Sci Fi & Fantasy / Isis Wept, Chapter 3

Isis Wept, Chapter 3

Isis staggered, almost collapsing. She had been walking the edge of her roof, a moment’s self-collection after just returning home. If not for her attending priestess, she might have fallen to the courtyard below.

“Goddess!” Merferet gasped, hauling her queen from the precipice. She quickly, contritely, released Isis’s arms. “Goddess, forgive me! Are you all right?”

Isis settled to the mudbrick roof. She trembled, and her body ran with sweat. “I felt something,” she said, her voice husky. She shook her head, tried to calm her heart. Darkness stirred there, and fear. “The king is in trouble,” she said with strength forced by necessity. “Where is his guard? Where are his priests?”

        #

The Setim screamed and attacked as a wave. The nobles quailed, then ran for the exits. Before it could register, Qebera had gutted two men, Qebera, who had never killed in his life. His men crashed into the fray, and the hall rang with bronze on wood and stone. Oil lamps toppled, increasing the dark. Men slipped and fell on the greased floor. Some never got up under the finishing strokes of swords and axes. The Setim were fanatic, driven by fear of their master. But they were also ill-trained. They fell like reeds before Qebera’s men. But the king’s guard were few, and the Setim an army.

And half of Qebera’s people were drunk.

Qebera blocked a wild ax stroke, kicked back that assailant to slice open another. Blood slimed his sword and covered his arms, striking him with horror.

How had he managed years as a soldier, and never seen blood?

Set worked calmly across the room to the exit. He directed eight priests as they lifted the coffin and bore it behind him.

Qebera tried to separate from the bloody melee around him. It was a diversion, keeping him from his king. But freeing himself of the Setim was no easy feat. They were unskilled, but numerous as roaches. They slaughtered his men, chopped down cowering nobles, and replaced their fallen without thought or command. Then they heightened the level of calamity. A sword rang against Qebera’s blade, a sword in the hand of a Setim attacker, taken up from Qebera’s fallen comrades. The sacred metal of Osiris now served his brother’s minions. The idea enraged Qebera further; he fell on his enemies as if possessed.

His remaining men fought with equal vigor. They hacked, kicked, and skewered their attackers, and even felt the Setim buckle. But they also watched with ineffectual rage as Set left the hall with Osiris’s wooden prison. Qebera cursed as he fought, screamed damnation at the fanatic Setim, at Set, and most roundly at himself.

His first chance to prove his worth, and he was already failing.

Then the Setim broke. Their ax-wielding ranks buckled and were driven into the hall’s dark corners.

“Let them go!” Qebera roared. “Form a shield here, to keep them off our backs! You three, come with me!”

His men complied instantly. His three chosen comrades, younger and more eager, charged ahead of him out the main doors. Qebera didn’t tell them why they were chosen. If they went against Set, he preferred to lose four rather than every man alive.

They charged from the hall and across the empty foyer, out the palace doors and into the starry night. Qebera halted them then, formed them into a secure wedge as Osiris had taught and drilled him. He wanted to rescue the king, not fall into ambush.

They stalked down the ramp from the porch, then into the courtyard before the palace gates. The hairs rose on Qebera’s neck, for the courtyard stood shadowed by palms and acacias, and by the cedars, a gift from Syria many years ago. The place had never been a home for fear; its cultured beauty had always soothed. Now, the courtyard threatened, its shadows deep and numerous. Somewhere out there were beds of reeds, a house altar to the now captured god, low brick walls and oversized sculptures, all meant to comfort the visitor, all easy to hide behind. Killers might lurk to attack any enemy in close pursuit of their devil god. Qebera would have done so in the service of Osiris.

They charged out of the dark with more zeal than talent, six men with axes poised above their heads. The guard met them, bringing them down without much effort.

A light flared at the palace gate, a stone’s throw away. “Who’s there?” the groundsman called from his hut. “Identify yourself, or I call the guard!”

“We are the guard,” Qebera bellowed. “Where is Set? Which way did he go?”

No answer returned.

Qebera thought he would burst from rage. “Curse you, man! Don’t you know what’s happened? Osiris is captured, intended for death! Where did Set go?”

The light at the gate wavered, but came no closer. “But, that’s impossible,” the groundsman called. “You can’t kill a god…”

Qebera expelled the foulest of curses. If not for the distance, he would have gutted the groundsman for spite.

“Well, you don’t have to be rude…”

“You, you. Go through the gate. We’ll head through the courtyard to the quay. Don’t waste time with that moron.”

“Isn’t he right?” one man asked. “It’s impossible to kill a god?”

“For us it is. Who knows what Set can do? Now, go!”

The party split. Qebera dove into the black mass of shadows.

        #

Amnet shuddered. His presence defied all form, him a priest of Osiris. The queen’s rooms were forbidden to him; he was a pollutant against her faith. Still, the high priestess had sought him out and compelled him to see the queen. Considering the circumstances, he could not refuse.

The high priestess Merferet ushered him into Isis’s main hall. There he met another shock. On the floor lay scattered the effects of royal authority—Osiris’s royal authority. Piles of his robes and kilts, piles of his state jewelry, a plethora of state wigs. Even the king’s scepter-insignia, his intricately decorated crook and flail, lay ignominiously on the floor. The crook connoted the king’s shepherding influence, the flail his power to enforce his will. Where was such power, if its symbols had come to such ignominy?

Servants and priestesses rummaged through the stuff, jamming things into rough linen bags. A scribe drew on a papyrus scroll, cataloging what the servants bagged. They were all servants of Isis, all defilers of the regalia they handled.

The queen sat on a divan nearby, holding the seat as if she might swoon. She had covered herself in a heavy hooded cloak so as not to overwhelm the priest. Amnet was grateful, for no man withstood the power of her flesh.

“Goddess, forgive me,” Amnet exclaimed, “but as high priest of Osiris, I must protest. These are my lord’s holy possessions. How did you—”

“She went to his apartments and took them,” Merferet snapped, and went to kneel by her goddess. “Surely you won’t complain, with all that’s happened tonight.”

Amnet couldn’t help the frustration in his voice. “All what’s happened? The palace is confused. Some say we are at war, others know nothing at all. Some say a number of nobles are murdered, that infiltrators—”

“My husband is captured,” Isis moaned from within her robes. “Set intends to kill him.” She sagged at the announcement. Merferet caught her as she swooned.

Osiris? Killed? Amnet cringed from the thought. How does one commit such sacrilege? How does one kill a god?

“Set intends to kill him,” the goddess said with a will. “He will kill my husband, then take the throne of Abydos. Then he will destroy my husband’s temple, murder you priests, and take me as his consort!”

“Heaven forefend!” Amnet gasped, and quailed even deeper within himself.

Isis gestured at the stuff scattered around her. “These are the ensigns of my husband’s reign. All are here but what he wears.” She paused. When her voice returned, it was but a whisper. “Take them.”

“Goddess, I cannot! It is forbidden—”

“Listen, you fool!” Merferet snapped. “She seeks to save your master, not offend him! Take the regalia, distribute it among your priests, and go quickly into hiding! Without these symbols, Set cannot rule with legitimacy. All will know he usurped the throne! Take these things, and defend them with your lives!”

Amnet’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish on land. For all his holy station, he was little more than a bureaucrat. This was beyond his experience. “I will have to consult my order…”

Isis rose unsteadily to her feet. Though her priestess poised to catch her, the queen projected a defiant, if battered, regality. “By the time you consult, you will all be dead.”

She stepped to within inches of the priest. She reached out a hand to touch his chest. Immediately, he calmed. “Fear is natural,” she said, her voice quavering. “But your god depends on you. Protect his name, if not his body. Even in disaster, you may still be of service.”

Amnet willed strength to his soul. If this goddess could function in the midst of grief, then he, too, could act. “I will do it, goddess. But, what will become of you?” He bit his lip as the question escaped, for he knew the answer already. Set would want her. He might even take her by force. He would see her as property rightfully won.

“I will endure,” Isis answered, and her voice cracked. “I must. Who else is there to avenge the name of Osiris?”

        #

An ax sparked chips from the gate’s brick frame. That strike failed, the ambusher threw himself bodily into Qebera. The two fell backwards into the courtyard, where Qebera immobilized the ax-wielding arm and battered the assailant with his sword’s heavy pommel. Still the Setim fought, thrashing for a few fateful moments, long enough for Qebera’s man to pass around them, through the gate and onto the palace quay.

“Set!” the guardsman challenged, for the storm god loaded Osiris’s coffin onto a launch for his barge. He stood on deck as nonchalantly as if he loaded jars of beer. The guard charged, his sword held high, a drive to rescue his king. Qebera dispatched his Setim nuisance in time to witness that soldier’s death.

Set looked up briefly from his work. He gestured, then turned away.

The sand along the quay burst from the ground and combined into a scouring stream that instantly stripped the guard to his bones. His sword and skeleton clattered to the ground.

Qebera almost fled. A part of him screamed to do so, to hide somewhere until it was safe. But the man in him defied that beast and pushed it down in the name of duty. He wiped his bloody hands on his bloody and grimy uniform, then stepped with his sword from the gate onto the quay.

Set recognized him, and laughed.

The boatmen threw off mooring lines.

Qebera gritted his teeth, then took a step toward the boat. Another step. Another. He grew bolder the longer he lived. Soon he marched intently toward the boat.

Set gestured again as his crew poled toward the river’s center.

“Set! Come back here!”

Qebera almost missed the thin dervish of sand. It whipped from the ground just to his right, thickened, solidified, and came to terrible life.

A cobra swayed there, its hood flared. The beast was huge, as long and thick as a palm tree. It had a rough sand hide, sharp sand teeth, and dead sand eyes. It turned those unseeing eyes toward Qebera, and lunged.

Qebera ducked, rolled, came to his feet in time to recoil from a second strike. The snake missed him, reared to a height taller than a man, and shrieked.

“Good-bye, captain of the guard!” Set laughed from the river. “If my toy doesn’t get you, the imminent cleansing will! Nothing personal, I hope you know!”

The cobra struck again. Qebera dodged, escaping death by a scant measure. The monster’s sand trunk lunged past in front of him, incredibly large, incredibly quick.

Qebera hacked the snake with his sword. The blade flashed completely through the body, to no effect.

The beast landed a good run away, coiled, turned, and glared at its prey.

Qebera brandished his weapon without confidence. He was about to die. Without really thinking, he backed toward the water.

The snake flashed at him, a giant’s cracking whip. Qebera braced himself and thundered useless defiance.

But he wasn’t enveloped by huge sandy teeth or crushed by snapping jaws. The monster, mid-lunge, caught him in a neat loop of its body. Qebera felt a viselike squeeze, felt himself fly through the air. He watched terrified as a colossal, gritty demon’s head turned to rip him to shreds. So, this is how the mouse feels, Qebera thought with despair, and gave himself up to fate.

But the beast had poorly judged its lunge. Even as its mouth gaped for murder, the whole thing, Qebera included, tumbled into the Nile.

        #

Set had forgotten his human pest. He fingered the ornate coffin in which his brother lay trapped, and listened to the faint cries muffled below the lid. He still felt struggle vibrating through his fingers, but it grew weaker as the air fouled inside.

“In time, brother,” he smiled, “all your struggles will cease. Then I will be king and rectify your dismal experiments. Civilization, hah! Let them return to the animals they were, and the land return to the gods who made it. I need no pets to enliven my existence. Your former wife will be pastime enough.”

He stood at the coffin for long, satisfied minutes while the boat poled to the river’s heart. No one aboard looked at him; no one listened to his words. They knew what he was, what he had done and would likely do in the future. They only hoped to survive him.

At the correct time in the correct place, Set turned from his brother’s prison and raised his arms to the placid water. “Now, Hapi!” he shouted. “Come now, and seal our bargain!”

The Nile ran silent, unaltered. Set remained with arms upraised, confident the river would heed his call.

After a moment, its character changed. The current increased to left and right of the boat, almost roiling, an attitude of torture. A dull groan rose from the water’s depths. It was a curse, and a command.

“Now,” Set ordered his three remaining Setim, “pitch it in.”

Priests scurried to the coffin and set their muscles against its considerable weight. They pushed the container up a ramp devised for just that purpose, straining until they thought their hearts would burst. A final surge of effort, and the coffin plunged into the Nile. The water snatched it quickly beneath the surface, then suddenly settled to glassy calm.

“It is done!” Set crowed. “The throne of Abydos is mine!”

        #
Sanni jumped as her linen door flew open and three men crashed into the dim, crowded house. All the children but Hordedev were arrayed about the family room floor, all on mats of rushes. It was bedtime; Sanni herself had been about to douse the light and join her children in sleep. One look at her husband drove that thought from her mind.

“Qebera, what’s wrong?” she asked at once, and groped for a longer wick for the lamp.

“Osiris is captured, and probably dead. I’ve failed him, Sanni. I’ve failed us all.” His voice dragged. Sanni flared the new wick and moved the lamp toward her husband. He and his companions were already past the outer chamber and in among the family.

“Gods, Qebera! What happened to you?”

“I was struck by a snake,” her husband muttered. “Don’t worry. It didn’t hold up in the water.”

“What?”

“We fished him out of the river,” one of the two guards said. “He was delirious, and half drowned. He’s lucky to be alive, he is.”

Qebera was a fright of mud, blood, and grit. His eyes were dark hollows of defeat. “Rouse the children, Sanni. You must take them north to Mahasna, to your mother’s house. Don’t use the river; Hapi’s in league with Set.”

The children were already roused. One began to cry.

“Qebera,” Sanni snapped. “Stop and make sense. Tell me what’s happened, and why we must flee to Mahasna. Calm down, and speak.”

“I will speak in his place,” a new voice offered, and Sanni received a second shock as her door swung open once more.

As soon as they recognized their newest arrival, the adults collapsed to their knees.

“No,” Isis said past the hooded cloak that obscured her face. “We don’t have time for that.” She entered the cramped family room with three of her priestess-attendants. The men wisely averted their eyes, for even though blurred through layers of cloth, her body screamed to their loins. Unencumbered by that spell, Sanni peered past the layered linens to see what otherwise she might not have dared. The goddess’ make-up had failed; her black kohl eyeliner ran down her cheeks. Her face was smeared with tears.

“Your husband is correct,” Isis said. “Osiris is taken by Set. He will be killed unless Ra intervenes, and Ra sleeps until morning. By then, it will be too late. When Set kills my husband, he will also destroy all trace of his reign. He will raze my husband’s temple and kill his priests. He will execute what remains of the guard, and murder their families, as well. You must gather your children. You must leave this place, leave all of Abydos, or die in what will surely come.”

For a moment, Sanni could not respond. She had never had a god in her house; the experience overwhelmed her. Even more unnerving was the queen’s deportment, which none of the men could fully appreciate. Perhaps they heard strength in that sharp voice from that imagined beauty. Sanni distinctly heard fear.

Fear from a god was not lost on Sanni. She tried to adjust to this new, inexplicable reality. The queen waited while Qebera breathed in ragged gasps and one of the babies cried in a corner. A goat bleated from the front room. Finally, Sanni straightened her back and thrust out her jaw in an attitude of competence her family well understood. “Nefera,” she called, and her oldest daughter appeared at her side. “Nefera, to the shaduf. Find Hordedev and bring him here directly.”

“Yes, mamma,” the child shrilled, then dodged through grownups and out of the house.

“Hordedev is with the men,” Sanni explained to no one in particular. “They heard that something had happened at the palace. They gathered to gossip, as men will do.” She faced Isis, her face stone. “We have few possessions, little to carry. We will leave this place as you instruct. As soon as Hordedev arrives.” She turned to her husband. “You won’t be coming, I suppose?”

Qebera slowly shook his head. “I must seek my king. I must fight for him until he is freed, or die in his service—”

“No,” Isis interjected. “Many will die, but you, Captain Qebera, must not be one of them.”

“But, goddess, my duty—”

“Is to serve your lord, not die for him.” Isis took something from one of her silent priestesses.  She held it up by a rough linen lanyard, a leather bag about the size of a fist and stuffed with wadded linen. “I’ve hidden the royal ensigns with Osiris’s fleeing priests. Set will rule uneasily without them.” She reached the necklace of linen over Qebera’s bent head and onto his shoulders. She pressed its hanging bag against his chest, and closed her eyes to gather herself.

To Sanni, her husband seemed to grow taller; his grief had receded a step.

No one in the house moved or spoke. Even the crying stopped.

When Isis opened her eyes, she, too, seemed taller. “Within this pouch lies the greatest prize of Abydos. It is a shadow in ivory of the Wadjit Eye of Ra. Never open the bag. Never touch or look upon the amulet inside. To do so, for a mortal, would surely mean death. But, please, wear it always, and defend it with your life. This amulet is the signet of the king, assigned by Ra himself.”

“Goddess,” Qebera moaned. “Why? The priests—”

“I will not trust this power to Amnet. You were my husband’s most trusted vassal. The burden is rightfully yours.”

Qebera’s teeth bared in pain. He almost looked up to the face of his queen, then checked himself. “I have already failed your husband, goddess…”

“No, Qebera. You have just begun to serve.”

Sanni watched the exchange with interest. The goddess’s hand lingered a moment upon Qebera’s chest, and in that gesture Sanni saw both desperate hope and deep despair. It frightened her that a goddess felt helpless enough to pin her fortune and the future of a kingdom on a mere mortal man, and a poor farmer at that. Qebera seemed to strengthen while Isis’s fingers lingered at his chest. His exhaustion melted and defeat fell away from his shoulders. But he was still a farmer, nothing more. Sanni felt no jealousy that the goddess’s touch affected her husband so. She felt only pity for Isis, and growing fear for her family.

After a moment, the goddess dropped her hand. She then turned away and pushed through the press of bodies into the dark front room.

The humans looked from one to the other. Qebera met Sanni’s hardened eyes, and some of his gloom returned. “I would rather remain near you,” he said, his voice husky with anguish, “but she is queen and goddess to our land, and this is all I can do for my lord.”

Sanni rushed suddenly into Qebera’s arms. They clung to each other in desperate love and longing, sure of tragedy just beyond the moment. Sanni thought she would scream if ever forced to release her love. But release him she did, both their faces streaming tears. The children ran to their parents and hugged them about the legs.

“Ra will remember such nobility in man,” a voice said from the dark front room. Long moments passed before it spoke again. “I ask much in my husband’s name. But in you, his legacy could find no greater guardians.”

“I trust your wisdom,” Qebera said to the queen’s shadowed back. “I will do this service you ask, in hope that it will help.”

“Your way is hard.”

“I’m no stranger to hardship.”

“You will be hunted. You will endanger your family if they are near.”

Qebera looked sadly at his wife. She nodded with grave calm.

“I’ll travel alone,” he said.

They all heard a sigh from Isis. “Come, priestesses. These people have their demons to bear. And we have ours.”

The queen retreated into the night, her attendants following closely. Sanni heard her voice project in a blessing to Qebera’s house, an impotent but heartfelt gift of faith.

Hordedev came, his sister behind him.

Within half an hour, the tiny house was empty.

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