—no, that was wrong. The hammer-fist against his ribs should have killed him. The chamber or the god’s presence had affected the Prophetess. The realization gave Himilco hope.

  I must create a blood bird.

  Himilco rolled the other way and whipped a dagger from his belt. The slaves had only held his arms before. They had never disarmed him. The priest jumped to his feet, cut his arm, dropped the knife and cupped the dripping blood in his right hand. He pressed his left hand over the right and blew into his hands, chanting as he did. Although blinded, he felt the bird’s weight as it stood on his open palm. The tips of the bird’s claws pricked his flesh. The curved beak was poisonous, and its feathers were a shiny blood red color.

  “Kill,” Himilco whispered. He flung the bird in her direction. The wings crackled like whips as the creature sped like an arrow.

  Then, another hammer-fist struck, hurling Himilco against the wall. He banged the back of his head against granite and slumped to the floor, groaning in pain.

  The blood bird shrieked as it struck. Himilco raised his head and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them his sight was still blurry, but he saw the Prophetess lying on the floor. The skull baton lay beside her, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. The blood bird had vanished, leaving a smear of blood on the floor. The spell had been completed once the bird attacked her.