Kalai came from the night like a shadow among the towers and ancient
domes of the city. Maracanda slumbered around her, but always an
uneasy sleep in the hot nights of summer when the wind blew from the
sea with a scent of blood and incense. Ships thronged the fabled
harbor, unseen eyes looked down from high windows, and in a thousand
courts and corners intrigue blossomed like the flowers of death in
the tiger-haunted gardens of the Heresiarch, slumbering in his white
tower that rose over all.
She moved easily through the dark, wrapped in her black silken shroud
that billowed around her pale body like smoke. Beneath it she wore
the straps of the harness which held her weapons and her tools. Her
black hair was caught in coils of braid that trailed behind her like
serpents, and those of lesser purpose who looked on her quickly
looked away. She had the wide black eyes of the Nagai – the old
race – and wise men feared to cross her path or touch her shadow.
Through the busy night markets she slipped like a serpent through the
high grass. Past the stalls of dyers and rugmakers, through the rich
smells of spice merchants and the traders in exotic woods and resins.
She walked undisturbed down the wide street lined by the houses of
the wealthy trade lords, walled and guarded and beautiful as the
oases of dreams. Her veil covered her face, and none who saw her
could have delineated her features.
She vanished, then, from sight, and was not seen or remarked on.
None saw her climb the hundred stairs to the gate of the Gods, and
she passed within the winding Road of Temples no more substantial
than a wisp of smoke. Such was her skill, for Kalai was a killer
schooled in ancient and secret arts. She killed for gold, and none
escaped her, but tonight she was not intent on death. Tonight she
sought to take something more material than a life. She halted in
the black shadows of a wide plaza, and she looked across the open
stone to the temple of Shahenah, the Serpent God. The oldest god in
the city, whose temple was said to have stood before men ever came to
the city and gave it name.
It was a great building hewn from green stone such as no man ever
found on the shores of the great lake. It shone in the moonlight
like lizard skin, and mist drifted from the cracks in the foundation
of it, so that it seemed to breathe out smoke. The pillars at the
gate were carven in the likeness of coiled serpents, watchful and
still. Ancient, like the temple itself.
Kalai gathered herself. On her back were tattooed the nine forms of
power, and now she moved her hand in the secret knots and gestures,
building her strength, coiling inside her like a serpent lashed
around her very core. She breathed in, deeply, and became invisible
to mortal eyes. She crossed the moonlit courtyard, and set foot upon
the ancient stair.
The guards who watched the temple gates from behind their reptilian
masks did not see her, and she walked unharmed among the great
serpents that slithered along the pillars of the colonnade that
crossed the inner gardens. Only her shadow could be seen, and she
kept within other shadows, so there was no mark to show her passage.
At last she was within, among the stonework of such antiquity that
none could read the words etched upon the deep green walls – a
language older than the mind of man that adorned the reliefs of
serpents and serpent-men.
She stepped down into a hall, and now she moved more carefully. Here
she might find priests schooled in the old ways, or other guardians
with more than human eyes. She heard footfalls, and slipped behind a
crimson hanging, moving as a gust of the night wind. She held still,
not even breathing, as two priests in their golden and black robes
strode down the hall, escorted by two guards in scaled armor.
When the guards passed her place of concealment, they neither saw nor
heard her move. She was between them, no more than a flicker in the
torchlight, and her dagger was in her hand. It bore the head of a
serpent on the pommel, and the steel was marked by a scale pattern,
as though it were forged from a black serpent. The slightest cut
delivered the deadly venom that lived still inside the metal, forged
into it when man was but a primitive lurking in the primal
wilderness.
The guards stiffened, and she caught their harnesses as they slumped,
trying to breathe through paralyzed lips. With the skill of long
training, she pulled them into the shadows. It all transpired so
quickly that an observer might have missed it if he but blinked
slowly.
One of the priests glanced back,
saw the guards were absent, and had time to draw breath to cry out
when Kalai was before him. She drove two fingers into his throat and
crushed it. A second blow to his chest splintered his ribs and
stopped his heart with the force of the strike. He crumpled and she
turned upon the other one, touched his chin in warning with a single
finger, and he gave no sign, his eyes wide with terror behind his
headdress.
She ripped the crested mask from his face and threw it away,
revealing his young, frightened face and the coiled braids worked
close to his skull in the manner of all the priests of the serpent
god. She did not threaten him with her dagger, for she did not need
to. “Listen closely to me, priest,” she said in her low voice.
“I shall ask you one question, and you shall answer. If you answer
true, you will survive to tell of me, though you should not. Do you
understand?”
He nodded, slowly and trembling. He knew her for an assassin by her
garb, and how many of her kind had the eyes of the Nagai? Only one.
Only her. “Good,” she said. “The priests of Shahenah went
forth into the marshes beyond the lake. There they entered a hidden
place, known only to a few, and they dragged something up from the
black waters with chains and ropes. They brought it back to the city
under cover of night, and they have hidden it here, in this temple.”
She leaned close so he might look into her eyes, black with no
glimmer of light in them. “Tell me where it lies.”
o0o
The heart of the temple was a narthex of black shadows and ancient
stone, and here the lamps burned with green fire and the air was
heavy with the scent of serpents. Scaled forms crawled and slithered
in every shadow, hung encoiled upon every carving and statue. A
monumental silence enshrouded the place, deep and abiding. Here
there was the great altar, and upon it now rested the weed-encrusted
chest dragged up from the waters of ageless decay.
The high priest bowed before it, hands lifted, his scarred head bent
so that the ritual cuts upon his scalp shone in the deep green light.
His guards stood back from him, not daring to set foot upon the
polished sacred floor of the final mystery. He touched the stone
surface of the chest, running loving hands over the carved shapes
obscured by mud and covered over with the filth of ages. He brushed
at it, clearing away the weeds and creeping snails, revealing the
words written there in the ancient lost tongue of a dead race.
Kalai drew off her black shroud and stepped into sight in her killing
finery. The black straps that held her knives and her poisons, the
armored vambraces and arm-rings that were her only armor, and the
black veil that hid her face save for her bottomless eyes. The
guards saw her and drew their long, curved swords, the steel embedded
with golden verses in the mantras of the serpent faith. The sound of
the swords was a singing note in the dark shrine, and the high priest
turned from his muttered invocations and stood, looking on her. His
ritual scars made his face and head into an inhuman mask.
“You,” he said. “I know you.
The killer. The one of ancient blood.” He stretched out his
hands. “I called on you to join us. I said you are of the
bloodline of the Nagai, the chosen of Shahenah. Now you have come.”
He looked at her hand. “You come with blade in hand, to kill for
gold.”
“Not for gold,” she said,
drawing closer. “I come for that which you brought up from the
swamps. I come for that. Give it to me and I shall depart.”
He laughed. “Give you this?” He laid a hand on the cask. “This
is a great treasure. It will contain the liturgy of the great
serpent god. It will illuminate his glory.”
“Fool,” she said. “Your god
is but a memory of the true gods of my ancestors, lost beneath time.
Men came to this land and slaughtered the true race, and now you bow
and pray to their memory. I will not leave secrets of the Nagai in
the hands of a charlatan who will use them to aggrandize his own
vision of a god made in his image. I will reclaim the heritage of my
race. Stand aside or I will kill you.”
He gestured and his guards came for her. “You will not find my
bodyguards easy prey. They imbibe the black milk of the serpent
fang. No venom will slay them, and no blade will pierce their skin.
Face them if you dare.”
Kalai moved with her blade of
serpent steel in her hand like a flicker of poisoned light. They
closed on her with their swords ready, bodies guarded by mail and
their faces hidden behind masks. They were devotees of the ancient
sword arts, able to fight and kill in total darkness. She heard
their breathing, controlled and even. They were not afraid of her,
deep in their battle-trance. But she did not need fear.
The first one cut at her and she threw her silken shawl in the path
of his sword, vanished like smoke as the deadly edge cut through.
They stood poised, senses keened. This was a supreme test of their
skills, for even though they did not need to see her, they depended
on the sounds she made to follow her motions, and she made almost
none. There was a moment when nothing moved, no sound and no breath.
Then Kalai manifested from the darkness like a shadow come to life,
and her knives flashed in the gloom. The warriors whirled to counter
her, and steel met ringing steel. Their blows were precise, elegant
and cruel, and yet her speed was a match for them, evading their
strokes or parrying their blows with dagger or armored vambrace.
Sparks leaped in the shadows as they fought in a sudden whirl of
motion and deadly intent.
They outnumbered her, but she fought with her whole body, not only
her blades. They battled across the smooth temple floor, and then
she was flanked and a singing blow dashed her knife from her hand.
Reacting with a speed the eye could not follow she spun, feinted high
and then slammed an open-handed blow into the warrior’s helm. He
staggered and she took the moment thus bought to snatch a vial of
powder from her belt. As the other guard closed in she turned, threw
the powder in his face, and then vanished again.
He flailed, coughing, spitting, reeling back from her. The other
guard righted himself in time for her to appear behind him and drive
her serpent steel blade through the slit in his helm and into his
eye. She jerked it forth and black blood followed in a torrent that
coursed down his chest. He staggered, and she saw his limbs stiffen
with the onset of the venom. The black milk of the serpent god was
not proof against the deadliness of the ancient steel.
“Their skin may be impervious,”
she said, facing the last man. “But not their eyes.” The other
guard still spat and coughed, clawing through the face of his helm,
and she struck him on the side of the neck with a precise blow that
crushed bones and crumpled the steel of his armor. He fell and lay
still, and she faced the high priest over his corpse. “And you are
not invulnerable either, foolish man.”
He fell back from her, behind the graven altar. “I am not
immortal, but my god preserves me, and his guardians will bar your
path.” He drew a vial of yellow liquid from under his robe, and
she thought he meant to swallow poison, but instead he hurled it
behind him, at the place where a carved idol stood against the wall
of the shrine, and the vial burst open in a cloud of hissing vapor.
“Now you shall taste the wrath of the serpent!”
Kalai bared her teeth. “I am her wrath.” She held up the
serpent dagger and blood dripped smoking from the tip of it. She
stepped closer to the altar, and the looming statue moved.
She stepped back and stared as there came a terrible rending,
creaking sound, and then the bronze skin of the statue tore apart and
fell in shattered fragments to the floor, and in place of a cold idol
stood a figure pale white and covered by a glimmering phosphorescence
that clung to it like witch-fire. It came down from the dais and
stood there, towering and luminant, with hollow eyes and lips drawn
back from the long teeth in a rictus of hungry unlife. Four arms
branched from the shoulders, fingers curling as the hands grasped for
the warmth of blood.
“Behold, assassin!” the priest
shouted, eyes wild with the power he had called upon. “The
guardian of the shrine! The revenant of the true Nagai brought forth
to slay and accurse your heresy!”
The revenant bent and picked up the swords that had adorned the idol,
and stood before her with one in each clawed hand. Kalai saw the
form was female, despite the ages of decay and the shriveled armor
that hung on the skeletal frame. This was one of the lost
priestesses of her race, now enslaved here to a mortal who made his
own corrupted version of her faith to serve his ends and glut his own
lusts for power and flesh. It made fury course in her veins to see
it.
Kalai sheathed her serpent dagger, for no venom would harm such a
creature as this. Even as it closed upon her she fell back and
lifted a sword from one of the fallen guards. She whirled it in her
hands and felt the balance and weight. It was the very finest
Alashian steel; she knew it would not break easily.
The spectre yawned its jaws wide and loosed a howl that shook the
very walls as it charged upon her, blades whirling in the dark.
Kalai remembered her swordmaster’s lessons, focused her will, and
met that rush with her own. There in the innermost nave of the
temple the fury of the unliving collided with pure, burning skill,
and the steel sang a deadly song. The blades lashed for her
together, then in tandem. Kalai knew every trick and gambit, knew
the weaknesses of so many swords in play at once. She flickered like
a candleflame, twisting and parrying, using the swords to block each
other, forcing the revenant to get in her own way.
Kalai fought with her teeth gritted together, concentrating all her
will. The undead drove her back across the chamber, and then she
slipped aside and let it chase her back in a wide circle, the ring of
steel continuous. She was breathing hard, her arms already afire,
and she knew that soon enough she would make a mistake she could not
recover from, and then she would be ripped apart. She had no time
for counter or disarm, only a neverending stream of blocks and
parries, and if she missed one, the penalty would be death.
So she let the thing drive her against the wall, and she pressed in
among the columns where it could not bring its size or many blades to
bear. A moment’s respite and Kalai sheared off one pallid arm, dry
as ages. It fell to the floor and then, separated from the power
that preserved it, turned to dust. The revenant did not scream or
give any sign - it simply came on, cutting at her with its remaining
three swords. Kalai ducked back as the steel blades bit into the
stone columns, spun away.
She felt the motion behind her rather than saw it, and without
thought or hesitation she drove her elbow back and felt bones
splinter under the impact. The high priest cried out and fell beside
her, dagger falling from his hand. “You should not come within my
reach,” she hissed at him as he clutched his shattered ribs. The
guardian was coming swiftly, and she swept her blade down in a
vicious cut that severed his bald, scarred head.
The copper stink of blood filled the room as Kalai fell back to the
altar, the unliving guardian coming for her relentlessly. There was
a moment of hope that the death of the priest would end the power
that animated her, but she came on, unheeding, walking through the
spreading pool of blood and trailing footprints behind her.
They met again, there in the shaft of light that illuminated the
altar. The guardian towered over her, swords flashing in the gloom,
hammering at her guard, and Kalai met the attack, tried to counter
and was cut, then cut again. She was flagging, and her enemy never
would. No weariness would stay those unliving hands.
Kalai parried, countered, parried
again, and then she was trapped against the altar and had nowhere
else to go. With a sudden blurring power she vaulted backward and
landed on the broad stone altar itself, straddling the cask that
still rested there, untouched by the chaos around it. The revenant
hurled all its force against her, and Kalai calculated, waited until
the final moment, and then she leaped back, putting the altar between
them, and the undead lashed one sword down and shattered the stone
casket with a single blow.
An ivory scroll case fell from the
ruin, as well as a green stone on a golden chain, and the jewel
glowed with a lambent light that hurt her eyes to look at. It did
more to the unliving thing coming for her. The towering spectre
recoiled from the glow of that green jewel, letting out a cry like
the echo of a doomed soul from the bottom of a timeless well of
antiquity.
Kalai felt a pang of sorrow for her
enemy. Once a proud warrior priestess of a lost age, now a hollow
shell commanded by venal sorcery. She lunged for the stone and
caught it up by the chain, and when she did the light grew stronger.
Kalai squinted past the light and leaped back onto the altar. She
thrust out the jewel at her unliving foe and the thing fell back from
her, cringing behind its arms. Now Kalai knew she had been right.
This was the Eye of the Serpent Goddess, and by its power the
wizardry that bound the undead would be undone.
Sword in hand she leaped down from
the altar and advanced on the guardian as it shrank back before her.
The light of the eye was a power out of old ages, and it revealed to
the shade here what she had been, and what she had become. The blaze
of green light was blinding, and she walked forward until the thing
was cornered against the wall, and then she pressed in closer still.
It let the swords fall from its hands to strike the floor with a
clangor, and then she touched the jewel to its cold white flesh and
it screamed.
The cry rose up and became a shriek that pierced Kalai’s skull like
an arrow. She flinched away, but she would not give ground, and then
the undead spectre shriveled and collapsed into a drift of dust and
crumpled armor. The flare of the gem died away until it was only a
glimmer, like witch-fire in the hollow swamplands. She held it up
and looked at it, turning it for a moment to try and see into the
depths, where mysteries of a long-dead people might still be found.
Then Kalai shook off her reverie. This was not a place to linger.
She had come for something, and now she had it – she had more than
she had hoped for. She hung the stone around her neck on the long
golden chain, and then she went to the altar and took up the scroll
case. It was heavy, and her heart sped faster. Here in her hand
might be a lost history of her people, secrets they had taken with
them when the waters rose and swallowed their empire.
She put the sword down on the altar, and then snapped it in two with
one blow of her hand. Let them wonder who had done this, let them
wonder why. She brought the scroll to her lips and kissed it, and
then she closed her eyes and vanished from the eyes of men, leaving
behind blood, and broken steel, and memory.
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