It tasted bitter. Cold. Rotten. Sickly. Saar thought of many words to describe the taste of that foul black liquid, but couldn’t settle on a single one. The thick substance clung to his lips and tongue, forcing him to swallow over and over to be rid of it. When he did empty his mouth, the taste lingered.
Saar returned the bowl to the altar. After wiping his mouth, he put his hands on his hips and waited.
‘I feel nothing,’ he said after a pause. ‘No strength, no wonderful power.’
Kazemde backed up enough to put the altar between them. The red in his eyes spread across the whites like ink.
‘You lack patience. Power will come, just wait. Believe.’
‘I believe,’ he snarled. ‘I believe your fine words and grand promises have brought me to my death. I must return to the city. I must—’ a gasp choked off his words. Violent shudders rippled through his body.
Saar fell to his knees, gripping his stomach. The muscles pulled inward, a frantic contraction he could see beneath the skin, like pulling sheets of cloth through a loop. His throat burned. The black liquid scorched a path to his gut where it coiled like a fiery beast seeking refuge.
‘What have you done to me?’
A smile touched those thin, bloodless lips. ‘I? I forced nothing on you.’
‘The pain . . .’ Back bowing, head dropping low, Saar opened his mouth and vomited; a black torrent of thick liquid that smoked when it touched the ground. With just the presence of mind to keep away, he saw Kazemde slip around the altar and crouch beside him.
‘Poison.’ Breathing hurt. The air, once so warm and soothing on his skin now seared his throat like burning oil.
‘Blood is a potent gift. Not many have the strength to accept it, no matter the desire. Ramesses couldn’t.’
‘Ramesses was a coward. Why would he want the blood of Horus?’
Kazemde cackled, showing off his yellow teeth. ‘Horus? I didn’t say Horus.’
Saar stared into those crimson eyes. Though he fought it, his lips trembled. ‘You did.’ Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down the side of his face. More ran down his back. ‘The blood of—’
‘I told you Set collected blood from the field of battle where he and Horus fought. Not once did I say Horus’ blood.’ Another cackle of laughter, matched by an ugly grin.
Saar screamed, clutched his face between both hands and shrieked until his throat was raw. Invisible bands of bronze compressed his chest to hinder his breath. The terrible liquid spread through his skin like needles of flame, following the path of his veins until it touched every muscle. Something warm and thick flowed from his ears, his mouth, his nose. Though the smell of it clogged his nostrils, Saar knew it was blood. His heart beat faster.
‘Set’s blood? That slayer of kin? No— I don’t want— not him. I serve Horus.’
Kazemde wagged a finger. ‘Set claims all creatures powerful enough to do his bidding. He’ll be pleased to own one as strong-willed and well-placed as you. You’ll be richly rewarded.’
‘No!’ He lunged across the floor, but the older man moved with another uncanny burst of speed. Leaping up, he landed on the altar and crouched there, neck thrust out like a vulture.
‘Should you survive, you’ll be the strongest man alive. Wars will be won through your power and skill. Thousands will know your name. You’ll be loved. Feared. Just survive. Like you always do.’
Saar thrust his fingers into the sand, a curious echo of his actions on leaving the water. This time the movement stemmed from mind-shattering pain. The domed walls wavered in and out of focus. Light dimmed. A sound like rushing wind filled his ears, chased by the rumble of heavy, crashing drums. No . . . not drums. His heartbeat.
Through a misty haze he saw Kazemde drop his cloak on the altar and lift both hands towards the curved ceiling. Gone were the stooped back and rounded shoulders. Instead Kazemde stood tall, his face stretching with a sound like tearing ox hide. His mouth became a long, pointed muzzle and, through his thickening hair, two ears grew. These were tall and upstanding, rectangular and black, covered with short, coarse fur. A tail grew from the base of his spine, curling around his naked knees into a forked tip. His legs lengthened, loud pops signalling a shift in his joints. The feet extended, his ankle flexing to bend like the hindquarters of a desert fox. Fur sprung out all over his body. Between his crooked legs swung the soft length of his manhood.
Saar recognised the hideous shape from temple drawings. The creature with a muzzle and square ears, fighting with the god of the underworld in a battle fuelled by anger and jealousy.
‘Set,’ he whispered.
‘I’m not Set,’ Kazemde’s voice echoed through the space. ‘But I’m permitted to use his form on occasion.’
‘You tricked me.’
‘I gave you what you asked for.’ Thin lips drew back from that terrible muzzle and exposed twin rows of glistening teeth. A pink tongue flopped out and licked the thick black gums. ‘Now stand and tell me that you’re not stronger than ever before.’
Saar gasped and slumped against the ground, the absence of pain almost as bad as the muscle-twitching agony of moments ago. He drew breath after ragged breath, clutching his head with sandy fingers. He stood. With effort. When his knees buckled, Saar shot out one hand and steadied himself on the edge of the altar.
What he saw upon it made him leap back: dried blood, bright and vibrant. Deep in the cracks of the stone, he saw infinitesimal impurities as clear as the lines on his own hands. Saar looked at these and choked on another embarrassing cry. Through the sand, dried salt and grime, he saw lines and tracks on his palms he’d never noticed before. On his arms, he noticed tiny hairs, pores and imperfections in his colouring that made up the familiar shade of his skin.
Then the sounds came, crowding in from every side. The rush of water, the dry rasp of shifting sand. Snuffles of burrowing creatures and the clicks and rustles of lizards living in dens beneath the earth. He could smell them, dry, musty, reminiscent of snakes.
‘What have you done to me?’ He swallowed and tasted salt.
Kazemde bared his teeth again. The lift in his voice indicated the gesture might be a smile. ‘You’re blessed. Protected by Set himself. Touched by his power and strength.’
Saar covered his ears with his hands. Then his eyes. Then his ears again. ‘These sounds— the smells— everything crowds in all at once. I’ll go mad.’
‘Master these new skills or be mastered. If you don’t, I’ll return to kill you as I did Ramesses.’
‘You did this to me.’
Kazemde hopped off the altar. The impact of his feet against the ground exploded in Saar’s ears like a clap of thunder.
‘Please, stop— the noise— it hurts.’
‘Only you can do that.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can do anything.’ Kazemde’s laughter filled the small chamber. ‘Did Kiya not say so? Your mother? Is their faith in you without due cause? Must I kill you now as I have so many others?’ His hand strayed towards the dagger.
Long claws with jagged tips scraped across the stone altar, so loud that Saar screamed. He beat his forehead against the ground.
‘Stop moving, I beg you.’
‘God-touched men don’t beg.’
‘Help me!’
The man-shaped creature sighed. ‘The most I can do is speed your passing. Set has no love for weak men and he’ll withdraw his gift as quickly as he gave it. Then I’ll return to Alexandria to dispose of those who may ask for you. Cleopatra. Panya. Kiya.’
Saar sat up. His vision tunnelled to a narrow dot centred on Kazemde’s ugly, distorted face. Though his legs shook and his arms trembled, he regained his feet and stepped forward. ‘Don’t touch them. I’ll kill you, I swear it.’
Pain meant nothing now. The sounds died away. The clarity and detail in his sight served only to show Saar how best to destroy the source of his torment. He saw every hair on that sleek black muzzle, every ripple of muscle beneath the wiry fur. He watc
hed the forked tail swish back and forth and felt the tiny motions of the air disrupted by its passage.
‘Well done, Saar. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’
The moment he stopped to think about the lack of additional sound, Saar heard them again. An owl hooting somewhere above. The gentle swish of a creature crawling through the sand. He focused on his anger again, holding it close to his chest and using it as a shield to block out everything else. Peace returned.
Saar exhaled slowly through his nose. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘You learned to wield a sword before your fifteenth summer. You mastered the bow in the same year. In every battle you’ve fought since joining Cleopatra’s army, you’ve bested every trial set before you. This is no different. Look at yourself.’
Another deep breath failed to steady his nerves, though it did draw his attention to his body. Saar stretched his spine, and rolled his shoulders. Everything felt . . . normal.
Kazemde grinned. ‘Did I not tell you?’
‘I was wounded— my back— what happened?’
‘Your hand has also healed.’
Saar glanced at the palm he had scraped against the floor of the Pharos lighthouse. No sign of the injury remained. His back, when he twisted to reach it, was smooth.
‘Do you believe me now?’
Saar couldn’t speak. Instead he clutched the altar again and gazed at the walls. Incredible detail, vibrant colours. Even chisel marks were visible. Faint streaks in the paint, the mark of coarse brushes used to paint temple walls.
‘Set is pleased. He welcomes you to his family and looks forward to your future offerings.’
‘What offerings?’
‘Blood, Saar. Always blood.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Marked with blood, by blood. From blood all power comes.’ His voice took on a lilting quality as though reciting lines from a long-forgotten prayer. ‘Set accepts your gracious sacrifice and in return gives you long life, strength and power. The gift remains so long as you offer regular tribute.’
‘I have no tribute. All wealth I give to my mother . . . I have land. Perhaps he will—’
‘Are you not listening, Saar?’ Kazemde’s eyes narrowed above that cruel muzzle. His tail lashed the air. ‘Only blood will do.’
‘But how?’
‘Your Kiya is often keen to give you other parts of herself. Why not blood too? I can help if you wish.’
The veiled threat brought a snarl from Saar’s throat. He stood up and, without thinking, without any thought for what might follow, leapt through the air. Kazemde darted aside, dropping the curving dagger. He spun around, tail twitching. Saar faced him, clenching and unclenching his fists.
‘Set is a tyrant,’ said Saar. ‘I want none of his gifts or blessings.’
‘Too late. You’re bound to him now.’
‘No—’
‘Yes! You belong to him and will offer regular tribute or suffer a death more painful than anything you can imagine. And I’ll ensure you see both Kiya and Panya die before you do.’
With a guttural roar, Saar dived across the floor, snatching up the dagger as he rolled. He came to a low crouch at Kazemde’s feet and thrust up with the deadly weapon, driving the blade deep into the space beneath his hairy muzzle.
Kazemde shrieked and struck out with both hands, but Saar swayed clear. Ducking beneath the flailing hands he shoved on the blade hilt until his fingers struck the furry chin.
‘If I’m so powerful,’ he whispered, ‘then I can protect the ones I love.’ With one clean slice he opened Kazemde’s throat. Blood sprayed out, black and reeking. The other man clawed the air with his broken fingernails, struggling, gurgling, gasping, wheezing. Saar watched the light die in those huge red eyes. A hot river of crimson flooded over his face and chest.
Long moments later the body stopped moving.
Kazemde’s tail, muzzle and ears shrank into his body. Fur rolled back as though sucked into his skin, leaving behind a skinny old man with baggy skin, frail limbs and a wide, red smile in his throat.
DAY THREE
Chapter Twenty-Six