The Forgotten God

Chapter 54

It had been some time when Atum had last entered the centre of a city. He sometimes frequented wine-bars, mingled at the more exclusive clubs, but they were often set away from the general hub. The wear and tear of life assaulted his senses every time he looked at the towering offices and slumped figures in their suits, carrying the majority of their life in a branded briefcase.

The luxurious cars went past, carrying their bosses and showing off the wealth they had at the expense of their workers. Yet still some refused to acknowledge it.

Even like this, desolate and quiet, it still reeked of corruption and capitalism. Although that was perhaps not quite as bad as the dead and dying, the stanch of rot and welling chaos.

"Lead me to the museum," Atum ordered. "The potion I have needs a better vessel and I should be able to find one there. The residue of history adds potency to these charms, heightens them."

He wrinkled his nose as he looked about him. The putrid smell of the drains still touched the air, as did the smell of death from the walking shells, rotting from within,

"It is this way, not far at all," Shu bowed, gesturing for him to follow. "It is not as it was, much of the relics are smashed and the building itself is unstable, the supporting walls are damaged."

"It doesn't need to be pristine, only good enough."

---

The desert sands were alive. Whirling and dancing in a heated wind, the dregs of Am-Heh's tornadoes and hurricanes or fire and fury that had decimated the nearest city. The smoke from the buildings filled the sky with choking fumes along the smell of incinerated flesh.

Many had escaped, but the slower or the unlucky, had been unable. Trapped and terrified they had choked or burned to death where they waited.

Even in the blur of golden and glassy grains, an outline could be seen, unperturbed by the barbs that broke from the water deprived plants and struck angrily at the firm skin.

The chaotic and fragmented aura didn't hamper it, it was used to the moods of the deserts and more importantly, moods of the Gods that played it.

It had heard the demands of its master when it took custody of that weakling. A foolish fancy to give such majestic tasks to a mere mortal. Besides, these charms had only a jot of the power alone. Another was needed to make the three and give all might to the sword.

The djed-pillar, the backbone of Osiris, or that of the deceased associated with him was the crux. Those of old recognized the importance of the spine and saw it as a symbol that kept Osiris, the great resurrected god, intact and able to function. Placed near the spines of mummified bodies, which was supposed to ensure the resurrection of the dead, allowing the deceased to live eternally.

Those in the dusty cabinets were simple replicas, found in tombs and honoured by being lost and then badly handled before being dropped in a glass case to be ogled like a street trollop.

Indeed, they had some semblance of power. But nothing like that of the original, crafted from the consecrated wood of the pillar that had formed from the coffin of Isis's beloved.

That had been carefully secreted by the God himself.

The winds and wild had disturbed the coverage of thorny brush and deep sands. Exposing the icy cold that housed the roots. Deep, deep in the darkness, where the sun did not reach and beyond the thievery of man and beast. Even now, only the softest of auras, the snippet of a whiff, touched him.

It was enough to reveal itself and his master would have it.

Time didn't seem to move, but in reality, it took over an hour for the beast to dig deep enough to reveal a worn chest. The wood was scratched from the earth and sands and the debris were deeply engraved in the hinges. It would take the might of a God to open it.