Naramsin: Babylon Part 3
As the archers drew their arrows and slotted their bows, I closed my eyes, and remembered another time, long ago, when archers of a different kind raised their bows to destroy me, on a clear, star-filled night, under a low, full moon, in a distant time, in a distant place, on a long-forgotten mountain pass…
We had fought fiercely, giving ground slowly, at terrible price to our pursuers, as we backed higher and higher into the mountains. And we fell, one by one: the noble Sirus, the gallant Toth, the fierce Horian, spilling our warrior blood onto the snow-covered rocks of that faraway land. And the blood of our enemies poured like a river down the clefts of that mountain, in a carnage so frightful that even the gods drew pause to gasp, under the light of the trembling moon.
By sheer numbers alone were we forced back, as the raging Polareans poured ceaselessly into the gap, pressing relentlessly forward. By the third night of battle, we had finally withdrawn to a high, narrow pass whose width prevented our pursuers from using their numbers against us. Suffering astonishing losses, they had withdrawn to regroup, and we huddled together in the icy waste of the narrow pass, where we checked our weapons and bandaged our wounds as best as we were able.
I watched grimly as Qu’Zial somehow sparked a shallow fire that showered us with embers of warmth, raising our spirits and pouring light upon the proud, rugged countenances of our remaining company. Bronze Vash-Tar hunched low at the entrance to the pass, balancing his immense double-headed axe on his knees as he peered into the darkness. Across from him, redheaded Viracoche ran his fingers across his great sword, staring at the small specks of the enemy encampment below.
Osiran crossed his twin scimitars and placed them on the ground in front of him as he warmed his blood-caked hands against the fire. Thick-muscled Uan steadied himself against an outcrop of rock as he pulled an arrow out of his leg without a trace of pain or emotion on his face. Rion dropped his thick battle-club and leaned against the cold stone, staring upwards at the stars, while Xisuthros lowered his axe and tied a strip of cloth around dark Neter’s dripping arm wound. Raven-haired Apkala unfastened the last dried strips of meat from beneath her cloak and tore them into equal pieces for all, as Rushor, tall, thin, and deadly, paced slowly around the fire, oblivious to the gaping wounds on his breast. And the icy wind flowed Aker’s tawny hair across his leonine countenance like waters on a shore as he sheathed his gore-crusted sword and settled next to the flames.
I paced slowly around the edges of the pass, scanning the walls surrounding us for any exit, any means out; but the back of the pass was blocked by an impenetrable avalanche of snow and rock. There was only one way in, and only one way out.
I remember still the silence that blanketed our company as we stood together on that cold, wicked night so long ago, high in the mountains, alone, with no means of escape from our certain fate. But not a man, nor a woman, showed a hint of fear. Only honor, and bravery, and strength shone from the faces of our doomed company.
Of hardened warriors, perhaps you have heard tales; but next to these warriors, all such tales must pale. There were none greater then, nor have there been greater since. I was humbled to be part of that company, and proud to have ferociously dispensed death as well as any of them. From the far expanses of the world had we been brought together, and it thus seemed only fitting that we would meet our destiny there, on the vast, barren, rooftop of the world…
Eyes closed, I could hear the soft creaking of their bows as Adarak’s archers begin to pull their strings taut, and I continued to remember that long-ago night…
It was Rushor who had broken the silence of the pass, as he stopped his pacing and faced us. “There is no exit,” he said quietly. “Am I correct, Na’Ramsin?” Wordlessly, I nodded assent. Rushor’s eyes narrowed.
Aker laughed darkly, and rose to his feet. “Then let death be our exit,” he growled. “I am not afraid to die, and I am honored by the gods beyond all measure to have the privilege to die with each of you.” He held his scarred hand out in front of him.
Silently, we closed ranks, each placing their hand on his, until we twelve radiated out from the center-placed hands like the spokes of a martial wheel. Aker drew his sword, pointed it to the sky, and shouted his mighty battle-cry, and as our voices joined his, the terrible sound of our united voices thundered across the mountaintop, rolling snow in a distant avalanche, and striking the Polareans below with the icy chill of fear.
As the blood subsided in our veins, we each dropped to the cold ground, in the hope of securing a final bit of rest before the inevitable onslaught began; but instead of resting, I watched Rushor slowly squat and stare deeply into the fire through half-lidded eyes, mouthing silent words as if in a trance. When he opened his eyes fully, I saw that they had rolled up into his head and were completely white, without pupils; and as he stood suddenly, I saw that his feet touched not the ground.
Amazed, I shouted and jumped to my feet, and each of the company bolted upright.
“There is,” Rushor said, in a strange, weird, hollow voice, “another way…”
“What is this?” shouted Osiran, drawing his twin blades. Each drew their weapon as the tall thin man continued to rise slowly, until he stopped a full sword’s length above the ground.
“Hold!” I commanded. “This is still Rushor!”
“Rushor Rushor Rushor Rushor!” cackled a different voice from the levitating man. Then another, deeper voice boomed “RUUUUUSSSSSHOOORRRR!” and suddenly his body began to jerk wildly above the fire, his eyes rolling around in his head as his limbs flailed.
“Demons!” snarled Viracoche, raising his great sword. “By the gods…!”
We watched, thunderstruck, as Rushor’s body continued to jerk, and listened in awe as a steady stream of weird and different voices bubbled from his lips. His face seemed to shift and change over and over again with each new voice, until finally his body went limp, still suspended over the flames.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head, and the sight of his face astonished us. His skin had scaled and mottled, his eyebrows had arched obscenely high upon his forehead, and his eyes now glowed a pure fiery red above an upturned, batlike nose. His lips were drawn completely back to his ears, and he grinned a macabre smile at us, with dagger-like fangs where teeth once were. And the voice that issued from that horrible mouth quickened the blood of all.
“Greeeeeeeeeetingsssssssssss,” it hissed, as a black snakelike tongue licked its dry lips.
Xisuthros stepped forward, hands clenched firmly around his axe. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And what have you done with Rushor?”
“Rushor Rushor Rushor Rushor!” it tittered again, raising suddenly-taloned hands into the air. “We are Russsshor, and Russsshor is ussss!” it hissed.
“Speak clearly to us, demon!” shouted Rion, brandishing his club.
The Thing that was once Rushor fell silent, and stared closely at each of us in turn, all the while grinning evilly, and licking its fangs. “They do not know,” it said finally. “They do not know.”
“Know? Know what?” said Apkala, her thin deadly blade at the ready as the frozen wind fingered her hair.
The Rushor-thing stared at her intently, and smiled broadly, flicking its black tongue in and out of its mouth. “For too long have we been hungry upon these mountains,” it replied obliquely. “But the blood, the blood! The delicious blood! It is everywhere, filling the rocks, red snow! Souls shrieking as they fly into the night, torn apart from their bodies, blood everywhere, everywhere!”
The spittle rolled down its face as it licked its lips. “Who gives us the blood? Who gives us the blood? We feast, we eat the souls, we glut on the blood! Then the shout, the shout summons us, the shout calls us, the voices of the many as one, as we, the shout draws us close, and we come here, summoned by them, summoned by him, summoned by this one, who talks to us from here, from inside, from inside the flesh!”
And for a sudden instant, the horrible face melted away, and became, once again, Rushor; but in a moment, he was gone, and the grinning Thing cackled.
“He calls us to grant a boon, the sorcerer,” it said, hissing, “a reward for the blood, a reward for the blood, for the souls eaten.”
“What sorcerer?” asked Qu’Zial.
“Rushor, the sorcerer!” it screamed. “Rushor, the one, the same, it is he, it is Rushor! He knows the Old Ways, he understands the Old Ways, he honors us, he honors you, he beseeches the boon for you.” It paused, eyeing us. “But we cannot give, you must take, you must take freely.”
“Take what?” I asked.
The Thing threw back its head and shrieked with laughter. “Death! You must take death! Death to live! You must take death to live!”
“Enough!” cried Uan, swinging his sword toward the Thing. It cackled wildly as it grabbed the blade with taloned hand and flung Uan to the ground, then elevated itself out of our reach…
The archers had now drawn their bows completely back, and Adarak dropped his hand, signaling them to release their arrows. I could hear the screams of the assembly and the shouts of King Sumulael, and could hear the brushing of the bag of silver dust against the wizard’s cloak…
Then another voice emanated from the body of Rushor. Rushor’s voice, hoarse and whispering.
“Do not fear, my brothers,” it said, as the face of Rushor suddenly reappeared. “It is true what the demon says. We have only one final chance at life, one final chance to escape the death that awaits us from in this pass. But the cost may be more than any can bear.”
“Rushor,” said Vashtar guardedly. “Speak plainly. Tell us what you mean, and why you have summoned this demon.”
It was clear that Rushor was struggling mightily to maintain control of his body, and his breath was labored as he spoke. “Know now,” he rasped, “that I was once a mighty wizard, whose evil sorcery gained him the rule of his country, but who found the heavy price of that kingship bitter and steep. At peril of my soul I turned away, unwilling to pay the final price for that prize, and found instead a different path in the world, the honored path of the true warrior, the path that has brought me to you.
“But now the path ends, ends for all of us, unless you each choose a new path of your own, a path which I will choose with you, but one which I will not choose without you. You have taught me the meaning of honor, and it is to repay that teaching that I now offer you a chance at life in the face of certain death. But the bitterness of this path is one that dwarfs anything in your imaginings, and the steepness of this path must be borne for eternity.” With that, the face of Rushor melted away, and the Thing reappeared.
And then the first arrow fell from the sky.
Well do I remember that night, and the unspeakable Pact we made with the Thing that Rushor had summoned. I can hear it still, tittering and barking, cackling and swearing, screaming and laughing, as we each swore the Oath, and I can still feel the pain, the pain that cannot be described, as it killed me. As it killed each of us.
As it clawed and chewed our flesh.
As it spilled and swallowed our blood.
As it carved out and ate pieces of our souls.
As we awoke again, shrieking in agony, burning from the excruciating pain of our horrific transformation.
As we flew down the icy, narrow pass through the hail of arrows, and slaughtered the Polareans to the last man, ripping, destroying, glutting on their blood, feasting on their flesh, and feeding on their souls…
The memory was still vivid as, eyes closed, I heard the first bow twang and the arrow released. I felt the vibration in the air against my skin as the arrow pushed its way towards me.
I raised my hand and deflected it away.
The air became alive with more vibrations, as one by one the arrows came toward me. One by one I deflected them away. Time slowed as I listened to the air. I thought again of that long-ago night, of those arrows raining upon us in the icy pass. I continued knocking away the arrows until I heard the last twang, and I caught that final arrow and opened my eyes.
The entire assembly had fallen completely silent, and the archers stood as stone. Adarak wore a look of shock upon his ashen face as I broke that final arrow in half and flung the pieces to the floor. I stared at the sorcerer grimly as sweat beaded his upper lip, and I smelled his fear seeping slowly from his pores. His face contorted in a snarl.
“Though your gods entrap me, my gods protect me, magician,” I said sharply. “And this is the skill that I have placed at the service of the king, and the skill you would deny him.”
“Adarak!” boomed Sumulael. “Enough! Release Naram-Sin now!”
The sorcerer turned and stared at the king, and I saw the blackness grow in his eyes. “As Asipu caste bound to Marduk, I am sworn to destroy this demon!” he shouted. “Now behold!”
He drew talismans from beneath his robe and raised his hands high. In one hand he held a frond of tamarisk, and in the other a branch of date, and, staring at the sky, he thundered the ancient incantation:
Adarak of Ea am I,
Adarak of Damkina am I,
The messenger of Marduk am I,
My spell is the spell of Ea,
My incantation is the incantation of Marduk,
The Circle of Ea is in my hand,
The tamarisk, the powerful weapon of Anu,
In my hand I hold,
The date-spathe, mighty in decision,
In my hand I hold.
Adarak of Ea, Adarak of Damkina,
My spell of Ea calls him,
My incantation of Marduk summons him,
Calls Marduk to the Circle of Ea,
The tamarisk and date offered, the Circle unbroken,
The demon within,
The messenger of Marduk am I.
Instantly all the braziers within the tent snuffed out. Lightning crackled in the low grey sky, which now grew thick with black clouds that blocked out all hope of day. Sudden, shrieking winds from all directions began roiling the walls of the tent, straining the ropes and flapping the canvas; and the interior of the tent, grey and dim, became like the Underworld in its gloom. As the assembly fell back from the sorcerer, dust and dirt kicked up and swirled around him. I looked in vain for an opening in the silver circle, which remained magically undisturbed around me.
And then the hair on my neck began to crawl, as I felt the Evil begin to approach from the distant sky, galloping steadily towards Babylon on hoofs made of lightning and wind.
Then, suddenly, the winds stopped; the lightning ceased; and the temperature plunged, frosting the breath of all. Silence descended like a shroud. A woman sobbed in fear. Slowly, a blood-red light began to seep through the roof of the tent, steadily flooding the interior, until it seemed as if the entire tent was lit by fire; but the brightest light shone inside my circle, the Circle of Ea, and I stared up into the descending light, waiting.
And then the first yellow glimmer appeared, high above me, at the ceiling of the tent. It was followed by another, and another still, until five points of yellow light danced in the air. Then each point of light began to lengthen and thicken, slowly at first, then more quickly. Each point became a shaft the size of a man, and as they connected, I saw that they were fingers. Fingers of a giant, glowing hand that was, even now, coalescing above me. The hand of Marduk.
The fingers became talons as the yellow hand solidified, and the talons curled as they began to slowly descend towards me. Through the corner of my eye, I saw Adarak grinning madly as he shook the tamarisk and date branches high above his head, closing his eyes in exultation.
It was at that moment that I heard a gasp, and saw the slave girl swoon and collapse to the floor behind me. Her wine jug splintered as it hit the ground, splattering the wine forward, and washing out a small section of the silver circle. In an instant, I stepped through the opening, and the enormous hand closed around the empty space I had just vacated; and as I looked down at the slave girl, I saw her smile at me through half-closed eyes.
The enormous hand closed and opened, and closed and opened again. Suddenly, the winds began to roar, and thunder pealed in the sky. Adarak opened his eyes to see my face inches away from his, my breath hot upon his cheek. I curled my lips into a tight smile, barely restraining my desire to tear out his throat; then I stripped away his plants and pouch, pushed him into the circle, and opened the pouch of silver in my hand.
It burned me like acid as I poured it onto the gap, but in my lust for vengeance I relished the pain. The sorcerer leapt at me frantically, but fell back as he collided with the same invisible wall that had imprisoned me. From inside the Circle of Ea there could be no escape.
Then the yellow hand descended again, wrapped its talons around the squirming sorcerer, and squeezed. Adarak’s body exploded and fell away from his shrieking soul, which struggled against the hand like a snake caught fast in the claws of a hawk.
As his flesh and blood rained down upon the ground, as chunks of his soul sliced off and spun in the air, I closed my eyes and inhaled the pieces of the sorcerer’s ectoplasm, and swallowed bits of his bloody flesh from the air as they rained down, savoring their taste. His corrupted life-force was bitter and dark, full of black necromancy, and I relished the flavor of his unholy soul, and the nectar of his evil blood.
And then, as fast as it had begun, it was over. The hand and the sorcerer vanished, and all was suddenly silent. The blood-red light disappeared, the clouds melted away, the wind stopped, and the eerie cold and darkness were replaced by the familiar heat and light of the morning sun.
I lifted the slave girl over my shoulder, smiled at the awestruck king, and vanished through the door of the tent, not stopping until the encampment was only a small point on the distant horizon of the great Euphrates.
I set her down gently on the soft marshy grass. She smiled at me and tossed back her dark tresses. I began to speak my gratitude, but she placed a finger against my lips and motioned me to sit. This I did, and immediately learned that Selana was a spy for Vashtar, who even now was winging his way towards us, drawn by the high magic and the scent of his slave. She was one of the daughters of a desert king conquered by Sumulael, and had long searched for a way out of her bondage. Vashtar, recognizing her from his long, anonymous travels in the desert, had come to her in Sumulael’s palace one night as she had lain asleep, and had enchanted her with the promises of freedom and immortality in exchange for some small services.
For Vashtar had grown quite fond of Babylon, having made numerous trips throughout the ancient Mesopotamian and Sumerian lands to find a place that reminded him most of his old home. As was his nature, he had sought to inject himself yet again into the affairs of men, and had wanted to engage King Sumulael in a manner and method that would yield him rich lands, political power, and little interference in the conduct of his life. Selana would give him insights into the court of the king, and when the time was right, Vashtar would give her the terrible gifts she so desperately craved.
And as the great, gold-feathered heron settled to the ground, I caressed Selana’s face tenderly; and after Vashtar heard the story, he kept his promise to the slave girl, and set her free, sharing her with me, and her screams rolled across the marshy plains…
King Sumulael would spend the rest of his short days wondering whatever happened to the mysterious stranger who had once saved his life, and who had escaped the wrath of a god. His long reign would end within the year under suspicious circumstances, but none would ever dare question Prince Sabium’s quick ascension to the throne.
King Sabium would rule a fortnight of years and prove himself to be a wise warrior king, pushing the boundaries of his land forward; but he too would ultimately fall to his own clever son, the beardless Apil-Sin, the viper in his own nest. Yet, as fate is both ironic and capricious, the expansion of territory under Sabium’s rule would serve as a crucial foundation stone for the greatness that would become Babylon.
Pharaoh Senustret III would spend the last four years of his reign in lamentation and bitterness, vainly searching for the lost artifacts that had been spirited away. History would record him as the world-weary Pharaoh, with statuary reflecting a resigned sadness upon his features. His son, Amenemhet III, acting as co-regent during Senustret’s final years, would devote much time and treasure over his own 45-year reign to the continuance of his father’s quest, without success.
It fell, then, to myself and my kindred of the Pact, to seek out and secure the lost mystical books and the stolen Container. Vashtar and I separated, and sought out our fellows of the Pact; and they, when found, did the same, each in turn roaming across the earth to warn the others of the danger and enlist their aid in returning the ancient sorceries to Egypt. And some would fall.
The newborn Selana would walk her own path, starting first among the northern Assyrians, and would prove, in the coming centuries, more than worthy of her gift.
But, search as we would then, not a trace could be found of the frightful Lamia that had stolen the artifacts, nor of the evil intelligence that had guided it.
Over the years that followed, many times would I regret my quick dispatch of the sorcerer Adarak to the demon-god Marduk in the royal tent by the shores of the vast Euphrates. All black sorcery, I knew, was connected to itself, like the heads of a hydra connected to a massive torso, undulating serpentine in the liquid darkness of evil that permeated the existence of the world of man. Because of my anger and need for revenge, any information or connection Adarak may have had to the riddle of the Sphinx’s plundering would never be known.
But my regrets were always tempered by the knowledge of who and what I was. I and my kin had made a choice, on that icy, windswept mountain pass untold millenia ago, to bind our souls to the eternal blackness, and to the unspeakable indulgences of our dark and evil passions.
Warriors born, lovers of destruction, remorseless dealers of death, we chose death to cheat death, and in so doing became immortal. We lived, and died, and lived again, and we did so fully, without hesitation or reservation. Our lusts increased a thousandfold; but torturously, paradoxically, so did the consciences that struggled to control them, and a cruel, bitter fate forced us to deal with these unforeshadowed wars raging furiously within our souls. We drank deeply of pain and pleasure. We were at once sophisticated and demonic, urbane and savage, our volatility boiling our blood; and so it was that we lived. My impulse had destroyed Adarak; so be it. Vashtar knew this, and understood. It was our way.
There would be no quick conclusion to our search, no immediate resolution of our questions, no swift removal of the danger which now roamed the world, unchecked, unfound, unseen. And as kings died, dynasties crumbled, and empires fell, the resolve of the kin of the Pact continued unshaken and unwavering, as we single-mindedly pursued the Lamia and the darker forces that peered malevolently at us from behind the shadowy veil of the hidden world.
But that was unknowable then. Then, there was only a final embrace, as Vashtar and I, comrades so long ago, and comrades still, once more said our farewells.
And I, Na’Ramsin the warrior, Naram-Sin the king, Naramsin the vampire, took my leave of Babylon that long-ago day, and stepped once more into the mists of Time.
