Amansi was littered with temples and tombs—it was the land of great structures, history’s most venerable civilisation—and pyramids were seen often as a consequence. Whether they were raised in the ancient times as places of worship or study, or simply because some itinerant god wanted to see if they could, all shared common design.
Edifices of stone that towered into the sky, dominating their environment and proclaiming the supremacy of their creators to all through simple scale. A squared base, narrowing gradually into a point, often gleaming when topped with an obscure or valuable material.
Following the Desolation, however, their purpose profoundly changed. Pyramids became a mode of defence for the great and powerful to cultivate within. People of influence would hole themselves up inside a great pyramid, protected by Tomb Guard and traps and magical puppets, and they would seek to steal power from the Other without having their soul stolen in turn.
The Temple of Amin-Ra, laid down in the time of the gods, shared none of the newer defences expected of a post-Desolation pyramid. And that made it easier to penetrate. Rather than traps to deter them, it simply offered abundant space they had to traverse. Rather than true guardians, they were instead stymied by an invading force from the Other. And rather than smooth sides that were hard to scale, it was made of overlapping slabs whose edges were left to jut one below another.
That didn’t mean the climb was easy, though. Those white stone slabs were titanic—taller than three men stacked atop each other and wide as a barn door—and they could only scale them in juddering movements. Heshtat, using his enhanced feline body, would leap up, reaching the top of a slab to pull himself over, then lean back down with his sword for Maatkare to reach for.
It was a gruelling and time-consuming process, but they were in the Other, and time worked strangely here. Maatkare had been right though; monsters were gathering. By the time they had made it halfway to the top, the pyramid was surrounded by a gargling, wailing mass of Desolate, all clamouring to feast on their flesh. Heshtat was unclear why none dared touch the pyramid itself, but it was a blessing he wouldn’t soon forget.
On they climbed, the horde below stealing any excitement or adventure from the scene. Now they scurried in animal horror, their goal all that kept them from overwhelm. The farther they climbed, the more the siren song of power called to them. Its honeyed voice wafted their way on tides of swirling essence, its chocolate smooth taste worming into their mouths with every step. As they reached the peak, the power bloomed bright, banishing any lingering doubts as to the potency of their prize.
Soon enough, battling fear at the horde below and hunger at the treasure above, they reached the gleaming golden tip.
“This is as far as we go,” Heshtat said, struggling for breath.
“Seems so, my friend,” Maatkare gasped out. He was drenched in sweat, chest hair matted to his skin where visible from his open shirt. Heshtat could well relate—it had been a hellacious climb. Despite this inverted realm’s sun being black as pitch, it still beat down with a vengeance, and they had been climbing for what felt like an hour at least.
Maatkare squinted above them, looking to the tip of the pyramid some hundred feet away. “That’s a lot of gold,” he muttered sourly, prompting a laugh from Heshtat.
“Enough to run your creche for a few centuries, no doubt. But come, we are not ones to rob from the gods.”
Maatkare looked back at him seriously. “My soul says otherwise.”
Heshtat winced. “True.” Then a thought occurred. “Do you think…”
“Out with it,” Maatkare said with a sigh.
“Could this be how the True Thrones attained their power?” Heshtat asked carefully. “They opened all nine aspects of the soul because they gave away none to the gods in trade.”
Maatkare whistled. “It makes sense. But come, my friend, we have more pressing matters to attend to, yes?”
He was right. Heshtat shrugged off the thoughts and took a moment to settle himself. “When I cut through, we must enter quickly. I do not know how the horde below will react but—”
“Explosively, I suspect,” Maatkare interrupted with a grim look.
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“Aye. So, we must be swift. I also do not know what we shall find. Any Desolate that have made it this far inside the temple are likely beyond our strength by now. I think speed is our friend here.”
“Speed is more a brother to you than I, though.”
“Well perhaps you should have spent less time dining on sweet treats then, hm?”
“Ha!” Maatkare laughed, rubbing a hand lovingly on his modest paunch. He was by no means fat, but his new purpose as a Sesh had turned his previously chiselled physique a little soft around the middle. “But it is you that has such a soft spot for halva, if I recall? That is right, my friend, I remember your penchant for the layered pastries of your homeland. Do not turn this on me.”
Heshtat smiled fondly. “It has been so long since I had something frozen. I am fond of the honey cakes here in Amansi, but you lack the delicacy for sharbat. You also do not use enough dates in your baking. It is a shame.”
Maatkare waved away the words like he sat in a smoke den and wished to clear the air. “And now you talk of Amansi like an outsider. Enough of this delay, I am ready.”
Heshtat quirked an eyebrow at him and received a frustrated punch in the shoulder in return.
“I am! A few minutes won’t change a thing. Let us meet our fate like men.”
Heshtat sighed. His friend wasn’t wrong—a few more minutes might recover their breath somewhat, but they had drawn deep of their bodies and souls and needed more than a few paltry minutes to recover. Speed was their friend.
He pulled free his blade and fed essence into it, letting it shine brighter and brighter until it was a match for the golden sheathe that crowned the pyramid above them.
Then he stepped forwards and cut the world in half.
***
They emerged into a grand hallway, and though Heshtat kept his blade ready and senses sharp, there were no enemies to face. Instead, they stood at the base of a slaughter.
Corpses piled before them in jagged clumps, heaps of limbs and heads and jumbled up bodies left to fester and spew their ichor to the ground. Black blood crept along the smooth stone in pools, slipping between the slabs to highlight their edges in sharp relief.
Heshtat and Maatkare shared dark looks as the portal to the Other winked closed behind them, and Heshtat was left to wonder if they had stepped from one horror into another. Indeed, the Desolate had made it this far. However, when he surveyed the corpse-covered hallway, it appeared to him that they had likely made it no further.
They crept forwards, moving from one spot of mostly empty hallway to another as they dodged bodies and piles of steaming viscera. There were a few chimeric beasts in evidence, making it rather hard to identify from which body the splayed and ribboned limbs had been cut, but most of the corpses belonged to the more powerful creatures of the Desolate Horde. The true foot soldiers that put the fear into even hardened militaries. The Jackal-headed monsters that the common man might mistake for the infamous Anubian Hounds.
They certainly looked the part; jackal-headed and human-bodied, their hairless, leathery skin coal black and shining in the torchlight. They wore plain red shendyts in the ancient fashion, brooches and arm-rings catching the light and elaborate necklaces wrapping their long throats more like collars than true real jewellery. Their long, muscular arms gripped golden weapons—where they weren’t left strewn about separated from their owners, at least—and it seemed almost sacrilegious to see such a force so decimated.
They must have numbered a hundred at least, spread about carelessly throughout the long hallway, and Heshtat knew from personal experience that even a half dozen of the creatures would be a match for a true Tomb Guard. Any force that could so easily destroy this host was not one Heshtat wished to encounter.
Neither man spoke. Heshtat was unwilling to break the silence lest they summon either more of the jackals or incur the wrath of whatever guardian had created such a scene. He didn’t know what stilled Maatkare’s tongue, but he guessed it was a similar thought. Hard to think of much else while wading through such a slaughter.
Nearing the end of their charnel path, they reached a door. It was surprisingly humble in design; two doors, in truth, carved of simple wood. Acacia by the smell of it. Heshtat was just shocked he could pick up anything over the scent of blood and guts.
“Should we enter?” Maatkare hissed.
Heshtat took a long look back at the hallway, blood-spattered and reeking of death, then turned to his friend. “We have little choice. More jackals will arrive soon. And worse besides.”
His friend just grunted, spitting to one side and adjusting his grip on his tulwar. “Then lead on, my friend. I said once I’d follow you into Ammat’s mouth… Let’s not make me a liar, hey?”
It was a shallow attempt at humour, but Heshtat gave him a wan smile anyway. He appreciated the gesture, even if his jaw stayed clenched.
Just as he reached out to the simple doors, he heard a noise from beyond them. A voice. His hand stilled, and he waved at Maatkare to halt. Leaning in, he strained his senses, and soon the voices resolved themselves.
“The guardian was clear, there can be only one,” a man rumbled, voice deep and resonant with authority. “Stand aside.”
“I am going through that gate. If you intend to stop me, you are welcome to try,” came the reply from the other. This voice was sharper, belonging to a younger man as far as Heshtat could tell.
He gestured Maatkare back, trying to communicate through hand gestures alone that they should wait until the violence brewing beyond the door was finished before moving in to take advantage of the aftermath. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, but his friend stayed put, so it was victory enough for Heshtat.
“I’ve been trained by the very best in Hefatiti’s province since I could walk. You will not win this fight,” the deep voice shouted.
“And I was groomed by the priesthood for just as long. I am an adept of Hapi—I’ll cut your throat before you can even swing that log-splitter.”
And then a third voice echoed from within, drowning out the two arguing men and travelling through the wood without any noticeable reduction in volume. It was smooth, cultured, containing more than a small hint of mockery.
“Why don’t we wait for our final guests? Perhaps they have an opinion on this matter.”
Heshtat frowned, unsure who the voice was referencing and equally baffled as to how it resonated so cleanly through the large wooden doors.
Which chose that exact moment to swing open.
i'll be adjusting my release schedule from 5 chapters a week to 3 chapters a week. (From next month - march 16th - since i've already booked out shouts on a 5 per week schedule for the next month). I'll warn you once we officially change over, but here's the warning that its on the horizon.
To reassure you, I'm not dropping the story! - book 1 is already completed, and i'm about 30% of the way through book 2 already. The trilogy will be completed, have no fear of that. I envisioned it as a trilogy to begin with, and I finish what I start - just look at my other stories if you want confirmation of that. But I do need to pivot from this story being the one that would fulfil my authorial dreams to the next one. I'll still be writing as fast as I can, likely getting five or six chapters a week written, but i'll be banking them up to release more slowly on royalroad over the course of the year. Aiming to have book 3 complete by summer and begin my next project, then launch that before the end of the year.
- Chapter 30 – Feline Felicitations
- Chapter 31 – The Eye of the Beholder
- Chapter 32 – Lakeside Chaos
- Chapter 33 – Better Late Than Never - End of Act 2
- Interlude – The First Failure