The Rise of the Goddess

39 | TOO LATE FOR REGRETS

Thunder slammed into Ahmen, a living thing, relentless, insatiable. It soaked his flesh and tore through his mind. Trapped in its crushing grip, it shoved him back against a metal crate, and dug into his eyes, driving them into the back of their sockets. Stars shot through his vision, their pinpoints drilling into his brain, sharp, excruciating. He ground his teeth, enduring, determined to suppress the bellow clawing at his throat, desperate for its release.

After what felt an eternity, although it could have been no more than a handful of heartbeats, the agony of the warship's abrupt, violent thrust eased. A quiet, steady rumble took its place. Ahmen sagged against the crate, panting, and rubbed his streaming, aching eyes, wondering if he had just made the worst mistake of his existence. He suppressed the thought. It was far too late for regrets—the heartbeat he had seen Sethi leave the ship and enter the middle pyramid, Ahmen knew the depth of the risk, yet he had taken it anyway. It was this or spend days searching for Thoth's residence in the hopes of a portal into Perev. No. It would always be this. A guaranteed way in to the heart of Marduk's fortress—and to Meresamun.

Keeping to the deepest shadows of the ship's cargo hold, he edged his way out from his hiding place between two towering stacks of crates. Faint blue strips of light illuminated the central corridor, barely enough to banish the well of darkness entombing the space. Near the front of the hold, a spiral staircase cut through the ceiling and continued upward. A faint glow filtered down from above. He crept closer, cautious, and looked up.

Sethi had gone up there, alone, covered in blood and carrying a fearsome weapon bearing strange, etched symbols, its black blades glinting with a sickly blue-white light. He suspected it was the jihn Horus had spoken of. Whatever it was, it was more than a blade. Evil emanated from it.

Even before Sethi had reached the ship, Ahmen had felt a subtle change in the air, like the tempting, deceptive scour of low tide. It had saturated his heart in a miasma of doubt, driving him to question his desire to go to Meresamun, mocking his intentions, suggesting there was nothing noble in them—he only sought to vindicate himself. No. Not this again. He clenched his fists, walling up the thoughts, entombing them, calling them the lies they were.

It had to be the jihn which poisoned his mind. Certainly, the nearer he drew to the steps, the stronger the oppressive thoughts, and the chaotic siphoning of the neat, orderly lines of his mind. He backed away from the light filtering from above, edgy, claustrophobic, and returned to his hiding place at the rear of the ship—the furthest he could put himself from Sethi's weapon—where the rumble was loudest and the floor's vibration made the soles of his feet tingle. He concentrated on the feel of it, his focus staving off the strength of the foul grip coiling in his mind. He had no idea how long it would take to get to Perev or if Sethi was even going there. Ahmen had no provisions, and had eaten little at lunch, his appetite stolen by his disappointment at finding Anki empty of his objective.

Keeping a tight rein on his mood, he remained on his feet, welcoming the creep of fatigue clawing at his legs, the twitch of his calf muscles, protesting his cruelty as the hours passed, begging for respite, for mercy. He gave himself none, his suffering keeping him vigilant against the darkness encroaching his mind. Each time his thoughts strayed to Meresamun he cut them off, forcing himself to think of barren desert sands, of cloudless blue skies, of the blank sheet of an empty papyrus. Of nothing.