《The Concubine's Tomb: A Dungeon Core novel》


 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter One

    The day that Anomus ip Garma died began, for him, hours before the sun rose. A sickle moon rode low in the cloudless sky above the Desert of Kings, and was reflected faintly from the gray stone face of the Targus Cliffs, and in the placid, black surface of the Great River as it slithered and twisted its long way through the desert to the capital, to the Delta, to the sea.


    In the Subori Empire, it was known as a reaping moon, or a blood moon ¨C not for its color, which was no redder than might be expected, but for its mostly forgotten connotations. To a few of the knowledgeable, it was known as the faceless moon, after the old god whose symbol it was. It was known as such, but it was not referred to as such. Not in the Subori Empire, on pain of death. The empire had its own gods, newer and more vital, and they did not countenance worship of their elders. Or at least their priests did not.


    In the black night before dawn, Anomus, the greatest living architect of the empire, woke and rose from his cot at the touch of his servant. He made his ablutions, prayed briefly to his faraway household god for the safety of his family and then, letting a silent breath escape from his long nose, he cut his arm with a paring knife and let the blood flow into the clay ewer his servant held for him. His arms were scarred from a half-dozen years of such incisions; despite the desert heat, he kept his arms covered to hide the marks.


    When he had bled enough, he bound the wound and wiped away the crimson rivulet from his brown-skinned arm with a rag while his servant Orthus mixed honey and fresh goat¡¯s milk into the ewer to complete the offering.


    ¡°One way or the other, we¡¯ll not be doing this again, Orthus,¡± Anomus said.


    ¡°I am glad of it, master,¡± Orthus replied. ¡°A man¡¯s blood should stay inside him, where it belongs.¡±


    Anomus snorted softly. ¡°The gods prefer it otherwise. Some of them, at least.¡±


    ¡°Subori gods do not demand human blood, master.¡±


    ¡°Do they not? Bris for one delights in battlefields, and He cares not whose blood wets the sand. Sometimes it seems to me the entire empire rests upon a bloody flood.¡±


    ¡°I beg you, do not speak so master. Soon we will return to the capital, where such words will find ears connected to lips eager to report them.¡±


    Anomus gave his servant a small smile, and clasped him gently on the shoulder. ¡°You have the right of it. I have been in the wilderness too long, away from scheming priests and their informants. My tongue has become too free. It is a habit I must break, lest it turns and breaks me.¡±


    Orthus nodded and held out the ewer. ¡°It is time, master, this last time.¡±


    Anomus took up the ewer and Orthus checked to be sure the short walk to the tomb¡¯s entrance was without spying eyes. When he signaled, Anomus carried the ewer into the Tomb. No hands but his could carry the ewer, the offering. No light could guide him down the immeasurably ancient steps that awaited him. No one save Orthus, with him since childhood, could be trusted to know what he was about, or why.


    The consequence would be a grisly death, after prolonged torture.


    His was the only tent on the tomb-side of the river, a half-dozen steps from its entrance. If he had had to walk through the worker¡¯s camp, he would have been discovered long ago. He did not look up at the massive fa?ade carved into the cliff. He knew it intimately. He had designed it, after all. Within a few steps the ever-present sounds of the Great River ¨C the gurgle and splash of the water, the sigh of the reeds in wave and gentle breeze, the frog¡¯s croak and night bird¡¯s cry ¨C all had faded to silence, and the only sound was the soft whisper of his own sandals on the marble floor. He made his way like a spirit through the main corridor to the Well ¨C the massive, cylindrical chamber open to the sky above the cliff ¨C and slipped through the concealed door to the lightless stairs that led down to the undertomb.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had never been a particularly pious man. The gods of the Subori demanded only acknowledgment of their preeminence, not slavish devotion. Anomus had made the required sacrifices at the required times to the gods of war, the river, the harvest and all the others, but no shrine other than the household altar was to be found in his villa in the faraway capital. Left to his own devices, Anomus would happily have left all gods, be they domestic, foreign, or elder, to theirs.


    Such was not his fate.


    The emperor¡¯s beloved concubine had died ten years before. The emperor, in his grief, had ordered the construction of a tomb for her in the very face of the Targus Cliffs, one of the oldest sacred places in the empire, and one that was remote ¨C far upriver from the capital, surrounded only by the vast Great Desert and scattered ancient monuments built by forgotten cultures.


    The emperor had ordered Anomus ip Garma, greatest architect of the empire, to build a tomb for his lost love. What the emperor ordered, lesser mortals toiled upon pain of death to do. For ten years Anomus had labored to bring the emperor¡¯s wish to fruition, while the dead consort, beauty of her age, lay ensorcelled and undecaying in the capital, waiting for her final resting place to be constructed. Nearly ten thousand workers had labored to hack Anomus¡¯s vision out of the rugged, unyielding stone of the cliffs. They were watched, guarded, driven on by and imprisoned by a thousand unspeaking, unsmiling, tongueless soldiers of the emperor¡¯s Eternal Guard.


    For ten years, Anomus had not seen his home, his wife, his children. He had been absent at the birth of his daughter, and the death and burial of his son and father, for no-one who toiled on the tomb¡¯s construction was allowed to leave before its completion, and the emperor¡¯s approval.


    None could leave before the task was finished, save by death¡¯s gate.


    Many had walked through it over the course of a decade; some by misfortune - for such an undertaking carried risks, even when managed by one as careful and conscientious as Anomus. Some had perished by serpent¡¯s bite or scorpion¡¯s sting, while others had been carried away by simoom or plague or crocodile or river horse. Some had died in pointless camp squabbles. And some had exited the mortal realm by their own hand.


    Of all who labored to bring forth from bitter stone the emperor¡¯s desire, only Anomus had been allowed word of his family, or of the world outside the microcosm of the work site. When he had been notified of his daughter¡¯s birth, he had celebrated. When news came to him of the death of his father, he had wept. When he had been informed of the death of his son, he had raged. But even as he beat at the uncaring stone of the cliffs until his fists were bloody, he knew the only way out was through. And so the next day he returned, dead-eyed, to his work, hands bound in linen by the ever quiet, sad-eyed Orthus.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    But such hardships were past. The Concubine¡¯s tomb was complete; come the dawn, the emperor would arrive to inspect what he had demanded be brought forth. And if he was pleased by what he saw, Anomus and all those who had worked so hard for so long to bring the emperor¡¯s desire and Anomus¡¯s vision to reality would finally be rewarded and released.


    Release would be reward enough, for Anomus at least. Gods willing, he had a wife and daughter waiting for him, and ten years of absence to try and fill. So he descended the stairs with extreme care, determined not to spill a single drop of the old god¡¯s final offering.


    The emperor had stipulated very few things regarding the tomb¡¯s construction. One of the stipulations had been that there would be a large ¨C a massive ¨C chamber beneath the tomb proper, a sort of basement hewn into the living rock. When Anomus had learned of this requirement, his heart had quailed even as his mind calculated how long it would take to mine such a vast space out of the bedrock, and what sort of supports would be necessary to keep the tomb above from collapsing into it. He had not really wondered why the emperor would wish such a thing; in the Subori empire, it was not a healthy thing to question the emperor, even in the privacy of one¡¯s own thoughts.


    It was when they had begun the underchamber¡¯s excavation that they had discovered the ancient cave system. It was when they discovered those caves that a rash of misfortunes began to descend upon them. Massive swarms of the black, biting flies and desert wasps, then locusts, then scorpions. Wild animal attacks increased tenfold, then twentyfold. Simooms, the deadly sandstorms of the upper desert, descended upon the worksite, halting nearly all progress for days at a time.


    Anomus began to believe the gods themselves had cursed their endeavor. In that, he had been partially correct. Not all the gods had cast a disfavoring eye on the tomb¡¯s construction ¨C only one. The one he had spent years, now, placating.


    In the fourth year of the tomb¡¯s construction, after nearly two months of cruel, deadly misfortune, a four-man work crew had discovered a secret down in the dark. They were led by a grizzled old miner wise enough to keep it quiet. He brought the news straight to Anomus. The man knew exactly what sort of panic their discovery would cause in a work force already as unsettled as theirs was.


    ¡°We found something,¡± the man had told Anomus, eyes cast to the ground.


    ¡°Yes? What did you find?¡±


    ¡°Best I don¡¯t say. Best you come and see, Architect.¡±


    And so Anomus had gone down in the dark to investigate.


    The entrance was concealed by folds in the cavern wall that hid it unless you were almost upon it. But once you stood before the narrow black maw, it was impossible to miss the sickle moon carved above it.


    Anomus was a learned man. One of the subjects his tutors had drilled into his young mind was an overview of what the Subori empire chose to call the occult ¨C the worship of the old gods. His father being a justiciar, Anomus had been groomed from a young age for the imperial courts. Knowledge of such things was necessary for one who might one day sit in judgment of a person accused of worship of occult gods. That he had not in fact followed in his father¡¯s footsteps had not erased his knowledge of what he beheld ¨C the sickle moon of the Faceless One, the old god of death, of retribution, of darkness.


    ¡°Can you trust your men?¡± he¡¯d asked the old crew boss in a quiet voice. ¡°Answer truthfully and be sure, because all our lives depend upon it.¡±


    ¡°I trust ¡®em,¡± the older man had replied.


    ¡°Are any of them prone to talking when they are deep in their cups?¡±


    ¡°Only one. I¡¯ll sort ¡®im.¡± The crew boss did not elaborate, and Anomus did not ask him to. He hadn¡¯t liked the hard, pitiless look in the man¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°If word of this spreads, this site will have to be abandoned. That means-¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to start over somewhere else, aye, and four years wasted.¡±


    Anomus put his hand on the man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°That would be the best outcome we could hope for. It is not the likeliest. Do you understand?¡±


    He had. Anomus had altered the plans for the sub-tomb, shifting its footprint ten feet westward and having the crew build a concealed door to the cavern that held the Faceless One¡¯s entrance.


    ¡°Do I want to know why?¡± the crew boss had asked.


    ¡°You definitely do not want to know why,¡± Anomus had replied.


    ¡°Aye, Architect. It will be as you say.¡±


    They had never spoken of it again. Terrified, Anomus had used his occult knowledge to placate the old god during the next sickle moon. Goat¡¯s milk was plentiful. Honey less so, but as the most favored of the emperor¡¯s tomb-slaves, he asked for and received a small monthly allotment.


    The blood came from his own body, as it must. But it was a small price to pay, to save himself and all the thousands who toiled on the tomb from the wrath of the old god ¨C or, eventually, the emperor.


    After the first offering, all the cruel plagues and attacks ceased. And so Anomus had continued to pay the Faceless One¡¯s tithe month after month for six years, in secret, down in the darkness. The work proceeded; the tomb took shape. And now, in the deep dark between midnight and dawn, Anomus the Architect made one final offering down in the bowels of the earth, for the emperor would arrive in a few hours to judge his work. One way or another, Anomus would be shut of this damned place forever.


    He navigated the undertomb blindly but confidently. Every step and flagstone had been conceived in his own mind, and a half-dozen years had only deepened his instinctual knowledge of the space. But once he passed under the Faceless One¡¯s sickle sigil, such knowledge, such confidence, died.


    Anomus descended these deeper, unimaginably older stairs slowly, carefully, blindly ¨C after six years of monthly offerings, he still could claim no real familiarity with the lightless realm beneath the Concubine¡¯s Tomb. No familiarity, and certainly no indifference. His heart beat too fast, and sweat covered him despite the unnatural chill that only increased with every downward step that he took. He was able to overrule his body¡¯s inclination to tremble, if only just; he desperately did not want to spill a single drop of the offering. Too much depended upon the continuing goodwill of its recipient. Here, at the end, with so much at stake, he could not ¨C would not ¨C stumble, and put everything in jeopardy.


    Eventually, Anomus¡¯s questing foot found the end of the steps. Try as he might, he had never been able to count the number of steps that led down to the old god¡¯s chamber. Eventually he had quit trying.


    Only when he stood with both feet on the floor of the old god¡¯s sanctuary did a glimmer of light relive the total darkness. It flickered, pale blue and small, ahead of him. Anomus could not say with certainty but he believed that, over the course of years and dozens of offerings, that light had grown stronger. It might have been his imagination.


    Anomus carried the ewer towards the light.


    The room was featureless, as far as he knew ¨C the cold, blue-white flame illuminated almost nothing, and served only as a beacon. It danced in a bowl-shaped depression at the top of a rough-hewn block of black stone that was not native to the cliffs.


    Anomus reached the stone and its flame and, as he had done dozens of times before, carefully descended to both knees while lifting the ewer above his head.


    ¡°Faceless One,¡± he whispered, ¡°on this sickle moon, this blood moon, this reaper¡¯s moon, I offer You a worthless token of my fear and desperation, in the hope that You will withhold Your wrath for the passage of another month.¡± Anomus carefully set the ewer on the floor, then bent forward and pressed his forehead to the cold, dusty stone for thirteen heartbeats. Then he rose and picked up the ewer once more, and poured the contents into the bowl that contained the flame.


    The bloody concoction sizzled and evaporated before touching stone or flame, as it had every time before. The blue-white fire burned brighter, as it had for every other offering. But when the ewer was empty and Anomus bent forehead to stone once again, something happened that had never happened previously. Anomus suddenly felt a presence in the chamber, invisible, irrefutable.


    Terrifying.


    The Faceless One spoke in a whisper made of shadows and dust.


    You fear the Faceless, as you should. But today your fear has a face.


    ¡°What face, oh Dark One?¡± Anomus whispered, eyes tight-shut, heart hammering in his chest.


    A face of gold, diamond tear sparkling. You should flee this place, mortal. I can offer you no protection from what comes. Such is not My nature.


    Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the presence was gone. Anomus let out a terrified breath and waited for the trembling to pass.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Two

    One hundred golden oars rose and fell in perfect unison, driving the blindingly gilt imperial galley up the Great River. The freshly risen sun was almost directly behind the galley, making the eyes of any who were so impertinent as to try and sneak a glance at their ruler water at the brightness, the glory of flashing gold and water¡¯s sparkle. Irobus, Emperor of Subori, sat in a golden chair at the square-ended prow of the galley, so that his eyes might be the first to behold the tomb.


    The eyes of the slaves who had toiled to build it did not signify, of course.


    The galley approached the tomb in silence, save for the muted plash of oars biting into the river¡¯s back. The Chorus of Adoration stood behind the emperor, silent, gagged with black silk ribbons as they had been since his concubine¡¯s death. For a decade the greatest voices in the empire had been silenced, and would remain so until the concubine was laid to her final rest.


    Irobus sat utterly still on his golden throne, the nearly featureless golden mask hiding his face from the world. Nearly featureless ¨C save for the single diamond tear at the corner of the left eye. He had worn the mask for as long as the Chorus had worn their gags. Just as no mortal ear should hear the Chorus¡¯s nearly inhuman beauty while the Concubine Hesia lay in state, so no mortal eye could be allowed to behold the emperor¡¯s face in its grief.


    It was a heavy mask, to suit the dead weight of his heavy soul, and even after a decade he had not grown accustomed to its weight.


    As he approached the Tomb, his eyes roamed hungrily over the slowly revealed fa?ade. Irobus was an intelligent man, a crafty man, a learned man, but he had no taste or talent for poetics. He had never regretted the lack ¨C had never considered it a lack at all, not even when he found himself unable to articulate what the death of Hesia had done to him. What need to articulate, to speak of what was already so bitterly felt? But when he saw what his will had wrought there in the Targus Cliffs, he wished that he had some way to express the feeling it engendered in him. It spoke immediately and directly to his soul ¨C how the blank stone had been transformed into an ethereal representation of his love¡¯s beauty, and at the same time a stark, grim testament to the horrific loss of her.


    As the galley neared the tomb¡¯s quay, Irobus reached up and removed his mask of mourning, and let it slip heedlessly into the river¡¯s green waters. The Chorus at once removed their gags, wetted their throats with honeyed water from stoppered crystal vials, and began to sing.


    ~ ~ ~


    When the emperor arrived on his golden, square-ended galley, the ten thousand workers were already face-down in the dust in long rows across the river from the tomb. A thousand silent killers knelt beside their charges, eyes on the dust at their knees, and hands on the grips of their swords. The retractable bridge that Anomus had designed to connect the worksite to the worker¡¯s camp was drawn back so as not to impede the emperor¡¯s debarkation.


    Anomus lay prostrate on the stone quay that thrust out into the river, the sole entrance to the Concubine¡¯s Tomb standing open behind him, waiting to welcome the emperor and his entourage. Anomus knew the tomb was a thing of beauty, unlike anything that had ever existed in the empire or beyond. He only hoped that its stark difference from all that had gone before did not make the emperor recoil. Carved from the living stone of the cliff, he had made the fa?ade into a tapestry of soaring arches and delicate lacework ¨C beautiful, graceful, sorrowful. A beautiful dream that dies does not lose its beauty, after all. In fact, it becomes incorruptible, beyond the reach of time itself to tarnish. The soaring passion that dies in the fire of a fever soars on in memory, inviolate if unattainable. It soars on in memory. Such had been the emperor¡¯s love for his concubine, and so Anomus had let it soar in stone.


    And, because it would be a lie to ignore what had happened to that passion, Anomus had not neglected to show the brutal termination of that beauty in calculated features of the fa?ade. If one looked carefully and long, the lace and filigree both hid and spelled out the first line of the Subori hymn for the dead:


    SILENT EVERMORE


    Anomus had done what was humanly possible to translate the emperor¡¯s love and loss into stone. No living man or woman could have done a better job of it, that much he was convinced of. But men were fickle, and none more so than the first among them, the emperor. Irobus might well disagree, and emperors are never wrong, even when they are not right.


    When Anomus heard the approaching Chorus give voice, he knew that he had succeeded. That he would not be executed this day for failure. That his labors were truly at an end. Relief flooded through him, making his limbs tremble as he lay on the stone.


    Eventually he heard footsteps approach, and stop before him.


    ¡°Rise, Architect,¡± said the emperor, and Anomus rose to his knees.


    ¡°Stand,¡± said the emperor, and fearfully, Anomus complied, though he kept his eyes cast towards Irobus¡¯s golden sandals. Perhaps half a dozen men were allowed to stand erect so near the emperor¡¯s self.


    ¡°Look us in the eye,¡± the emperor commanded, and inwardly quailing, Anomus did so. He saw the emperor¡¯s haggard face, his deep-furrowed cheeks, the black kohl that circled his piercing yellow eyes.


    Emperor Irobus took him in a delicate embrace, quick and shockingly unexpected. And then he made a motion and the Chorus silenced itself.


    ¡°You have done well,¡± the emperor said quietly. ¡°Now, show us the interior.¡±


    Anomus bowed low, and then led his emperor inside. The emperor¡¯s vizier, his general of the left, and a dozen Eternal Guard trailed behind.


    ~ ~ ~


    They explored the grand entrance with its solemn tomb guardians carved into massive yet graceful supporting columns. From there, Anomus led them to the Well, the soaring cylindrical space that was the heart of the concubine¡¯s tomb. Twenty yards in diameter and sixty high, at first glance it seemed to be open to the sky. Such was another of the emperor¡¯s stipulations. He wanted the gods themselves to look down on his love, to see what they had taken from the world, and weep for the loss. Anomus had complied to the best of his ability. Sheets of ironglass capped the Well ¨C a sorcerous invention, and extremely rare and costly, ironglass was perfectly transparent and virtually indestructible. Anomus had created a lattice, a bed of steel, itself costly, and had set the ironglass within it. Only a small round space in the center of the Well¡¯s opening was it truly open to the sky, for Anomus knew that desert storms would, over time, bury the Well in blown sand. Anomus had asked for, and received, the aid of an imperial sorcerer to cast spells of strength and purity on the Well¡¯s ironglass lid ¨C spells that would keep it clear of drifting sand and mundane dust, and rebuff any of either that would otherwise enter through the small opening, along with any living creature larger than a bird. Those spells would only fade upon the death of the sorcerer himself.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Anomus then led them to the upper chambers, where he had carved out what amounted to a palace for the love of the emperor¡¯s life. Each chamber was near enough to the top of the cliffs that Anomus had been able to provide natural light to them, through the creation of light wells bored down from the surface. The wells were far too small for a man to gain entrance to the tomb; grave robbers would inevitably try their luck, of course, and Anomus wasn¡¯t such a fool as to make their depredations any easier. But by cunning use of polished silver and bronze mirrors, he had been able to ensure each chamber of the upper tomb would have at least some natural light, for most of the day. To prevent the terrible dust and sandstorms from clogging the light wells, and eventually the tomb itself, he had covered each well with clear, thick sheets of quartz, stronger and much costlier than any mundane glasswork that was available.


    They explored the upper tomb, and while the emperor was silent the whole while, Anomus believed he was pleased by what he found. From bed chamber to kitchen, to dining hall to bath, Anomus had labored to build what amounted to a lover¡¯s nest for the emperor and his concubine in the afterlife. The Emperor exclaimed aloud when Anomus led them to the clockwork aviary, where a dozen birds in bronze and copper, gold and silver perched on trees fashioned from agate and jade, ivory and pearl. Each bird could be wound, and their internal machinery would run for hours.


    Anomus was most nervous when he introduced the emperor to the garden. Within, he had cultivated a small, self-sustaining ecosystem, choosing plants and insects with care. While it was the brightest of all the chambers of the tomb, the light was still much less than most plants could accept, and so he had chosen with care mosses and ferns and other hardy dark-dwellers to populate the garden with. Then he had selected a few insects of the most beautiful and least harmful type, and over the course of years had built up a stable ecosystem. The greatest predator in the garden was a jeweled gecko that grew to the length of a little finger.


    The garden even had an ornamental pool, fed by a concealed waterwheel and screw pump that transported the barest trickle up from the Great River below. It had taken Anomus ages to complete, and it was a feat of engineering that could be seen nowhere else in the empire ¨C and it was all for a trifle in a tomb, that no one save they dead would ever see after that day.


    The emperor sat on the ironwood bench that Anomus had installed beside the pool and stared into the shallow water, where tiny fish of red and gold swam endless circles.


    ¡°Anomus ip Garma, you are a worker of wonders,¡± said the emperor eventually, and Anomus bowed to the ground.


    After the wonders of the upper tomb, the funerary chambers were somewhat anticlimactic. Their functions and religious natures dictated much, and Anomus had little say in how they were constructed or what they housed. The funerary chambers radiated outward into the bedrock from the Well in a half-moon, and were lightless. Two of the Eternal Guard walked before them, carrying lanterns.


    As the emperor had stipulated, Anomus had eschewed the customary painted funerary murals for frieze work and delicate mosaics of all those things the Concubine had treasured most, or was known for. Depictions of the delicate morning blossom known as dawn¡¯s breath replaced the traditional river lotus; where Hirag¡¯s desert falcons would normally be found on a tomb¡¯s walls, instead flew the nearly ephemeral, speedy-winged honey sippers. Cats replaced jackals as silent guardians. If anyone other than the emperor had ordered such substitutions, they would have faced the wrath of the imperial priesthoods. Anomus himself could have been put to death for creating them.


    But this was the tomb of the emperor¡¯s concubine, and in time he would join her in it. None dared gainsay him.


    Eventually every corner of the tomb had been inspected, save the undertomb. Anomus hoped pointlessly that the emperor would forget about it, but such was not to be. Once everything had been seen at the river level and above, Irobus said a single word ¨C ¡®continue¡¯ ¨C and so Anomus led the party to the concealed door in the well. He opened it and the Eternal guard went before them with lanterns down the steps.


    Soon enough they stood in the echoing depths of the dark vastness below the tomb, a space twelve feet tall, a hundred yards wide and three hundred deep, punctuated by regularly spaced pillars to keep what was above from collapsing below. The two lanterns had no chance of illuminating the vast, silent space.


    Emperor Irobus stood tall and silent, surveying the space for interminable minutes, his face as much a mask as the one he had let the river take. Anomus stood nervously. A chill took him. Something was amiss. Perhaps he had somehow done something to displease Irobus? He had been given no instructions regarding the undertomb except that it should exist.


    Was it possible they knew of the secret chamber, or worse, his offerings to the Old God within it?


    Eventually the emperor raised one thin finger, and suddenly Anomus was seized by two of the Eternal Guards, faster than thought. Even then, Anomus did not struggle. What would be the use?


    ¡°Your majesty, what have I done to offend?¡± he cried out.


    ¡°Nothing, Anomus ip Garma. Nothing. You have done all that I have asked of you, and so much more.¡± A third Eternal Guard unsheathed his sword, but the emperor raised a finger once again, and the stone-faced man froze.


    Irobus knelt before Anomus, and eyes searched eyes. Anomus did not know what his emperor looked for, or what he found. But when Anomus looked into the emperor¡¯s eyes, he saw a deep, cold, sparkling madness. In that moment, Anomus knew he was a dead man. That he had been a dead man from the moment the emperor had tasked him to build his consort¡¯s tomb.


    ¡°You have been a good and faithful servant,¡± said the emperor. ¡°You have built a final resting place for my beloved that is without precedent, and when the priests inter her here in three months¡¯ time, my heart will finally know a peace that has been impossible for me to attain for the last decade.¡± The emperor placed a cool hand on Anomus¡¯s cheek. ¡°You are without peer, a genius of the age. Which is why I cannot allow you to live. You must never be allowed to build anything that might rival what you have done here. I will not ¨C I cannot - have Hesia¡¯s final resting place eclipsed by some future creation of yours.¡±


    ¡°My emperor, I beg you, do not do this! Let your humble servant live. I will do anything. I will retire to the country, become a farmer, anything. I will never set one stone atop another again, I swear it!¡±


    ¡°You are correct. You will never again set one stone atop another. But this tomb will be nearly as much yours as it is hers, and eventually, mine. And all those who labored for you in its creation during their lives will continue to serve you after your death. No one as low-born as you has ever, or ever will, have such a tomb as this. That much your emperor gives you, in gratitude.¡±


    ¡°Merciful Irobus, pl-¡±


    The small blade was as golden as everything else about the emperor¡¯s person. Irobus¡¯s hand was so much quicker than Anomus ever would have guessed. The cut across his neck was a small thing, no longer than a thumb. And yet it was enough to let his life¡¯s blood come pouring out from the severed jugular.


    The emperor stood, and placed his hand briefly atop Anomus¡¯s head. Then he and his entourage walked away without a backward glance. When they were on the stairs, the two Eternal Guard who held his arms released him and followed. He fell to the floor. Futilely he put his hand to the slit jugular, but still the blood oozed out. Within moments the lanterns were gone, and he was alone and dying in the dark. A terrible coldness began to creep into his limbs, though his heart was filled with a burning, swift-winged rage.


    I warned you, came the voice of the Faceless One, and Anomus¡¯s spirit howled.


    I am the god of vengeance. You have much to avenge, Architect. Even now all those thousands who slaved to build this tomb are being rewarded with the blade. So I offer you a choice between the peace of death, or vengeance. Be warned: if you choose My way, you must hew to My path, else I will withdraw My favor.


    Anomus chose. As his life blood slowly leaked from him, and the world grew ever darker and colder, he chose.


    ¡°I do not choose peace,¡± he mouthed, for he had not the breath to speak. The Old God seemed to hear him nonetheless.


    If you can reach my sanctum, then, you shall have what you desire.


    Anomus found that he could not stand, and so he crawled. He crawled to the secret door that concealed the stairs down to the old god¡¯s sanctuary. It was a pitiful, one-handed scrabble; he dared not use the hand that held back the tide of his heart¡¯s blood. Behind him and above in the dark, he faintly heard the echoes of screams. The slaughter of the workers had begun.


    In the darkness, he could not tell when his vision began to turn black, but he could and did feel the horrid dizziness that stole over him. Tears of rage and terror started from his eyes. It was with an inexpressible relief that he reached the undertomb¡¯s wall. With a nearly superhuman effort he stilled the violent trembling in his fingers so that he could search the wall for the hidden catch that would open the door. A horrible rushing tide was building in his ears, and he knew it was his heart about to stop for lack of anything to pump.


    He cried out in desperate relief when he found the catch. He forced the door open, but spent the last of his strength in doing so. He collapsed at the head of the stairs, his body numb and his thoughts slowing, slowing, along with his heart.


    You must make it to the foot of the stairs, mortal, or all is for naught.


    Anomus knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could never crawl so far. So, with the utter last of his strength, he dragged himself forward and let himself tumble headlong down the stairs.


    His final, fading thought was the hope that it would be enough.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Three

    Anomus died.


    All the mortal functions ceased; he felt himself to be no more than cooling meat, and with a faint puzzlement, he wondered why he remained in such a broken, dead vessel when he could simply ¨C leave it. Somehow he knew he could do so, and so he did. He rose up out of his mortal shell, and such a feeling of lightness and relief washed over him ¨C whatever constituted ¡®him¡¯ ¨C that he felt almost giddy.


    That same well of deeper knowledge that had urged him to free himself of his mortal flesh was now tugging at him, gently but insistently, urging him to move on. But to where? He reached for an answer, but all that he understood of it was a sense of some further, greater thing. It was like a silver cord that he could sense but not see, leading upwards. He began to follow it, but once he reached the chamber¡¯s ceiling, the rough stone rebuffed his immaterial form just as firmly as if he had still been wearing flesh.


    So soon you mortals forget, after death, said a voice from below. A voice he knew that he knew, but could not remember. He turned his attention downwards, and saw a light floating above a stone. At the same time, that stone was like a wide black well, and a creature of even greater blackness was crawling out of it. The sight of it struck his very essence with terror.


    It was man-shaped, but so much more, and more vast. It had a head, limbs, a torso, but all of it was made of the stuff of utter dark, and that stuff sloughed off of it like rotting, putrid flesh from an ever-decaying corpse. It had no face, but Anomus knew, somehow, that where a face should go, that darkened physicality was wet with ichor and the rot of the space between the stars.


    You fear me. You find me revolting. But no creature of the light came to your aid, did they, mortal? No beauty of the aether offered to ease your suffering, to salve your grievous wounds of spirit and flesh. And none of the shining court, old or young, stepped in to stop the slaughter of ten thousand men.


    As the monster spoke, all that Anomus had just suffered came rushing back to him. The silver cord blackened, withered, turned to dust that drifted away and disappeared.


    Do you know how the high gods remain so shining, so pure? I will tell you. They never stoop to soil themselves in the muck you mortals struggle through. They do not care. For all my faults, Architect, I do. The awful thing raised its arm and beckoned to him. Come to me.


    Anomus fluttered down to the Faceless One, like a moth to a flame. The Old One snatched him from the air, and then held the spirit of Anomus ip Garma in cupped, shadow-bleeding hands for a long moment.


    This will hurt, He said. And then He squeezed.


    The Faceless One took his immortal, immaterial soul and crushed it down, down into a thing as hard as it was small.


    What the dark god did was not quick, and it was far from painless. Anomus discovered that even a soul could experience such agony as to drive it away from consciousness. He had no mouth with which to scream, but he shrieked throughout the torment of his remaking nonetheless, until his spirit was overwhelmed, and he knew nothing at all, for an unknowable time.


    ~ ~ ~


    It was the smallest of sounds that brought him back to awareness, the sound of water ¨C no, not water, but some liquid perhaps thicker than water ¨C steadily dripping down from one worn, misshapen step to the next.


    He tried to turn his head, and discovered that he had no head, nor any other part that makes up the human frame. It seemed at first that he was pure thought, until he turned his thought toward himself and discovered a small gem, smaller than the fingernail of a child¡¯s smallest finger. He understood in an instinctive way that this clear, blue-white, faintly glowing gem was all there was of what he could call himself.


    He remembered he had once had a body other than this, and that it had been lying on a floor. He looked for it, but there was no sign of such a thing. Still, he was sure he¡¯d once had a body of flesh and bone.


    At first, there was no emotion attached to his thoughts. He was only knowledge, and little enough of that. But slowly understanding came to him, along with memory ¨C memory of the emperor¡¯s betrayal, of the Faceless One¡¯s offer and his subsequent transformation. He remembered that he had bargained away his afterlife for a chance at vengeance. Or so he¡¯d thought.


    The Faceless One had obviously played him false. How would he ever get his revenge trapped inside a crystal, powerless?


    After memory and understanding came emotion ¨C rage. Blind, incoherent, impotent rage. Time had no meaning in the hell of emotion Anomus fell into then. He might have spent eternity raging at his fate, had the rivulet of blood not finally followed gravity down to the chamber¡¯s floor.


    The shock of it jolted him from his psychic tempest. On one level, he knew somehow exactly what it was ¨C human blood, neither hot nor fresh, but not yet rank with decay. He also instinctively knew that the blood did not come from a single source.


    On another, completely different level, he experienced the blood as power. It was a key that unlocked something within him, and he began to understand, if only vaguely, that he did indeed have some form of control, some species of agency. He had no limbs or digits, no eyes or ears ¨C but he had senses nonetheless, and that first drop of blood, small though it might be, he instantly recognized as some sort of strength. And what was strength but potential action?


    He turned his attention once more to the place where the blood was now slowly, steadily dripping onto the chamber floor, and instantly his senses, his whole mind was there, at that spot. He saw it, in a way that was infinitely more complete and comprehending than mortal sight. Curious now, he turned his attention to the chamber itself, and instantly he knew its every surface, every crack and fissure, bulge and jag, every mote of dust. He beheld himself again, a tiny, blue-white, faintly glowing chip resting in the bowl-shaped depression atop the black stone that had once housed the Old God¡¯s flame.


    There was no sign of the Faceless One¡¯s presence. The god had transformed him, and then left him this ancient place of His power. Left him to his own devices, to succeed or fail, to learn to conquer this, his bizarre new existence ¨C or to be trapped by it.


    Remembering once more how the emperor had stolen ten years of his life, and then life itself from him, Anomus swore he would not fail in his quest for retribution. He would learn to adapt. He would gather his strength. And then, somehow, he would have his revenge. He had to believe the Faceless One would not have made it impossible ¨C not the Reaper God, the Blood God, the god of darkness and vengeance. Why would He play such a cruel trick? No. The Faceless One was no trickster, not like Halik, the Desert Hare. Whatever obstacles may face him, his revenge would not be impossible. He would see Irobus destroyed.


    Somehow.


    But first he had to understand the rules and restraints of his new existence, and he had to puzzle out whatever uncanny strengths and abilities he might now be in possession of. And he had to do it as quickly as he might ¨C for he had not forgotten the fact that Irobus would bring his courtesan to the Tomb for her final interment in three short months. Unless he could somehow spirit himself to the capital without the benefit of a body, that might well be his only chance to meet the emperor again, this side of death¡¯s door.


    If, indeed, death was still something that could affect him.


    The terrible shock of his transformation was fading, now, and he began to think more clearly than ever before. More clearly, and more quickly. Perhaps it was part and parcel of being¡­ whatever he was, now. He was certainly no creature of flesh. It seemed to him that he was now almost wholly a being of thought, and will. And emotion. He pondered this briefly, but set it aside. There was much to do, and he sensed that if he allowed himself, he could easily fall into a black rage from which he might never emerge. Better, he decided, to focus on what was before him than what was behind.


    What lay before and all around him was the chamber, and the blood-soaked stairs. The blood came from the undertomb above, of course. He sent his attention exploring, and in an instant, he was at the concealed door that he had caused to be constructed, to hide the Old God¡¯s sacred space. Blood seeped in, viscous and slow, from the narrow crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. He tried to push his attention through the door, and discovered that he could not.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    He felt the rage he had so recently escaped begin to build once more, and with an effort forestalled it.


    Think, he admonished himself. The Reaper would not have trapped you in this one chamber, with no means to affect the wider world. Think.


    He could move his attention at will through any open space, just as he might fly if he were a bird. But like a bird, a door balked him. He had no hand with which to open it. He had only his will, and the slow trickle of power that the blood afforded him.


    He had designed the door with a hidden catch, and a spring that would see that it closed automatically ¨C for what good was a secret door that might be left open on accident? When he had flung himself down the stairs with his last, dying breath the door had closed behind him just as he had designed it to.


    He had designed the door. He knew its workings, intimately. He would not be balked by one of his own creations.


    Anomus focused his entire will and attention on the door and, after a slight resistance, something surprising happened. In some uncanny fashion, as he focused on the lifeless thing of wood and iron, he learned it, down to the smallest bits of matter that made up its existence. More, by learning it so thoroughly, he had an almost indescribable sensation of claiming it. It was as if the door became a part of him, in an unequivocal, physical sense. He was no longer a being composed solely of thought and will. Now, he was a thing of thought, and will, and a door.


    And, he realized, a chamber ¨C for he knew the god¡¯s sacred space just as intimately, just as instinctively.


    Now, let us see if I can cause this door to move, as I would make a finger of my once-body move.


    He concentrated on the door and, with a focused thought, caused the door¡¯s catch to disengage.


    He did not get the chance then to see if he could force the door to swing open ¨C a tide of corpses did that.


    ~ ~ ~


    Vast as Anomus had made the undertomb, it could not contain the mortal remains of ten thousand men. Coldly, analytically, he estimated less than half that number could reasonably be fit in the space. The gruesome logistics of stacking so many heavy, ungainly corpses would have defeated any effort to fill the volume of the undertomb with anything approaching efficiency.


    Still, the reality was sufficiently horrific. The undertomb was now something out of nightmare. Corpses lay in heaps. In no space would the accumulation of cooling meat be less than waist-high on a man of average height. The Eternal Guard must have labored for hours to dispose of so many.


    So much death, so much horror, all to fulfill the emperor¡¯s mad whim.


    Anomus had never thought overmuch on the nature of good and evil while he was a mortal man; once he had learned the thoughts of the empire¡¯s philosophers sufficient to please his tutors, he had let that wisdom, those concerns drift down in the slow current of memory, to settle beneath common, every day concerns. He had been much more focused on learning and mastering the arts of construction and engineering, so that he might one day shape into reality the visions that only existed in his head, that had visited his waking and sleeping dreams since childhood.


    Now, faced with the fruits of mass murder on a scale nearly unimaginable, Anomus did not need the reasoned words of long-dead wise men to understand evil. If he¡¯d still had eyes, he might have wept. If he¡¯d still possessed the means, he might have vomited. Instead, as the trickle of blood that leaked down to the deepest chamber became a turgid flood, he drew on the power it gave him and silently swore to use it to bring down the one who was the architect of all this horror.


    Among them, almost certainly, was his servant and oldest companion.


    There was no way to search through all the bodies, not even for him in his new condition. They were cast together like broken dolls, closer and more intimately entangled than lovers, four and five and six corpses deep. He recognized every face that was visible, after a decade working with them. He knew almost every name. But he could not shift the bodies, nor sort through them as one with a physical body would have been able to. He could only turn his attention to what was visible, or dive down into the spaces between the jumbled corpses ¨C untouching, untouchable. At first it did not even occur to him to merge with the corpses as he had done with the door, and then when it did, he recoiled from the idea in revulsion.


    Nowhere did he see Orthus. Most likely his oldest friend was down at the bottom of the press of death, or perhaps he lay broken above. Anomus hoped he had somehow escaped, perhaps by throwing himself in the river. He hoped, but did not believe.


    Anomus dwelled with the dead for a time, his whole being consumed with darkness, but eventually he roused himself. He could do nothing for the emperor¡¯s victims by mourning them. With their blood they were giving him the gift of power, just as they had gifted him the strength of their bodies while constructing the Tomb. He took that power and continued to explore his limits.


    The undertomb was vast. He knew the space ¨C he had designed it, after all. But in his altered existence, he did not know it; not as he knew the Old God¡¯s chamber below, nor as he had learned to know the concealed door. He had not yet claimed this space, he realized. It seemed that his new reality was about claiming physical space, incorporating it into himself. In one sense it seemed a bizarre proposition to a man used to the paradigm of the flesh. But in another sense, Anomus wasn¡¯t unduly confused by it. So much of his life had been focused on the construction of physical spaces, either by the artful piling of stone and wood into coherent, purposeful shapes, or by the creation of purposeful shapes within living rock.


    He knew, understood, and felt the world of chamber and passage, room and stair and window nearly as well as the reality of stretching arm, grasping hand, muscle and sinew and bone. He always had, and years of study and experience had only deepened his understanding. Purpose and interconnection were to be found in both flesh and architecture. Strengths and weaknesses as well.


    So be it, he thought. If this tomb is to be my body, then let me learn to inhabit it.


    Just as he had the concealed door, Anomus turned his attention and his will to the physical space of the undertomb. Walls, ceiling, blood-drenched floor, he claimed it all and made it his ¨C made it him.


    Anomus learned two things in the process. First, the claiming came at a price. The strength that flowed into him from the blood of the slaughtered workers flowed back out as he inhabited the undertomb. This concerned him greatly, for he instinctively knew that the power the blood offered him grew less potent as it aged, and it was a finite resource in any event. If his power relied solely upon the blood of men, he would soon find himself starving in the desert.


    The other thing Anomus learned was that the emperor had caused the concealed door to the undertomb to be blocked up, to be sealed. He sensed the mortar and masonry that had been used; the mortar was not yet dry, not yet fully hardened.


    No, he thought. This will not do.


    He forced his will and attention into the obstruction, just as he had the door below. Stone and mortar were less yielding than wood, and it took more time, more energy. But he refused to be trapped down below the Concubine¡¯s Tomb. A prison cell, however vast, was still a prison cell.


    He had been able to physically release the door¡¯s catch, once he had claimed it. He could affect the physical world, with effort and an expenditure of his strange, blood-soaked power. So he decided that if he were a prisoner, then he would try to tunnel his way out of his cell.


    Anomus once again turned his will to claiming a physical space, this time the stone and mortar that now blocked the concealed door that granted access to the Tomb¡¯s Well. Only this time, as he claimed the physical structure of the mortar and stone of the blockage, atom by atom, he willed it to dissolve, to release the bonds that made up its matter.


    Slowly, painfully slowly, by the thickness of a fingernail at a time, mortar and stone turned to dust at his will. But as he advanced through the obstruction, what was already a difficult, straining task became exponentially more difficult. He did not understand what was balking his effort, and he feared that, if he continued, he would exhaust the limited supply of strength the blood of the workers had given him. He paused in his efforts, to try and understand the nature of the problem.


    Was it the dissolution of the physical stone and mortar that taxed him? He turned to a spot in the undertomb, a part of the wall opposite the stairs and above the corpses, and replicated his effort. He found it a nearly trivial task there, consuming only a trickle of his energy. Not only could he dissolve the stone, he soon discovered, he could shape it, even build it up ¨C though that consumed more energy than simple destruction.


    So. Something about the emperor¡¯s blockage, specifically, opposed him. The knowledge made him furious. He would not, could not accept it. The rational portion of him realized that it would likely be possible to shape a new passage to the Tomb above and avoid whatever obstruction Irobus had placed, but he rejected the thought. Part of the reason was that he did not want to mar what he had built ¨C though the tomb had been built at the order of a murderous madman, it was still Anomus¡¯s finest creation. But the greater part of his reason was that pure hatred for the emperor. He could not accept being thwarted by whatever his killer had done to the entrance to the undertomb. It was as if the emperor¡¯s golden sandal was on his throat, and he would remove it.


    He realized he was being stubborn, perhaps foolish. But while he was as much a creature of reason as will, his whole new existence was set in opposition to the emperor Irobus. He could not turn away from destroying whatever the emperor had left at the door to trap him down in the dark. He was incapable of it.


    Still, he was not heedless of his limitations.


    It seemed that it cost him nothing but time to work his consciousness into his surroundings; only when he attempted to shape, alter or destroy physical things did he expend his limited energy. Relentlessly, remorselessly, he drove his consciousness into the stone and mortar that other hands had set in his tomb. As he inserted himself into the unyielding matter, a sort of revulsion slowly built in him. He pressed on.


    Eventually Anomus broke through to the outer surface of the undertomb¡¯s stoppage ¨C and learned that something had been affixed to the doorway¡¯s seal. Whatever it was radiated what he could only think of as antipathy, and pure disdain. He answered like with like. Rashly, he began to force his consciousness into whatever the hated thing was.


    In that instant he realized his mistake.


    The thing was a plaque, made of solid gold. But more than that, the plaque was in the shape of the sacred symbol of Mordun, emperor of the Subori gods. His word was law, and no being, immortal or otherwise, could gainsay Him. Around the sigil were glyphs that only priests were taught. Below Mordun¡¯s sigil, in the High Script of the empire, the words ¡®NONE SHALL PASS¡¯ had been inscribed into a stone block.


    So much Anomus understood in the fractional moment before the psychic wrath of the emperor-god¡¯s will burned him back into the darkness.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Four

    Anomus next came to consciousness with the sense of being wounded, perhaps grievously so. He feared as much, though without a body to probe for pain, he could not say where, or in what fashion. The integrity of the crystal that housed his spirit was undamaged, at least. But he felt weak, and shaken, and he ached in a way that he simply did not have the vocabulary to describe.


    Fleeing the sigil¡¯s assault, it seemed he had instinctively retreated to the crystal that rested in the stone bowl. Slowly, tentatively, he expanded his awareness outward from it once more, confining himself at first to the Old God¡¯s chamber. Blood still trickled down to him, but the tide had all but dried up, and what still flowed was sluggish, old, its power nearly spent. Still, he suspected that the flow was all that had kept him from being destroyed by the thrice-damned sigil of Mordun. It likely had provided him a lifeline in the wake of the binding¡¯s assault. Anomus was both grateful for it, and upset at the waste of all the energy he might have spent in other ways. He had no idea where he would secure more power, and sensed what was left to him had been greatly diminished.


    He had to learn to balance caution against his hunger for vengeance, or he knew without a doubt that he would fail. And he could not fail. He had sacrificed everything for his chance at retribution. Anomus would never be rejoined with his loved ones in the afterlife, now. He understood that. He had accepted the Faceless One¡¯s offer, and taken the Dark God¡¯s path. There would be no reprieve for him. All he had was the single chance to destroy Irobus. He must not fail because he couldn¡¯t control his rash impulses.


    So resolved, he expanded his attention upwards to the undertomb once more, careful to avoid the spot where what he had claimed came into contact with Mordun¡¯s seal. He quarantined a generous area surrounding it from his awareness, willing, in a sense, a blind spot in his consciousness, a protective cyst in his physical tomb-self.


    He was not certain how much time had passed. He had only the decomposition of the corpses to indicate the advance of time, and he was no expert in such things. He sensed that rot was beginning to take hold; some of the bodies displayed the stiffness of rigor mortis, while others had already begun to bloat. He knew that a corpse¡¯s surroundings had much to do with the speed of its decay, but not how. He estimated that a day or two had passed, but knew it might be less, or more.


    If he could see the sky, the phase of the moon, he would know. In order to do so ¨C assuming he truly was limited to the Tomb ¨C he needed access to the massive, cylindrical Well that was central to the Tomb, and partially open to the sky.


    Three months, the emperor had said. Three months before he returned with the body of his beloved, to shut her away in the Tomb to await his death, and their subsequent reunion upon his passing. Anomus feared he might need every moment of that three months to fashion a trap for his killer. He could not afford to waste any more time lying senseless inside a crystal. He needed access to the Tomb above, if for no other reason than to find some new source of energy, be it beast, bird or insect, or some other as yet unknown wellspring. There was nothing in the undertomb save blood, and soon enough even that would be gone.


    He could not touch the seal. Even thinking of it sent metaphorical shudders through him. But he had penetrated the stoppage it was affixed to with his consciousness. If he wished, if he dared, he believed he could now claim it- and cause it to disintegrate. He still wanted the hateful seal destroyed, but did not see how he might manage it. But the stoppage itself, the material surrounding the seal ¨C that he thought he could disperse. And if that too proved impossible, he hoped that he would still have enough strength to try and create an alternate entrance to the undertomb.


    Cautiously he turned his attention to the stone and mortar of the stoppage. He chose a small area in a corner near the floor, and resumed willing it to transform from solid stone and nearly-set mortar into sand.


    It was still difficult. It still taxed him. But now that the matter of the stoppage was claimed, he made swifter progress. It took time and effort, but eventually Anomus was able to bore a hole the thickness of a thumb through the barrier.


    When he finally broke through, he was stunned by what greeted him, even before he tried to see into the Well itself.


    Energy. Life force. Mana.


    In the Old God¡¯s chamber and the undertomb, the only source of energy had been the blood of his fellow workers, and only when it reached the chamber floor. He suspected that was some residual ability, or stricture, of the Faceless One. The Old God had drawn strength from blood offerings, after all. But Anomus, whatever he was now, was no god, old or new. Having been transformed by the will and power of the Reaper, he suspected that he would share some affinities with Him. But the energy, the power that leaked in from his tiny breach in the barrier told him that he was not limited to the appetites of the dark god. Anomus could have wept from relief, had he still possessed eyes.


    The Hin kingdoms of the far north, beyond the Circle Sea, believed that the world was awash in currents of energy, both light and dark, life and death, active and passive. They called such knowledge geomancy. He knew of it because he had studied their principles of design and construction, which incorporated the belief in geomancy. In many ways their building arts were more advanced than what the Subori Empire could lay claim to. Anomus had absorbed many of their innovative approaches to construction, but he had discounted most of the geomantic aspects. Taking into account such things as the month, day, and hour of the owner¡¯s birth had seemed to be mere superstitions to him.


    But as the energy, the mana of the outside world seeped through breach he had made, Anomus understood that there was something to the art of geomancy, for this new energy felt cooler, cleaner and less cloying in comparison to the blood strength that was all he had yet absorbed. This new energy carried with it the echo of the desert, the whispering wind across trackless sand, the endless flow of the Great River on its passage to the sea, starlight and shadow and a thousand other dimly sensed reflections of nature, of the living world.


    He had been cut off from all of it in the undertomb, not even suspecting its existence. Like air or water, it flowed, but could not flow down to the undertomb because of the emperor¡¯s cursed barrier. Now that he had tasted it, he was coldly eager to claim as much of it as he could. It did not seem to be as potent as blood, nor did he yet know how to store it; but it was constant, and with its discovery, Anomus¡¯s fear of being trapped and powerless down in the dark receded.


    Anomus threw himself into tearing down the barrier, disintegrating it as quickly as he could. But he remained mindful of Mordun¡¯s seal, and dared not touch any matter in a wide area around it. He confined his efforts to a rough hand span¡¯s distance from the thing of gold and godly magic.


    He ate away the stone all around it, and let gravity dash it to the floor. It landed with enough force to crack the marble tile, then fell forward, golden plaque facing the floor. Exultation rushed through Anomus. It was his first victory against his enemy, however small. But dimly he sensed a smoking anger and resentment emanating from the sigil.


    It had been circumvented, but it had not been destroyed.


    Rage on, Anomus thought. You are impotent now. I am the Tomb, and I will say who shall or shall not pass; none other.


    Part of his exultation, his near-euphoria, came from the energy, the mana that flowed in from the Well¡¯s open ceiling, far above. It was not equal to the strength given him by the blood flow at its height, but it did not ebb as it flowed down to him from the night sky. The clean crispness of it gave him a renewed sense of purpose.


    He pressed forward into the Well, claiming it as his own, avoiding only the area immediately surrounding the fallen seal. It irritated him; it was like a blind spot in his vision, or a dead, unfeeling area of flesh might be if he still possessed a body. Irritation he could accept. He had no choice. He would not risk attempting to destroy it until he had some notion how to do so, and he had none.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    The Well held new discoveries for him. Though he could not extend his influence beyond the ironglass ceiling, he was able to discern something of the world beyond. It was night, and judging by the phase of the moon, three nights had passed since his final offering of blood and milk and honey to the Faceless One. He was relieved; he had feared a longer span of time had passed. He needed every moment if he were to have a hope of being ready for the concubine¡¯s interment, for Irobus¡¯s return.


    Anomus¡¯s second discovery was less welcome. No fewer than three seals had been placed on the massive, bronze-sheathed doors of the Tomb¡¯s entrance. Having learned a harsh lesson, he immediately retreated from the doors, leaving them spitting hate and wrath at him, but unable to pursue.


    The third discovery was that the Well now contained living things. Pests. Flies.


    Irobus¡¯s Eternal Guard had dragged thousands of corpses across the floor of the Well, to deposit them in the undertomb. Then they had apparently used water from the river to wash the marble floor clean of the bloody evidence. But no amount of scrubbing could have cleansed away all of it, as the presence of dozens, perhaps hundreds of black flies attested. They were the scourge of the desert, swarming wherever living things lingered for more than a few hours. They had made camp life an intermittent misery when Anomus was alive. Now, they filled the Well with a low hum as they swarmed over the areas that the Eternal Guard had not cleaned sufficiently ¨C chiefly the narrow gaps between the marble tiles that lined the Well¡¯s floor. But they also filled the air, buzzing aimlessly hither and yon.


    Anomus realized soon enough that they were somewhat trapped. Most had surely entered from the tomb¡¯s vast doors as the corpses had been hauled in. Those doors were sealed now. They had a means of escape via the small opening at the center of the Well¡¯s cap, but few seemed inclined, or able, to stumble upon that discovery. Instead, now that the entrance to the undertomb and its contents were unobstructed and the corpse-scent began to fill the air, the flies instead descended further into the Tomb, at first singly and then in droves.


    Anomus knew that they would feast on the rank slaughter of the murdered workers, and then procreate. The Tomb would soon be thick with countless thousands, perhaps millions of maggots, and then in the course of nature, flies. A week, perhaps a little more, would see the beginnings of a swarm sufficient to produce nightmares.


    Anomus did not know what, if anything, he could do to prevent it ¨C or if he should even try. As disgusting as such things were, they were entirely natural. They were not evil. Death led to decomposition, which in turn gave forth the raw materials for new life. The worst had already happened to the murdered thousands; their spirits were gone, leaving only broken shells. Preventing the flies from doing what was in their nature, assuming he somehow could, seemed pointless.


    His ponderings led him to a question, though. He had claimed physical spaces by inserting his consciousness, his very self into them. Could he do so with a living thing? If it were in his power to do so, then that would open up so many more possibilities for him, so many more opportunities to affect the world around him. He turned his attention to a single fly, one gorged on blood and lazy from it.


    It was a starkly different experience from extending his influence into lifeless stone. Even such a simple living thing as a fly turned out to be incredibly complex, and the deeper he explored, the more complex it proved to be, revealing hidden depths. He explored the tiny but deeply complex creature for hours.


    Anomus marveled at what an intricate marvel life was, and wondered what architect had devised it, if any. He doubted any other mortal man knew as much as he did now about the functions of a fly, from its method of flight, to its dizzyingly fractal means of sight, and deeper, to how it transformed food into energy ¨C so much knowledge lay in the simplest, basest of creatures. Still deeper he probed, discovering a double helix structure that contained the very language of life itself, that seemed somehow to govern every aspect of the fly¡¯s physical body and habits.


    Anomus eventually pulled back from the fly and considered all that he had learned, and its portent. This was knowledge available only to gods. Some lingering human part of him felt that to know such secrets would be to invite the wrath of deities ¨C but Anomus was no longer mortal, and no longer quailed at mortal fears. He was not a god, but he had been reshaped by one, and had already thwarted the will, in small measure, of another. Knowledge was one of his weapons, perhaps the greatest of them, in his secret war against the emperor. Even a pest such as a fly had the potential to be wielded as a weapon in that war.


    He turned his regard once more to the fly, and was faintly surprised to find that, in some dim way, it now recognized him. Spontaneously, he sent it a thought ¨C rise ¨C and to his delight, the torpid thing responded, lumbering its way into the air.


    Higher, he commanded, and it acceded, rising toward the ironglass ceiling.


    Land, he thought, and the fly immediately flew to the nearest surface, high on the Well¡¯s wall, and came to rest.


    It was his creature. He was its master. The strength it had taken to make it so had been miniscule.


    Anomus turned his attention to several more of the flies, and one by one he quickly pushed his influence into them as well, claiming them as his. But he decided doing so one by one was terribly inefficient, and so tried something new.


    The Well was his, was now him. His influence over the space was absolute, save for Mordun¡¯s seal and the entry doors. Every fly in the space was surrounded by, and in a sense existed within him, within his will. He knew their physical makeup down to its smallest, most secret detail. And so he sent a command rolling through the Well, the undertomb, and the Old God¡¯s chamber, directed to any and all of the flies¡¯ miniscule consciousnesses: Obey.


    There was no resistance to his command. Every single fly, which he now knew numbered nearly three hundred, was wholly a creature under his thrall.


    Anomus was learning. He was growing in knowledge, and thus in power. And while an army of not-quite three hundred flies was laughable when set against the might of an empire, he was determined that it would signal the beginning of Irobus¡¯s downfall.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus, satisfied for the moment with his accomplishments with the flies, turned his attention to claiming more of the Tomb. He extended his influence into all the lightless funerary chambers at the level of the entrance. It became apparent that, the further from his center, his gem, that he pushed, the greater effort and energy it took him to extend his influence, his claim.


    During the process, the power of the worker¡¯s blood finally failed him, and he was left solely with the mana that steadily trickled in from the outer world. Unlike the blood, which the Faceless One¡¯s chamber seemed to automatically store for him, the mana simply flowed through the Tomb; in through the Well¡¯s ceiling, then out through a multitude of tiny sources of egress -the hair-thin gaps between the Tomb¡¯s entry doors and the stone they were attached to, and infinitesimal fractures in the stone itself. When he drew power from the mana, it was as if he were a man dipping his hands into a stream. He could only catch what he was immediately using, and all the rest traveled on, unusable and, for his purposes, wasted.


    In a strange sense, it was a problem for which he was naturally suited. Anomus had been both architect and engineer, and had learned to see the issues of the physical world as problems to be surmounted in order to achieve a desired outcome. He had built the small pond in the funerary garden above by harnessing and diverting a portion of the Great River¡¯s flow. Now he was faced with a flow of another sort that he wished to harness, another sort of potential energy that he needed to capture.


    But as he pondered the problem, another made itself apparent.


    In the sky above the Tomb, night was ending. The sun¡¯s first, faint stirrings were evident in the east, and the stars began to dim. The nature of the mana that flowed into the Tomb began to change, and the energy that Anomus was able to take from it steadily lessened.


    At first, he could make no sense of it. This mana, this energy from life and nature shouldn¡¯t be bound up in or affected by the cycle of the sun ¨C should it? But he remembered that the geomancers held that life, that existence itself was dual in nature. Male and female, light and dark, birth and death, passive and active, and a hundred other binary distinctions were recognized by them. They did not, interestingly, recognize the natural energy, the mana, as good or evil ¨C it simply was. Good and evil was not, in their view, applicable to the natural world ¨C only to the world of men.


    As dawn stole over the land above, and the mana flow became ever more inaccessible to him, he came to the conclusion that he was a creature of the night, of the dark, and so he could only make use of the energy that had its source in the night-world.


    It made sense; he had after all been created by the old god of the dark. But Anomus seethed under this newly discovered limitation. It made finding or creating some way to store mana even more critical.


    Anomus retreated into the crystalline structure that was his core, and now the core of much of the tomb. He did not have enough mana remaining to proceed with the claiming of the upper floor of the tomb. He was forced to idleness until night once again returned, and with it that mana that he could access. He set to pondering the problems that faced him.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Five

    Anomus marshalled all his intellect to solve the problem of storing the mana that he had access to during the night.


    If it were water that he wished to capture and store, he would build cisterns and then direct the flow of water toward them, the details of his solution depending on if the flow were from a river or rain, or some other source. Here in the tomb, the night energy cascaded in from the opening in the Well¡¯s ironglass lid, circulated throughout the tomb, and then seeped out through a myriad of cracks and gaps. He doubted he could dam up the flow to contain it, as he might a physical liquid. He would try it if no other, better option presented itself, but it was not a solution he would pursue unless he could think of nothing else.


    He had one other example of a means to collect power ¨C the first he had experienced in his new existence, the ability of the Old God¡¯s chamber to transmute the lifeblood of the slain workers into raw power. The use of it had been instinctual for him. In fact, he had been able to draw from that power even when he was not conscious. But he realized that, while he knew what to do with the blood power without thinking, he had not examined the how of it.


    He turned his attention back to his birth chamber with renewed interest, and many questions.


    The stairs leading down to the chamber were just worn, incredibly ancient stone, with nothing to differentiate them from the natural stone around them other than their worn nature, attributable to unknown ages of worshippers descending to make offerings, and then ascending once more. But the chamber¡¯s floor was another matter, as he quickly discovered when he inspected it closely with his new senses.


    Unnoticed in his initial awakening, the floor was laced through with a vast network of what resembled nothing so much as roots ¨C or veins and capillaries. They were not material in nature, and would be completely invisible and untouchable to the mortal eye or hand. But to Anomus¡¯s new means of perception, they were there for the noticing.


    At first it was difficult to perceive any rational system to the network. Like a long-established potted plant, these root-like structures had crossed and crisscrossed one another in a bewildering profusion. But by following the thicker of the roots, or veins, he discovered that they ultimately had their origin ¨C or termination ¨C in the black stone that his crystal rested upon.


    It was more than a pedestal. It was a reservoir for power. It remained to be seen if the reservoir would hold power other than blood. Or if he could find a way to transfer the mana of the upper chambers into it. He had none to experiment with. Mana flowed down into the undertomb and the sanctuary, now that the emperor¡¯s barrier had been demolished, but it was the bright mana of the day, and he could no more grasp it than he could grasp air.


    Anomus resigned himself to having to wait until night came once more. It irritated him. He was aware that his every thought and action carried with it a certain measure of urgency, one that could almost be said to verge on panic. He had so much to learn, so much to figure out and less than three months to do it. The prospect of having that time halved by enforced idleness during daylight hours was intolerable.


    With very little strength left to him, Anomus waited out the day, gnashing metaphorical teeth.


    ~ ~ ~


    Night did eventually return, and with it the mana that he could access. He had discovered that, while he could not sleep as a mortal man did, he was able to subside into a less sharply conscious state. In fact, ¡®able¡¯ was not quite the correct word. It was a sort of drowsiness that stole over him of its own accord, one that he could deny, but only through conscious will. In it, he was dimly aware of everything that happened in the portions of the Tomb that he had claimed.


    For a few hours he had become a sort of waking dream, composed of the motions of flies and the tiny, involuntary movements of thousands of decomposing corpses. It was not a pleasant dream, in any sense, but it did not hold the same terror for him that it certainly would have were he still alive. This, too, he ascribed to the Faceless One¡¯s influence in remaking him, though he had no proof, only conjecture.


    As the sun set above and night began to assert its dominance on sky and sand, the mana flow began its transformation from bright, tantalizing and unattainable to shadowed and soothing, deep and quiet, and invigorating. For a little time Anomus simply let it wash over his being as a mortal man might stand in a gentle spring rain after the long winter drought. But soon enough he roused himself, cleared his thoughts of flies and corpses, and set to work trying to capture the mana.


    Anomus had previously discovered the ability to reshape a small portion of the stone wall of the undertomb. Now he experimented with the black stone that was his resting place and, it seemed, his means of storing power. As with any project he had undertaken while living, he sought to understand the nature of the materials he had to work with, so that he could best put them to use. He studied the black stone, and discovered that stone was only a portion of what it was comprised of. Infused throughout the squared-off pedestal was what he could only call magic. More, he could not say. The secrets of the fly¡¯s biology, with patience and attention, had yielded themselves up to him without struggle, demanding only patience and thought ¨C but whatever made this stone different defied his understanding. After a time, he came to the conclusion that whatever the stone had been fused with was put there by the Faceless One, and being the working of a god, it was not obliged to make sense to him.


    It disappointed him, but did not discourage him. He had not known how each muscle and sinew had interacted in his own body while he lived, and yet he had still managed to move. But if he could at some point in the future tease out the black stone¡¯s secrets, then perhaps ¨C just perhaps ¨C he might find some way to reproduce it. And if he could do that¡­.


    If he could do that, then the whole world opened itself up to him, potentially. Power was a lever; none knew it better than he. With enough power, he might lever even the greatest weight. Anomus shivered, metaphorically, at the thought. But such dreams did not advance his current cause.


    He turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He had a means of storing energy, but it was only storing the energy generated by fresh blood, of which there was no more. The mana, the life energy of the night was something he could use directly, but not store.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The stone was a mystery, a locked box that lacked a key. So Anomus turned his attention to the ghostly filaments that received the blood and transported its energy to the stone. He studied them more carefully than he had when he had discovered them. They were not material things. Just what they were made of, he did not have the words to describe. But he sensed in them something similar to himself, in some small degree. They were made up of, for lack of a better word, spirit. Anomus himself was essentially a spirit trapped in crystal.


    He tried at first to simply force the mana into a randomly chosen filament, but the mana simply flowed through, rather than into it. The failure made him realize that he needed to change either the nature of the mana, or the filaments.


    Altering the filaments seemed the more likely course. If they could ¡®recognize¡¯ blood, then it was at least theoretically possible to change them to recognize mana. Anomus focused all his intellect on the ephemeral things, diving down into them as he had plumbed the depths of the fly.


    The filaments of spirit were both much simpler and infinitely more complex than an insect¡¯s body. There was no separation of functions, as in a living body. He was no longer dealing with the physical, however complex. He was trying to fathom a metaphysical thing, and all the experiences of his lifetime had not prepared him to do so.


    He attempted to force his will upon the spirit-things in order to claim them as he had physical spaces and the flies. While he sensed them reacting to his attempt, he was also met with a passive resistance to his effort. The more he pushed, the greater the resistance became. His frustration grew along with it.


    Finally, he withdrew to reconsider. The roots, or veins, could not be forced to change their nature by his will alone. They were something different from stone or insect, and they operated under a different paradigm. He would have to change his thinking to accommodate that paradigm, if he wished to succeed. It was no simple task.


    Every physical space and thing he had claimed was now an extension of him, of his awareness and will. Like parts of a body, they were both of him, and yet separate from him, his intellect and his soul.


    These filaments of spirit, sensitive to energy, connected to the black stone of the Faceless One and made to transport energy to it, had to be approached in a different fashion. Rather than claiming them, perhaps he had to¡­ merge with them. Accept them as part of himself, rather than enforce his will upon them. Somehow.


    He turned his attention once more to the filaments, only this time, instead of coldly analyzing them or trying to command them, he simply let his consciousness sink into the vast, complicated network, holding his intellect, his very self, open and accepting, passively experiencing, commanding nothing.


    Slowly, root by root, branching by branching, capillary by capillary, Anomus merged with the system. Over the course of hours, he and the filaments attuned themselves to each other. And when it was complete, he no longer coldly saw and understood the Old God¡¯s chamber, he intuited it in a way that he could not exactly describe to himself. It was as if some never before suspected sense had been granted to him, beyond sight or hearing, or any of the mundane senses.


    And now, instinctively, he reached for the mana that flowed down to the chamber - and the filaments drank it in and passed it, slowly but unceasingly, to the black stone for safekeeping.


    To conquer, he mused, sometimes it is necessary to yield.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus coaxed the filaments towards growth; he never again wanted to be cut off from his source of strength. If the Old God¡¯s chamber were somehow blocked from the mana flow once again, he would have only what the black stone contained. So he coaxed the mana-drinking roots to extend themselves upward, to extend themselves first into the undertomb, and then beyond. Progress was slow, creeping, but it at least it did not require his constant attention.


    Once he had set that growth in motion, he turned his efforts toward penetrating and claiming the upper levels of the Tomb.


    He realized during the process that this need, this desire to acquire more physical territory was practically instinctual. He was driven to do so, just as the beasts in the field were driven to eat and to mate. It was in his new nature to acquire more territory, just as a mortal man might make it his aim in life to gather more and more wealth beyond his basic needs.


    Rationally, he saw no need to claim the upper levels of the Tomb. If he was able to affect his revenge on Irobus, it would likely be in the levels below. If Irobus lived long enough to pass away and take up his spiritual residence in the lover¡¯s palace that Anomus had designed for him, then Anomus would already have failed in his revenge. Oh, he supposed there was some possible scenario where Irobus, still living, could find himself in the bed chamber, the clockwork aviary, the funereal garden. But it was unlikely. No, Anomus claimed those portions of the Tomb because he wanted to, and because he had built them. They were the fruits of his mind, and the labor of the slaughtered. He claimed them because it was in his new nature to do so, and because he would take from Irobus anything and everything, if it lay in his power to do so.


    But mostly he took the upper levels because instinct pushed him to do so.


    He completed the annexation of the Tomb just before dawn. Every interior space was his; was him. It afforded him a sense of completeness ¨C but not fulfilment.


    He retreated from the dazzling day energy that began to enter the Tomb. It did him no harm, but he found it uncomfortable. He preferred the darkness of the Old God¡¯s chamber. The spirit filaments continued their slow, creeping growth undisturbed, drawing what little energy they required to do so from the mana-absorbing stone.


    Again, he chafed at having to pause his activities, despite the critical advances he had now made. But recognizing such agonizing as pointless, Anomus forced himself to look forward, to plan.


    Now that he had secured a steady if somewhat small source of energy, it was time to turn his attention to what he needed to accomplish before Irobus returned with his dead love.


    Of course, he had no specifics regarding just what would be entailed in the concubine¡¯s interment, but Anomus felt that such details would likely be unimportant. Once the emperor set foot within the tomb, Anomus could end him in a multitude of ways ¨C falling stone or pit trap being two that immediately sprang to mind. He had barely experimented with altering his physical environs, but he felt confident that laying such traps, and then springing them on his hated enemy, would be child¡¯s play. But even as he had the thought, he cautioned himself against overconfidence. Who knew what safeguards the Emperor of Subori could avail himself of? He had his Eternal Guard, and the high priests of every Suboran god, and imperial sorcerers, dangerous and fey. There was no mortal man better protected from any conceivable threat than Irobus.


    Anomus determined that his own greatest weapon was the element of surprise. Who would suspect that he had survived, in such a strange fashion, the emperor¡¯s betrayal? Who would think that the very tomb that had been constructed to honor the emperor¡¯s love and loss thirsted for his death with every molecule of its being?


    When the time came, whatever the Emperor¡¯s protections, Anomus would end him. Even if he had to bring the entire Tomb down upon him to do it.


    Anomus decided that, when night once again brought him mana, that he would delve deeper into his ability to shape stone. He wanted to be able to set traps for the unsuspecting throughout the Tomb. He would leave nothing to chance.


    Anomus also knew he had to decide what, if anything, to do with all of the corpses in the undertomb. The coldly rational part of him looked on them simply as a potential resource ¨C but that aspect of himself was in conflict with the still-human portion of his personality, that could only look upon the slaughter above as evidence of a betrayal no different from his own. That portion of him wondered what to do to honor their loss.


    Anomus did not reach any conclusions before he sank down into the day-inspired torpor, into his strange, half-dreaming state.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Six

    When night returned, it did not bring with it to Anomus any decision regarding the final disposition of the workers¡¯ remains. In a sense there was no urgency to do so ¨C they were in no danger of becoming more dead, and would go nowhere while he deliberated, except to slide further into decay. And while the wealthy and powerful of the empire went to great lengths to preserve their bodies for the afterlife, the common man and woman could not, and did not expect to be saved from the depredations of death on their mortal remains. Unlike the emperor¡¯s concubine, not a single one of the Tomb¡¯s laborers would have expected much in the way of formalities or funerary rites upon their deaths. Only Anomus himself could have expected to be interred in the small, family mausoleum that stood in the hills above the capital. He would have been laid to rest in a simple, unadorned sarcophagus, among three generations of his family ¨C four, now that his son had gone before him.


    He turned his thoughts away from his son, his family. He did not wish to think of his wife or the daughter he had never seen, and now never would. He might be able to claim existence of a sort, but to them, he was dead and gone, and that was unquestionably for the best. He was a husband, a father no longer. Now, he was a spirit of vengeance.


    Anomus was vaguely, distantly aware that a great stench was building from the mass of dead flesh, but it did not affect him. He had no nose to be offended with, and no stomach that rebelled at the strengthening miasma.


    The death-stench had begun to permeate the entire Tomb, and even waft out of the opening in the Well¡¯s lid. It had attracted a few of the ebon-carapaced desert wasps; Anomus pressed his will into them and claimed them, almost absently. There were differences between fly and wasp, to be sure, from the wasp¡¯s sting to its instinct to build nests to its rather more complicated cycle of procreation. But having plumbed the depths of one, the other did not present any real surprises. He still had no firm designs for his enthralled insects.


    Having secured the wasps, Anomus turned his attention to further exploring his ability to work with stone. Again, he noticed that there was an instinctual drive within himself to do so ¨C to dig, to tunnel, to expand. He found it an almost trivial matter to penetrate with his will and consciousness the stone that surrounded the Old God¡¯s chamber. It made no difference in which direction; up was as simple and desirable as down, or east, or any other direction. The stone was him, and he was the stone, and the mana it took to expand was negligible ¨C at least at first. He penetrated his surroundings, claimed dominion over tons of living rock, and while doing so, experienced the closest thing to satisfaction that he now seemed capable of.


    After a time, he realized that the further he expanded through the stone of the Targus Cliffs, the more mana it cost him to do so. He paused when he reached the point where he was spending more mana to expand than he was collecting from his passive regeneration. He had little enough power stored in the black mana stone; he did not ever again want to reach a point where it was completely empty. He resolved to control the reckless impulse to expand. He could not afford it, however temporarily satisfying it was.


    The Tomb lay wholly within his sway now, both the open spaces and the stone and supports, the interstitial masses that surrounded them and made them possible. He could now, if he chose, collapse the entire structure. But just thinking of doing so caused him extreme discomfort. It would be like crushing his own body, if he still possessed one. It would be a final, desperate measure, if he could force himself to do it at all.


    In fact, altering the concubine¡¯s tomb in any way was something he found himself loathe to do, though for other reasons. Ten years he had labored on its construction, and despite all, it was a thing of beauty, and a testament to his abilities as an architect. He decided that, while he was still learning his strengths, abilities and powers, he would not experiment in the tomb. Instead, he would construct other chambers within the stone to test his ideas.


    Accordingly, after waiting a time for more mana to gather in the black stone, he began to fashion a new tunnel in the god¡¯s chamber; one that led away from the Tomb and the river, and towards the endless ground beneath the open desert.


    Anomus soon learned that while claiming volumes of stone used a variable amount of mana, dissolving or disintegrating it did not. It required a constant, roughly measurable amount of energy to do so; roughly an hour¡¯s worth of gathered mana was sufficient to tunnel through nine cubic yards¡¯ worth of stone. To a man who had dealt for years with construction schedules, such knowledge was comforting. It meant that, should he need to, he could plan and estimate his expansion with some accuracy. All knowledge was potentially useful to him.


    Anomus spent half the night creating a short passageway that terminated in a small, square chamber. Mentally he dubbed the chamber his workshop. When he was satisfied with it, he set to work.


    He first experimented with making a pit trap, which was just an extension of the tunneling he had already become familiar with, this time downwards instead of horizontally through the bedrock. He made only two modifications to the process. First, he left spikes of stone lining the bottom of the pit, which was a trivial matter for one of his experience and newfound abilities. With his fine control of the process, the spikes were wickedly sharp, if rather brittle. They would certainly wound any who fell onto them, but there were too many variables to guarantee a victim of such a pit would be killed by it. What he needed was some sort of poison to coat the spikes with. His thoughts turned to the recently acquired desert wasps, whose stings were painful, though not fatal. He wondered if it would be able to alter them, to produce a deadlier venom. He resolved to experiment with the creatures, but not until he had completed exploring his stone-shaping ability.


    The second modification he made to his pit trap was to cause a thin skin of stone to form over its mouth. He could have simply tunneled downwards, leaving the upper end undisturbed to whatever thickness he wished, but Anomus wanted to know if he could create stone in desired shapes as well as remove it.


    Indeed, he could. He knew the composition of the stone down to the smallest, most infinitesimal level. Reproducing it required only mana. Within a few minutes, his experimental pit trap would have been completely undetectable by any hypothetical observer; its paper-thin covering matched the rest of the chamber¡¯s floor perfectly. But anything weighing more than a rat placed upon the cover would shatter the camouflage and be plunged to its spike-studded bottom.


    Satisfied that he could kill from below, he turned his attention to creating a method of dealing death from above. Again, he used gravity as the linchpin of the trap. But unlike the passive pit trap, his initial design for the falling block would require his attention and will to trigger.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    While he could work stone to his will much more quickly than a mortal mason, it still took time ¨C more time than a man, or an emperor, would take to stride down a corridor, say. If Anomus wished to be able to drop a killing block of stone from above instantly, with precision and accuracy, it was necessary that he prepare the falling mass in advance.


    He experimented with the ceiling of his workshop of death, cutting first through the four sides that would form four of the six faces of the death stone. The fifth was, of course, ostensibly part the ceiling of the chamber. Then, carefully, he cut away a portion of what would be the final, uppermost face of the stone cube, so that only a tenuous connection remained between the falling block and the mass of stone it was carved from. He labored to ensure that the connection was sufficient to keep the stone from falling on its own, yet small enough that he could sever it with a thought, in an instant.


    Anomus had further ideas ¨C he found himself almost eager to explore the creation of death traps, of ingenious ways to end lives. That told him, more than anything else, that he was not the same man he had been before his transformation. He had never designed such things while he lived and breathed, nor had he ever wished to despite his unarguable technical capability. As much as he would have liked to blame this dark turn of mind on the influence of the Faceless One, he knew he could not. Such darkness dwelt in the hearts of nearly every man and woman, awaiting only some brutal, horrifying condition or event that would bring it forth. Thankfully, most never experienced such misfortune, such violation.


    He understood then that he faced a choice, one just as stark, if subtler, than the choice the Faceless One had presented him with upon his death. Yes, he was sworn to vengeance; he could not turn away from it even if he wanted to, which he certainly did not. The emperor must be made to pay for what he had done, for the evil he had visited upon thousands whose only ¡®crime¡¯ had been to labor for him successfully and well. Anomus would push himself to destruction, to see Irobus brought low.


    But Anomus felt certain that he was in danger of becoming just as much of a monster as the monster he plotted to destroy. Between his newfound greed to claim territory, and his newly born fascination with creating ever-more ingenious engines of death, he hardly recognized the man he had once been. Where was the Anomus who wished only to bring forth into the world creations of both beauty and utility? Did he even exist anymore?


    Anomus did not know. But he did know that if he simply followed his dark impulses, unquestioning and unchecked, his spirit would soon be just as dead as his body ¨C and all that would remain would be the cold, crystal heart of a dungeon of horrors.


    He looked into that possible future, and saw a¡­ thing, ever-expanding down in the dark, creating ever more deadly and cruel traps to guard the territory that it claimed. Such a thing would be only a mindless creature of instinct, no more evolved than a spider in its web, and far less wholesome.


    He rejected that fate. Better that had died for good and all, than that.


    But it would not do merely to resist and control his dark impulses. There was no guarantee that he could do so indefinitely. Instead, he began to realize that his best course of action would be to channel them into something meaningful, something productive ¨C even something of aesthetic beauty. Anomus ip Garma might be gone, for all intents and purposes, but the Architect remained. And now, with his peculiar powers, he could fashion and construct such spaces as would have been impossible for a mortal man.


    Anomus reached an agreement with himself: He would prepare the concubine¡¯s tomb to ¡®receive¡¯ the emperor, and prepare himself to the best of his ability to exact his retribution. He would also continue to explore what his new existence might allow him to do ¨C there was so much to explore and to try, so much he did not yet know, and much he did not yet fully understand about his strengths and their boundaries.


    But he would not let his altered instincts rule his actions. Instead, he would channel them into the creation of something new. Who knew? In time, an entire underground city might take shape deep beneath the desert sands, secret and unsuspected by the world above.


    Just as he began to imagine what such a secret, subterranean city might look like, something in the Tomb above intruded on his attention.


    It was the simplest of things, the barest shadow of movement blocking, for an instant, the starlight that shone down through the Well¡¯s lid into the space below. It was there, and then it was gone. Anomus waited, but after a few moments dismissed it. Likely it was a desert hare, or a jackal or vulture attracted by the smell of decomposition that wafted up to the outer air from the undertomb.


    But then it returned. Because of the imperial sorcerer¡¯s spell, he had not been able to claim the Well¡¯s ironglass lid. However, he could still ¡®see¡¯ through it. What he saw crouched on the edge of the lid was no desert hare, nor jackal, or vulture.


    It was a monster out of nightmare.


    There was something strongly jackal-like about the creature¡¯s face. It had a long snout, or muzzle. But its eyes were disturbingly human, or at least intelligent ¨C and no jackal possessed the humanoid form of the thing Anomus now beheld.


    Anomus watched it, fascinated.


    It sniffed the air, then froze, it¡¯s jackal-like ears perking at some dimly perceived or imagined noise. Almost, it bolted, but slowly Anomus watched the creature¡¯s body ease once more. Even more slowly, the thing reached forth one vaguely human-shaped but clawed hand towards the ironglass, to test its unfamiliar surface, Anomus supposed.


    It was a mistake, of course.


    The moment the beast¡¯s ragged, iron-hued claws made contact with the ironglass, the protective spells that had been laced into it activated, blasting the creature backward with a burst of kinetic energy. It disappeared from his sight, and its howl of surprise, pain and rage were chilling ¨C or rather they would have been, were Anomus still a mortal man. Instead, he found them, and the creature itself, fascinating.


    He knew what the monster must be, or at least thought he did. Based on the stories told to him as a child by a nanny with a storyteller¡¯s gift and a lack of concern for any nightmares she might cause, Anomus thought the thing must be a desert ghoul, an Eater of the Dead. He had not thought them more than the figments of his nanny¡¯s dark, if rich imagination.


    In her tales, the high and mighty insisted on sarcophagi of stone and lead to keep the ghouls from feasting on their freshly entombed corpses. All for naught, she had informed the young, credulous Anomus, whose eyes must have bulged. All for naught, because the claws of the Corpse Eaters were as hard as iron, and could burrow through the hardest stone, given enough time. She had painted word pictures of the things squatting on the broken lids of such coffins, gnawing hungrily on the detached, rotting limbs of their occupants ¨C generally under a full moon.


    If they were real ¨C and apparently, they might well be ¨C then he was not surprised that they were in the vicinity. Thousands of corpses were contained within him, and thousands more must have been left to rot outside. Anomus did not know if the emperor had ordered the excess of his slaughter to be buried, or thrown into the river, or left to rot in the desert sun, but whatever the case, for creatures such as ghouls, it must have been a feast to end all feasts. With their supposed keen sense of smell, the stench of decay had likely been a scent-beacon to the ghouls, inviting them to gorge.


    Anomus felt no particular loathing at the thought. Yes, the things were hideous, or at least the one he had seen was; but they were in no sense eviler than the flies and other insects who had been drawn to the corpses for much the same reason, in much the same way.


    In terms of what they might be able to do for him, however, they were orders of magnitude more fascinating. Assuming he could enforce his will upon them and claim them, of course. Flies, even wasps, would not make an army. But ghouls?


    Perhaps.


    Such thoughts occupied him for the short remainder of the night. He waited, but the ghoul did not return to the Well¡¯s lid before dawn. Anomus went to his ¡®rest¡¯ determined both to further explore what might be done with living creatures, and to somehow lure a ghoul into the Tomb, if it were at all possible.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Seven

    At nearly the same moment Anomus beheld the ghoul, Emperor Irobus rose from his immense bed and stood, arms raised, while slaves dressed him. Behind him, a dozen pleasure slaves, male and female, lay intertwined on the silken sheets, exhausted from pleasing their master, each other, themselves. Irobus would not allow his body servants to wash the night¡¯s juices and exertions from him, not until after he had made his pilgrimage to Hesia¡¯s ironglass sarcophagus.


    When he had been properly attired, Irobus walked unhurriedly through the imperial suites. Hundreds of slaves, servants, noblemen and women prostrated themselves at his appearance. He acknowledged none of them.


    His acknowledged sons, numbering a dozen, issued from four different mothers, met him at the palace¡¯s entrance, kneeling in two rows of six on the steps. As he passed, they rose and fell into line behind him, and followed him across the vast Courtyard of the Sun, to the Monument.


    The Monument was massive, and open to the elements. It consisted of four pillars of stone soaring high into the sky, and at their base, an elevated stone dais, upon which rested a plinth.


    On the plinth lay Hesia.


    He had ordered her to be placed in her ironglass coffin just as she had been found upon her death. Still, she wore the revealing night dress of rare and costly silk. Still, her face was made up in the way that had best pleased him, her fair cheeks rouged, but her beautiful, nearly doll-like face otherwise untouched by cosmetics. Still, her lustrous, golden hair swirled about her head in a shining nimbus. Only her eyes had been closed, in concession to death.


    Emperor Irobus mounted the dais, and his sons took their stations around the Monument, to see that he was in no way disturbed. Their poses may have been ceremonial ¨C none were allowed into the Courtyard when the emperor visited his dead love, after all ¨C but the vigilance of the Eternal Guard and the imperial sorcerers who watched from the walls were, as ever, in deadly earnest.


    ¡°Your tomb is finished at last, my love,¡± Irobus told her, ¡°and it is a marvel. I find myself at a loss for words to describe its beauty.¡± He put his hand on the ironglass above her heart, above her ample breasts, still as enticing by means of sorcery as the rest of her, as when she still drew breath. ¡°Once the priests have performed all the rights and ceremonies and sacrifices, you will be loaded onto a barge and oared up the Great River to your new and final home, there to await my passing. Certainly, by now you must welcome a change of location, no?¡± Irobus did not know how much she could hear through the ironglass, but he had been assured by his vizier that Hesia would always be aware of his presence.


    ¡°But the tomb, my heart. As soon as I set eyes upon it, I threw off the mask of mourning. That will give you an inkling of its beauty. Truly, never before has such a thing been built, and never will it in the future. It is a fitting monument to the death of my love.¡± Irobus¡¯s lips twisted slightly as he spoke that last.


    ¡°And when I returned to the palace last night,¡± he continued, ¡°I fucked and fucked and fucked. Does that shock you? I shocked myself somewhat, I must admit. But ten years of celibacy is enough, I think. I do wish you could smell the heavy musk of it that still clings to me.¡± He ran his fingers along the coffin, down to her generous hips. ¡°You were enough for me, enough and more.¡± He laid his hand flat against the glass and closed his eyes, remembering better times. Times when he had been happy. More than happy.


    ¡°I would have elevated you to empress, in time. I know, we never spoke of it. I had meant it to be a surprise. Imagine; had you not parted your thighs for a slave, you would even now sit beside me on the Throne of the Sun.¡± His open hand contracted into a fist. ¡°But it does no good to dwell on might-have-beens, I think. Better to think on what will be, no? And what will be is you in a tomb, awaiting me; your master, your emperor and your god.¡± He bent forward and laid a gentle kiss on the glass above her lips.


    ¡°May that wait be long enough to drive you mad, if you are not, yet.¡±


    Irobus left then, trailed by his sons. He had a bath to take, and ceremonies to attend, and an empire to rule. Soon the secret betrayer of his heart would be entombed, secretly still living ¨C for what emperor could countenance the world knowing he had been cuckolded? What man could accept or forgive a betrayal not only of the flesh, but of the heart? Not Irobus, certainly. And an emperor¡¯s wrath could be as cruel as it was implacable.


    In the rosy predawn light, none saw the single tear that formed in the corner of the concubine Hesia¡¯s eye.


    ~ ~ ~


    When night next descended, Anomus shook himself from his daytime lethargy, eager to tackle the challenge of somehow making contact with the ghoul, or ghouls that apparently roamed within the vicinity of the Tomb.


    He was confined to the Tomb¡¯s physical space, that much he knew instinctively. Almost certainly that was where the instinct to expand had its source. All things in nature had, at their beginnings, the inescapable urge toward growth. Why should he be any different? But unlike a bird in its shell, or a worm in its cocoon, Anomus had the intellect and education of a man. He refused to be driven or constrained by his instincts. Reason would supply him the tools to overcome his limitations.


    The first task he set himself was to tackle his inability to see more of the outside world than the slice of the night sky visible from the Well.


    Try as he might, he could not extend his awareness beyond the lid of the Well¡¯s small opening. He had instinctually known as much, but experimentation confirmed it. So he turned to a resource that he had in abundance ¨C the flies.


    He willed one to fly through the opening. It did so without resistance or complaint ¨C but as soon as it exited the Well, he lost his connection to the little thing. He also realized that the loss was, in an infinitesimal way, a loss of his self. The fly belonged to the Tomb, to him ¨C and then as soon as it departed, it didn¡¯t.


    Anomus would have frowned, if he still possessed a face. He needed agency beyond the Tomb. His circumstances seemed to be thwarting him, in that quest. But a lifetime of working on physical problems others believed insurmountable had prepared him well for the new challenges he faced.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He tapped another fly, and attempted to give it two commands at once, to fly up through the hole, and then back down again. But the creature¡¯s tiny intellect wasn¡¯t up to the task. He could manipulate it directly, but it was incapable of understanding orders that carried into the future ¨C indeed, it couldn¡¯t even conceive of anything except an eternal ¡®now¡¯. He tried with one of the wasps, with exactly the same result. Though the wasps had slightly more intellect than the flies, it was slaved to carrying out the functions of its instincts, just as the flies¡¯ minds were. Insects, it seemed, were too simple to do as he desired. As they were, they were just incapable of any independent action.


    Anomus felt stymied by the limitations he was confronted with. A lifetime of building had taught him that, barring a few tricks, a builder was limited by the quality of the materials he had to hand, both positive and negative. Steel, precious and costly, was in many ways stronger than stone, but eventually would rust. Granite was far more resistant to the elements than sandstone. One could plaster over either, but time would eventually tell the truth of their matter. Anomus, metaphorically speaking, did not even have sandstone to work with ¨C rather he had chalk, if that. It was not suited to the purpose he wished to put it to.


    Anomus mulled his problem, much as he had when still a mortal man. Eventually he realized that, while his mortal experience could help him understand the problems he now faced, not every analogy would be applicable. He was not a man any longer; he had new limitations and new abilities. Yes, his previous experience could aid him, but it could also limit his thinking and creativity when it came to approaching the unique challenges his new existence presented.


    He forced himself to return to what he knew, not what he assumed, so that he could outline what he did not know. Outline, and then explore.


    He knew the physiognomy of the fly, and the wasp. He knew their internal and external functions, and how they operated. He knew their instinctual drives, as dictated to them by that secret language written into the fiber of their beings ¨C


    There, he thought to himself. What mortal man would dream of altering what the gods themselves have written? But whatever I am, I am a mortal man no longer. And I will dare.


    He captured another fly with his intent, and dove down into the secret code that made up its matter. He had no more than hints of what that code dictated, however. As sharp as his intellect was, he was not omniscient. He began to experiment, to re-write the language that made the fly. It soon died from his attentions, but he had learned more, both of the what of a fly, and also the how of it.


    It took dozens of fly deaths before he was satisfied that he was able to read that secret language with sufficient understanding to alter it with more deliberation than blundering. He had also come to discover that if he wished to alter a living, fully-formed fly, it took an amount of mana wholly out of line with the tiny changes he affected. Nearly an hour¡¯s worth of mana collection went into changing a single fly¡¯s body from black to blue, for example. But Anomus was well aware of the principles of animal husbandry, of breeding for desirable traits. That was why the nobles would pay such incredible sums for the majestic horses of the western nomads ¨C not so much for the horses themselves, though they were cherished, but for their promise of breeding more and faster progeny.


    Be it faster horses, fatter pigs, stronger hawks, or grain that bore more fruit, mankind had been striving to interfere with nature for thousands of years. Anomus, with his bizarre abilities, could do so directly and precisely. If he had but a little patience, he could breed larger and more intelligent flies and wasps, and once he had effected the changes he desired, the improved creatures would continue to breed true at no further cost of mana. He could even speed up the cycle of life ¨C indeed, he had to, if he wished to accomplish much before the Emperor returned to the Tomb with his concubine¡¯s remains.


    First, however, he wanted to alter a single, winged minion, to make it capable of accepting orders that it could then perform autonomously, without his direct control. Until he could do that, he would be virtually blind to events outside the tomb. It was a difficult task, with many intermediate steps.


    The fly¡¯s speck of a mind was not physically capable of doing what he wished. He realized that he would have to both enlarge and remake it in order for it to be useful to him. But doing so also entailed altering and enlarging other portions of its body, not the least of which were its wings and all the connective tissue, so that it could still fly with something approaching purpose.


    His alterings were costly, in terms of mana, and the work was not quick. He toiled and refined his new fly for the remainder of that night, and when dawn came, he was not yet done. Rather than continue on into the day, pulling from his reserves of strength, Anomus paused in his work and let his daytime somnolence steal over him without resisting it.


    Throughout the day, he ¡®dreamed¡¯ of his fly¡¯s brain, the architecture of its redesign that would be necessary to remake it into a useful spy. When he woke, he realized that he had several thousand examples of the construction of much more complex minds that might assist him ¨C though the examples were fast decomposing.


    With only a slight reservation, Anomus turned his concentration towards the corpse nearest, one sprawled partway down the stairs, holding open the secret door.


    Inside the secret chamber of the man¡¯s mind, Anomus found much wonder, and even more sorrow.


    Life had fled, and with it, thought. This itself limited what Anomus could learn about the workings of the human brain. He moved through a space so much vaster and more complex than he ever might have imagined, but it was a construction falling to ruin around him as the forces of mortality dug ever deeper into it. He learned little beyond the fact that the human mind was orders of magnitude more complex than the mind of a fly, which he had already suspected. But he had never suspected just how intricate was the mind of a person. It saddened him that men and women were born with such potential, and yet sentenced to inevitable death. How much potential in even the simplest of humans, and in each and every one, the doom of mortality. With a mental sigh and a strange sense of loss, he turned his attention once more to his experimental fly of the previous evening.


    After more hours of careful tinkering, he experienced his first breakthrough. By altering the portion of the fly¡¯s brain that dealt with smell ¨C quite a large portion of the overall mass ¨C he was able to instruct it to perform two consecutive actions.


    He commanded it to fly to the far wall of the chamber, and then from there, to continue on to the black mana stone. Bumblingly, it did so. Anomus felt as though he had accomplished the moving of a mountain, but he knew that this was only the first step in remaking the creatures so that they could truly serve him in a useful capacity.


    Two nights he had toiled on the fly to the exclusion of all else. In that time, the ghoul had not returned to the Well¡¯s lid. Not that he could blame the creature after it¡¯s harsh rebuff by the spelled ironglass. But Anomus felt that he needed to move more quickly in altering his fly-spies, lest the ghoul or ghouls leave the area before he figured out how to make contact with them.


    Anomus also had another pressure that increasingly weighed down on him, one that he had put off for two nights, but that he sensed he could not do for much longer ¨C the drive to expand, and to build. It seemed that for the length of his existence he would be, if not ruled, then at least influenced by that instinct. He supposed it was like a thirst ¨C once could ignore a parched throat only for so long before being incapable of not reaching for a cup of water that was easily within one¡¯s grasp. And so he expanded his will through the bedrock on the final hour before dawn, but this time instead of doing so outward in all directions, he focused on expanding towards the Great River ¨C towards, and ultimately beneath it. He wanted to claim the area beneath the worker¡¯s camp. He had notions, both about the possible ghouls attracted to it, and for the space itself. But first he had to reach it.


    He did not get far before dawn arrived, but even a few feet¡¯s progress was enough to ameliorate the worst cravings toward expansion. He went to his day -rest satisfied with all that he had accomplished, but well aware that he had much further to go.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Eight

    Another three nights passed before Anomus finally had a minion sufficient to his needs.


    He regarded his creation with something akin to pride, though that wasn¡¯t quite the right name for what he felt. After having spent so long tinkering with the inner secrets of the insect, there was affection mixed in with the accomplishment. Anomus surprised himself with the realization, and got a little amusement from the fact that he could feel affection for what was universally regarded as a pest.


    Ah, but what a pest he had created! Its bright blue body was twice the size of the largest horsefly, with eyes of scintillating crimson. Spread out, its jeweled wings would span the width of a grown man¡¯s palm. But the most radical and stunning changes were hidden within the creature¡¯s mind.


    He had been able to expand the creature¡¯s ability to think. It was nearly as intelligent as, say, a dog. More, he had expanded its capacity to remember ¨C for what good would it be to command it to fly outside the Tomb and then return, if it could not then show him what it had seen? But it still lacked what he thought of as self-awareness. Fortunately, he did not require it to be self-aware; its instincts were largely unaltered, save for the strong desire to return to the undertomb that he had added, should it somehow become lost in the outer world. It was a sort of failsafe he built into his creation.


    Anomus suspected the fly would have returned in any event. The Tomb reeked; so many corpses now in full rot would have made the air unbreathable, if he still had a nose and lungs. But he did not, and to a fly, it smelled like a feast to end all feasts.


    He sent it out with the instruction to search for water ¨C it understood what water was, but the concept of a river was too complex ¨C and then to return. It would do for a maiden voyage. Its first journey might take it five minutes. or five hours His little blue creation still had no concept of time.


    Once it flew out of the Well¡¯s lid, he set about remaking more flies in the blue one¡¯s image, selecting those still capable of procreating. He was pleased to discover that the process, now familiar to him, did not consume such large amounts of mana that the original had. Once he had transformed all the useful candidates, he planned to next dive into the newly laid maggots. He suspected that altering such protean creatures would be less of a strain, but also expected to encounter new surprises.


    Anomus had encountered a setback on another front, however.


    He had continued to expand his domain through the bedrock towards the Great River. He had designs on claiming the ground under the worksite, for he felt nearly as much of a connection to that piece of land as he did for the Concubine¡¯s Tomb. But when he had neared the river, his ability to claim the rock beneath became less and less potent, and consumed ever-greater amounts of his strength. This alarmed him, for the claiming of stone previously had only cost him time. Only when he altered that stone had he been forced to expend his precious mana. Now, mere feet from some dimly understood boundary that he thought was likely the river¡¯s edge, an inch¡¯s progress cost him more than an hour¡¯s mana.


    He came to the conclusion that the Great River was more than a conduit for the fresh water of most of a continent ¨C that it was a powerful conduit for energy, for life-force, as well. He wished that he had studied with greater attention the writings of the geomancers. He knew that water had its own esteemed place in their cosmology, but he simply did not know more than the fact that they thought it important. Whatever secrets they might have imparted he had not taken heed of in his studies. He had more concerned with the unique views of the Hin kingdoms on carpentry and masonry, and all the builder¡¯s arts.


    Whatever the case, he estimated that it would take months, perhaps even half a year, for him to claim and then tunnel under the river to the worksite to connect it to the greater Tomb, and that was if he poured every ounce of mana available to him into the effort. He could not afford to spend the mana of possibly six months on the project. Not when Irobus was due to return in less than three.


    Reluctantly, he had halted further river-ward expansion, and turned his attention downwards. He kept his attention limited to the footprint of the undertomb, but still soon enough he came to a limitation of a new sort.


    Restricting himself to a downward penetration of the rock cost him no mana, but like a man trying to spy increasingly distant objects, his ability to perceive and claim the fundaments of the earth became increasingly weaker. It seemed that, even given an infinity, he would not be able to claim the whole of the earth. His instinct was frustrated by this newly discovered limitation, but his intellect was relieved. He was not so power-mad as to wish to control the whole world. That was more to the tastes of his hated enemy, he mused.


    Still, to quiet his hunger for expansion, he set aside his work on the fly in the final hour before dawn each night, to tunnel in the stone. Creating, altering and shaping ¨C in a word, building - was sufficient to scratch his new life¡¯s itch as much as claiming volumes of the earth, it seemed.


    On a whim, he converted his workshop into a stairwell, and then began the construction of a maze beneath the Old God¡¯s chamber. Having no real need for further territory beyond quieting his drive to expand, he let his architect¡¯s mind spend an hour a night at play, creating corridors and branchings on impulse, and making the walls into a gallery of sorts. As he had done in the funerary chambers adjacent to the Well, he adorned the walls with friezes. The maze became a memorial to all the things he had cherished in life, from the simplest ¨C a cat he had loved as a child ¨C to the most meaningful, a depiction of his son, his father, and his wife. He found that he could remember them in perfect detail, and that he could reproduce their images with great fidelity. He spent the last hour of two nights doing so, and found a sort of contentment in the work.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    But he could only imagine his daughter, having never seen her. He surprised himself with the depth of sorrow that pierced him when he thought about her, and how he never would see her, not in this life or the next. Irobus had stolen that from him as well.


    The sorrow that pierced him at the thought hardened to bitterness, and following a bleak impulse, he wiped all the artwork from the maze¡¯s walls with a thought and a burst of mana.


    Let the emperor build memorials, he thought. I will build with sharper purpose.


    Abruptly, he made a decision regarding the ultimate fate of all the slain workers. For the first time, he deliberately resisted the torpor that stole over him with the coming of the day and continued working, drawing from his scanty mana reserve to complete his task.


    He refashioned the maze into a catacomb, thickening the walls and creating niches long and wide enough to accommodate a human body. Or, to be more precise, a human skeleton.


    Let their flesh be consumed by time and nature¡¯s will, he mused darkly. But let their bones rest. At least until I understand enough to set them against their killer. If such a thing is possible.


    His nursemaid had told him stories of ghouls. She had told him stories of many fey, uncanny and fearsome creatures. Including skeleton warriors, animated by magic. Ghouls, it seemed, were real ¨C so why not all the rest?


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had altered a dozen more of his flies before the original blue fly returned, near dawn. He delved into the creature¡¯s memory. It was uncomfortable and confusing ¨C the eyes of a fly were so radically different from anything Anomus had ever experience that it took him time and patience to piece together a narrative of Blue¡¯s journey. But slowly, painstakingly, he did so.


    The vast majority of his spy¡¯s flight revealed to him only stars and sand. Watching the memories from the fly¡¯s perspective was like standing on the deck of a ship in a storm, but far worse, so wildly did the horizon dip and sway. Anomus found himself grateful that he had no stomach, for if he had, he would surely have vomited up its contents.


    At first, Blue had traveled in the wrong direction, out towards the open desert instead of towards the river. But eventually it had realized its mistake, and taken a wide, arching way back towards where he¡¯d wished it to go. As it sensed greater moisture in the air, it had flown with greater purpose, until finally the Great River had appeared in its view.


    It landed among the rushes ¨C and there its journey and its life had almost ended, for startlingly close, a frog hung from a reed. Quicker than thought, the amphibian¡¯s tongue had shot out, but Blue¡¯s reflexes had been up to the danger, and his spy had launched itself away from the threat, just as nature had designed, and Anomus had augmented.


    Blue had then spent a goodly portion of the night doing what Anomus amusedly thought of as ¡®fly things¡¯ ¨C investigating his surroundings, driven on by its olfactory senses, which made up a huge portion of its ability to sense the world. While Anomus appreciated the opportunity to interact with the outside world, even second-hand and from the perspective of a fly, he could not help but become impatient. He wished to learn more about the workman¡¯s camp, and hopefully the ghoul or ghouls, but Blue¡¯s memories stubbornly refused to yield any information about either.


    Eventually Anomus¡¯s explicit order to return to the Tomb and Blue¡¯s instinctual desire to return started to assert themselves, and the fly began an erratic, weaving return journey. Anomus¡¯s patience was finally rewarded with a clear view of the Targus Cliffs and the Tomb¡¯s entrance ¨C and two crouched figures at the base of the entry doors. Even though Blue¡¯s memory of the pair of creatures left much to be desired, Anomus could tell that they were almost certainly the same as what he had seen a few night¡¯s previously. They were hirsute and even as crouched and bestial as they appeared, they were still humanlike in form - except for the telltale snout and ears.


    They were searching for a way into the Tomb. The Magic at the top of the Well had rebuffed them. Anomus had no doubt that the bronze-sheathed and magic-warded doors would do the same.


    So he would give them a means to enter. He would let them feast on the flesh of the dead. And then he would see if he could claim them. As bestial as they were, they were still unfathomably more complex than flies or wasps.


    But he would not let them into the undertomb until he had removed the bones. Ghouls eating the rotting flesh, that he could stomach. But he would not countenance them gnawing on the bones of the aggrieved. It would be wrong. And besides, he had other plans for the skeletons.


    Anomus turned his attention to the mass grave, and with grim purpose did what he had heretofore avoided, barring a single brain ¨C he claimed all the matter within it. All the rotting, bloated flesh, decaying cartilage, the spilled entrails, every hair and fingernail. And every bone. And once he had done so, he forced the flesh to part so that the bones migrated to the undertomb¡¯s floor.


    And then the stone began to absorb the bones, passing them downwards towards the catacombs at his command.


    He realized that he did not have to struggle to keep track of which bones went with others from the same corpse. He knew them all, down to the smallest particle, and in a sense, they were all now a part of him. When he had been a man, he did not have to keep track of which finger went on which hand. So it proved to be with the tens of thousands of bones.


    More than anything else he had experienced since his remaking at the Old God¡¯s hands, this realization told him he was no longer Anomus. No mortal man could have kept track of such vast numbers. It might have been a small thing compared to his alteration of a living thing, but it was what struck him most viscerally.


    Whatever he now was, he was not Anomus ip Garma any longer.


    Keeping track of all the bones may have been effortless, but the physical moving of them was anything but. It consumed every iota of mana that flowed through the Tomb, leaving none for the filaments to absorb. And it was not a quick endeavor, either. He managed only to get all the bones down into the stone and away from any possible depredations before dawn returned and the mana faltered. Finishing their interment would have to wait for another night, or likely several nights.


    He seethed at his limitations. There was so much to do, and so little strength with which to do it. And so little time. Eleven nights had already passed. Eleven, in the metaphorical blink of an eye. He had been working feverishly, using every ounce of his power and intellect, and he had felt moments of satisfaction. But when he asked himself what he had in his arsenal with which to kill Irobus, should he suddenly appear unexpectedly, all he had in his arsenal were pit traps and falling stones.


    Pit traps, falling stones, and half-formed plans against one of the most powerful men in the world. Flies that could not bite. Bones that he did not know how to animate, and might never learn. Corpse-eating ghouls not clever enough to find a way into the Tomb, that he did not control and might not have the capacity to dominate even if he could lure them in.


    Less than three months.


    Anomus the Architect did not despair. He raged.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Nine

    Krrsh had known the sandstorm was coming well before it arrived. His kind knew such things. It was something in the air, the taste and smell of the dust. And even if he had not been able to sense such things, a hundred telltale signs were visible for any with eyes to see the desert. The tiny orb spiders laid no fresh nets for prey, knowing the coming storm would only destroy them. The frogs of the river did not sing their songs of mating and challenge. Many other ways to tell, yes.


    Krrsh knew. The knowing had woken him from his day sleep, beneath a shallow mound of sand that did no more than keep the hated sun¡¯s rays from his flesh. The sun did not burn him, not with his fur and thick skin, but Krrsh¡¯s eyes were meant for the night. The sun blinded him, made his eyes water. It made him weak, and Krrsh did not like weakness. Weakness was death, in the desert.


    The Ironclaw pack would also know of the storm¡¯s approach. The pack would dig down deep into the sands, closer than close, body against body, and if the winds blew fierce enough to expose them, they would take their shifting turns to block with their bodies the lash of sand that often blew fierce enough to flay the skin. They would all take their turn, so that all suffered, but none unto death.


    But Krrsh was of the Ironclaw pack no longer. And so he was forced to dig a burrow alone, in the hated, blinding daylight, and hope the scouring sands did not find him.


    He rose from his sleeping place and, blinking and shading his eyes, began to search for another, safer location. Such a shallow burrow would not be enough for protection during the storm.


    He loped further out into the desert, shading his eyes. Eventually he found a stone that thrust up from the sand, in truth no higher than his knee, but it would be enough to split the force of the wind. Or so he hoped.


    Krrsh was strong. Krrsh was fierce. But nothing was stronger or fiercer than the desert when it was angry.


    Krrsh dug down in the lee of the stone. The sand was thin here, so close to the pale-yellow cliff, and the soil beneath full of broken stone. The desert on the other side of the river held softer soil. But his claws were hard, and he was used to the harshness of the desert. And the other side of the river was forbidden him, now. It did not matter. He was strong, and fierce.


    But. But, Krrsh was not as strong or fierce as he had been. Many cuts, many claw and bite marks pierced his thick, hairy skin. They burned, and some wept pus. A rumbling growl made its way up from his chest at the self-admission. His kind may hate bitter truths, but they did not deceive. Not each other. Not themselves.


    Krrsh was strong and fierce. Enough that he thought he could overcome Ngrum and a contest for leadership of their pack. But Ngrum was strong and fierce¡­ and cunning.


    The Ironclaw pack roamed a wide swath of the Great Desert. They had to range far; the pack was large, far larger than Krrsh believed was best. They were more than two hands in number. That was one of the reasons Krrsh had challenged Ngrum. He believed the tribe must be split, for the good of all. But Ngrum would have none of it.


    Numbers meant strength, to Ngrum. To Krrsh, numbers meant danger. Many kinds of danger, but especially Men. Men with shining skin thicker than any ghoul¡¯s. Men with single, long claws, sharper than any ghoul¡¯s. Men with claws attached to wood that could fly through the air, faster than any ghoul could see or run from. Men with Magic.


    Men were death, until they themselves died. Then they were just food.


    But that was another reason why Krrsh had challenged Ngrum. More Ironclaws meant more bellies to fill. And the Great Desert was not generous. His kind could go for a month without a meal, but even stooping to eating lesser carrion, and even insects, the pack was always on the verge of starvation. Or it had been, until they had discovered the place of death by the river.


    So much meat, and the meat of men, not lesser carrion! More than they could eat at once, in a night, or a month, or even a season. Someone had buried the food, covered it with sand, but that had been nothing to the Ironclaws, nor any ghoul ¨C could they not smell a corpse through the stone boxes Men placed them in?


    Before the place of death had been discovered, others had listened when Krrsh voiced his worry about the pack¡¯s size. Listened, but followed Ngrum still. Once they found the place of death, though, Krrsh spoke only to the wind.


    ¡°When this meat is gone. What then? Now we eat. Three of us are already heavy with child. When there is no more meat, how will the pups live?¡±


    His growled questions about the future fell on uncaring ears. Ears that would lay flat whenever he spoke them. For the rest of the pack, now was all. Now, there was meat. Now, there was safety ¨C no human guarded these remains, with sharp metal or spell. Now, they expanded their numbers, and grew stronger.


    Tomorrow? Tomorrow there would still be meat. Look at it all, mounds of it buried indifferently by unknown hands.


    The pack could not imagine such bounty running out. The pack could not imagine ¡®someday¡¯. Only Krrsh. Krrsh was strong, and fierce, and Krrsh was clever.


    Ngrum was strong and fierce, but old. Ngrum was not clever. Ngrum could not count beyond the four claws of one hand ¨C to Ngrum, the number after four was ¡®another.¡¯


    But Ngrum was cunning, and that was not the same thing at all as clever. Not when words came to challenge, and challenge came to blows.


    Iron claws had raked flesh, wicked teeth had punctured arm and cheek and tender muzzle, and Ngrum had taken more than he had given. And Ngrum had ceased struggling. He lay on the moonlit sand, panting, eyes glazed, tongue lolling. Then, just as Krrsh had bent down to take Ngrum¡¯s neck into the bite of submission, the older one had scooped up sand and flung it into Krrsh¡¯s eyes.


    Ngrum was cunning. Krrsh would carry the scars of Ngrum¡¯s cunning for the rest of his days. When Ngrum was finished with Krrsh, Krrsh lay in the sand, panting, bleeding, neck exposed.


    But Ngrum had not taken him with a submission bite. Ngrum squatted over him, and let a yellow arc of piss splash down on Krrsh¡¯s supine form.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Outcast.


    ¡°This one says we are too many,¡± Ngrum had growled at the pack. ¡°Ngrum listens. Now we are one claw less.¡±


    Krrsh dug into the difficult ground until the first blast of wind found him, and nearly sent him tumbling. Quickly he raked loose sand and stone atop himself, and huddled in his burrow as the desert howled its anger above, and remembered. Eventually sleep came to him.


    It did not still his rumbling growl.


    ~ ~ ~


    The twelfth night of Anomus¡¯s new existence arrived, bearing with it the howling winds and stinging sands of a simoom. The desert storm dashed his plans to release his fly scouts, which made him gnash nonexistent teeth. But it also brought with it a certain change to the mana which flowed into the Tomb. It was not increased, but it was somewhat more potent. In a sense, it was a wilder sort of energy than what a placid night in the desert brought him.


    Anomus did not lack for tasks to spend it on. From altering more flies and maggots, to altering the few wasps he controlled, to further shifting the bones of the slain, to continuing his excavations, it was difficult for him to decide what took precedence. He could even do nothing at all, and store the mana against future need.


    No. If he had no purpose other than mundane existence, he might have done so. But Anomus was still as driven as he had been while his life¡¯s blood had leaked out of him. He was incapable of idleness.


    He decided that the first task he would address was luring the ghouls into the Tomb. They were not clever or powerful enough to find a way in on their own, so Anomus set to easing their path.


    The most direct route would be to create a tunnel parallel to the entrance and the great hall, with an opening in the cliff face a few feet away from the Tomb¡¯s entrance proper. But Anomus was mindful of the fact that his greatest weapon would be surprise. No one suspected anything was amiss with the Tomb ¨C how could anyone? ¨C and he meant to keep it that way. There was little boat traffic this far up the Great River, but little was not none. It would not do to have someone notice a newly created second entrance to the Tomb ¨C to notice, and then speak of it. Who knew how fast or far such news might travel?


    Instead, Anomus tunneled in the opposite direction, away from the river and out towards the open desert.


    The tunnel he formed started in the undertomb, in the same wall as the entrance to the Old God¡¯s chamber, and sloped gently upwards toward the surface. He expended as little energy as possible on it, not bothering to square it off or do any other sort of work that was not required for its purpose. It was a purely functional oval void in shape, four feet wide at its widest point, and a little more than five feet tall. He had judged the ghouls to be able to move through such a space with little difficulty. Whether they would remained to be seen, but he relied on the overwhelming stench of so much rotting, putrid meat to draw the ghouls to him.


    Creating the far entrance to the tunnel proved something of a problem. The stone subsurface of the desert floor ended several feet below the desert sands, and he quickly discovered that the shifting sands of the Great Desert were impossible to claim, in a practical sense. He believed it had something to do with the fact that where the stone he penetrated with his will and consciousness was immovable, was in some vaguely understood sense a place, the sand was not. Like stone, he could sense it; but like air, he could not claim it.


    Fortunately, he did not have to. He disintegrated the stone beneath his chosen entry point, and let gravity deal with the obstructing sand.


    The sand poured in, but the slope of the tunnel was sufficient to prevent a complete blockage of the passage. Anomus trusted nature to do the rest. He could only create the opportunity, not force the actions of the ghouls, or of anything else outside the Tomb.


    With the sand came something he had not anticipated, but perhaps should have ¨C an increase in the flow of mana. At first Anomus was elated by this change. He had been hobbled in is efforts by his limited supply of energy, and now, he estimated, that supply had been doubled. But hard on the heels of his elation came another emotion, one that he had not yet felt in his new state: Fear.


    It was not a debilitating fear. It was not mindless terror. But it was real, as real as if he had woken to find a scorpion scuttling across the floor of his tent, when he was still alive. Not an uncommon occurrence, but not a pleasant one, either.


    It took him some time to understand just where the fear was coming from. He analyzed it, coldly and rationally, and decided it must spring from the same strange, inhuman set of instincts that drove him to expand his physical self.


    After all the time he had spent on altering the flies, Anomus well understood that instinct was something that was meant to increase an organism¡¯s chances of survival. The drive to mate, the fear of certain physical things or situations ¨C snakes, say, or the fear of the dark ¨C these were meant to give a living creature better chances of survival, by driving them away from potential danger. So where was the danger in what he had just done? That was the question that Anomus faced.


    At first glance, having created a new entrance to the Tomb did him nothing but good. More mana meant more power, more strength. In fact, creating more entrances would in theory at least bring him even greater power.


    As soon as Anomus gave serious consideration to that thought, he was gripped by what could only be described as panic, as if he had seriously contemplated thrusting his hand into a fire, or the mouth of a lion. Even as a portion of his intellect rebelled at the thought, another, cooler part found the reaction fascinating.


    Whatever these strange, base instincts I have been married to are, they most emphatically do not want me to be more open to the outside world than is necessary.


    He only partially understood why. True, no living organism wished to have more openings in its physical self to the outside environment than was necessary and natural. They would be considered wounds, after all. But why should that be the case for him? Beneficial mana became more available to him with additional entrances, after all. To extend his bizarre metaphor, it was as if he had given himself a second mouth with which to feed.


    Eventually he arrived at a vague conclusion that he was not wholly satisfied with. For whatever reason, the outside world presented danger to him, and that danger multiplied with the number of entry points into his physical self.


    What that danger might be, he simply did not have enough knowledge to determine.


    Whatever the case, he had already determined to balance his drive with caution after his near-fatal clash with Mordun¡¯s seal, so he decided to create no more entrances without cause, until he understood the matter further.


    The simoom raged for hours, blowing sand and more powerfully charged mana in through the new entrance. Anomus seized on the opportunity while he could, and was able to complete the relocation of a portion of the workers¡¯ bones, and store a not-inconsiderable amount of mana in the black stone before dawn.


    Two thousand, eight hundred and nine skeletons. That was the total number. A little more than a quarter of the workforce that had built the Tomb. He moved dozens into their niches, but it would be the work of many nights to complete the task. He carved out the niches five high on each wall, but still he would have to expand the catacombs before he was done. Logic told him to leave the bones interred in the stone, to husband his strength, to spend it solely on the approaching confrontation with Irobus, but he stubbornly refused to do so. He would give the workers dignity in death. It might be an empty gesture, but to Anomus it was as much a refutation of Irobus¡¯s evil as anything else he might accomplish.


    Irobus had had thousands of men dumped into the undertomb, like refuse. He¡¯d said they were to serve as slaves to Anomus in the afterlife, but Anomus knew that was a lie. It was a display of Irobus¡¯s naked power. Life could be ¨C was ¨C taken on a horrendous scale, at his merest whim.


    Anomus would spend the power necessary to thwart Irobus, to return to the murdered thousands the barest modicum of human dignity. The cost be damned; it was as important to him as anything else he could do. But he could not do it all at once, and there was much else he meant to accomplish besides.


    When he went down into his day-slumber, the simoom still raged. It suited his mood.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Ten

    The desert was very, very angry.


    A sandstorm usually howled for less than a day, often much less. But this storm snarled on and on, through the end of one day, and across an entire night, and then into the beginning of another day.


    Krrsh, buried in the hard earth on the leeward side of the stone, waited for the storm to end. What other choice did he have? Krrsh was strong, and fierce. Krrsh was clever. But Krrsh was also learning patience. Learning was hard, though, even for one as clever as he.


    If he had been more patient, perhaps he would not have been cast out. Slowly, as he waited out the storm¡¯s fierce breath, he began to understand that it did not matter if he was right about splitting the pack. Being clever and right had led to Ngrum pissing all over him. Now the pack would eat, and its numbers would grow. And another day, the food would be gone, and the pack would suffer. Some would die from hunger. Then Ngrum would be forced to lead them to a place of humans in search of food. Lesser carrion would not sustain so many. And then more would die. Perhaps all. And then there would be no more Ironclaws.


    All because Krrsh had been clever and right, but not patient. Because Ngrum was cunning, but stupid.


    The place of the dead held much food. But it was so close to the river. It was¡­ exposed. Open. Ghouls were stealthy, creatures of the night. But Men were clever. They saw much and noticed small things. Ngrum would not make the pack hide their spoor, not well enough. He was stupid, and lazy.


    All the Ironclaws could smell that the place of death had been a Place of Men, many Men, for a long time. And where Men lived, they would almost certainly return to, sooner or later. Krrsh knew this.


    Ngrum, maybe he knew. He was old enough; he should know. If so, the older ghoul chose to forget when faced with so much food.


    Krrsh did not know how long it would take for Men to realize the presence of ghouls. This place was far from the living places of Men. But the river carried Men up and down. And Men had sharp eyes in the day.


    Krrsh would have had the Ironclaws retreat further into the desert, if he had won his challenge. They could always bring meat with them, and return when they needed more. Ngrum would never consider such a ¡®pointless¡¯ task.


    If Krrsh had been more patient, if he had waited for one of Ngrum¡¯s bad decisions to cause disaster for the Ironclaws, he could have taken the survivors and led them. No need to challenge, if none chose to follow Ngrum. No need to force the pack to split, if some chose to follow Krrsh and others to stay with Ngrum.


    Krrsh should have waited, and let what he was sure would happen, happen. And then he could have taken what was left, and started again.


    But.


    Now Krrsh was outcast. And strong, fierce, clever would not save him. Ghouls were pack creatures. They kept each other safe. One claw on its own could do nothing. And the desert was not kind.


    An outcast ghoul would not live long.


    Already hunger had begun to gnaw at his belly. He could survive for a month or so without eating, it was true, but the curse of his people was their terrible hunger. Slowly, it would drive him mad, rob him of his cleverness. This he knew. When he was fed, he could think. But when the hunger began in earnest, Krrsh would soon be little different than any other desert predator, acting only as his instincts told him. Krrsh, once of the Ironclaw pack, would disappear, and in his place would be an animal.


    Krrsh was fierce and strong. But Krrsh feared hunger, and the descent into mindlessness that it brought. It felt¡­ it felt like dying, but not. Not his body, but his¡­ self. Not what he was, but who he was.


    No claw of iron could fight hunger. Only cleverness had a chance against it. Maybe that was why hunger attacked thinking first, and then stole strength. Krrsh did not know. He only knew that ghouls had two natural enemies ¨C Men, and hunger.


    Men had shining iron, swords, sharper than claws, and some wore Iron skin, tougher than any ghoul hide. Men had flying iron, arrows, faster than any ghoul. Men had magic. And while Men were not as strong as ghouls in their bodies, Men had numbers. So many numbers. They were a bad enemy.


    Hunger was more terrible than Men. You could not hide from it, or run from it, or fight it.


    He had a few more days before hunger began to steal his thoughts. A few days to find a new food source. The place of death across the river was closed to him, now. If he swam back across the river, the pack would beat him, claw him, perhaps kill him if he returned to feed there.


    He had found the magic hole at the top of the cliffs by following his nose. Somewhere beneath the stone was food- much food. He had found the hole where the scent came from¡­ a strange thing the likes of which he had never seen. A sandless place on the desert floor, reflecting the stars like the clearest, stillest water, but hard, like stone. And, as he had discovered when he tried to touch it, magical. It had thrown him away like he was a pup. He still felt a twinging ache in his claw.


    Two places with more food than he had ever dreamed of. Two places that he could not get at.


    While Krrsh lay in his burrow, first to wait out the storm, and then to wait for the hated day to fade, he debated. Go into the desert, or try to find another way in to the food he smelled? If he wasted too much time searching, he might lose the chance to find sustenance in the desert before the change took him. And if the change took him, alone, he knew that he would likely die without the pack to work with. But the desert was harsh, and offered little even for the cleverest of ghouls.


    By the time night returned, Krrsh had decided to try for one more night to find another way to get at the food he smelled inside the cliff. If he failed, he would lope out into the desert, and try to survive on lesser carrion until he found another source of meat. He began to dig his way out of the storm burrow.


    Before he had even climbed out of the burrow, his snout was already twitching. Food. It made his stomach cramp, and he began to salivate. Where? Not from the magical, hard water pool. No. The scent came from some place further from the cliffs, from the river. And it was a wetter smell. It did not come from meat dried hard from the punishing sun¡­ it would be rich with maggots and rot.


    The flesh of Men had no equal, in terms of the carrion that was a ghoul¡¯s diet. Any flesh, in any state. But some smelled and tasted better than others, to a ghoul¡¯s senses. And old flesh that was not desiccated by the harsh environment was very much a delicacy, one that Krrsh had only ever tasted once before, when he had discovered a corpse on the bank of the river, a Man killed by a river horse and not yet discovered by crocodiles.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    He loped back towards the river from the deeper desert, following his nose.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus was taking his first steps in refashioning his wasps, much as he had done to the flies, when he sensed a living thing entering the Tomb¡¯s new opening. Instantly he shifted his awareness there. He knew elation when he saw that one of the ghouls had indeed discovered the way into the Tomb. Anomus studied the creature, fascinated.


    It ¨C or rather he, as Anomus saw, since the creature wore not even a loincloth ¨C stood perhaps five feet tall. It was difficult to say just how tall the ghoul was, since its natural posture was something of a crouch. It had a rather pronounced jackal-like face, as he had already seen, but its torso and upper body were humanoid, differing little from the human form except for the fur and claws. The ghoul¡¯s legs were rather more like a dog¡¯s, however, with the telltale stifle and hock rather than a human hip and knee, and the legs ended in paws rather than a foot.


    As the ghoul slowly, cautiously made its way through the tunnel towards the undertomb, Anomus did¡­ nothing.


    He had already decided that the wisest course of action would be to wait and see what the creature would do, to observe. Of course, he could have tried to claim the ghoul, as he had already done with insects. But reason told him it would be a foolish risk to attempt to dominate a creature that was orders of magnitude more complex than flies and wasps, that might even be, in some limited way, intelligent. Anomus was driven, but he was not a fool.


    He would observe the thing, watch its behavior. And when he better understood its nature, then and only then would he determine how best to approach it, and what use, if any, he could put it to.


    He did debate whether he wished to trap the creature, once it entered. He was of two minds on the matter. If he trapped the creature down in the undertomb, he could study it at his leisure. It would be a simple enough matter. He merely needed to close off the entrance to the tunnel he had created. To keep the new source of mana flowing, simply making a new entrance in a place the thing could not reach would suffice. Or he could create bars of stone, or even iron ¨C though he had not created any iron, he sensed that he could, since he had claimed the iron catch in the secret door all those days ago. He did not know if the ghoul¡¯s fierce-looking claws would be able to cut through such obstructions, or if so, how long it might take. Part of him was curious to know.


    But the portion of him that was still at least nominally Anomus ip Garma rejected such thoughts.


    He had been trapped down in the dark. It was a cruel, terrifying experience, and one he would not inflict upon any save an enemy. And the ghoul was not his enemy. Or his slave.


    It was a hungry creature that he had lured. If it was not intelligent, then he would claim it as he had the flies and wasps, and even the other creatures, up in the funerary gardens. If it was intelligent ¨C if it could think, then he had deeper considerations to contend with. Considerations that would say as much about himself as the ghoul.


    Anomus wanted only to work retribution upon his murder. He viewed himself, for all his bizarre condition, as a living weapon. One that sought to end the life of an emperor; nothing more and nothing less. Well, he was both more and less, but that was unimportant. He had a simple, if difficult purpose that drove his actions and predicated his existence. He most emphatically did not want to wrestle with questions of morality or conscience.


    All things considered, it would be simplest if the ghoul was not intelligent.


    So. Anomus merely observed. He discovered he could do so and continue to alter the wasps without a deficit in his attention. In some ways he was far more capable than a mortal man.


    The ghoul was a cautious creature. It advanced down the tunnel slowly, stopping often to listen and to sniff. When it finally reached the undertomb, it did not immediately begin to devour the putrid meat that lay before it, a virtually endless feast. Instead, it squatted down there in the tunnel¡¯s mouth and surveyed the room, silent and still. Flies buzzed about the creature, but it did not so much as brush them away when they landed on one of its many open wounds. In fact, the only observable thing the ghoul did as it sat there was to narrow its eyes, which Anomus saw were slit-pupiled, like a cat¡¯s. Anomus thought the expression looked like the ghoul was confused. Or perhaps suspicious.


    Eventually, carefully and slowly, it backed away from the undertomb. It did not turn its back to the chamber until it was well up the tunnel, but when it ¨C when he did, he did not run. He simply moved silently to the exit and disappeared into the desert night. Curious, Anomus sent a half dozen of his enhanced flies up the tunnel. He wondered what the ghoul would do next.


    The creature was obviously intelligent, at least to an extent. When presented with so much sustenance, it had merely observed, and then withdrawn. No creature driven by its instincts would have done so, Anomus thought. True, the ghoul might not have been hungry, and wild creatures often displayed caution in unfamiliar situations. But Anomus thought it was more than that. He did not know what, but something had made the ghoul suspicious.


    With a mental shrug, Anomus returned his full attention to the wasps. His flies would give him at least a partial picture of what the ghoul did next, and he had faith that the creature would return. Every story about ghouls made mention of their prodigious hunger; how they could eat an entire corpse in a few hours, bones and all. Even accounting for exaggeration in such tales, he believed the ghoul would return. Perhaps it would bring more of its kind.


    For the remainder of the night, Anomus worked on enlarging his wasps and making their venom more deadly. Enlarging them was simple; he had learned much from the flies. But the poison the wasp made was another matter. He did not know enough about the composition of venoms to know how to strengthen them. He would need living creatures for the wasps to sting ¨C experiments ¨C in order to test the efficacy of his alterations.


    As the night ended, Anomus decided that he would breed the jeweled geckos from the funerary garden for the purpose. He did not want to wreck the delicate ecology that he¡¯d spent so long establishing there. In order to preserve it, he would need to proceed cautiously.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh exited cautiously out of the tunnel, thought crowding on thought. So many thoughts! They were like cubs, wrestling and tripping over each other. When he was safely out of the tunnel and on desert sand once more, he put his hands to his head and squeezed.


    Food. The thought was the strongest. So much food. It stretched away into the dark, farther than even his keen eyes could see. He did not need much light to see, but the cave was big, very big.


    Not cave. That was another thought. No cave was¡­ square. Flat walls. That was a thing of Men, and so the not-cave was a thing of Men, and that meant danger. This was also a strong thought. But he had smelled no Men, saw no movement but for flies. Big flies, but just flies.


    But he had smelled something, something more than food. Something not natural. Another thing that made him wary. He had no words for what he had smelled ¨C more than smelled. Felt. He did not have words, and that made him feel frustrated. Krrsh was clever, but not clever enough to explain, even to himself, what it was he had sensed.


    But the thought that kept coming back and pushing all the other thoughts away was very simple and very confusing.


    So much food. But no bones.


    No bones at all. Krrsh had smelled no marrow, saw not a single bone. Not so much as a tooth. And that was something beyond his experience, and beyond his fathoming.


    What kind of creature could take bones and leave flesh? What kind of creature could do so to so many bodies?


    Krrsh did not know. Krrsh was afraid to find out.


    Krrsh feared it might do the same to him.


    He beat at the sides of his head with the heels of his hands.


    He was afraid to leave the tunnel and enter the place of no bones. But he was hungry, and getting hungrier. Krrsh growled in frustration. He needed something. Something to reach the food, not his arm. His arm with bones that might be taken.


    His kind did not use tools. That was a thing of Men. Some ghouls believed only men could use tools, but most never even thought that far. Krrsh himself had never had cause to think of using something other than his claws until now.


    He growled again, and loped out into the desert. Moving helped him to think. And he needed food, even if it were only lesser carrion.


    By the time the sun returned to the desert, Krrsh had found a single, desiccated lizard ¨C and an idea.


    He dug into the sands of the deeper desert, and thought about what he had to do the next night.


    It would be dangerous. He might die. But Krrsh was clever and fierce.


    His kind did not have the word, but by the standards of ghouls, Krrsh once of the Ironclaw pack, Krrsh the Outcast, would be considered a genius. The next night would prove it.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Eleven

    His flies showed him, in disjointed fashion, that the ghoul had briefly clutched and beaten at its own head, then run off into the deeper desert. That was it.


    Perhaps it ¨C he - was insane. Anomus had no clue how the creature thought or why it acted the way it did, and after a moment, he decided to waste no more time pondering the mystery. Either the ghoul would return, or it would not. But he believed it would.


    He turned his attention to the jeweled geckos. He wanted to breed a large quantity of the little creatures, with which to test the wasp venom. But he was mindful of upsetting the delicate balance of life in the garden. Perhaps he should not have cared, but he did, and merely accepted the fact.


    There was a total of seven geckos in the garden. With the various species of harmless, ornamental insects he had introduced there, they had enough prey to survive. More would cause problems, but over the many months he had labored to make the garden self-sustaining, he had observed that the geckos regulated their own numbers brutally, but efficiently. Small they might be, but they were fierce. They fought each other when food became to scarce, and those battles would leave the participants with missing limbs, or tails, or dead. And then the corpse of the insects¡¯ predator would become a feast for them.


    Such was the nature of nature.


    To Anomus¡¯s delight, one of the three females was gravid, and ready to lay a clutch of three eggs. He called the tiny creature down to the undertomb and carved out a little space for her to lay her clutch part-way down the stairs.


    Anomus was not as intimately familiar with the lizard¡¯s body as he was with insects. He immediately set about rectifying that deficiency. He deep study of flies and spiders proved to be a boon, and he quickly made himself as knowledgeable about reptiles as he was of insects.


    The internal architecture of the gecko¡¯s body was quite different, of course, having an internal skeleton rather than an exoskeleton. There were a thousand other differences, large and small, but deep down, on the level of the double helix, all was written, and he began to fathom even more of that secret script when he compared it to what he had learned from the fly and the wasp. Part of him ¨C the part that was not consumed with the thirst for retribution, was struck with fascination at the wonder and complexities of life.


    He was an architect, and an engineer, after all. How could he not be taken with the secrets of the construction of life itself? If his situation had been different, he might have spent an age learning, experimenting, building life in new and never before seen configurations.


    But always the flame of his purpose brought him back from such fancies. His rage. His thirst for retribution. For a time, he could float above it, as it were; when he was focused on a task he had set himself, when he was contemplating how best to use his limited resources. For a time. But the rage was a burning brand in whatever it was that was him. It would only be quenched with Irobus¡¯s death, or his own annihilation.


    He would delve into the secrets of life, but the motivation for doing so was death. He might forget for a minute or an hour, lost in discovery, but always his grim purpose and speeding time drew him back.


    The geckos, tiny and beautiful, were a means to test venom. He learned the secrets of their anatomy and their reproductive cycle to that end, so that he could breed more, and faster. Their beauty, external and internal, was unimportant.


    But Anomus still felt relief when a sand scorpion found its way into the tunnel. He claimed it at once. Far deadlier than the common brown scorpion, it meant that he could study it and increase the potency of his wasps without having to sacrifice the geckos to experiment.


    He told himself that he had avoided wasting one of his resources. He told himself that the geckos, with their ability to scale walls and ceilings silently, would make excellent spies, and if he could envenom their bite, excellent assassins.


    He told himself these things. And they were true.


    But it was also true that he did not wish to see them die. Not just so he could learn to create a deadlier toxin.


    The gecko mother laid her eggs, and then settled into her niche to incubate them. Flies were an abundant source of food. Not the larger, enhanced ones of course. They were far too large. But there were thousands of mundane flies for her to eat. Anomus tinkered with the embryos in the eggs ¨C two male and one female ¨C to make them larger, slightly more intelligent, and faster to mature and reproduce. And then he turned his intellect to the newest addition to the Tomb.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh needed something to reach beyond his reach. Like an arm. But not an arm. Something he could hold in his hand, something long. To reach the meat in the place with no bones. It was a hard thing to think on.


    Ghouls did not use tools. Ghoul pups would sometimes play with rocks, bash each other with them or bash a bone to get to the marrow before their claws hardened. But adult ghouls? No. Ghouls had claws. Everything a ghoul needed to do could be done with claws. If claws could not do it, then it was not a thing for ghouls to do.


    If Krrsh had still been an Ironclaw, maybe he would not have thought of a longer arm. But Krrsh was clever, and now he was an Outcast, and it made a difference.


    It made all the difference.


    There was no pack to help him, and no pack to heap scorn on him for doing something not-ghoul. There was only Krrsh. He would not scorn himself, and he must help himself.


    He stood and shook off the sand of his day-burrow as the sun bled away at the edge of the desert, and loped towards the river. The desert offered only sand and rocks. The river had its reeds, which were long enough, but not strong enough to do what he wanted. Bu the place of death had many things that he could use. He had seen them. They littered the sand. Things of wood and iron, small and large. Men things. Krrsh did not know what the men had used them for, but he knew what he would use one for. To reach into the place of no bones, and snag meat.


    He only hoped he would not die getting a thing of wood an iron. Krrsh smiled to himself, and barked a short laugh. His mind had come up with a very ghoulish jest - the possibility that he might die at the claws of the pack, trying to get something that would help him not die in the place with no bones. Ghouls did not have a word for irony, but what little sense of humor they possessed was based on it. That, and death.


    Krrsh was clever. He knew that the pack, lazy though they might be, would still be alert for intruders. Their sight would be keen, their hearing keener, and their sense of smell keenest of all. He would have to use all the stealth he possessed if he wished to survive his raid on the place of death. But one thing he had in his favor ¨C Ngrum and the others would expect him to try and steal meat. Not a wood and iron Man thing.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Krrsh travelled far upstream before crossing the river, far enough that he knew none of the pack would see or hear him cross the river. He travelled upstream to do it because tonight, upstream was also downwind from the camp. So the Ironclaws would not see him or hear him, or smell him. And Krrsh travelled far because he was looking for something. Something dangerous. A place where the river horses slept.


    Krrsh was clever, yes. Perhaps clever enough to survive the night. Mother Moon would watch, and by dawn She would know if Krrsh was truly clever, or if he only thought he was.


    Ghouls knew stealth, yes. Even the stupidest could move like a shadow. Every scavenger had some ability to skulk, after all. But rarely did ghouls think tactically. Their method for approaching dangerous situations amounted to sneak, take, don¡¯t get caught, run away. When defending themselves or their territory, they fought as a mob. They were pack creatures, but Krrsh had observed other pack creatures that acted with more coordination ¨C jackals, desert wolves. He had watched how they approached larger predators, stole their kills, some individuals rushing in to snap and snarl while others made off with meat. He admired such cunning. If he had been pack leader, he would have taught the Ironclaws to do the same.


    Ngrum had no interest in such things. He saw no point in watching jackals. Their only worth was in death as lesser carrion, after all. Krrsh growled silently at the memory of Ngrum belittling him for watching jackals instead of searching for food.


    ¡°Not dead. Watch for what? After dead, watch for what?¡± That was the beginning and end of Ngrum¡¯s reasoning.


    Krrsh would show them this night for what.


    With all the stealth he had, Krrsh approached the place of the dead on his belly, slowly and silently. Ngrum, however stupid, had taught him patience.


    Even Ngrum was not so stupid as to post no watchers. He expected Krrsh to make a raid, or if not Krrsh, the desert had many other dangers. But he was stupid enough to post the least useful member of the pack ¨C old Wrna, nearly toothless and lame of arm, his eyesight not so strong. He was a bad watcher. Krrsh silently shook his head. He understood Ngrum¡¯s reasoning. Wrna contributed little, and so if he died, the pack would suffer little. His death howl would still alert the pack. But Krrsh knew the reasoning was wrong. Wrna knew many things, many dangers of the desert. When Wrna died, the pack would be more stupid still. Why let him die faster?


    Krrsh moved slow, slow as the brown beetle, and his fur blended in with the moonlit sand. Wrna was little more than a silhouette in the distance, and saw nothing.


    Ahead, between Wrna and the river, the place of death.


    Many Men had lived there, not so long ago. Their smell still lingered, and many Man things were still scattered around the wide stretch of desert across the river from the cliff. There had been many Man burrows of cloth and wood; someone had put them all in a great pile and burned them, but enough remained to tell what they had been. Men had killed other Men there in great numbers; the smell of blood lingered still, but was growing faint. Then, a great pit had been dug, and the bodies had been thrown in, and covered over. Krrsh had never seen in all his life so many bodies, so much food. None of the Ironclaws had.


    They were good trackers ¨C they knew more dead had been taken into the Man place in the cliffs. But it did not matter much to the ghouls, not when so much food lay in the desert sands for the taking. The Man place in the cliffs was also a place for the dead, yes, and sometimes ghouls would take such a place for a burrow if it was old enough, and far enough away from living Men. But none of the ghouls had approached the place as far as Krrsh knew.


    The Ironclaws were scattered all around the place of death. Many were dozing, bellies bloated with food. Some were grooming themselves, or others. Krrsh saw one ghoul, Grik, trying to mate with another, Chrrk. She scored his nose with her claws. No one wanted to mate with Grik, male or female. Too many lice.


    And there was Ngrum. He squatted at the edge of the partially cleared pit, idly gnawing on a foot that still wore a sandal. He was looking at the cliffs.


    Krrsh turned his eyes away from Ngrum, suppressing a growl, and searched the desert floor for what he had come to take. A Man thing.


    He saw it lying in the sand. Well, he saw many of them lying in the sand, with many different shapes and sizes. But the one he wanted, the one he remembered, it was almost exactly where he remembered seeing it days before. A long piece of wood, almost as long as his arm. And on one end, at right angles, a long claw of iron. It was a pickaxe, though Krrsh did not know the word, or its intended function. He only knew it would allow him to reach into the place of no bones without risking himself.


    He thought about how close he could sneak to it before being spotted. Then he thought about how fast he could run to get the Man claw, and if it would be fast enough. He looked at where the Ironclaws were, and decided he could not get what he wanted before at least two of his former pack would be on him, biting and clawing.


    He thought about jackals, and how they would distract much larger foes to get what they wanted.


    Krrsh was clever, oh yes. He picked up a stone. He threw it towards Wrna, as hard as he could. He had no skill in throwing ¨C what ghoul did? He only wanted Wrna to hear a clattering or a thump in the desert near him, and yelp in surprise. He hoped it would draw some of the pack to Wrna.


    Krrsh bared his teeth in delight when the flying stone smacked Wrna in the back of the head, and the old ghoul let out a startled howl of sudden surprise.


    Krrsh was clever. And tonight, under Mother Moon, Krrsh was lucky. So far.


    Ironclaws sprang up at Wrna¡¯s alarm. Many rushed to him. Enough, Krrsh decided. He waited a few moments, until he thought all were far enough away, and then burst up from the desert floor and sprinted for the Man tool.


    At first, for a few precious heartbeats, none noticed him. But as he neared his prize, He heard Ngrum¡¯s unmistakable howl ¨C intruder!


    Krrsh did not bother to look around. The time for looking was done. He had eyes only for the Man tool. Only when he grabbed it and clutched it to his chest did he seen Ngrum bearing down on him, and in the corner of his eye, the other Ironclaws rushing back from Wrna¡¯s position.


    Krrsh gave a short bark of triumph ¨C but he did not stop to do so. He was running back the way he had come as fast as he could, his heart beating madly in his chest.


    Krrsh was strong and fierce and clever. Krrsh was fast, as well ¨C but he was not the fastest of the Ironclaws, and he was weighed down by his prize. Even as he sprinted across the sand to the place he had crossed the river, several other ghouls slowly but inexorably began to narrow the distance.


    Krrsh searched the riverbank with increasingly desperate eyes, looking for the place near where he had crossed. He had deliberately bent a reed to mark the spot, but he didn¡¯t see it. He didn¡¯t see it anywhere, and now the Ironclaws were nearly upon him. He didn¡¯t turn back to see how close, but all his other senses told him they were very close, too close. Where was the bent reed?


    A ghoul lunged at his back, and claws scored his flesh. Krrsh grunted and found a tiny burst of speed somewhere in his body, born of desperation. Where was the bent reed? Where-


    There.


    Krrsh flung himself into the stand of river reeds, the pack hot on his heels.


    This was where the river horses slept. True monsters of the river, five or six times larger than any ghoul or man. They ate plants, they were not predators. But they were easy to anger, and they were deadly.


    Krrsh burst through the screen of reeds that hid their sleeping place and leapt onto the back of one. It looked like a rounded black boulder sticking out of the river. There were half a dozen other boulders surrounding it.


    Krrsh leapt onto the river horse¡¯s back, howling, and raked the back with the claws of one hand. And then he flung himself into the current, towards the river¡¯s far bank.


    Behind him all was chaos. Bellowing, and thrashing from the river behemoths, howls of surprise and fear and agony from the Ironclaws. Krrsh did not stop to watch ¨C the river was always dangerous, but just now it was deadly. Safety was ahead. He swam as hard as he could, hampered by his prize.


    Finally, he reached the shore. Only then did he allow himself to look back. He saw nothing except the river horses bellowing and stomping amongst the reeds. The ghouls, whoever had survived, had already retreated.


    All except for one.


    Krrsh almost missed Ngrum, where he crouched amongst the reeds a little distance away from the ambush. But ghoul eyes were keen. Ngrum hid in the reeds. He was not looking at the river horses. He was looking at Krrsh. And his eyes were filled with hate.


    Krrsh raised the Man tool and gave a bark of contempt. And then he loped away into the desert ¨C but away from the cliffs.


    Ghouls were excellent trackers.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twelve

    Anomus was happy.


    Well, happy wasn¡¯t quite the word. He doubted he would ever feel true happiness as he had as a mortal man. But he definitely felt a sense of satisfaction, of a job well done. He had discovered a new ability, one that could give him an edge in the coming conflict.


    He¡¯d had little trouble increasing the potency of the wasps¡¯ sting once he¡¯d gained a scorpion to study. That was satisfying in itself, but it was a small accomplishment, really. And he knew that the alterations he¡¯d made would breed true, which was also good, but not terribly exciting ¨C he would only have a few generations bred before Irobus was due to arrive, even with their accelerated procreation. They were a good arrow in his quiver, but hardly the decisive weapon he sought.


    The geckos were also an advancement. He had indeed been able to alter them so that their bite was venomous. Another arrow in his quiver. But still, they were wasps and lizards. Fierce, utterly under his control, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But small, and fragile. In short, not enough.


    Not an army.


    And so he had turned his attention and his intellect to one of the few other resourced he had at his disposal.


    The skeletons.


    Yes, they deserved their rest. The only cause he felt acceptable to disturb it was to bring down their killer. It was acceptable for that purpose, if no other. Irobus had made them Anomus¡¯s slaves in death, but Anomus still rejected that state of affairs. He needed no slaves, no servants. But he did need soldiers.


    And the skeletons? They deserved respect in death, but they also deserved justice. Who would give it to them? Only him, if he could. And he had a better chance of doing so if he could command the skeletons to march and fight at his order. So he set his considerable intellect to the problem of how to animate them, how to make them into warriors. In the process, he discovered new abilities and limitations, ones he never would have thought of had he simply left the bones to their rest.


    He had become quite proficient in shaping stone, and doing so efficiently with a minimal expenditure of his mana. It was how he had shifted the skeletons to their niches ¨C was still in the process of doing so, in fact. He did not move the bones themselves, but the stone around them, pushing them where they needed to go. For the first time, he tried to move a bone directly.


    He chose the smallest digit on the hand of one of the skeletons already housed in its niche, and attempted by force of will and a liberal application of mana to get it to shift, even slightly.


    He spent a shocking and unacceptable portion of his strength on the effort. His reward was the slightest of tremblings, small enough to be unnoticeable to mortal eyes, though not Anomus¡¯s senses. It was an unacceptable outcome, in terms of what it cost him. But it taught him something. It was possible to move physical objects via magic alone.


    In one sense he had already known it ¨C he had caused the secret door to unlatch, after all. But that was different. It was part of the mechanism of the Tomb, and he had only commanded it to do what it had been made to do. It was, in some bizarre way, a natural function of his Tomb-body. Making a single bone shiver? No. that was different.


    But it would take far more mana than he could gather even in a month to, say, hurl a weapon through the air. There might be other applications, but he could not simply will a skeleton to assemble and march on his order. The cost in energy would be horrendous, far beyond his means.


    Anomus needed something else. Some other means to give the skeletons locomotion.


    First, he considered somehow grafting living tissue onto them. He had much dead flesh, though it was more a soup at this point. He had a good grasp of how the human body was put together, but he did not know how to create whole flesh, or if it were even possible. He had no idea where to begin.


    There were the insects and salamanders ¨C he supposed that, given time, he might figure out a way to ¡®grow¡¯ tissue based on them, and then devise a way to ¡®graft¡¯ it onto a skeleton. But might was not good enough, not with the days slipping away. He might labor over the project until the day Irobus returned, and have nothing to show for it. Quickly he discarded the idea as immediately impractical, and likely impossible even without a time constraint.


    He made a mental list of what was available to him, what he had claimed, what he might possibly marry with the skeletons to get them ambulatory. Stone? No. Insects and lizards? No and no. Iron? Again, no, though he might be able to fashion weapons for them. Badly decomposing flesh? Despite the natural connection, it was unworkable. He did not know how to regenerate muscle and tendon, nor how to re-attach it.


    There were mosses and other plants in the funerary garden. Perhaps he could coax the roots to grow in such a way as to re-connect bones ¨C


    That was the moment Anomus knew what he would do. He wasn¡¯t certain it would work, but the though excited him.


    He would use roots. But not the roots of plants.


    The spirit tendrils that now connected all of his demesne to the mana stone. That was what he would use to assemble and animate the skeletons. If he could coax them to do so.


    He set to work.


    Come the dawn, Anomus knew happiness. Of a sort. No mortal eye could see what he had done; the spirit tendrils were invisible to the naked eye, of course. But Anomus could see. More, he could direct the tendrils, and their growth and movement. At first crudely, but with effort and concentration with greater and finer control.


    It helped that he understood how the human frame hung together, how sinew and muscle acted in concert to move the bones beneath. He labored through the night, and a short time before the sun rose, Anomus had his proof that what he wanted to do could be done.


    He had assembled all the bones of a foot. And then, and then, he had caused the foot to wiggle its toes.


    Yes, just toes. Yes, slowly and by any objective standard, clumsily. But Anomus didn¡¯t see wiggling, slow, clumsy toe bones. He saw a marching host of animated skeletons, ready to slaughter an emperor.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh ran through the night. He ran away from the place of no bones. Krrsh did not want to run so far from the place of no bones. If he did what he wanted, he would have gone there immediately after stealing the Man tool. But Krrsh was clever. Too clever to make such a mistake. He had seen Ngrum after the water horse attack, seen the hate on his face. Krrsh knew that Ngrum would send Ironclaws after him, to track him, to kill him. And so Krrsh led those who would follow deeper into the Great Desert, and further away from the place of no bones. The place of so much food. The only place he could defeat the hunger that was growing ever sharper-toothed in his belly.


    Krrsh peeled back his black lips and smiled as he ran, holding his Man tool in both hands. Another ghoul joke. To stop his hunger, he must run away from food. It was a good joke. If you were a ghoul, at least.


    Krrsh knew that if he ran far enough and long enough, the Ironclaws would eventually give up the chase. His kind were single-minded about one thing only ¨C food. True, if they caught him, they would kill him and then he would be food. But with every day, every hour they didn¡¯t catch him, and with every step they took away from the place of death and all its food, the less they would care whether they sank their claws and fangs into him. He knew his kind. Eventually they would give up.


    But Krrsh was not content to run night after night until that happened. He was hungry, and getting hungrier. And he wanted to use the Man tool, to do what his mind told him he could, and what no other ghoul would. So he ran to the one place within reach that he thought he might be able to shake any pursuit.


    It was old Wrna who had told him about it, long before. A place in the desert higher than the rest, all stone, little sand. Like a mountain, but flat. And big. Very big.


    Krrsh would leave no tracks there. His pursuers would have nothing to follow but his scent, and with a little luck, that would not be enough.


    He reached the flat stone place an hour before the dawn. It loomed above him in the night, blocking out the stars. It would be the work of a few minutes to climb to the top, but then¡­.


    Krrsh realized he had to make a decision. He could ascend to the flat place, but then the sun might catch him before he crossed it. Wrna had said there was no place to make a burrow there. Ghouls could tunnel through stone with their claws, given time, but even clawing through a stone sarcophagus to get to meat was the work of many claws over many nights. Krrsh would not be able to dig a burrow, no. And ghouls feared and hated the sun, the day. It blinded them, it hurt them.


    But it did not kill them. Probably, it did not kill them.


    The Ironclaws who trailed him would not follow during the day. If he could cross the place of stone while they burrowed, waiting out the day ¨C then he would leave no footprints to track, and his scent would have disappeared by the time they rose from the sands to take up the hunt once more.


    All he had to do was run through the last of the night and into the day, under the hateful gaze of the Burning Eye.


    Krrsh was strong, and fierce, and clever. But Krrsh was also afraid.


    Ghouls were creatures of night. They did not come out in the day, for good reason. Never.


    Krrsh squeezed the wooden handle of the tool of Men, agitated and unsure. He looked down at his prize. And decided.


    ¡°I am ghoul. What I do, anything I do, is ghoul thing. Yes.¡±


    He climbed the scree-littered slope and began to lope across the plateau. He ran into the dawn. And then he ran beyond it, snarling and stumbling, eyes stinging and watering, exposed, sensitive areas of flesh burning.


    ~ ~ ~


    One skeleton. To any mortal eye, it would seem as if the bones hung together by magic. Certainly, there was nothing visible connecting them to each other. To a mortal eye.


    What Anomus saw was an elegant network of spirit tendrils that mimicked all the functions of a living body¡¯s muscles, sinews, tendons. He could manipulate the skeleton via his will to make any movement or gesture that a living body could. Almost any. He could make the skeleton walk, crouch, stand, sit, even jump. He could make it bend over, and make any number of gestures. It could even pick up fine objects as small as a pebble. It was a marvel.


    It was also a failure.


    For all that he could make the skeleton do virtually any physical thing a living person could, it was slow. Painfully slow. Ridiculously slow. Uselessly slow. If he used it as a soldier to attack an enemy, that enemy could escape at a moderately fast walk., no, a pace barely faster than a stroll. Not that any trained warrior would feel the need to flee his skeleton. There was no way anyone with a modicum of sense could be struck by the skeleton unless they were paralyzed, and the skeleton could not hit anything with enough force to even bruise flesh.


    Anomus knew exactly what the problem was, but he had no way to rectify it. He had been able to detach tendrils from the greater root system and create the separate, smaller system that powered the skeleton¡¯s movement. It was the only way he could make the skeleton ambulatory. If he hadn¡¯t done that, the skeleton would have been a puppet rooted to one particular spot. But in separating the skeleton and its spirit tendrils from the mana stone, he had also severed it from its power source. All that was left to power it was the ambient mana in the Tomb. The skeleton¡¯s tendrils were only able to absorb a miniscule amount of mana from the air, and they had no way to store any excess. That made the skeleton painfully slow, and useless during the day to boot.


    If Anomus wanted skeleton warriors, he would have to find a way to create or reproduce mana stones. He saw no other way forward, and he had no means of creating the necessary component.


    He returned his attention to the black mana stone that his physical crystal rested on. As ever, it was immune to his inhuman senses. He could not sink his consciousness into it, and so he could not claim it. He could ¡®see¡¯ the mana flowing into it via the spirit roots, and he could pull mana from it, both instinctively and deliberately, much the same a man of flesh and bone could regulate his breathing, or turn his attention away from his breath and breathe just the same.


    So. He had some influence over the mana that went in, and the mana that came out. That was all.


    Anomus saw only one point in the system that might allow him access to the stone. His studies in engineering led him to think of it as just that, a system. One of mana collection, storage and dispersal, not fundamentally different in concept from the system of canals, storage tanks and sluices that helped to feed the empire.


    In practice, of course, there was a huge difference in that he could not access one part of the system, the mana stone. But every system was made up of its individual components, and each component in the course of things had to be connected to other components.


    If he could not peer into the component that was the mana stone, then he could at least study the connections, and perhaps learn something of value.


    There was no connection between himself, his physical, crystalline self, and the stone. Nor was he connected to it by spirit tendrils. He could direct mana from the stone into an action, as he did when he shaped stone, or when he had caused the secret door to unlatch and the bone to vibrate. He could also use the ambient mana in the Tomb directly. He was not sure what import that had, but it did lead him to wonder if he had any capacity to store mana in his physical self. He set the thought aside for later exploration.


    With nothing to study about the connection between himself and the mana stone, he turned his intellect to the other connection, the one between the tendrils and the stone.


    He had studied it before, where the roots emerged from the bottom of the stone. He had seen nothing but an abrupt transition between the two substances. This time he delved deeper, much deeper, as he had when he discovered the secret code that governed the flies and wasps, and every living thing. He concentrated on the place where spirit matter touched black stone, and he pushed in a way and to a degree that he never had before. His intellect was so taken up with his task that all awareness of the Tomb, of himself, faded away to nothing. Anomus was completely and totally thought and awareness in that moment, and all of him focused on the connection that had defied his understanding. He went searching in the realm of the infinite and the infinitesimal for a sign, a clue, and time and space fell away.


    He found nothing. But something found him.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Thirteen

    Hesia. Beauty of the age. So they had called her. But what was beauty to a slave? It was a thing of value to the master of a slave, but it was not a thing of worth. Property had qualities that made it more or less valuable. Free people had qualities that made them more or less worthy. Hesia had been born as a piece of property, as chattel, not a person. And quite early her master had seen her potential value. As tribute.


    Tribute to an emperor. Trained to sing, to dance, to play half a dozen instruments, and two dozen games of skill and chance. Instructed on the art of pleasuring a man, but kept a virgin.


    When she was old enough, and ready, she was shipped across the Circle Sea from her master¡¯s home in Krassika to the seat of the Suboran empire, to curry favor with its mighty ruler.


    That she had done. Irobus had been taken with her at once. Within weeks she was his most favored plaything, and within months his most treasured possession. After a year, He openly called her his love. Irobus¡¯s other concubines, his pleasure slaves, and his wives - all were forsaken.


    All were furious.


    One exacted a terrible revenge.


    Ten years Hesia had had to think on the events of that night. Something slipped into her drink. Perhaps her food, but probably her drink. It kept her awake, but barely aware. Irobus was away, hunting. She had fallen into a strange swoon, retired to her chambers. Her attendants had left her.


    And then the slave, Fenthus, had slipped into her room.


    She didn¡¯t know who it was at the time. She only remembered yellow-gold hair, so rare in Subori. Later, she realized it was Fenthus. Later, too pointlessly late, after everything was done.


    Fenthus, whose eyes followed her everywhere, hungrily. But it could not have been his plan. He was not intelligent or connected enough. No, it had been one of her rivals. Someone smart enough to orchestrate the scene, and with enough power and cunning to have the emperor return from his hunt early under some pretext, and discover the golden-haired slave pushing himself into the emperor¡¯s beloved concubine, grunting his lust away. She suspected three of the women in the emperor¡¯s orbit. Not that it mattered anymore.


    She remembered Fenthus¡¯s head flying from his body in a spray of blood. She remembered Irobus staring down at her as the body toppled away, the emperor¡¯s frightening amber eyes blazing. She remembered his hands around her throat, squeezing.


    And then nothing. Nothing until she had woken in her glass box, thoroughly paralyzed by the magics of an imperial sorcerer; paralyzed by it and sustained by it. She felt no hunger or thirst. She felt nothing at all.


    Nothing physical, at least. When it came to emotions, she felt everything. In ten years, she had been consumed first by panic, then by rage, then despair and anguish. Then, for a long time, madness. A frightening madness. It had taken her many years to work her way through the thorny maze of insanity, to another place. Not that where she was now, in her mind, was much better. It was not a place of peace. She knew that she might slip back into madness at any time. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to fight it at all. But she did.


    Now, she felt¡­ nothing. Almost nothing. She felt dead inside.


    The only spark left to her was how much she hated Irobus.


    She had never loved him. She had always known he was not wholly human, that he was, in some indefinable way, missing something that most people had. A soul? Perhaps. It had not mattered to her, when she was his favored concubine. A slave¡¯s lot was to serve, and they did not get to choose who.


    But now, yes, she hated him. It was the only emotion left to her. Everything else had been burned away.


    It was a pointless, hopeless hate. There was nothing she could do to harm him. But it was her hate, all that was left to her. And so she nurtured it, and relied upon it to keep her sane, though that too was pointless.


    When Irobus had come to tell her that her Tomb was completed, she had shed a single tear.


    It had not been a tear of sorrow or despair. It had been a tear of rage.


    Her ears heard nothing save his voice ¨C the sorcery that bound her made it so. Her eyes were closed, but she could sense neither the light of day nor its passing into night through her closed lids ¨C but his shadow looming over her? Yes, she could see that. Only that. Locked in her glass sarcophagus, she could feel nothing, but she knew with certainty that if he were to touch her, she would feel his hands as well.


    He had made it so that there was nothing in her world, her total existence but him. That was the will and power of an emperor. That was the will and power of a demon, a monster.


    A thousand-thousand times she had silently prayed to any god or demon who would listen, offering her soul in return for Irobus¡¯s death. None had answered.


    Hesia, beauty of the age, fed the flame of her hate, and spat on hope and despair equally.


    Around her, unknown by her, preparations were underway to move her from the Monument to the Tomb. They were more frenzied than they should have been


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh was not strong. Krrsh was not fierce. Krrsh was not clever.


    Krrsh was pain, only pain. From the tips of his ears to pads of his paws, pain. Burning agony. All for a Man thing, a tool. He hated it, now. But just now Krrsh hated everything.


    He hated the Sun, the Burning Eye. He would bite it out of the sky if he could ¨C or no. He would have to go back into the day to do so, and he never, ever wanted to be above ground during the day again.


    He hated Ngrum for making him outcast and forcing him to raid the place of the dead, and sending the Ironclaws after him. He hated the Ironclaws for being stupid enough to follow Ngrum. He hated the water horses for not killing them all. He hated the place of stone for having been so big, too big to run across before the day found him. He hated the black flies that found his reddened flesh, his open wounds, even though he was buried in a burrow, now. He hated the sand of the burrow he had finally been able to dig on the far side of the place of stone for irritating his sensitive flesh ¨C no, he loved it for hiding him from the sun. But he hated it, too.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    He hated the hunger that sank its fangs ever deeper into his belly.


    He hated the place of no bones for being so far away. He hated ¨C he hated ¨C


    Krrsh finally slept. Fitfully, brokenly, and then exhaustedly, he hated no more. And when he woke and shook himself free of the concealing desert sand, he still hurt, but he no longer hated. Slowly at first, and then with more energy, he ran, making a wide circuit away from the place of stone and back to the place with no bones.


    He would not run into the Ironclaws sent to bring him down, unless he was very unlucky indeed. He looked up at Mother Moon, waning now.


    ¡°Will Krrsh be so unlucky, Mother?¡± She did not answer, but Krrsh knew the answer nonetheless. No, he would not be so unlucky. Not Krrsh, who had run across the place of stone in the burning day. Not Krrsh, who had outwitted the hunting pack.


    Krrsh did not run as quickly as he might have ¨C the hot stone had burned his paws, and they were tender. But he ran with a spring in his step, and the cool desert breeze was a balm to his sunburned flesh. Behind him were his enemies, those who wanted his blood to wet the sand, and they would not catch him now. Before him was food, more food than even he with his ghoul¡¯s hunger could ever consume before it decomposed to nothing. And in his hands was a tool of men.


    Krrsh had realized something, something he felt was important.


    Men used tools. Ghouls did not. But now a ghoul would use a tool.


    So in that way, what difference was there between Men and ghouls?


    None that he could think of.


    Men used tools. To build. Houses, burrows of stone above ground. Sometimes many together.


    What Men could do with tools, so could ghouls.


    Krrsh thought about that as he ran. It was an idea so un-ghoul that he kept returning to it, poking it, nibbling at it. But it didn¡¯t go away. It was solid. Krrsh did not know what to do with the idea. But just having it was enough.


    He ran, but did not reach the place of no bones before the day returned. It did not matter much. Let hunger gnaw for one more day. One more sleep, and then he would feed.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had delved deep. Deeper than even his creator had believed he would, or indeed could. It made no difference.


    He was no mortal man, but he was not a god. The black mana stone was a creation of the Faceless One meant to collect the offerings of the faithful, which it had, for thousands of years. Mana, prayer, worship, belief, blood ¨C power. It did not consist of anything Anomus¡¯s rational intellect could fathom. It did not make sense.


    Anomus did not know how long he struggled to understand the connection between the spirit tendrils and the stone. Hours, certainly; perhaps days. Eventually he withdrew his perception in defeat, returning to the Tomb.


    You are tenacious.


    Anomus instantly recognized the voice, instantly noted the Faceless One¡¯s presence in the chamber beneath the undertomb. The god stood, dripping shadows and ichor, regarding Anomus¡¯s crystal.


    Tenacious, which is good. But you waste your time. The stone will not reveal its secrets to you.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Because you are not a god.


    ¡°Why have you come here, Reaper?¡± Anomus felt no fear, no awe in the god¡¯s presence, not as he had when he was still mortal. It seemed such emotions had been burnt out of him, along with so much else. He was only curious.


    The god shrugged. Your efforts attracted my attention.


    ¡°Will you tell me how to recreate this stone?¡± Anomus asked, without any real expectation.


    Impossible. You do not even know what the stone is. But all you truly desire is the ability to make mana stones, yes?


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    You lack the required materials.


    ¡°What do I need, then?¡±


    A human soul, to begin with. You have none at hand, Architect.


    Anomus frowned. A frown was more than arranging facial features, after all. He was human enough, still, to feel distaste at the idea of capturing an immortal soul and turning it into a tool. But he was also practical enough ¨C and driven enough ¨C to want the knowledge.


    ¡°Will you instruct me in their creation, regardless?¡±


    He sensed the Dark One smile. Yes. But I fear it will do you little good.


    ¡°Why? Do you think I am incapable?¡±


    If I thought you incapable, I would not have offered you your chance at retribution.


    ¡°Then what is the issue?¡±


    You will discover that on your own, soon enough. I will not interfere. Now attend, and I will explain how you might fashion a mana stone¡­


    Anomus listened, and understood. But a part of him gnawed at what the god could possibly be withholding from him.


    ~ ~ ~


    Irobus was surrounded by priests. They bowed and scraped, but he knew they were not happy. He did not care.


    ¡°Unconquerable Irobus, father to his people, we humbly ask you to reconsider.¡± That was Charn, high priest of Vernith, goddess of the underworld. Sometimes it was difficult for Irobus to tell who spoke, since he did not allow any of them to raise their faces from the floor. He stared down from his throne onto the broad backs and fat posteriors of the empire¡¯s most important religions men and women, and imagined ordering his Eternal Guard to slaughter them all. Imagined, but did not order.


    ¡°There are many rites to be performed, glorious emperor,¡± Charn continued, ¡°all of them necessary, no, vital to the well-being of your beloved¡¯s shade-¡±


    ¡°I have spoken, servant of Vernith. I do not intend to speak again. Perform what rites you can now. Perform what rites you can on the river. Perform what rites you can once she reaches her Tomb however long it takes. But the concubine will begin her final journey three days hence.¡±


    Three days hence was the day of his birth. He gave himself the gift of sending his unfaithful love to her final imprisonment early. Ten years her betrayal had torn at him, but when he had seen the Tomb, something inside him had¡­ eased. There was an end to his secret torment. The pointless ceremony and bloviation of the priests tired him. He wanted an end to it, and to thinking of and seeing Hesia day after day. Knowing she was a secret, tortured prisoner in the Tomb was enough for him now. Or it would be, if the priests would stop objecting and simply do as he commanded.


    ¡°It will be as you say, lord of us all. But it is our duty to warn you of the dangers. We crave your patience.¡±


    Inwardly, Irobus groaned, and reconsidered ordering slaughter. Superstitious fools. They did not know Hesia wasn¡¯t truly dead. And even if she were, Irobus held little faith in the faiths of his empire. All the high priests were graspers after power, and their power rested on the gullibility of the masses. But not even an emperor could outright reject the representatives of the gods. The last who tried had been torn apart by an angry mob.


    ¡°What dangers, Charn?¡± Irobus asked, unable to fully conceal his impatience.


    ¡°The dangers are manifold, Irobus Undefeated. Possession of the Concubine¡¯s body by dark powers. Or a curse by a deity or deities, if they feel slighted. Or blame assigned to the Concubine¡¯s shade, and heavy punishment falling upon her in the afterlife¡­¡±


    Irobus forbore to rub his temples. None of it mattered. He just wanted Hesia out of the Capital.


    ¡°I have every faith that Vernith¡¯s Beloved will not let any of those dire possibilities come to pass. In fact, you will stay by the Concubine¡¯s side, Charn, night and day as she is transported to her final rest, to personally make sure none of them do. Do I make myself clear?¡±


    ¡°Eminently, lord of us all,¡± Charn replied after a moment. The priest¡¯s voice was steady, but Irobus wished he could see the man¡¯s face. He was sure it wouldn¡¯t be shining with joy.


    ¡°When you have completed every rite and ceremony, return before me, Charn. Not until that day.¡±


    ¡°Will¡­ will the emperor not accompany his beloved on her final journey, then?¡± the priest asked, clearly surprised. The emperor¡¯s star-crossed, tragic love story had become legendary in the empire, and beyond. The Grieving Emperor, some called him; hale in body and mind but terribly wounded in spirit, in his heart.


    Irobus smiled at the man¡¯s back, eyes glittering. ¡°I am a mortal man, Charn. In but a little time, I will join her for eternity. Until then, my people need me. Depart in three days. Return when all is completed. Now go, all of you.¡±

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Fourteen

    Anomus now possessed the method, but not the means with which to do what he desired with the skeletons. If a human wandered into the Tomb, and he killed that human, he could fashion one using the death as a catalyst and the soul as a base, a¡­ template, of sorts. But no human would simply wander in, and he would not slay random strangers just for a means to power in any case. Anomus was not a monster, it was that simple.


    But a servant of the emperor? A member of the Eternal Guard, for example?


    Yes. Yes, Anomus would kill such a one, and trap that person¡¯s soul forever.


    Perhaps he was a monster, after all. Of a surety, he was no longer just a peaceful builder of wonders.


    In any case, his dream of a marching skeleton army was ended. He would have to slaughter an army of living men in order to power it, which is what he needed the skeletons for in the first place.


    Anomus was disappointed, even frustrated. But he did not waste time gnashing nonexistent teeth. By his count, sixteen days had already passed. He had closer to two months than three, now, to prepare. The skeletons had been a costly diversion, with no immediate benefit.


    The Faceless One had taught him the making of mana stones, and then disappeared without a further word. But Anomus had the distinct, if unprovable feeling that the god was watching. Anomus gave a mental shrug. The god had said he would not interfere in what was to come. If He would not give direct aid, then let him be a spectator. So long as the Reaper did not place obstacles in Anomus¡¯s path, he cared little.


    Anomus redoubled his efforts with the wasps and the geckos, making them larger, fiercer ¨C and creating warrens for them, offshoots from the undertomb. He also called another species of insect down from the garden. The boyne beetles were a species whose carapace shimmered and gleamed in the light like oil on water. All the inhabitants of the gardens were beautiful in one way or another, and in their natural state, completely harmless to humans.


    The boyne beetles subsisted on one of the mosses he had cultivated in the gardens. They in turn were a food source for the geckos. In the undertomb. the geckos were well supplied with flies, both altered and otherwise, but a second food source would not go amiss, Anomus felt. And he thought he might be able to take what he had learned to make at least a few of the beetles much, much larger, more aggressive, and more heavily armored.


    Perhaps the Faceless One had expected or intended it, or perhaps not ¨C but his instruction on making mana stones had given Anomus ideas on how to incorporate his ability to shape stone into his ability to manipulate life. The wasps would not benefit ¨C their main usefulness to him was their ability to fly. The geckos would also suffer from toughening their skin ¨C they were very quick, very agile, and Anomus did not want them to lose the suppleness and stealth that, he hoped, would make them deadly assassins. Certainly, an increase in weight would make it more difficult for them to scale walls and run across ceilings, lessening their effectiveness.


    But the beetles were already armored, already slow. Nature had designed them so. Anomus would increase their size, their strength, and their toughness. They were the only real substitute he had for the skeletons. He had already experimented on the lone scorpion that had wandered in, with good results. He would continue to alter the deadly thing. He kept it in the Old God¡¯s chamber, away from the rest, as a guardian, of sorts. But he had no way to breed more of the creature, unlike the beetles. Not unless more wandered in.


    He prepared the boyne beetles their own warren, larger than the others in expectation of their massively increased sizes, and then called them down en masse, each carrying a portion of the moss they subsisted on. That too he would alter, to grow faster, in order to sustain the behemoths he intended to create.


    He spent the first half of the night on these endeavors, lost in the act of creation ¨C or at least alteration. Then, a short while after midnight, the ghoul returned.


    Anomus sensed it ¨C him ¨C as soon as he stepped into the tunnel. The ghoul seemed the worse for wear since Anomus had last seen him. He had additional wounds, and it looked as though the creature had been burned by the sun, at least on more exposed areas of its furry body. But the ghoul had brought something with it this time: a pickaxe.


    Anomus felt an emotion that was rare to him, now ¨C sheer curiosity. His first thought wasn¡¯t how he might turn a new observation or discovery to his advantage, for a change. He just wanted to see what this apparently intelligent creature would do next. Did it feel the need for a weapon? Surely not; the claws it sported could easily disembowel a man. Compared to them, the pickaxe was a much poorer weapon. Anomus was at a loss as to what the ghoul intended, and that was a¡­ pleasant feeling.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh was strong. Krrsh was fierce. Krrsh was afraid.


    His fear went beyond the wariness any ghoul felt when raiding a place of Men for food. Unless such a place had been long deserted, there was always danger, and to a ghoul, fear was not something to be ashamed of. Fear kept ghouls alive as much as their claws. One of the most terrible things about hunger, to Krrsh¡¯s mind at least, was that sooner or later it robbed ghouls of their ability to feel fear. Or maybe to recognize danger. Either way, hungry ghouls did stupid things, took bad risks. And then they died.


    Krrsh stopped in the middle of the tunnel. Was he doing a stupid thing? Was his hunger about to push him to his death? Krrsh squatted down in the middle of the tunnel, cradling his tool, and considered.


    He had taken many risks, it was true. Risks that no other ghoul would take unless they were far down into the depths of starvation. Moving about in the day? Ghouls had a few words and phrases for insanity and extreme stupidity. One of them was ¡®day runner¡¯. But Krrsh knew that had not been stupid or crazy. It had saved his life, probably.


    All the things he had done, in fact, another ghoul might call crazy or stupid ¨C angering the water horses, raiding the Ironclaws, stealing a tool of Men. But Krrsh had done each with a purpose. Hunger had not driven him to do any of it.


    And fear coursed through his body. No, Krrsh was still Krrsh, still clever and fierce. He nodded his head. Satisfied, he continued his slow approach to the place with no bones, his paws silent on the tunnel¡¯s stone floor and the windblown sand that littered it.


    But the fear ¨C yes. It was not normal fear. It was bigger. Bigger, because he smelled, no, sensed something down in the dark. Not Men. Something else.


    Something stronger.


    Something that could take all the bones from a vast field of carrion. And Krrsh, though he was very clever, could not imagine anything that could do that. He also could not imagine why. Even Krrsh, clever as he was, had a limited imagination, and such a thing was beyond his wildest imaginings. Krrsh could imagine something pulling all the bones out of his body though. He could see it, in his head. Some giant dark creature sticking its claws into Krrsh and pulling out rib after rib ¨C


    Ears flat, Krrsh shuddered and pulled his mind away from the image. Yes, he still felt fear. Very much. But fear didn¡¯t stop him from continuing down the tunnel. But it made him grip the Man tool tighter.


    At last he came to the place where the tunnel ended and the place with no bones began. His stomach cramped in anticipation. The heady aroma of carrion was an almost physical sensation. Still, Krrsh was cautious. He waited, he listened, he looked. He heard the drone of thousands of flies; indeed, they practically swarmed him as he crouched at the tunnel¡¯s mouth, still as a stone. He could hear the deeper buzz of larger flies, and saw a few as well. Larger than any flies he had ever seen. Also, there were black wasps. Also, they were bigger. The place of no bones was also the place of big flying things.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    But the thing that caught Krrsh¡¯s attention were the new cave openings.


    He had studied the place of no bones carefully when he had first discovered it. Now that he had returned, he saw three openings in the walls that had not been there before. Two were smallish ¨C he would have had to crawl to enter them ¨C but the third was large. Large enough for three ghouls to walk into, side by side. Maybe four. And they would not have to crouch.


    Krrsh raised a slow claw to his scalp and scratched absently, thinking.


    The place of no bones was¡­ growing.


    Krrsh was clever. Clever enough to know that such things did not happen. Not in the few nights since he had last looked at this place. But it had happened.


    A hunger pang wrenched him from his thoughts. It was hard to concentrate on things that were not meat, with so much meat before him. Krrsh looked up, and though she probably could not hear him or see him through so much stone, he whispered to Mother Moon.


    ¡°Will Krrsh be lucky one more time, Mother? Or will Krrsh lose all his bones?¡±


    Mother Moon did not answer, of course. She never did. But he liked to talk to her anyway. It was the closest thing to prayer ghouls had. When they remembered.


    Carefully, slowly, Krrsh took up the Man tool in both hands and inched its long claw forward and down. He was careful, very careful not to put his hands or any part of his body into the vast chamber. The iron claw met decomposing flesh. Krrsh froze. Nothing happened, beyond the buzzing of flies and the wriggling of maggots. Slowly, Krrsh pulled his prize toward the lip of the tunnel. The meat was badly decomposed, but the thought it was leg. Much fell away as he pulled, but much did not.


    The meat was about half an arm¡¯s length below the bottom of the tunnel. Clumsily, Krrsh dragged the meat up towards himself, ropes of saliva sagging down unnoticed from his muzzle.


    The iron claw of the tool scraped against stone. It was a tiny sound, but to Krrsh¡¯s ears it was as loud as a howl. He froze, heart suddenly beating fast.


    Nothing happened.


    Krrsh did not realize that he had stopped breathing until he started breathing again. Slowly, carefully, but most of all quietly, he continued to drag the meat upwards.


    Closer, closer, so very close ¨C


    The meat, wet with rot and badly balanced on the iron claw of the tool, slithered off and fell back to the place of no bones with a moist plop.


    Krrsh caught himself before his howl of frustration became more than the slightest growl in his throat. Krrsh was not patient¡­ but he was learning. What choice did he have?


    He tried again. Again, the meat slipped away from the tool.


    And a third time. Krrsh wanted to howl very badly. Instead, he settled for a sigh. It was not a satisfying thing, a sigh. Not at all. Krrsh made himself stop and think.


    The meat was too wet. The man tool could not grab it. It was not a hand ¨C ah.


    Krrsh raised one hand and beat himself on the head for not being clever. It was not a hand. It was a claw. Claws did not grab. They poked. They tore.


    Krrsh spent a little time getting a piece of meat against the wall below the tunnel entrance just the way he wanted it. It was hard, because he could not bend forward and see exactly what he was doing ¨C he was afraid something would come and take away the bones in his head if he did. But he did the best he could, and then he used the Man tool to spear the meat instead of scraping it up the wall. And this time, the meat didn¡¯t slide away. This time, when Krrsh pulled the tool back, meat came with it.


    His first instinct was to gobble the meat down. Instead, he gently and quietly set the tool and his reward down on the tunnel¡¯s floor, then ran up the tunnel to the desert.


    His howl of triumph was quiet, and thus not so satisfying ¨C he was not so very far from the den of the Ironclaws, after all, and he had gone to much pain and trouble to keep them from knowing where he was. But howl he did, so that Mother Moon would know that her son Krrsh was indeed clever, oh yes.


    Then he went back down the tunnel and began to feast.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus watched the ghoul with fascination throughout the night, but did not interfere with him or even try to make contact. He kept the wasps away from the scavenger, and observed.


    It was obvious that the creature was intelligent. It experimented, it learned through trial and error. It was no dumb beast.


    It was just as obvious that it had never used a tool before. Or at least not the tool that it wielded now. Its motions were hesitant and clumsy, at least at first.  And for some reason the ghoul would not break the imaginary plane between the tunnel and the undertomb. In fact, it took great pains not to do so, which greatly hampered its efforts. Anomus surmised that, for whatever reason, the ghoul had decided that the tunnel was safe, but the undertomb was not. Curious. Anomus couldn¡¯t think why the corpse eater would come to such a conclusion. He decided that if he could communicate with the ghoul at some point, he would ask it.


    But the ghoul was intelligent, at least to a degree. Intelligent enough that Anomus was now faced with a quandary, one he had hoped to avoid. As he observed the creature pulling up and devouring chunk after chunk of rotting flesh with the pickaxe, he mulled over his possible courses of action.


    First, he could simply attempt to claim the ghoul, as he had every other living thing in the Tomb. But he did not know if intelligence was a limiting factor in his ability, and he also instinctively balked at turning something that self-evidently possessed free will into an utter slave.


    It was more than a moral issue, to Anomus¡¯s mind, though it was that as well. Intellect was a precious resource. It made possible independent action ¨C something none of his minions were truly capable of. To enslave the ghoul, to direct its every action according to his will would mean losing the single-most valuable thing the creature could offer him. Anomus had slaves in the flies, the wasps, the geckos. He would breed more in the beetles. It wasn¡¯t slaves he desired.


    It was¡­ allies, he supposed.


    And even if it made more sense to take the ghoul with his will, rather than treat with it ¨C something he was by no means convinced of ¨C he felt it would be wrong.


    Anomus had never, in life, held a very strong opinion concerning slavery. It was a fact of life in the empire and beyond. Slavery was an established institution. Orthus, his personal servant, was a slave. Anomus¡¯s family treated all their household slaves with dignity and care; a slaveowner had a duty to do so, or so Anomus¡¯s father had always maintained. Of course Anomus knew that not all believed as his father had. He had seen countless examples of slaves being worked to death. As an architect, he had seen firsthand the conditions in various quarries, mines and building sites.


    But Anomus now knew the fate of slaves firsthand as well. It was no longer the fate of some stranger. It was his fate, and the fate of ten thousand human beings. A slave owner held the power of life and death over his property, and said property had not a single grain of weight in the balance pan.


    And that was wrong.


    In a sense, every citizen of the empire was a slave of the emperor. And now Anomus had come to believe that a single person holding the power of life and death over another was wrong. More than wrong.


    It was evil.


    Anomus would not make slaves of those who were not his enemies. Not if they possessed intellect, and free will.


    And if they were his enemies? Anomus considered. Certainly it was common practice to take as slaves those defeated in battle.


    No, he decided. If it was wrong in one instance, then it was almost certainly wrong in all cases. He would kill, if he could, to gain his retribution. But he would not enslave.


    The cold, analytical portion of his personality warned him that he was making a mistake, that he was limiting his future actions and resources, and conceivably that could lead to him failing to achieve his goal.


    He did not care. He would not take that step if for no other reason than he was certain that Irobus would not hesitate to do so, were their positions somehow reversed.


    So Anomus merely watched the ghoul as it became more adept at using the pickaxe to rake in and consume an astonishing amount of rotting flesh.


    The craftsman in Anomus couldn¡¯t help but disprove of the ghoul using a pickaxe, however. How many times had he admonished workers over the years to use the correct tool for the job? Yes, the pickaxe got the job done, but it was clumsy and terribly inefficient, and at times it was painful to watch.


    If the creature insisted on staying in the tunnel, he needed another tool. One more suited to the task. A pitchfork would be serviceable. Even a rake would be better.


    Anomus stumbled upon an idea, then. He considered it, and with a mental shrug asked himself ¡®why not?¡¯ Now that he had decided he would not try to enslave the creature to his will, he was free to try other means of establishing some sort of communication, rapport, perhaps even trust. Certainly it did no harm to his other endeavors.


    When the ghoul retreated back up the tunnel just before dawn, groaning and clutching his distended belly with one hand and the pickaxe with the other, Anomus expended a little mana to fashion a new tool for it. He had the pattern for wood and for iron from claiming the secret door. Both were more difficult and costlier to produce than stone, but not prohibitively so, not when all he made was a single pitchfork.


    He brought it into being at the tunnel¡¯s entrance, propped against the wall. And then he let the day-swoon steal over him.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Fifteen

    High Priest Charn, Beloved of Vernith who ruled the underworld and judged each soul¡¯s final fate, was sweating and cursing. Of course, one as exalted as he did no physical labor; the sweat that coated his heavy body in most unseemly fashion came from running about making sure that each preparation, both mundane and spiritual, was being done properly and in timely fashion. He did not trust subordinates, and whether the emperor ¨C may he reign a thousand years ¨C believed funerary preparations were important or not, Charn very much did. Eternity was nothing to treat lightly. Nor were the decrees of the gods.


    As an example, Vernith¡¯s Book of the Dead stated very plainly that for a person of the Concubine¡¯s station, her tomb should contain one pithos of the finest rice, and two amphorae of the finest wheat. What Charn was looking at was three amphorae of rice that decidedly was not of the finest quality. Yes, the three amphorae equaled the volume of the larger pithos, and yes, they would be easier to transport to the Tomb, but Charn was not willing to gamble that Grim Vernith would accept alterations to her decrees. She certainly accepted no substitutions.


    Charn raised his mahogany and iron staff of office and, with surprising strength and fierceness, smashed the offending amphorae with it. Then he addressed the foreman of slaves, who lay prostrate on the floor, grains of rice spilling out beside and over him.


    ¡°A pithos, fool. A pithos, not the volume of one. And the finest rice, not this cattle feed. Or I will have you whipped bloody.¡±


    ¡°Yes, great lord. Sorry-¡±


    ¡°Shut your mouth. I have no time for blather.¡±


    He was not exaggerating. All these mundane tasks should have fallen to the emperor¡¯s vizier and his staff, who would have been able to make the preparations far more efficiently. But Irobus had laid all responsibility for the Concubine¡¯s interment at Charn¡¯s feet. Even down to rice and wheat, and ensuring that the two amphorae of olive oil were of the first pressing, and that the chest full of unleavened loaves had had the seed of the poppy sprinkled upon each. Wheels of cheese ¨C goat, cow and water buffalo - must be wrapped in the correct weight of linen, and the knots tied in proper fashion. Papyrus cut to the correct size, three colors of ink in the approved pots sealed with wax, quills trimmed correctly, and taken from the lesser heron, not the greater - gods above and below, so many details!


    He should have been officiating at the ceremonies taking place at the Monument. Under the shade of an awning. With slaves to fan him. But the priesthood did not lack for bodies who could perform rites and ceremonies. Sadly, it did lack minds that could properly organize the Concubine¡¯s removal from the capital, her transport upriver, and her final interment.


    From the imperial warehouses abutting the river, Charn rushed back to the palace to ensure the correct quantities and varieties of jewelry had been assembled. He shuddered to think what might happen if the stipulated items of the Concubine¡¯s treasure store were missing, or worse, not of sufficient quality. Vernith was very particular about the accoutrements of nobility. Charn shuddered to think what might happen if the required cat¡¯s eye earrings were composed of the more common apatite instead of chrysoberyl, for example.


    Gods below and above, there was so much to do. Charn almost regretted opening his mouth in the audience chamber. Almost.


    But beyond his duty as Vernith¡¯s high priest to see the Concubine interred properly, fear also drove him. Irobus had already eschewed too many of Vernith¡¯s directives when constructing the Tomb. He had altered the traditional adornments of a tomb in favor of images of things that the Concubine found pleasing in life. There had been great consternation amongst the priesthood at that, and not only Vernith¡¯s - but who could gainsay the emperor in his grief? Who could gainsay the emperor at all?


    Charn shook his head at the memory of the emperor¡¯s announcement years before, and beads of sweat flew from his oiled, ringleted hair. What there was of it, at least. No. The emperor had already crossed the will of the gods once. Charn was determined that no further transgressions would occur, not even to the smallest degree.


    For when the gods punished an emperor, his entire empire was likely to suffer alongside him.


    Puffing and out of shape, Charn hastened his pace.


    ~ ~ ~


    From a creature no bigger than a man¡¯s smallest fingernail, Anomus had altered and enlarged one of the boyne beetles to the point that the highest point of its shell would have reached the same man¡¯s knee. So much he could do by forcing mana into the creature, before the cost in mana became prohibitive. It was a miraculous achievement, of course, but it was nothing close to what he wanted to achieve. He had wanted something as massive as a water horse. He had gotten a lapdog. Or a lap beetle, he supposed.


    He was not unduly irritated. Anomus believed he knew how to solve the issue. The only concern he had was that he could not forecast how long his solution might take.


    His answer lay in the moss that was the beetle¡¯s prime source of food. Rather than forcing growth upon the beetles beyond what was efficient, he set about altering the moss that sustained it, changing its code of life, which was much less complex than altering an invertebrate¡¯s.


    Anomus coaxed the samples of moss that the beetles had born down into the undertomb towards growth ¨C explosive growth. He altered them so that they fed upon ¨C and stored ¨C ambient mana instead of sunlight and water, by applying his newfound knowledge of manipulating the spirit tendrils. All his work on the skeleton had not been for nothing, at least. He could do many things with the stuff of the spirit tendrils that he could not have, before. And the Faceless One¡¯s instruction concerning the creation of mana stones had given him further insight as well.


    The moss could and did store a small amount of ambient mana, but most of the mana went to spurring its own growth. It was no substitute for a mana stone. He calculated that, were he to fill the entire volume of the Tomb with moss, it would only be able to store enough energy to power a skeleton for a few seconds. It was a rough estimate, but enough to discourage him from wasting time pursuing it further. The spirit tendrils he had already attached to the experimental skeleton were more efficient at converting ambient mana to motive force. He doubted he could further alter the moss enough to make it worth the effort.


    Anomus set the altered moss to growing in the caverns he had created for the beetles. It did not race across the stone like wildfire, but it grew at a blistering pace ¨C for a moss. Its growth would have been visible and noticeable to a mortal eye. When Anomus was satisfied that the moss would populate throughout the beetles¡¯ cavern before the next nightfall, he then altered the remaining beetles, enlarging them as much as was feasible in order to give them a head start. At least the beetles would eat ¨C and thus grow ¨C both by night and by day, free of the constraints Anomus himself labored under.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Most satisfying of all, he was able to greatly harden their shells by infusing them with stone. He had to do it directly, but he believed that in time he could alter the creatures in such a way that they could ingest quantities of powdered stone, and let their internal functions automatically augment their shells with it. Anomus was mindful of increasing the strength of their legs so that they could support the additional weight.


    As always, it wasn¡¯t his ability that worried him, it was time. He felt it trickling away like sand through an hourglass. Everything he did ¨C nearly everything, at least ¨C had the promise of fulfilling his needs, given enough time. He was an architect. He had always been able to see a barren patch of ground and imagine what would occupy it. And as he had studied and worked, as his knowledge and experience improved to match his natural talent, so his ability to see and shape increasingly complex structures starting from nothing had only grown.


    The Tomb, its inhabitants, his plan for retribution ¨C none of it was terribly different from that. But while he had labored under deadlines before, he had always been able to bargain, cajole, or simply put his foot down with a patron and explain in no uncertain terms what was possible and what was merely extremely difficult or expensive.


    Now, he had no such power. Either his preparations would be enough when the emperor arrived, or they would not. He had no way to move back the date, to gain himself more time.


    And he could not formulate a precise plan in any case. He did not know where the emperor would step, who would be attending him, what they might be capable of. If an imperial sorcerer attended him, could the sorcerer sense Anomus¡¯s existence, and warn his lord before he entered the tomb? Could one of the priests do so?


    Anomus did not know. He did not know which of his preparations might succeed, and which had no chance from the outset. That was why he worked so determinedly to arm himself with as many weapons of war as he could. Only when the day of Irobus¡¯s arrival was upon him could he formulate a precise plan. Until then, he could only labor in a general way towards his destruction.


    So he built a framework of death, and was forced to wait before adding the fine details and flourishes. Such was not his nature. He was used to knowing every detail of a structure before the first stone was laid. If he had constructed anything beyond the most modest of houses in the way that he was now attempting to kill an emperor, he would have called it shoddy workmanship. But what choice did he have?


    The ghoul¡¯s return was a welcome reprieve from his dour thoughts.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh did not want to wake. His burrow was cool and quiet, his belly full ¨C well, as full as any ghoul¡¯s could ever be ¨C and after days and nights of hunger and danger, of injury and fear and triumph, Krrsh wanted to sleep. And then sleep more.


    But he could feel Mother Moon climbing the sky above. She was near to fully pregnant, and her call was strong. When she was at her biggest, two more nights away, she would call all ghoul-kind to run with her, to chase her across the sands, for no other reason than she could, and they could. It was a ghoul-thing.


    It was the closest thing ghouls had to a holy day. Or rather, holy night. After that night, Mother moon would grow older, weaker. Her shout would fade to a whisper. And then disappear ¨C or nearly so. And then she would wax again, starting the cycle all over. Such was Mother Moon¡¯s nature.


    Krrsh loved Mother Moon, but he did not want to heed her call. He wanted to sleep. And he definitely did not want to run with her, to race her across the sands. The Ironclaws would, and so he would not. Too dangerous.


    But it was hard to ignore Mother Moon when she was big with child. Her voice, was loud then, yes.


    Too loud to let Krrsh sleep.


    He let out a whuff and rose from his burrow, shaking off the sand and stretching. He could eat more. He could always eat more. But Krrsh had nearly cleared all the space in the place of no bones that he could safely reach with his Man tool. It was a problem. But Krrsh was clever. He would think of something. After he ate.


    Krrsh entered the tunnel with such thoughts occupying his mind. He was cautious ¨C always, he was cautious ¨C but still he did not notice the new thing until he was far too close to it.


    As soon as he realized there was something in the tunnel that had not been there when he had last been there, he froze. His hands tightened on the handle of the Man tool. Though he was many feet away, his keen eyes could see in the very low light that the thing was long. Longer than he was tall, and thin for most of its length. He sniffed, and above the smell of food he scented wood, and iron. Just like the man tool he held in his hands. He smelled no new thing other than that, and Krrsh was sure that if a ghoul or Man had passed this way during the day, he would still be able to tell.


    No. The new thing had not been there, and now it was. And no one had put it or left it there.


    Well, someone had. Because such things did not suddenly¡­ become. It made Krrsh¡¯s head hurt. He did not understand, for all that he was very clever. Ghouls did not have a word for ¡®impossible¡¯ in their tongue. The closest they had was the idea of ¡®cannot.¡¯


    The new man tool could not be. But it was. So it could. But no one had put it there, so it could not¡­


    Krrsh uttered a subvocal growl and made his thoughts stop chasing their tails. He had to decided what to do.


    He could run away. Very ghoul thing to do. Ngrum would run away, yes. Any ghoul would run away from a cannot that was, somehow, not a cannot.


    Oh, his head was starting to hurt. His thoughts were like cubs squabbling over scraps of meat. He beat at his temples until they subsided. Then stared up at the tunnel¡¯s roof, and gave Mother Moon an admonishing look for waking him to¡­ this. Never mind that she could not see it.


    Krrsh could run away. Yes. But in a few claws of days at the most he would only have to return, when hunger started to bite once more. So¡­ run away for what?


    Krrsh was strong, fierce, clever and lucky. So Krrsh did not run away. But as he approached the new thing, he was very, very careful, constantly sniffing the air and scanning both ends of the tunnel, wary of sudden danger.


    Nothing. Nothing new, at least. Just the distant sense of some powerful thing, the same that he had sensed from the beginning.


    And then Krrsh was standing next to the new thing.


    It was another Man tool, like and not like the one he had taken in his raid. It was longer, though, much longer. He saw at once that if he used it to get meat, he could reach much farther into the place with no bones. And instead of a wide, flat claw that bent down at the end, it had two long, sharp fangs.


    Krrsh saw how he could use the Man tool to spear meat, or pull meat towards himself. He saw and understood that for what he needed, it was much, much better than the Man tool he had risked his life taking from the Ironclaws.


    If Krrsh had still been wrestling with hunger, he would have taken up the tool immediately and begun to use it. But Krrsh had eaten well the night before. His hunger was a little thing, nibbling at him out of habit more than anything else. So Krrsh did not grab the new Man tool. He stared at it and tried to understand why.


    Krrsh was clever, yes. But clever could not make a Man tool be where it was not before. Krrsh was strong, and fierce, but that was not related to the situation he now faced. Krrsh was lucky, it was true. But he could not imagine luck making Man tools.


    This new thing did not come from anything Krrsh was or had done. So it must have come from another, scent or no scent. And there was only one other in the place with no bones, the thing he sensed but didn¡¯t smell. The Bone Taker.


    Krrsh had a sudden epiphany that froze him, rooted him to the tunnel¡¯s floor. The thing he could sense but not smell had been watching him the night before. Had seen him taking meat. Had seen him struggling with the Man tool. And had left him a different, better tool.


    It had been watching him. And in that instant of realization, Krrsh was not strong or fierce or anything except terrified.


    Ears flat, Krrsh fled the tunnel.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Sixteen

    Ghouls did not do kindnesses for each other. They gave each other no gifts. They were not, not in any way, considerate when it came to the small things in life. Almost never. They worked together, as a pack, to survive. It was necessity, not affection. Almost never affection.


    Mates, or those seeking to mate, might give choice pieces of meat in order to curry favor, or they would groom each other. Mothers would rend and tear to ensure their cubs got enough meat, or to rescue them from danger. That was the sum and pinnacle of ghoulish consideration and affection.


    So it was not surprising that Krrsh did not really understand the concept of ¡®helping¡¯. It was a hazy, alien idea to him. He had followed logic while thinking on the new Man tool ¨C he understood that it was meant to make it easier for him to get at the meat. There Krrsh¡¯s grasp on the situation ended, there the solid footing of understanding stopped, leaving only shifting sands and uncertainty. He understood, or at least thought he understood the what of it. But the why?


    No.


    Did the thing in the place with no bones seek to¡­ to mate with him? It boggled his mind when the thought occurred to him, and Krrsh ran around in circles on the moonlit sand, shuddering and thinking cannot cannot no no CANNOT for a goodly amount of time. Then he collapsed on the sand and stared up at Mother Moon until his heartbeats slowed.


    ¡°No. No no. Cannot be that. Not if Krrsh is lucky, and Krrsh is lucky, yes, Mother?¡±


    Mother Moon didn¡¯t answer, but Krrsh decided she agreed with him.


    So. Not mating. The only other reason to help get food was¡­ Did the thing in the place with no bones want¡­ want¡­ want to join his pack? Or want him to join its pack?


    In some ways the thought was just as disturbing as the thought of mating with the thing that could take all the bones from carrion.


    Krrsh tried to imagine being part of a pack with the Bone Taker, the Watcher. He could not. The idea was too big. Too strange.


    Maybe it was¡­ trap. Sometimes Men would make traps for ghouls, yes. In places of the dead. Heavy stones falling, or bad air that choked and killed, or flying claws. Krrsh had never seen such things, but old Wrna had, and he told of such things. This new Man tool could be like that. Krrsh would pick it up, and then- and then- something would happen. Something bad. The Bone Taker would guard its meat from clever ghouls who stole it and kept their bones, yes?


    Maybe.


    Then Krrsh had a thought that made his blood run cold.


    The new Man tool was inside the tunnel. Not in the place with no bones.


    The Watcher, the Bone Taker did not have to stay in the place with no bones. It could go in the tunnel. He dug at the sand with his claws. Three times he had been in the tunnel. Three. The second time for most of a night.


    And the Bone Taker could have taken his bones any one of those times.


    Krrsh did not beat at his head. He just shook and stared up at the night sky. Above him, Mother Moon was laughing at him, he was sure.


    ¡°Quiet, Mother,¡± Krrsh growled, then sighed.


    ¡°Krrsh is not so clever, no. More clever than another ghoul. Not more clever than Bone Taker.¡± It was not hard to admit, though it was a disappointing realization. Ghouls did not tend to lie, even to themselves.


    ¡°But Krrsh is very lucky. Maybe lucky is better than clever?¡± Krrsh brightened momentarily at the thought. Then his mood darkened once more. He still had to decide what he was going to do.


    It took him half the night to decide.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had watched with great interest as the ghoul descend the tunnel, noticed the pitchfork, and then fled. The creature was as wary as any wild animal, he supposed, but Anomus was fascinated by it. He had many questions, starting with just how intelligent the ghoul actually was. Was it on the same mental level as a human? He thought not, but conceded the fact that he didn¡¯t know. It, or rather he, might simply be lacking any of the refinements of civilization. But the fact that it could learn to intelligently use tools meant, to Anomus¡¯s thinking, that whatever gap there was in mental ability between ghouls and humans, it was a small one. Functionally speaking. The empire was constantly at war with surrounding peoples of lesser cultural advancement, or at least what the Subori considered so. Nomadic desert tribes ruled the sands to the west, and powerful kingdoms held and defended the lands from which the Great River sprang ¨C powerful despite the fact that they did not much build with stone or cultivate many crops, as the Subori did.


    Anomus also wondered where the other ghouls were. He had been remiss in sending out his flies to spy the surrounding area, his thoughts taken up with ways to prepare for the emperor¡¯s arrival. But there was definitely at least one more, that much he had seen. And if this ghoul was not one of the two he had spied at the tomb¡¯s main entrance, that meant there were at least three. The stories of ghouls he had been told had never mentioned numbers, only that they ran in packs. Anomus had no idea how many might constitute a pack, but he was fairly certain it should be more than three.


    With a thought, he dispatched a dozen of his spies through the well¡¯s entrance and another dozen via the tunnel. It would be tiresome to sift through so many disjointed memories when they returned, but Anomus realized he should have been keeping an eye on the environs around the Tomb far more regularly than he had been. Once he recognized the fault, there was no question about correcting it.


    Flies dispatched, he briefly returned his thoughts to the ghoul. One ghoul was a curiosity of limited use, assuming he could somehow persuade the thing to serve him. But to bolster his forces, he needed more of the things. He wondered what the position of ghoul who had entered the Tomb was, in his pack. Was he a scout? A leader? Anomus didn¡¯t know. He only hoped that, assuming he could persuade the ghoul to align with him, that the ghoul would in turn bring others.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Anomus set thoughts of the ghoul aside then, and made a quick survey of the Tomb. The beetles were eating and growing, their shells growing thicker and harder. The geckos were growing as well, though he had reached a natural barrier to size when they were enlarged to the length of an arm from toe to tail. Larger, and they lost the ability to surefootedly traverse ceilings. Their teeth were satisfyingly sharp, though, and now dripped venom ¨C not from a specialized sac or gland, but as part of their saliva.


    The only issue he had was a lack of water for his deadly menagerie. The salamanders, the moss, even the insects required a certain amount of fresh water, and there was none to be had in the Tomb, apart from the tiny ornamental pond in the funerary garden above.


    Anomus was pleased to be faced with a simple engineering problem, for once. Simple for him, that was. He already had a screw pump connected to a concealed waterwheel that harnessed the river¡¯s power. He had constructed it years before. He had neglected to claim most of it until now; it was separate from the Tomb except where the pump connected to the pond.


    It had been a hellishly difficult thing to construct at the time, requiring a hole to be bored into the rock of the cliffs down to the river, and a screw pump to be specially constructed to fit the bore. The water wheel turned the screw, which drew water up to the garden. The wheel was concealed from view by stones and reeds, but was dependent on the river¡¯s current to turn.


    He could not claim the wheel ¨C the river was as closed to him now as it had been the first time he had tried to claim the earth near to it. But the bore and the screw pump were easy enough to claim. And now, with his inhuman ability to sense and shape the materials he had claimed down to the finest detail, Anomus was able to make the pump do its job much more efficiently. The input of water was impossible to increase, but he was able to increase the pump¡¯s efficiency enough that he could divert a small portion of its flow from the pond.


    It was the work of a few minutes for him to create a small diversion tunnel, about the width of a finger, to bring water to the level of the undertomb. He then split it into three and diverted water to the lairs of the wasps, the salamanders and the beetles.


    It wasn¡¯t much water, but then his minions didn¡¯t require much. Not yet, at least. If he were to continue breeding his nightmare menageries for years, he would have to work out a better alternative, a larger source of water. But if he spent that much time making horrors, it would mean he had failed to kill Irobus.


    And he would not fail. He could not.


    Shortly after Anomus had finished constructing the third and final basin to collect the drips of water from the pond above, he sensed the ghoul return to the tunnel entrance.


    He was quite curious to see what the creature would do next. He wondered if it would include beating itself about the head. The ghoul seemed prone to do that, for some reason.


    ~ ~ ~


    The Eternal Guard were all slaves, of course. Their tongues were removed at an early age, and none of them knew how to read or write. They received training ¨C harsh, brutal training that made them the fiercest, most brutal fighting force in the empire, perhaps the world.


    Their numbers were relatively small; no more than five thousand Eternal Guard were permitted to exist, for fear that their utter loyalty to the emperor might one day prove to be something less than utter. While they were easily capable of defeating a force three or four times their number, or even more given the correct set of circumstances, the Subori rulers had always taken care to make sure they could not overwhelm the regular Suboran military forces. The truth was, as useful and capable as they were, they were neither liked nor trusted. They were simply feared, historically speaking, even by the emperors who commanded them. Sometimes especially by them.


    A large part of that fear and distrust sprang from their seeming inhumanity. How could one form a human bond with soldiers who did not speak, who would slay you or themselves or each other without hesitation, at a single command?


    Irobus did not fear his Eternal Guard. He did not think of them at all, except as an extension of his will. He was emperor, and they were his sharpest weapon; nothing more or less. He commanded and they executed, without question, without a single tiresome word. Irobus never considered how they might coordinate their actions, or what the life of a single Eternal Guardsman might be like. Of course not. Such thoughts would never have entered his head. To be fair, there would be few in the empire who would have mused on such things.


    It was the Greatest of Fifty who was called Nighteyes by his troop - and nothing at all by anyone else ¨C who had been tasked to re-secure the Concubine¡¯s Tomb ahead of the interment. He relayed the command to them using the hand language that the Eternal Guard had developed over centuries, and immediately the barracks room was a hive of activity as the Guardsmen prepared to ride. Only Hummingbird had anything to say.


    ¡°Wasteful,¡± Nighteyes¡¯ second in command signaled.


    ¡°Explain,¡± Nighteyes replied.


    ¡°We should have left men there to guard. Instead we decamp and then return a few days later. Wasteful. Poor planning.¡±


    Nighteyes raised an eyebrow. ¡°Did you have something better to do?¡±


    ¡°Sleep,¡± Hummingbird replied, smiling.


    ¡°You are a disgrace,¡± Nighteyes informed him. But he smiled. A little. Hummingbird had said such things since they were small. When they still had tongues. But only to him. Hummingbird was not stupid.


    Nighteyes¡¯ Fifty were mounted and exiting the capital in less than an hour. The Eternal Guard did not dawdle. They followed the river, first along roads of stone and then packed earth, then tow paths, and then, as they rode ever further from civilization and ever deeper into the Great Desert, they rode amongst only rock and sand. Horses were faster than boats, going upriver.


    Once the Concubine departed the capital, it would take at least six days for her body and all the grave goods and priests to reach the site of the Tomb, perhaps even longer. The procession would leave in two more days; making it a minimum of eight days before Nighteyes and his troop would see them. The Eternal Guard, riding hard, would reach the Tomb in five. More than enough time to secure the area, to scout for bandits or other threats, and to ensure the Tomb had not been violated in the short time since the emperor had inspected it.


    Greatest of Fifty Nighteyes welcomed the assignment. He appreciated the opportunity to be away from the capital, from the loathing and fear he saw in the eyes of the Tongued when they looked on him and his men. It was good to ride in the desert, away from others. And as Hummingbird told him that night when they made their customary fireless camp, it was good to ride towards boredom instead of battle. Nighteyes grunted at that, and called Hummingbird pathetic, but he did not disagree.


    He expected nothing like trouble when they reached the Tomb; only a few days of silence and freedom, before the priests arrived with their chants and their charge. Alone in the desert, far, far away from their masters and indeed from any other people, his Fifty would still do everything expected of them, everything they were trained for and ordered to do. But they would also be free to¡­ express themselves, if they chose. In small ways. Ways that weren¡¯t forbidden, exactly, but were never talked about, even with hand-sign, for the most part.


    For example, Silverscale would be able to wade in the river and observe the fishes that he so loved, when he was not on patrol or guard duty. Small Scar would carve things into the bits of wood he carried with him, using his belt knife. And Hummingbird would sleep in Nighteyes¡¯ tent.


    Nighteyes welcomed this duty, this command, both for himself and his Fifty.


    They rested for four hours, the longest the Eternal Guard ever would while en route to a destination in the normal course of events. Then they saddled up and continued their trek.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Seventeen

    Krrsh crouched at the entrance to the tunnel ¨C not in it, no, but close. Very close. Close enough to reach out with a claw and tap on the stone floor. If he wanted to.


    Any time he wanted to. With a claw. Or with his tool. Yes.


    But it would be better to do with his claw. More dangerous. But better. He thought so.


    He could tap, and the Bone Taker would hear. He thought so. He was almost sure. Maybe the Bone Taker would see.


    Of course it would be safer, much safer to run away from the place with no bones, to search for another place with food, far away from the Watcher and from the Ironclaws. Much safer¡­ except it would not be safer. Not really.


    Here was food. Out in the desert, with no pack, Krrsh knew there was only death, sooner or later, for an Outcast. Death by starvation, drawn out by eating lesser carrion, or death by Men, or another pack, or a hundred different perils of the desert.


    Here, in front of him, there was only one danger - the Bone Taker, the Watcher. And there was much food.


    This much Krrsh had concluded, after long thought. And he thought that the Bone Taker could have attacked him at any time while he was in the tunnel, and did not.


    Did not did not mean cannot. Krrsh knew that. But.


    The Bone Taker had left a tool for him.


    Maybe it wanted to¡­ to¡­ Krrsh didn¡¯t know what the Bone Taker wanted. Not after thinking for so long, and so hard that his head felt swollen and sore. But that might have been all the beating he had done to it.


    He only knew that would not find out what the Bone Taker wanted by hiding in the sands. So here he was, crouched at the tunnel entrance, trying and failing to reach out a claw.


    Impatient with himself. Krrsh gave a low growl. Reach. Tap. See what then.


    Krrsh reached and tapped and quickly drew back. Every sense heightened, he waited.


    Nothing happened.


    After a time, Krrsh tapped again, two quick taps this time before he pulled his hand back and waited.


    He almost didn¡¯t notice Bone Taker¡¯s response. It was completely silent. But Krrsh¡¯s eyes were keen, yes. And so he noticed first one and then two lines that appeared on the tunnel floor in front of him. Like Bone Taker had scored the stone with his claws, but¡­ not. The lines appeared, but no claw made them, and no stone dust and no scratching sound was made. It was more like the lines had sunk into the stone, somehow. Like stepping into loose, soft sand.


    Krrsh¡¯s hackles rose. ¡°Cannot,¡± he whispered to himself, but he forced himself not to flee, or move at all for a time. Nothing further happened. Nothing rushed out of the tunnel to eat him, to take his bones.


    With a trembling claw, Krrsh reached out once more and tapped three times before snatching his hand back.


    The two lines disappeared. The stone of the tunnel rose up from the bottoms of the two depressions made, and they were gone. And then three lines appeared, one by one.


    Krrsh trembled.


    Then the lines disappeared again, and in their place a pawprint appeared. A ghoul¡¯s right print, toes pointed down the tunnel towards the place with no bones. Then another formed beyond it, of a left paw. Then a third, the right again. Each led further in.


    Krrsh was clever. He understood what was meant. It was an invitation, though Krrsh did not have that word. The footprints said follow. They said come in.


    ¡°Cannot,¡± Krrsh growled softly, terrified. But he found himself rising from his crouch nonetheless. Then he hunkered down once more. Then he rose again and began pacing the sands.


    Krrsh was brave. Or stupid. Krrsh would find out which. Hunger could control him, when it grew strong enough. But fear?


    No. Not forever. Not even for very long. In this case, about an hour.


    It was that, more than anything else, which separated the outcast from virtually every other ghoul, and most humans. Though he had no way of knowing it.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus was faced with a problem, and a choice. The ghoul had met him halfway, more than halfway actually. In real terms, it had opened a dialog with him by the simple expedient of tapping on the tunnel¡¯s floor. But Anomus had no way to communicate with the creature without invading its mind.


    They did not share a language ¨C if the ghoul possessed a language, which Anomus suspected it did. And Anomus had no way to speak at all, except directly mind-to-mind. He could do so without attempting to claim the ghoul, that much he was certain of. But their lack of a shared tongue made that a moot point, unless he were willing to invest weeks, even months trying to bridge the divide. That sort of time was not a luxury he had.


    In any case, he could predict how the ghoul would react to having another presence in his mind, suddenly speaking what amounted to gibberish. Its reaction might be amusing, but it would hardly be helpful.


    It frustrated him that he could not transmit even simple concepts to the ghoul directly without using words. He could do so to the flies and the other unintelligent creatures because he had claimed them. The limited communication he had with them amounted to commands. They were extensions of his will and body. You did not hold a conversation with your hand; you simply made it move.


    Reluctantly, Anomus came to the conclusion that if he wanted to communicate with the ghoul on anything more than a very superficial level, he would have to enter its mind, and study its physiognomy. There was no way around it. But he did not want to trap or force the creature. It was not an enemy, and he wanted no slaves; none that possessed free will at least.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He saw only one path forward, given his self-imposed restrictions. If he could get the ghoul to sleep in the Tomb, he could enter and study the creature¡¯s mind while it slept, thus not alarming it. But how to get the ghoul to stay in the Tomb?


    Most every creature desired safety and a certain amount of comfort when it went to its rest, that comfort being dictated by its nature. The ghouls were clearly nocturnal, and the Tomb provided welcome protection from the day. But that was obviously not enough for the ghoul. Anomus suspected that the undertomb, and even the tunnel, were simply too exposed, to open for the ghoul¡¯s liking. What might wander upon it while it slept?


    Anomus did not know enough of its nature to know what sort of sleeping arrangements it might prefer. But he was well used to considering the functions of the buildings he created, and altering the forms to suit. He had of course never had a ghoul as a patron, but if it were him in the ghoul¡¯s position, he would want a small, defensible space to sleep in, one with a single entrance so as to limit possible avenues of attack.


    He would also want a door with a lock, but he very much doubted the ghoul would think of such things. It had apparently only just learned to use a simple tool; doors were likely too advanced for it. Perhaps a stone that the creature could roll to block the entrance if it desired. And it would be sensible to give the space the appearance of a natural cavern rather than the flat, angular surfaces that were the hallmark of human building.


    Such a construction would not be taxing for Anomus, though it would take a little time. He was becoming ever-more proficient in shaping stone, but he still could not hollow out spaces in the blink of an eye. The sooner he started, the sooner it would be complete. And then, hopefully, the ghoul would claim the space created for it.


    So resolved, Anomus quickly began creating a small cave that connected to the tunnel near its tomb-side opening, not far from the pitchfork.


    ~ ~ ~


    The ghoul entered the tomb once more perhaps an hour later, still hesitant but no longer trembling with fear. Anomus was finished with the small cave by the time the ghoul reached it.


    He saw the ghoul¡¯s ears begin to go flat, and feared it would flee once more. But instead the ghoul cautiously entered the new space, scenting the air and inspecting every nook and cranny.


    Anomus left the ghoul alone for the remainder of the night, watching with great curiosity but not trying to communicate any further. He spent the rest of the night sending more bones to their rest and storing mana, but one question was uppermost in his mind. Would the ghoul sleep in the purpose-built cave, or would it leave the Tomb for the desert when dawn approached?


    The ghoul did not try to contact him, either. It experimented with the pitchfork, then abandoned it in favor of stepping into the undertomb for the first time, and grabbing meat directly with its claws. But it did not eat much, and soon it was back at the pitchfork. Playing with it, testing its sharpness, testing its reach. And finally, it simply sat down in the tunnel and rested its long muzzle on one fist, and looked off into the middle distance, looking for all the world like any other intelligent creature deep in thought.


    As dawn approached, the ghoul roused himself and padded up the tunnel. Anomus feared it was leaving, but instead it began pushing and sweeping sand down the tunnel and into the cave he had created for the creature¡¯s use. When the bare stone was buried to a depth satisfactory to the ghoul, it curled up there and immediately fell asleep.


    Anomus smiled inwardly. No patron was ever completely satisfied with what was built, however much they might praise the builder. Ghouls, apparently, were no exception.


    Anomus himself resisted the day-drowse that affected him. He had work to do, after all. He waited an hour, and then two, and when he judged the ghoul was deep in its slumber, Anomus crept like a thief, or a spy, into its mind and body.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had toured the dead, decaying structure of the human mind. He had learned much from surveying such ruins, but much more had been sadly beyond his reach, lost to mortality and the natural processes of decomposition. The living minds of insects and geckos had given him partial clues, but still much eluded him in regards to the formation, the composition, the architecture of intellect ¨C how thoughts formed, how more complicated bodies was regulated and controlled.


    He knew it was the mind, the physical brain that did these things. The priests believed the brain was an unnecessary organ, and would remove it from a corpse at death if it were to be interred, but they were completely wrong in that. The mind, the physical brain controlled virtually all. The mind was the self, for all intents and purposes. It was awareness, it was memory, it was personality.


    Except there was also the spirit, the shade, the soul. Anomus knew better than most that it was also real, also critical. But he still could not work out how the soul related to the mind. Well. First things first, he admonished himself, and turned his thoughts and attention to the ghoul.


    He had never had cause to be subtle when inserting his will into anything. Stone was unfeeling, and insects were uncomprehending. But he took care with the ghoul. He did not want to wake it from its sleep ¨C indeed, he could only imagine what terror the creature might experience were it to wake as another consciousness entered it.


    He stole into the creature¡¯s mind with his uncanny, god-granted ability, and was careful only to observe, and to disturb nothing, either physical or mental.


    The ghoul¡¯s physical brain was just as complex as a human brain, he discovered, though slightly smaller. He surveyed it at ever finer levels, sensed the many millions of connections that together made up a vast web of intellect. He had seen them in dead human brains and the much simpler brains of insects and geckos, but here they were vast, alive, and functioning. And, in certain areas, strangely¡­ constricted. Unnaturally so, it seemed to Anomus. The constrictions, for lack of a better word, did not seem organic for all that they were part of the brain¡¯s function, whatever they were. Intrigued, Anomus studied them closely, and after a time understood that they were some sort of gate. They were a barrier, currently open, between much of the ghoul¡¯s higher brain functions, its ability to reason and so forth, and its lower, more primitive, more instinctual brain functions.


    Now what would be the point of that? he wondered, and searched for the gates¡¯ controlling mechanism.


    It took more than an hour for him to find a partial answer, so complex was the ghoul¡¯s body in comparison to all he had studied before. But eventually he understood that starvation would choke off the creature¡¯s ability to think on anything greater than an animal level. Metaphorically, Anomus shook his head. He just could not see how that would benefit the survival of the species. Everything he had learned of life told him that, great or small, the processes of an organism were always bent towards the survival of the individual or the species. Anomus simply could not see how losing intelligence when faced with a lack of food would increase the odds of either. Intelligence was too great a tool to sacrifice.


    He wanted to pursue the mystery further, but time was against him. He had entered the ghoul in order to facilitate communication, and had allowed himself to become sidetracked. The day was flying away, and soon the ghoul would naturally awaken, if Anomus did not suppress the instinct. He preferred not to do so.


    Reluctantly he turned his attention and intellect to puzzling out its speech center, and then to sifting through the ghoul¡¯s mind in order to piece together its language. It was the work of the rest of the day to piece together a rudimentary lexicon by comparing words to associated memories, but by the time the sun rose, Anomus was confident that he and the ghoul could communicate in at least a piecemeal fashion. Once the dialog was reopened, he felt confident that they would be able to make rapid progress.


    He sensed the ghoul stirring towards wakefulness and withdrew his consciousness from the creature. A little patience was called for, he thought. And a little courtesy; remaining in the ghoul¡¯s mind as it woke would be akin to a stranger standing in your bedroom, staring at you as your eyes opened. Not the best way to make friends, Anomus felt.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Eighteen

    Ghouls did not have greetings, per se. Or they did, but like all things ghoulish, they were practical and to the point. Instead of saying hello, if they said anything, it would be ¡®found meat?¡¯ The standard ghoulish farewell was a simple ¡®don¡¯t die.¡¯


    Krrsh woke in the Bone Taker¡¯s burrow. He had chosen to sleep there, throwing all his instinctual caution to the wind, but he was still startled when he opened his eyes, in the moment before he remembered.


    That first startlement was nothing compared to the second, when Bone Taker talked in his head. Krrsh nearly wet himself at that.


    ¡°You are awake. Good sleep?¡±


    Krrsh looked around wildly, but the voice hadn¡¯t come from anywhere. It was just there. In his head. Krrsh raised his hands to beat his skull at this frightening new development, but stopped. What if Bone Taker thought he was trying to beat at it? That seemed like a¡­ a not clever thing to do. No. Slowly Krrsh let his arms fall to his sides once more. He mustered up the courage to respond.


    ¡°You. In my head. How.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the watcher replied. ¡°Just my voice. Not me.¡±


    Krrsh considered this. Just as ghouls rarely lied, so they did not often consider that others might be lying to them. If the Bone Taker said it was so, then however cannot the statement was, he was prepared to accept it. Krrsh had by now seen so many examples of cannot that obviously were, that the word and concept behind it had begun to lose meaning for him.


    ¡°Not in Krrsh¡¯s head. Then where?¡±


    ¡°Your name is Krrsh?¡± The voice asked.


    ¡°Yes. Where is Bone Taker?¡±


    ¡°Who is Bone Taker?¡± the voice asked, obviously confused. Krrsh felt that maybe it was not so clever.


    ¡°You are Bone Taker. Where are you?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± the voice said, with obvious and sudden understanding. ¡°My name is Anomus, not Bone Taker. And I am¡­ everywhere, in this place. I am this place.¡±


    Krrsh let that sink in. He realized his hands were creeping up towards his head again for a little light beating, to make his thinking go better. Habit, yes. He made them go back down to his sides. Bone Taker was a place, this place. He had never thought a person could also be a place. Old Wrna had never told any story about that. But it wasn¡¯t cannot, to him. Not like a suddenly appearing Man tool. The world was big, very big, and there was much ghouls did not know, yes.


    ¡°Not Bone Taker,¡± Krrsh finally responded.


    ¡°No. Anomus.¡±


    ¡°An-Ano- too hard to make those sounds.¡±


    ¡°I see. Architect would hardly be better, then. You may call me Builder, if you like.¡±


    ¡°Builder. Good. Easy. Not Bone Taker.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Where are the bones, Builder?¡± Krrsh pointed towards the place with no bones, only meat.


    ¡°Ah. Gone. I put in a place to, to rest. To sleep.¡±


    ¡°You took bones.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°But you are not Bone Taker.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Ghouls were fully capable of rolling their eyes, and when they did, it was for the exact same reasons humans did. Krrsh found, to his surprise, that he was rapidly losing his fear of Bone Taker. Maybe it was powerful, but clever? Krrsh was starting to have serious doubts.


    ¡°What Bone T- what Builder want?¡± Krrsh asked. Ghouls did not have chats. ¡°Want mate? Because no. No mate. No no no. Cannot, no.¡± Krrsh shuddered at the thought.


    ¡°What? No. Why would you- no, Krrsh. No mating.¡± The voice seemed disturbed at the thought as well, and that was good. Very good.


    ¡°So what want?¡± Krrsh asked again.


    ¡°Must I want something?¡± the voice replied, and Krrsh gave it consideration.


    ¡°Bone- Builder let Krrsh eat meat. Builder give Man tool and den. Builder no want mate. Yes, Builder want something. What?¡±


    The voice was silent for a moment. When it spoke again, its tone seemed more serious.


    ¡°Yes, you¡¯re correct. I do want something. I want you and other ghouls to stay here. To live here.¡±


    ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°Enemies are coming. I want to kill them. You and your kind can help.¡±


    ¡°What enemies?¡±


    ¡°Men.¡±


    Krrsh was already shaking his head. ¡°Ghouls eat. Ghouls fight to not die. Ghouls do not hunt, do not kill to eat. Eat already dead. It is the Law.¡±


    ¡°The law? What law?¡±


    Krrsh shook his head some more. The Bone Taker really was not clever. ¡°Ghouls have Law, Builder. We cannot eat what we kill.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Curse.¡±


    The voice was silent for a moment. Then, ¡°Tell me. Explain.¡±


    Krrsh sighed, scratched at his ear, and sighed again. It was not a good story to tell, no. But he squatted down in his den and decided to tell the Builder, just as old Wrna had told him and all the other pups at some point. He remembered exactly the time Wrna had told him. It was the most words he had heard come out of any ghoul at one time, before or since. Many claws of words.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    ¡°Listen,¡± Krrsh began, just as Wrna had, ¡°and no howling until finished. This is story of the Law all ghouls must follow, and why¡­¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Long ago, many claws of generations ago, ghouls were not ghouls.


    They looked the same, yes, but taller and stronger, fiercer and more clever and far more brave. And they did not live in packs, no. They lived in one big pack, and their leader was a female, the cleverest of all.


    In those long-ago days, ghouls could walk in the sun, yes, but they lived mostly in the dark, because they were the ¡®servants¡¯ of the god of the dead. When any thinking animal died, ghouls came to take the body, yes, and to take the soul. No, I don¡¯t know what ¡®servants¡¯ is. No, they did not eat the meat. Stop throwing bone and listen.


    They took the body and did things to it. No, I said already not eat. They wrapped it and put things on it and in it and all sorts of things ghouls know nothing about now. Because the god of the dead told them to, that¡¯s what for. Stop talking.


    And the long-ago ghouls took the spirits of the dead to the Underplace, where the god of the dead would decide what happened next. Very important, yes. The god was happy with ghouls, and ghouls were happy. Until one day the leader of ghouls did a bad thing.


    Listen and not ask what for and I will say. The leader of ghouls thought ghouls did much work, yes, but still ¡®servants¡¯. She did not want to be ¡®servants¡¯. She did not want ghouls to be ¡®servants¡¯. So she did a bad thing. She killed the god of the dead.


    Not know how. But she did it, and became god of the dead, yes. Powerful, yes. Ghouls not ¡®servants¡¯ then. But the other gods, very angry. They tell her ¡°You are god now. But other ghouls will suffer. They no more eat plants, they no more hunt in ¡®green fields¡¯ and ¡®forests¡¯. They no more walk in the sun. You are god of the dead, now your people only eat the dead they find, carrion, yes. And to stay thinking animal, they must eat thinking animal. They no eat what they kill, or will die.¡± This is curse of gods.


    Only two gods not curse. First is Mother Moon. Sad, she was, for ghouls. Leader bad, yes, but all ghouls not leader. No. Only one. And children not do bad thing, and children of children¡­


    You bad, yes. Beat old Wrna with bone, talk no listen. But not that bad. Nobody that bad except leader long ago.


    So Mother Moon calls to us, to tell us she has not forgotten us. But she can do nothing else. Second is her first son, No-Face god. He does not care much, is not sad for ghoul. But he follow his mother, yes. No curse.


    And that is why ghouls no eat kill. Why ghouls no walk day. Why ghouls eat Man carrion if can, and lesser carrion if cannot. This is what means to be ghoul. Now get bone out Wrna¡¯s face.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh finished his story, and silence descended on the Tomb. Only the buzz of flies relieved it. Krrsh scratched unhappily at his thigh.


    ¡°Krrsh,¡± the voice said, ¡°Your story is sad.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°What if I could lift your curse?¡±


    Krrsh let out a series of yips that was the laughter of his kind. ¡°Curse from gods. Builder is god?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the voice admitted. ¡°But I can do things. I can change living things. Perhaps I can change you.¡±


    ¡°Change how?¡±


    ¡°It seems you must eat the flesh of thinking creatures in order to maintain your own intellect,¡± the voice said. ¡°It is possible that I could change that. If you truly die if you kill what you eat, perhaps I could change that as well. I can try.¡±


    Krrsh did not understand half of what the Builder had just said. ¡°What mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean, maybe I can change you so that you can eat anything, not just man flesh, and stay clever. Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Cannot,¡± Krrsh said, shaking his head. Meaning, of course, impossible.


    ¡°Can try,¡± the builder replied. ¡°If you want.¡±


    Krrsh thought. He thought as hard as he had ever thought. He thought about ¡®green fields¡¯ and ¡®forests,¡¯ whatever they were, and hunting in them. He thought about¡­ about¡­ turning a living animal into meat, and eating it, instead of having to search for what was already dead. He thought about no more difference between man carrion and lesser carrion.


    He thought about defeating the worst enemy of ghouls. Hunger.


    The thoughts were too big. He had to get up, to run across the sands until his head was big enough to hold them. Krrsh stood and padded out of the den and towards the tunnel¡¯s exit.


    ¡°Where are you going, Krrsh?¡± the voice asked.


    ¡°Must talk to Mother Moon,¡± he replied. And then he was gone, loping across the sands in the strong moonlight.


    ~ ~ ~


    He was the darkness between the stars; He was the shadow beneath the belly of a worm. He was the Faceless One, the Reaper, god of death and darkness and blood and retribution. And He had waited a very long time for this moment.


    He was bound by ancient accords between the Old Gods and the new, the agreements that had ended direct strife between the deities and secured a lasting peace ¨C a peace that had proved to be to the benefit of the new gods, and the great detriment of the old. Who now among mortals made sacrifice to Him? Very few, and among the Subori, only the Architect had, for closer to a millennium than not. Meanwhile, He had stood silent witness as the young pantheon of Shining Ones had ignited first the Subori, and then begun to spread outward from the empire, like wildfire, across the circle sea.


    He was the god of death, and retribution. But he was shackled, able only to act in the interests of His followers, bound to noninterference in the wider world. When the Architect had discovered His chamber and made offerings, he had become the Faceless One¡¯s follower, whatever his reason for obeisance might have been. And when the Subori emperor had slit the Architect¡¯s throat, the Reaper had been within His rights to offer the dying man a chance at retribution. Death had hovered and blood flowed down in the dark, after all - and on the new moon, no less. None could gainsay His decision to act. He had not violated the compact, and none could claim He had, whatever followed from his action.


    And what would follow, the Faceless One was certain, would be chaos and woe for his enemies.


    The Old God watched the ghoul loping across the moonlit desert, struggling with concepts larger and more momentous than it was capable of understanding. He had listened to its retelling of the history if its race. As fragmented and simplified as it had been, it was largely correct. The jackal folk had fallen far from their original state. Or rather, had been pushed. A once-noble race, but not one that had worshipped him and so, even then, not a race that he could offer the grace of retribution to. Driven towards the state of crouching, skulking beasts, one would never imagine that they had once been proud, wise, straight-limbed race. It was a testament to their will that they still survived at all. He understood why his Mother still offered them what comfort She could, after an age. But comfort was not in His nature.


    Retribution, yes.


    The Faceless One had not planned the meeting between the Architect and the ghoul. He did not control fate, or destiny. He did not move mortals across a playing board. He did not interfere, not in such a direct fashion. But to be able to offer retribution meant that retribution must, in some fashion, be a possibility. Such were the fundamental, natural laws that gods labored under. Among them all only Fate could say what would happen, and Fate never spoke.


    Could the Architect undo what had been done to the ghoul? The Reaper believed he could. He had the ability, and the intellect.


    Would the other gods howl to see their work undone, their decree ignored? Oh, yes. Many of them would. If they ever noticed. Or rather, when they finally noticed ¨C for the Faceless One thought that the Architect would not be content to restore the jackal-folk to their former state and then do nothing with them. They would make their mark, in one way or another. And when they did, the other gods would turn to Him, with accusations and anger and ire. And he would say ¡°Where have I violated the compact?¡±


    And they would have no reply.


    And if the Architect turned his frightening intellect and drive towards the empire as a whole, rather than its ruler alone? The Faceless One had no mouth with which to smile, but smile He did. It might be the only way the Architect could secure his retribution, for it was doubtful the bloodstained emperor would be so foolish as to enter the Tomb once its corruption had been discovered.


    If the Architect managed so great a feat, then the other gods would come to him in thunder and fire, spouting accusations and dire threats. And again, the Reaper would say ¡°Where have I done harm to the terms of the accord?¡± But then He would also say, ¡°Take care that You do not violate the compact either, for the punishments are terrible, as You Yourselves have just reminded Me.¡±


    The Architect would have his retribution, if his will and cunning were equal to the task. And in the course of it, the Reaper believed, He would get His as well.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Nineteen

    The sand was soft and cool on Krrsh¡¯s paws, and Mother Moon bathed the desert in silvery light, blunting its harshness into something less severe, more promising. He ran, swift and strong. Part of him was joyous to do so, to run when Mother Moon was so close to her term. The arms and leg part, the lungs and chest part. The blood and bone part. The ghoul part.


    But another part of him was still in the place with no bones, listening to Builder.


    Krrsh¡¯s people understood the concept of hope. The hope that they would find food; the hope that Men would not find them. The hope that another ghoul wanted to mate, and would not instead let their claws say no. These were all very big hopes, to a ghoul. But now Krrsh was beginning to realize that they were, in truth, very small hopes. Hopes that lived in a burrow, and never saw the sky.


    Builder had scraped away the sand and shown him the sky. It was full of stars, and Mother Moon was always big with child in that sky. That sky that had looked down on ghouls before the curse, before the Law. It was a big sky. It was a big hope.


    Krrsh had never suspected that hopes could get so big.


    As he ran, Krrsh tried to imagine what life might be like for him, for ghouls, if they no longer had to follow the Law. If they no longer carried the curse. It was¡­ difficult at first. The difference between what was and what might be ¨C it was too big. The idea that they would no longer have to scavenge to survive¡­. That they could hunt, as most other animals did, as Men did.


    That they could keep animals for food, as Men did. If they could learn how.


    That they could kill and eat animals, and not die. Yes. Then there would be no need to roam across the desert, searching for carrion. They could stay in one place¡­ if the place was safe.


    If they could find or make a safe place. Yes.


    That they could survive on lesser carrion, no, lesser meat alone, and not have hunger take away their thoughts.


    Krrsh shook his head. It could not happen. But many things that could not happen, happened in the place with no bones. Yes. Maybe Builder was not clever, not like Krrsh. Builder didn¡¯t even know the Law before Krrsh told him. But Ngrum was also not clever, and Ngrum had pissed on Krrsh and made Krrsh Outcast.


    Clever had not made Krrsh powerful. He did not know what made Builder powerful, but Builder was powerful.


    Maybe Builder would fail. Maybe Krrsh would die. Krrsh did not want to die. Krrsh had tried very hard not to die, all of his life. But maybe Krrsh had not¡­ had not really lived, in all his life.


    It was a hard thought, a not-ghoul thought. It made him feel strange, and uncomfortable. But in the end, it was that though which decided him. He would let Builder try to take away the curse, yes, so that he would not have to follow the Law anymore. Maybe Builder would fail. Maybe Krrsh would die. Maybe.


    But maybe Krrsh could be¡­ more.


    And if Krrsh could be more, then all ghouls could be more. Yes.


    Maybe ghouls could make a new Law.


    It was worth the risk.


    So resolved, the ghoul turned and began to run back towards the place with no bones. Mother Moon shone down upon him, invigorating him. He felt stronger and more fierce than he ever had in his life.


    He was nearly at the tunnel¡¯s entrance when Ngrum burst from the sand in front of him, and pierced Krrsh¡¯s belly with his iron-hard claws.


    Krrsh howled in surprise and agony, and slashed instinctively at the pack leader, scoring lines of blood across the older, heaver ghoul¡¯s muzzle. But Ngrum merely grunted and drove his claws deeper into Krrsh¡¯s abdomen, toppling the lighter ghoul backwards onto the sand.


    ¡°Take your carcass back to pack,¡± Ngrum growled. ¡°Piss on it again.¡±


    Krrsh snarled. The agony was unlike anything he had ever experienced. But he remembered the mistake he had made the last time he had fought Ngrum, and turned the pack leader¡¯s cunning trick against him. Krrsh scooped up sand and flung it into the older ghoul¡¯s eyes.


    Ngrum gave a short bark of surprise and stumbled back from Krrsh in a crouch, rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his bloody hands.


    Instinct told Krrsh to flee while he had the chance. He was badly injured. But Krrsh attacked instead, letting his hate for Ngrum give him the strength to ignore instinct, to ignore agony. He leapt at the temporarily blinded ghoul, driving his own claws into Ngrum¡¯s upper arms and clamping his jaws on Ngrum¡¯s throat. It was no bite of submission. Krrsh meant to tear the other ghoul¡¯s throat out, if he could. They landed on the sand once more, this time with Ngrum on his back and Krrsh on top.


    The claws on a ghoul¡¯s paws were shorter and less keen than the claws on its hands, but they were just as hard, and driven by powerful legs, they could do awful damage. As Krrsh bit into his former leader¡¯s throat and blood filled his mouth, Ngrum in turn further savaged Krrsh¡¯s abdomen and upper thighs with his lower claws. Krrsh knew that he would not survive with his belly open. No. But Ngrum would die first.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    With a final, savage burst of fury, Krrsh bit down furiously on Ngrum¡¯s throat, and ripped out the lump of cartilage that was the larynx.


    Krrsh rolled off Ngrum and spat out his prize. Ngrum, dying, twitched and shivered beside him as his life¡¯s blood was soaked up by the greedy sands. Krrsh panted. He lifted his head and saw his intestines slipping out from his belly. There was so much blood. He looked up at Mother Moon and smiled a bloody-toothed smile.


    ¡°Krrsh is strong and fierce, Mother. Krrsh always said so. But now, now Krrsh will die.¡±


    He lay quiet as the rage subsided and the pain raced in. After a few more heartbeats, Ngrum was still forever.


    Krrsh wondered what death would be like. Ghouls spent so much time trying to avoid death that they did not often consider what lay beyond it. As the cold began to creep into his limbs, Krrsh thought about the afterlife for the first time.


    Maybe ghouls did not get. Maybe bad leader did not want them. Krrsh decided that if he saw the bad leader, he would like to do to her what he had done to Ngrum. Maybe he would try. But now he was tired. Would he be this tired after he died? Krrsh did not know.


    If only he had made it back to Builder. Maybe he would have died then, also. Dying now was not bad; he had sent Ngrum ahead of him. But dying trying to lift the curse, dying trying to walk in green fields and forests¡­ that would have been better. Yes.


    Almost, he had made it. He had been so close to the place with no bones when Ngrum had surprised him.


    So close.


    He¡­ he was still close. Krrsh turned his head. He could see the tunnel entrance. Or rather the pit in which it was located. Very close, for a ghoul who did not have his guts falling out, yes. For one who did?


    ¡°Let¡¯s see how close, Mother,¡± Krrsh growled softly, and tried to stand.


    He could not. So, with one hand trying and mostly failing to hold in his intestines, Krrsh crawled across the sands.


    Because maybe Builder could save him, put his guts back where they should go. Maybe.


    But Krrsh had learned how to hope big hopes.


    ~ ~ ~


    Once the ghoul had left to talk to the moon, whatever that might entail, Anomus turned his thoughts toward an idea that had occurred to him while he had been investigating the creature¡¯s physiognomy. It hadn¡¯t been pertinent at the time, and so he had pushed it aside for later consideration. But since the ghoul apparently had familial obligations to attend to ¨C he had called the moon his mother, after all ¨C Anomus took the time to consider his idea in greater detail.


    One of the things he had noticed about the ghoul was its surprisingly robust ability to resist disease. He supposed it made sense for scavengers to be immune to some of the ills that plagued humankind, but the discovery had put Anomus on the track of considering diseases ¨C and whether it would be possible to use them as a weapon.


    So little was known about them. Most often they were attributed to the will of the gods, or a curse, or an evil wind, or some vague imbalance inside a living thing. But Anomus, in his new incarnation, had quickly realized that they were in the main just another, much smaller form of life. And they were myriad.


    The undertomb was full of disease, of these tiny carriers of potential death. His insect minions were almost wholly immune to them, but humans? No. There was plentiful sickness and potential death in the rotting flesh that swamped the undertomb. And he was sure that, given time, he could increase the potency of many of the different varieties he sensed. But only if he could find a way to harness it, to¡­ weaponize it.


    Some would only multiply if they were transmitted directly to the bloodstream, which meant that he would need a way to cut a victim. It wasn¡¯t optimal, in his opinion ¨C venom was already a much better way to kill than a blood infection.


    Beyond blood-borne diseases, the two other means of propagation seemed to be through ingestion, and by breathing the disease in. Both had potential, in his estimation. Assuming he could find or fashion an effective carrier ¨C and he believed he could.


    Anomus had concerns, however. Every weapon in his arsenal, few though they might be, could be controlled by him directly. They would attempt to kill - or wholly ignore - anyone entering the Tomb, at his command. But disease¡­ disease was not controllable, at least not to that extent. Not even by him. If he chose to pursue disease as a weapon, he could easily imagine ways in which it might escape the tomb, and kill those he had no quarrel with. He could see no way to make such simple creatures discriminate between those who were his foes, and those who were not.


    It would be a terrible weapon indeed, disease. It amounted to invisible death, indiscriminate and implacable, as close to evil as he could imagine himself ever venturing. But following his failure with the skeletons, he felt compelled to pursue it. He resolved, however, to consider the use of it only if he could control the spread of whatever illness he harnessed.


    Or, he admitted to himself, as a last resort to secure his retribution. If his only chance to kill Irobus was to unleash a plague upon the empire, he could not say with certainty that he would not do it, not if the emperor was certain to die because of it.


    At the same time, he had not forgotten that his wife and a daughter still lived, still breathed as far as he knew. How could he do anything that might conceivably sicken them, kill them? Not for the first time, he railed against his inability to control, or even influence events that happened outside the Tomb.


    No. He could not brew up sickness and death, not if it had the slightest chance of escaping the confines of the Tomb. Not even if it meant the difference between Irobus living and dying. He might no longer be human, but he had not completely lost his humanity. If his situation had been other than it was, he might have turned his thoughts and startling powers towards creating cures for the plagues that ailed the world ¨C but that was not what he had given up his afterlife for. Nor was it what the Reaper had transformed him to do.


    Well. At least he had determined the broad parameters of what he would work towards. He hated to limit himself, but dismissed his dissatisfaction. Dwelling on it would do him no good.


    Just as Anomus decided as much, he felt the ghoul return.


    He knew at once that it was gravely injured. Loops of its intestines, sand-coated and lacerated, dragged across the tunnel floor as it crawled inside.


    Later, when his flies returned bearing their memories of what they had seen in the outside world, Anomus would piece together what had happened. But at that moment, He did not know whether the ghoul¡¯s attacker was following him, and so Anomus erected a barrier of stone across the tunnel¡¯s entrance, despite the cost to him in mana.


    As the stone began to slowly coalesce, the ghoul spoke.


    ¡°Builder. Krrsh die. Builder save or not?¡±


    That was the question. Anomus had altered many organisms. But he had never tried to heal anything. His ability to do so was purely theoretical ¨C and Anomus felt instinctually that it was not a specific skill granted to him by his transformation. The Faceless One was a god of death, not healing. But Anomus was not the Faceless One¡¯s creature. All this he thought in a moment.


    ¡°I will try,¡± was all he told the ghoul.


    ¡°Try is good,¡± the ghoul panted. ¡°Do is better, yes? Yes.¡± And then the ghoul collapsed into unconsciousness.


    Anomus got to work.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty

    The Great River snaked for thousands of miles, from its source deep inland to the many mouths of the Delta, where it met the Circle Sea. The seat of the Subori empire, the capital, had had many names over the centuries, and was still called several of them in everyday parlance. But most simply called it the capital and left it at that.


    It stood at the river¡¯s first great divide, at the very root of the Delta, nearly four hundred miles from the coast. Most of the empire¡¯s citizens lived in the span between the capital and the sea, where water was plentiful and the land, already green due to the many branchings of the river, had been made lush and bountiful by irrigation and unceasing labor.


    Though the Subori claimed the river and its environs all the way up to the Fourth Cataract, in truth only the merest fraction of its citizens lived in the barren, untamed lands south of the capital. The holy but small city of Ip Hab was the only metropolis of note upriver from the Concubine¡¯s Tomb. Because of this, continued possession of most of the empire¡¯s vastness was a matter of pride and stubbornness rather than necessity.


    It could not all be patrolled, not even by the mighty Subori military machine. Indeed, there were remote villages and tribes that would be surprised to learn they were part of any empire, having never seen a representative of it in their lifetime. And then there were the desert nomads, who considered the idea of claiming ownership of the endless sands to be a very specific and highly amusing form of insanity.


    Nighteyes¡¯ Fifty, and indeed all the Eternal Guard, were well-used to the desert and its conditions. They had been taught, and later forced, to survive in it from an early age. They knew nearly as much of its moods, its dangers and its secrets as any of its inhabitants. Of the Nine Bows - the Subori term for its countless enemies - the majority of them were desert peoples, and so it was necessary for the Eternal Guard to be able to fight them without disadvantage.


    They had made good time across the increasingly severe, increasingly uninhabited landscape and were, by Nighteyes¡¯ estimation, halfway to their destination. They had seen no one for most of their journey except passing merchants and fishermen on the river. They had encountered no trouble to speak of.


    Just after dawn, they passed the Rock ¨C a very small island in the center of the Great River that boasted a half dozen buildings of dubious structural integrity, composed of a random assortment of materials. It was a place of transients; fishermen and merchants used it as a place to rest and drink. Nighteyes¡¯ troop passed by it without a second glance. But the single conscious, sober inhabitant of the rock watched the passing Eternal Guardsmen from behind a broken reed sunscreen with a great deal of fear.


    ~ ~ ~


    On the day of the massacre, Orthus had assisted his master Anomus to prepare the Old God¡¯s offering just as he had dozens of times before. Just as he had dozens of times before. Just as he had dozens of times before, he had offered a silent prayer to Mordun, begging forgiveness for the blasphemy he was helping to commit. He knew as well as Anomus that it was either blasphemy or death, which was why he had never once tried to dissuade Anomus from placating the Old God. But it was still very much blasphemy, and the punishment, should Anomus be found out, would certainly be death. For six years, Anomus had gone against the Subori gods¡¯ will, with none the wiser. On that last day, he had thought their secret safe forever.


    Somehow, someone must have found out.


    If Anomus¡¯s tent had been on the far side of the river along with all the other workmen, Orthus would have been dead that day. He had no doubt of that. The Eternal Guard had slaughtered every single man in camp with frightening efficiency. As soon as the first screams had pierced the air, Orthus knew in his heart that Anomus¡¯s deception had been found out. His master was inside the Tomb with the emperor and many Eternal Guard ¨C therefore his master was dead as well.


    Orthus did not want to die. He knew that his life was now forfeit; that even if he somehow escaped the slaughter, if he were discovered, he would be killed out of hand. For being a blasphemer, or for being the property of a blasphemer. It didn¡¯t matter which, really. Dead was dead.


    Fearfully, Orthus had peered out of the tent towards the far shore, towards the sounds of slaughter. He was greeted with the sight of slaughter. The thousand Eternal Guard that had watched over them for a decade had been joined by many, many more. The unarmed workmen stood no chance, though in the few moments that he watched, he saw a few trying to defend themselves with mallets and pickaxes. Pointless.


    He looked downriver, and saw the banks lined by more Eternal Guardsmen, armed with bows. They were shooting anyone who attempted to swim to safety. The silent soldiers pin-cushioned even obviously dead bodies.


    Orthus was trapped. Soon they would come for the solitary tent on the Tomb-side of the river, search it, and slaughter him. Once the chaos abated.


    Now was his only chance to do anything, while they were focused on their butchery. But what?


    Orthus cast about the tent, looking for anything that might aid him, might give him some hope of survival. For a crazed moment he considered grabbing up Anomus¡¯s knife and rushing into the Tomb, and taking the emperor hostage. Insanity. Or just running into the Tomb and trying to hide. Less insane, no less hopeless.


    Then his eye fell upon an empty leather scroll case, and he decided his course of action.


    He could not run or swim away. Hiding in the Tomb was pointless ¨C the emperor and Eternal Guardsmen were already inside, and anyway, the Tomb was sure to be searched thoroughly before the imperials left. But there was one place he might be able to hide that they could not search, not so easily at least.


    Orthus snatched up the long, hollow tube and, praying fervently to any deity who might be listening, slipped out of the tent and into the Great River¡¯s flow. He took as large a breath as he could, then slipped beneath the surface and started swimming upriver, against the powerful current.


    The river¡¯s water was opaque at this time of year, bearing so much silt. It made it unlikely that he would be spotted as long as he kept his head below water, but it also made finding his hiding spot hellishly difficult.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    There was only one place on the Tomb-side of the river where reeds had been allowed to grow. Only one place where his makeshift breathing tube would have any chance of not being remarked upon ¨C the water wheel, as a screen for the contraption that pumped water up to the top level of the Tomb. Orthus swam until his lungs burned and his head began to pound. The scroll case he clutched in one hand, in a death grip. With the other, he propelled himself forward, and when he thought he had gone far enough, he began to feel for the reeds and their roots.


    When it came to the point where he would either breach or drown, Orthus rose, praying he had gone far enough.


    He hadn¡¯t. But the stand of reeds was only a few feet away. He expelled the spent air from his lungs and took more in ¨C nothing like enough ¨C and submerged himself once more. No arrow found him.


    Orthus quickly found the sand of reeds after that and, after nearly breathing water through the tube, got it and himself positioned properly. And then he had waited for hours in the water. Waited to be discovered, by Eternal Guardsman or crocodile, or for the slaughter to be finished.


    He had not been discovered.


    When he finally emerged, late in the night, the slaughter was complete, the workers buried in a mass grave, their tents burned, their stores removed. It was almost as if they had never been there at all. Almost.


    Anomus¡¯s tent had disappeared, along with most of its contents. Orthus assumed it had all just been dumped into the river. He found a few things scattered around the wide stone ledge that was the entrance to the Tomb, most of it rubbish except for a couple of copper coins and a brass lamp. He had gathered them up, then sat down on the stone and let a few tears loose.


    What to do next? Where to go?


    There was only one direction he could travel. North, towards civilization. Any other direction meant death. Orthus had no skills that would allow him to survive the wilderness of the desert.


    He wiped his face and stood, and then began the long walk towards the capital.


    Perhaps something would come to him as he went. Some plan. If he made it to the capital, he could decide whether it was wise to approach Anomus¡¯s wife. Whether it would be a danger to her. Or to him. He was a dead man, after all.


    And dead men were, if nothing else, free.


    ~ ~ ~


    Orthus watched the Eternal Guard pass the Rock, heading upriver. That they were not camping or waiting for passage to the Rock assuaged his fears; he slept lightly, and poorly, and had already been awake before they appeared on the horizon, woken from his fugitive¡¯s slumber by the loud grousing of the fishermen. Their practice was to depart before dawn to chase their catch.


    They¡¯d rescued him from exhaustion and hunger three days after he had escaped the slaughter, spying him as he¡¯d collapsed along the river¡¯s bank. They¡¯d brought him to the Rock to recuperate. They¡¯d asked him no questions he could not answer ¨C apparently the Rock was a place that had had its share of visitors whose past would bear little scrutiny.


    His eight rescuers were simple folk, all men, who fished all day and drank all night. They inhabited the speck of land in the river only in a semi-permanent fashion; when they¡¯d made enough coin from the passing merchants from their catch, they would return to their permanent village in the Delta until their coin ran out. Then they would come upriver again.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t there fish near your village?¡± Orthus had asked. ¡°Why come all the way up here?¡±


    One Thumb, the eldest of the eight, had laughed. ¡°Oh, yes, we have fish at home. But we also have wives at home. Most of us. Wives who don¡¯t like it when we drink. And when we spend too much coin on drink. And also, here we fish for something we don¡¯t have back home. Ras, show our new friend.¡±


    Ras, the youngest, had grinned a gap-toothed grin and wandered off into the dark at the edge of the Rock. He returned holding a crocodile not much bigger than his hand ¨C and it was white.


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised how much some¡¯ll pay for the white ones,¡± One Thumb told him told him.


    ¡°But- but don¡¯t the mother crocs object?¡± Orthus had asked.


    All the fishermen had laughed at that, long and hard. When One Thumb got his breath back, he¡¯d wiped at his eyes with his whole hand and held out his maimed one for Orthus¡¯s inspection, saying ¡°Yes, yes they surely do.¡±


    The fishermen were leaving soon. They¡¯d sold some of their ¡®catch¡¯ to passing merchants; enough to stay in a constant state of inebriation once the sun went down. Orthus had repaid their hospitality by making food for all that was actually edible, compared to what they had cooked for themselves.


    One Thumb had offered to take him with them the night before.


    ¡°Our village ain¡¯t much. But if you¡¯re all right with the Rock, I imagine you¡¯ll take to it well enough. And you can teach my wife how to cook. Actually, that¡¯s a lie. She knows how to cook. She just hates me.¡±


    Orthus had accepted the offer. What else was he to do? But seeing the Eternal Guard pass by had reminded him of the slaughter, and of Anomus.


    Yes, Anomus had been his master, his owner. But they had grown up together and, while always cognizant of the boundaries of their respective stations, Anomus had always treated him as a confidant, and even as a friend.


    Orthus had already decided that he would never willingly go back to being a slave. But he felt he owed something to Anomus. Seeing the Eternal Guard spurred him to a decision.


    He would ask One Thumb to leave him at the capital. Perhaps they would wait for him, perhaps not. But he would at least give Anomus¡¯s family word of his death.


    He hoped that Anomus¡¯s family had not suffered for his blasphemy.


    He also hoped that he was not making a mistake, that his sense of duty would not lead to his re-enslavement, or death.


    ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll find out soon enough,¡± he said to himself, and sighed.


    ~ ~ ~


    Far away from the Rock, in the place of death, old Wrna had already burrowed down into the sands for the day, but he could not sleep.


    Ngrum had not returned.


    Wrna was not worried for Ngrum. Ngrum always set old Wrna to watch for danger, even though Ngrum knew Wrna could not run fast, or fight well. No. Not ¡®even though¡¯. ¡®Because¡¯. Wrna was not the cleverest ghoul, but Wrna was not stupid. And Ngrum did not care if Wrna did not like it. Ngrum was pack leader.


    Wrna would be happy if Ngrum never returned.


    But Wrna was also worried. Because a pack with no leader was a pack with no decider. And if something happened while Ngrum was away, the pack would not act as one.


    And a pack that did not act as one, was soon to be a pack that died.


    It was very rare that a pack leader died, leaving the pack leaderless. It was very rare that the pack leader would go off and leave the pack without a leader. But Ngrum had done so, because Ngrum hated Krrsh and wanted the outcast to die. And Ngrum was not content to wait and let hunger do it. Ngrum wanted to do it himself.


    Wrna had tried to warn Ngrum, when the leader had announced he would go after Krrsh. But Wrna was wise enough to do it away from the others.


    ¡°Outcast cannot survive. Ngrum stronger, Ngrum pissed on Krrsh. It is over. Stay.¡±


    Ngrum had casually backhanded Wrna, then, knocking the old ghoul to the sand.


    ¡°Old one eats. Be happy. No question.¡±


    Wrna had wiped the blood from his muzzle, but had not risen from the sand. One like Ngrum wanted to see others with less power. Yes. He tried again. For the good of the pack.


    ¡°Ngrum is angry because of the water horses. Now Ngrum wants to hunt Krrsh. Ghouls do not hunt. It is forbidden, pack leader.¡±


    Even Ngrum took pause at this.


    ¡°Not hunt. Look. If I find, I kill.¡± Then Ngrum was loping away towards the river.


    Wrna had shaken his head. The gods would not be fooled by changing a word. But Ngrum had never been clever, and had always been confident.


    Now a night had passed, and day had arrived, and Ngrum had not returned.


    Wrna hoped that Ngrum would return with the next night, having not found Krrsh. He hoped more that Krrsh would return, having killed Ngrum. But he did not think that likely, no.


    He hoped either would return before trouble found the pack. Because Wrna felt in his old bones that trouble was loping across the sands towards them. And Wrna was seldom wrong.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-One

    With the ghoul lying on the tunnel floor, sliding towards death, Anomus found himself faced with a choice ¨C attempt to heal the creature without claiming it, or claim it without its permission. The choice was no real choice at all, he felt; he wasn¡¯t even sure he could affect physical change in the creature without claiming it. And even if he was able to, he doubted he could do so with the speed and precision necessary to make a difference. And so he reached in, having previously inserted his consciousness into the ghoul, and pressed his will upon it.


    Only to find that he could not, in fact, do so. It was as if he were trying to grasp air. He could ¡®see¡¯ the ghoul in its entirety, down to the level of its life code, but he could not claim it.


    He had no time to wonder why. Not if the ghoul was to live. He could only accept the fact, and move on to another life-saving attempt.


    He could not command the ravaged flesh to heal. But he had some small, if costly, ability to move matter, and the finest grasp of the affected organs. He could also recreate any matter he had claimed ¨C he had claimed no ghoul flesh, but he had claimed human flesh, and they were not dissimilar. Anomus could alter the human flesh he created to match the particulars of the dying creature¡¯s body, but it would not be quick. He could see exactly what was wrong, and what must be done to stave off death. He simply did not know if he could do what was necessary in time.


    All he could do was try.


    The most important measure he had to take was to staunch the bleeding. He dove his consciousness into the ghoul¡¯s body and began to knit back together the largest severed vein, creating modified human tissue to do so. It worked, or was starting to work, and so he began the process in a dozen other places that he judged most needed to be healed, were the ghoul to have any chance.


    In less than a minute, he knew he could not do enough, not in time. He needed something to keep all the various organs from leaking away while he repaired them, infinitesimal bandages of a sort. And he had nothing.


    No. He had one thing. The spirit tendrils.


    He had modified them once to expand and contract, to act as muscles and ligaments for his failed skeleton. He believed it was possible to modify them again, to act as a sort of barrier. They could bind up all the wounds, great and small, and give his modified human flesh time to grow and heal. As soon as the thought occurred to him, he set to work.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh woke. He was lying on his back in the tunnel. At first he could not remember how he had gotten there, and then suddenly Ngrum¡¯s silently snarling face rose up in his memory, and he remembered all.


    Gently, he reached down to his belly, feeling for loops of his guts. All he felt was fur and scar. He breathed a sigh of relief and tried to rise. He found he was too dizzy, too weak to do so easily.


    ¡°Rest,¡± said Builder. ¡°You will not die, but you are not completely healed.¡±


    ¡°Builder save Krrsh,¡± he breathed.


    ¡°Barely. It was a very close thing.¡±


    ¡°Is good. Builder good.¡±


    ¡°My flies showed me what happened,¡± Builder said, ignoring what passed for effusive praise, for a ghoul. ¡°Another of your kind tried to kill you.¡±


    ¡°Ngrum. He hate Krrsh, yes.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Ngrum make Krrsh Outcast. But Krrsh trick Ngrum, make Ngrum look stupid.¡±


    ¡°He made you an outcast? He was your ruler?¡±


    ¡°Ngrum pack leader. Now Ngrum dead.¡± Krrsh shrugged, then sat up and leaned against the tunnel wall.


    ¡°So now you are the pack leader?¡±


    Krrsh thought about that. No one saw Krrsh kill Ngrum. Not good. But Krrsh could take his head and show Ironclaws. Yes. That would be good. Still, another could challenge Krrsh. And Krrsh could not fight right now. Not strong.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± was all he said.


    ¡°How many are in your pack?¡± asked Builder.


    ¡°Too many,¡± Krrsh grunted. ¡°Four hands of claws. More pups coming. And then Men will come, or food will go. And then Ironclaws will run, or die. Or run and die.¡±


    ¡°Can you explain that?¡±


    Krrsh rolled his eyes, and spoke as to a pup. ¡°Not safe, so many ghouls in one pack. No shelter. Must move to feed. Men see. Men kill. Pack should split, can find food better. Can hide better.¡± Builder really was not clever.


    Builder was silent for a moment. Then, ¡°Have you thought about my offer?¡±


    ¡°Lift curse? No more Law? Yes, Krrsh think much, before Ngrum attack. Can do or not?¡±


    ¡°I believe I can make it so you are able to eat anything and keep your intelligence, not just humans, and not just carrion. I can lift your ¡®curse¡¯. But the law about not hunting, not eating what you kill ¨C there is nothing written in your body preventing you from doing those things, Krrsh. You must choose either to continue to obey it, or to break it. That must be your decision.¡±


    Krrsh thought about that. It was the Law all ghouls followed, and always had. But if Builder could change ghouls, make the curse go away, would they still be ghoul? And if they were no longer ghoul, did they have to follow ghoul Law? It was something he would think about. But there was something else he wanted to know first.


    ¡°You save Krrsh, Builder. You say can change Krrsh, take curse away. What Builder want?¡±


    ¡°As I said before, I have an enemy I wish to kill. You and yours could help me to do that. In return, I could help you with many things, not just lifting your curse.¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°How help?¡±


    ¡°Now, your kind roam the desert, searching for carrion. It is dangerous.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°You could build a home here, safe underground. Or rather, I could build one for you.¡±


    ¡°But where get food? Builder has much food, yes, but will not last.¡±


    ¡°I can make more for you. Better, I can show you how to raise your own.¡±


    ¡°Like Men?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Perhaps not exactly like. Men do not raise crops or livestock underground. But very like humans, yes.¡±


    ¡°You do that, so it means¡­ you want to be pack leader.¡±


    ¡°No. I do not wish to tell the ghouls what to do. Your lives are your own. I only want you to help me kill my enemy. That is the bargain I wish to strike.¡± Builder was silent for a moment. ¡°Humans have many kinds of leaders, not just a pack leader. Each leader leads for different reasons. I suppose you might say I wish to be the war leader of your pack.¡±


    Krrsh scratched at his ear. ¡°What is war?¡±


    Builder sighed. ¡°War will take some time to explain, I think.¡±


    Krrsh shrugged. ¡°Krrsh not go anywhere.¡±


    ¡°Krrsh, humans don¡¯t just kill ghouls. They kill each other, and quite often. When they do it in large numbers, it is called war. And I am at war with the leader of humans. The emperor.¡±


    ¡°Emperor is pack leader for Men?¡±


    ¡°I suppose you could say that, yes.¡±


    ¡°So Builder wants to be pack leader for Men?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then kill for what?¡±


    ¡°All the food here, and the food across the river ¨C they were¡­ my pack, Krrsh. The emperor killed my pack. And now I will kill him. I believe you and your kind can help.¡±


    Krrsh considered this. Builder was strange. Builder was not Man, but said his pack had been Men. And he wanted to kill pack leader of Men. But he did not want to be pack leader of Men. Or ghouls.


    Builder was very strange, yes. But Builder was not bad. Builder helped. Builder could lift curse. Builder could teach ghouls how to be more like Men. Krrsh felt a certain unease at that. And a strange thrill.


    ¡°Builder.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°Do it.¡±


    After a moment, Builder said ¡°It is done.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had labored over the severely injured ghoul for hours, but once the spirit tendrils had stabilized the creature, he had known it would not be in vain. The ghoul would survive. When that concern had been dispelled, Anomus had turned to wondering exactly what had happened, and more importantly to him, whether it was safe to reopen the tunnel entrance. He did not like being cut off from the source of much of his mana. So he turned to his spies for an answer, to see what they had seen.


    The answer, as it usually was, was not much that was of interest to anyone not a fly.


    All of the flies that had returned, save one, were of the group that had exited via the Well¡¯s cap. They confirmed for him that there was a pack of ghouls feeding from the mass burial pit across the river. One had witnessed a solitary ghoul crossing the river, but he did not think it was Krrsh.


    The single fly that had returned after exiting the Tomb via the tunnel gave him a good idea what had happened. It had spied a ghoul, definitely not Krrsh, making a burrow in the sand near the tunnel¡¯s entrance. Then, quite some time later, it had witnessed Krrsh and the other ghoul fighting. Then it had stumbled onto the entrance to the Tomb at the top of the Well, and so reported to him.


    ¡°You were ambushed by your own kind, my friend,¡± Anomus said to the sleeping ghoul. ¡°I wonder what that was about.¡± In any case, Anomus saw no reason to keep the tunnel closed any longer. He needed the mana that flowed through it, and saw no great threat to him or the ghoul in reopening it. If Krrsh¡¯s attacker entered, Anomus was confident he could deal with it.


    Once he had dissolved the barrier at the tunnel¡¯s mouth, his other flies began to return, and eventually he was able to piece together the entire fight. It had been quick, and stunningly brutal.


    Ghouls were vicious fighters, that much became clear to him. Their natural armament needed no augmentation in close combat. But their flesh was just as vulnerable as a human¡¯s. If he were able to utilize them as soldiers, he would need to furnish them with armor. And he believed that saving Krrsh from death would go some way towards convincing the ghoul to make common cause with him.


    He still wondered why he had not been able to enforce his will upon the unconscious creature. He had done so without issue to the various other living things that were now under his control. The only real, material difference that he could think of was the fact that the ghoul possessed sentience. Was there some stricture that forbade him from making slaves of sentient creatures? It was the only possibility that occurred to him.


    Not for the first time, he¡¯d wished that the Faceless One had explained more ¨C or anything, really. But once He had imparted the method of creating mana stones, He had disappeared without a word, not giving Anomus the chance to query Him.


    Well. The situation was as it was. Anomus had turned his attention to transporting the last of the bones to the catacombs, which he accomplished a little while before dawn. Then, like the recuperating ghoul, he too had gone down into his slumber.


    The ghoul had slept through the day and into the next night, awaking a few hours after the setting of the sun. And then they had begun their conversation.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh blinked. ¡°Done?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Krrsh feel nothing.¡±


    ¡°There was nothing to feel. Inside your head, past the bone of the skull, are many things, many wonders, but no way to feel pain or touch or hot or cold.¡±


    Krrsh shrugged. He felt many things when he thought too much, none of them very fun. ¡°If Builder say. Curse really gone?¡±


    ¡°Yes. No matter how hungry you get, you will not become less intelligent. And you do not have to eat the carrion of men, if you choose not to. The¡­ curse made you need human flesh to be able to think well, it was your body¡¯s inability to create certain substances. You had to get them from human flesh.¡±


    Krrsh had no idea what Builder was talking about. Krrsh didn¡¯t really care. No more curse, that was what Krrsh cared about. And he had not died.


    ¡°But still should feel different,¡± Krrsh muttered, poking at his head with a claw.


    Builder sighed. ¡°Rest, Krrsh. Eat. Heal. And then go and gather your people. When you bring them here, I will lift the curse from them as well.¡±


    ¡°What Builder do now?¡± Krrsh asked.


    ¡°I must prepare a living space for your pack.¡±


    Krrsh grunted. Then went to eat. Then, when his belly was full, he curled up in his burrow. He was tired, yes. He closed his eyes. But he could not sleep. Too much had happened, and too many thoughts tumbled and rolled and wrestled in his head, whatever Builder said about brains. Ngrum, the pack, Builder, the curse¡­


    The curse.


    No more curse.


    The curse made ghoul¡­ ghoul. Yes? Yes. Krrsh turned the idea around and around, and thought that it was true. So Krrsh was ghoul no more.


    But what was he now, then?


    Something else. That was all he knew. Something like the ghouls before the bad leader did what she did, maybe.


    Something more like Men.


    And what did he know about Men? Not very much. They tasted good. They made burrows above ground. They walked in the day, and at night they made fire to see, because their eyes were weak in the dark. They put their food in the fire, too. And ate things¡­ not meat. Also meat, but also not meat.


    They made tools and used tools. They did not have claws, or only pitiful claws, so they made claws, for holding and¡­ throwing, flying, to cut, to pierce.


    They made second skins, much harder than their real skin, or ghoul skin, to protect themselves.


    They put their dead in stone boxes, or burned them. Or sometimes just put them in the ground.


    They killed ghouls.


    ¡°Builder,¡± Krrsh murmured.


    ¡°Yes, Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°Why Men kill ghoul?¡±


    ¡°Because you eat their dead.¡±


    ¡°But dead is dead. Why they care?¡±


    ¡°They care for many reasons. Some believe the body is important in the afterlife. Some simply do not wish to see their loved ones become food, even if they are dead. Most believe the dead should be shown respect. Eating them is very disrespectful.¡±


    ¡°But dead is dead. Food is food.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. But humans will never accept the eating of their dead. They will always seek to kill anything that tries to do so.¡±


    Krrsh thought about that. ¡°The curse very bad, then. Very heavy.¡±


    ¡°Yes. It was. To survive, you had to do things that made you a hated enemy of humans.¡±


    ¡°If ghoul no more eat Man flesh, Men stop killing ghoul?¡±


    Builder was silent for a time. When he answered, his voice sounded uncertain.


    ¡°Perhaps. Some day. But not soon. Not for a very long time if ever, I think. To men, you might always be monsters.¡±


    ¡°Krrsh not know ¡®monsters.¡¯¡±


    ¡°It means bad ¨C not only for what you do, but for what you are. Just for being alive.¡±


    Krrsh growled softly. ¡°That part of curse Builder cannot take away.¡± It was not a question.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Two

    Anomus resisted the day-torpor in order to make progress on the living quarters of the ghouls. While he was not quite as sharp, as clear-headed in the day, he was still more than able to design and begin implementing such a project. In fact, he found that he was eager to do so. The Faceless One called him Architect, and so he was. He took great pleasure in such tasks, and always had. Dying had not changed that.


    He was not content to simply carve out a number of burrows for the pack. Monsters they might be, but if they were, it was through no fault of their own. And once their debilitating condition was ameliorated, they had every chance of climbing towards a higher culture, a greater civilization. Anomus knew more than most ¨C perhaps more than anyone ¨C that architecture, that the physical space a person inhabited could have deep effects on the emotions and personalities of its inhabitants.


    He did not intend for the ghouls to carry around the mentalities of cave-dwellers, if he could help it. And he could.


    Form predicated function. The function of what he intended to build was much more than just to house his new allies ¨C it was to uplift them from their savagery. They higher they could climb, the more useful they would be to him, after all. How far they could advance before his confrontation with the emperor was highly questionable, it was true. But Anomus was still human enough, or rather humane enough, to wish the creatures well even after his use for them was at an end. To his mind, setting the ghouls on the path to recovering what they could of their former status was what his part of their bargain entailed, and he would not short-change them.


    With all of this in mind, Anomus began to shape and hollow out claimed stone beneath the catacombs.


    What he had seen of ghouls suggested they were by nature hunched, skulking creatures ¨C but that was learned behavior. Nothing in their physiognomy forced them to walk crouched. They could stand as tall and straight as any human, if they so chose. To Anomus¡¯s mind, the physical carriage of an individual often indicated their mental state. He also believed that it could influence that state. Why else would soldiers be trained, often painfully, to stand tall rather than slouch?


    Anomus believed architecture could entice, where the brutal methods of martial training demanded. Accordingly, he built for the ghouls as if they were still a proud race, rather than a fallen one.


    He started with a central, cylindrical communal space, a hundred feet wide and fifty tall. Then he further modified it to include a wide stone ramp that spiraled up from this central chamber¡¯s floor to the ceiling, where he intended to connect it to the rest of the Tomb via the catacombs, as well as the tunnel that led out into the desert. He also made the central chamber¡¯s ceiling into a dome. He had further plans for the dome, if he could secure the proper materials.


    Along the walls of the central chamber, at floor level, he began to rough out several passageways. He did the same along the sloping incline of the ramp. Some would become personal dwellings, while others would be used, in time, as spaces for things he suspected the ghouls currently had no notion of or need for. Spaces like kitchens, nurseries, storage rooms and baths ¨C the last assuming he could solve his limited water issue. In time, he hoped he could provide them with a space to raise livestock, if he could find a creature they were content to breed, and one that he was able to alter sufficiently to thrive underground.


    Anomus was doing far more than creating a living space for a pack of ghouls. He was forming the seed of a civilization. It was the most content he had been since his death.


    No room he constructed had a ceiling less than twenty feet high. No wall was left rough or unfinished; every surface was smooth to the touch. At the same time, Anomus did not wish to merely ape human designs, and indeed he was not limited to human construction techniques. He rounded every corner, giving each space a somewhat organic feel.


    But he did not include any adornment in the new ghoul home, save one thing. He did not want to force upon them his notions of art or beauty ¨C he hoped they would, in time, develop their own aesthetics. The single exception he allowed himself was a frieze on the common room¡¯s wall. It was of a ghoul, twenty feet tall, and this ghoul stood tall, back straight. Anomus spent extra care in giving its expression a strong suggestion of both intelligence and resolve. And contrary to the aesthetics of the empire, Anomus did not depict the jackal-headed creature in profile. It looked forward, directly at any who looked at it through a trick of perspective.


    This is who you are, it said. Or at least that was what Anomus hoped it would impart.


    He dressed it in a shendyt, belted and pleated. That was the simple, common dress that preserved a man¡¯s modesty in the empire.


    He gave this idealized ghoul claws of iron in place of stone. Krrsh had said that the pack he had been outcast from, and would soon endeavor to become leader of, called themselves the Ironclaws; Anomus wanted them to identify with this representation of what they could be.


    He would have liked to include a female ghoul as well, but he had not seen enough of the creatures to accurately depict one. Too, he worried that they would be reminded of the leader whose actions had brought them low.


    So much had Anomus accomplished when night returned and Krrsh awoke once more.


    ~ ~ ~


    Krrsh woke clear-eyed and feeling good. Very good. Healthy, strong. And knowing exactly what he would do that night. Yes.


    He would take Ngrum¡¯s head, swim across the river, and throw it down on the sand in front of the Ironclaws. Tell them he was pack leader. And then see if he had to fight for it.


    Krrsh didn¡¯t know and didn¡¯t try to guess who among the Ironclaws would fight him. Krrsh was strong and fierce. If challenged, he would win. Ngrum had been cunning, Ngrum was dead, and no other Ironclaw was cunning like Ngrum.


    If all the Ironclaws attacked him, then yes, Krrsh would lose. And die. And the whole pack would probably attack an Outcast, especially if that Outcast had already¡­ done things to the pack. Like return to the pack¡¯s territory to take a Man tool. And cause them to be attacked by water horses.


    But that was why he would bring Ngrum¡¯s head. Krrsh was clever, after all.


    He rose, and stretched, and went to the place with no bones. He picked at a few morsels of meat, but noted that soon there would be very little meat, and more... meat-mud. The place with no bones also had no Burning Eye to dry the meat, and no wind either. Krrsh shrugged. Ghouls could drink the meat-mud as easily as they could chew on dried meat. But it was less tasty. And more maggoty. Which wasn¡¯t necessarily a bad thing. Eating maggots or other small bugs didn¡¯t count as breaking the Law, as long as ghouls did not hunt them to eat. If they were in the meat, then they were in the meat. It didn¡¯t matter. Sometimes it was a nice change. Krrsh liked them better than eating the skin and fur of lesser carrion, anyway. They wriggled unpleasantly and didn¡¯t taste like much of anything except a slight bitterness, but they also didn¡¯t get stuck in his throat like fur did.


    When Krrsh had broken his fast, he walked up the tunnel towards the desert.


    ¡°It¡¯s time, then?¡± Builder asked.


    Krrsh nodded and grunted his assent. ¡°Get Ngrum¡¯s head, then go to Ironclaws.¡±


    ¡°Will you return tonight?¡±


    Krrsh considered. ¡°Maybe? Maybe die. Maybe become pack leader. Maybe mate tonight.¡± It was tradition, when a new pack leader was chosen, that he or she chose a mate. And, ghouls being straightforward about things, they rarely forbore to immediately do the things that mates did, once a mating pair had formed. Krrsh was strong and fierce, but Krrsh had never mated. He knew who he would choose, though, if he became pack leader ¨C Chrrk. Her fur was nearly black, and shone in the moonlight, and her eyes were wide and shone too, like the moon reflected in the river. And she had very few lice.


    And her claws were very sharp, yes ¨C as every ghoul who had sought to mate with her had found out, even Ngrum.


    Krrsh would choose Chrrk if he could. But that did not mean she had to choose him. He paused in the tunnel, remembering all the times Chrrk had told Grik ¡®no¡¯ with those claws, and what Grik¡¯s face looked like because of it.


    Maybe he would wait to choose a mate. Until he thought Chrrk might say yes. Or until he thought she would definitely say yes.


    ¡°Well,¡± said Builder, ¡°I wish you luck. And when you return, I will have a place for your pack. Or the beginnings of one.¡±


    ¡°Is good, Builder.¡±


    When Krrsh exited the tunnel, he noticed that many of the large blue flies also flew out, but thought nothing of it. He immediately went to Ngrum¡¯s corpse and, with his sharp claws, tore at the meat of the already open throat until the bones of the spine were exposed. With effort, he broke them so that they were no longer attached to the rest of the body, and then finished tearing at the meat of the neck.


    It was the work of less than a minute. Ghouls were experts at the dismemberment of corpses, after all.


    Krrsh got a firm grasp on Ngrum¡¯s head, digging the claws of one hand into the remaining meat of the neck, and loped north away from the cliff and then towards the river.


    He hoped that Ngrum¡¯s blood in the water would not attract crocodiles, but reminded himself that he was clever and lucky. Being eaten by a crocodile just before he became pack leader would be the opposite of clever and lucky. So it would not happen. Probably not. But still, he swam across the river as quick as he was able. Just in case.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The current bore him even further north from the pack¡¯s territory, the place of death, which was Krrsh¡¯s intent. He wanted to be able to approach unnoticed, to see how the pack was reacting to Ngrum having gone missing. To see what they did without a pack leader watching them, ordering them. He crept, silent and unnoticed upon them, and discovered that the answer was¡­ nothing much.


    Ghouls were not the most disciplined of creatures at the best of times. When not actively searching for sustenance, at least. But the Ironclaws, sitting on top of so much food and without Ngrum¡¯s bark to heed, had abandoned even the most basic precautions. No one kept watch, except old Wrna. They lazed, they mated, they slept, they ate, they groomed each other, they played with pups ¨C as if there were no threats present in the desert. As if their pack leader had not gone missing. Krrsh gave a low growl and shook his head. If it weren¡¯t for Old Wrna, anything at all could come upon them, and they would not know until it was too late. And Old Wrna had neither sharp eyes, nor sharp ears, nor sharp nose.


    Krrsh crept up on the old ghoul, who was sitting on the sand a little distance from the main camp. It was not difficult to do. Wrna was paying more attention to the sand at his feet than anything else. A ghoul¡¯s face was not as full of expression as a Man¡¯s, but it was still plain to see that Wrna was unhappy, by the set of his shoulders and the slumping of his back.


    ¡°Old one look sad,¡± Krrsh said quietly, and Wrna nearly jumped out of his fur at the sound.


    ¡°Krrsh,¡± said Wrna, scowling. ¡°Still bad. Scare old Wrna, yes.¡±


    Krrsh shrugged and squatted down next to the old ghoul. ¡°Should look out at desert. Not in at¡­ stupid.¡±


    It was Wrna¡¯s turn to shrug. ¡°No pack leader, no¡­ purpose. Ngrum gone.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Krrsh replied, and held up the head.


    Wrna squinted at it, recognized Ngrum, and then immediately turned his own head to the side, baring his neck.


    ¡°Pack leader,¡± he murmured.


    Krrsh leaned forward and gave Wrna¡¯s neck a light squeeze with his powerful jaws. Enough to be felt, but nothing like enough to hurt. It was a sign of respect towards the old ghoul, just as Wrna had given him the sign of submission.


    ¡°What will Krrsh do now?¡± Wrna asked, and Krrsh shrugged.


    ¡°Show head. Say I am pack leader. Ask for challenger. See how after that.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Wrna replied. ¡®Must talk, pack leader. Soon. Tonight. If Krrsh not die.¡±


    Krrsh grunted his assent. ¡°First, Krrsh has a question, old one. Big question. Very big.¡±


    Wrna bobbed his muzzle, which was the ghoulish way of inviting someone to continue talking.


    ¡°Wrna think Chrrk will mate with Krrsh or not?¡±


    Wrna rolled his old, rheumy eyes.


    Krrsh bared his teeth in a ghoulish grin and stood. ¡°Stay here, old one,¡± he said, then walked forward towards the rest of the pack.


    As soon as he began to be noticed, he tossed Ngrum¡¯s head towards the Ironclaws. It bounced twice and then rolled through the sand a little distance, drawing every eye. When it came to rest, he made his announcement.


    ¡°Ngrum fought Krrsh. Ngrum died. Krrsh is pack leader. Any ghoul also want to die, come here.¡±


    The only one to move was stupid, ugly, stubborn Grik. The ghoul was shorter than Krrsh, but his chest was more broad. And Grik could take much pain. Krrsh did not want to fight him.


    ¡°Ngrum piss on Krrsh,¡± Grik growled. ¡°How to follow piss-Outcast?¡±


    Krrsh bared his teeth at Grik. It was not a smile. ¡°One thing take Ngrum¡¯s piss smell away. Grik know what?¡±


    Grik frowned at the question, confused. ¡°Water?¡± he finally guessed, and the whuffing sound of laughing ghouls suddenly surrounded him.


    ¡°Blood,¡± replied Krrsh. ¡°Blood of Ngrum. Grik sit down now. Is there another?¡±


    Grik sat, or rather was forced to sit by the ghouls around him. He was still confused. He had lost. He could sense that. But he didn¡¯t understand how he had lost. They hadn¡¯t even fought.


    ~ ~ ~


    There were no other challengers. All the Ironclaws bared their necks to Krrsh. Chrrk gave him a long, serious look before she bared her long, soft-furred neck to him. Krrsh did not know what that meant. Grik bared his neck, confusion still dominating his face. Several of the pups, held up by their mothers to receive their bite, used Krrsh¡¯s muzzle to sharpen their still-soft claws. Some were softer than others.


    Next would come choosing of mate. That was ghoul way. But Chrrk was still staring at Krrsh in a strange way. Not happy. Not not-happy. Just staring. Krrsh looked at her claws, reminding himself how sharp they were. And his muzzle still stung from pups. If Chrrk decided to use her claws¡­


    ¡°Must talk, pack leader,¡± Wrna said to him, rescuing him from indecision.


    ¡°Wrna,¡± Krrsh replied, breaking eye contact with Chrrk, with not a little relief. ¡°What say?¡±


    ¡°Krrsh not like Ngrum. From pup, Krrsh bad. But smart. Krrsh listen when Wrna tell things. Ngrum never listen, so Wrna stop telling.¡±


    Krrsh bobbed his head, telling Wrna to continue.


    ¡°Wrna tell Krrsh now: Bad thing coming.¡±


    ¡°What bad thing?¡±


    ¡°Wrna not know.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°Soon. Wrna not know when, only soon.¡±


    ¡°How Wrna know?¡±


    The old ghoul scratched at his armpit. ¡°Wrna just know. Wrna always know. Since pup.¡±


    Krrsh thought about that. Wrna had always known much, but Krrsh thought that was just because he was old, and had seen much. He had never heard Wrna warn of danger without explaining what the danger was. He said as much to the old ghoul.


    Wrna shrugged again. ¡°Said already. Ngrum no listen, so Wrna no say. Got tired of Ngrum hitting, yes.¡±


    It was a very ghoul way to think. Krrsh did not doubt Wrna. But did he believe Wrna could tell when bad things were coming? Wrna was old. Old ghouls sometimes thought and said cannot things. And there was no ghoul older than Wrna.


    ¡°Told Ngrum not to hunt Krrsh,¡± Wrna said. ¡°Ngrum no listen. Last time Ngrum no listen.¡±


    Krrsh nodded. It was acknowledgement that he had heard, not necessarily agreement with Wrna¡¯s warning.


    He looked around at the pack. Now that the excitement of a new pack leader was done, they had gone back to doing what they had been at before, which was essentially nothing. Except for Chrrk. She was still staring at Krrsh. And he still did not know why.


    Krrsh was strong, and fierce, and clever, and lucky. He decided to be brave. He waved Chrrk over to where he and Wrna squatted on the sand. Chrrk stood and crossed to them, graceful but¡­ stiff.


    ¡°Chrrk,¡± Krrsh said.


    ¡°Pack leader,¡± she replied, her tone betraying no emotion. She obviously expected him to say he wanted her as mate. But that was not what Krrsh had in mind.


    ¡°Wrna say bad thing coming. Tell Krrsh what Chrrk think Ironclaws do now.¡±


    Chrrk¡¯s wide, enticing eyes grew wider. But she shook her head.


    ¡°Pack leader will decide.¡±


    ¡°Yes. But pack leader will hear Chrrk first.¡±


    Chrrk¡¯s eyes searched his. Krrsh wished he could hear what she thought. Finally she came to some kind of decision, and some of the stiffness in her frame relaxed.


    ¡°Chrrk thinks pack leader should listen to Old Wrna.¡±


    Krrsh nodded. ¡°Why?¡± He wanted to know what she thought, but he also wanted to know why she thought it.


    ¡°If Wrna right, Ironclaws ready for bad thing that happens. If Wrna wrong, Ironclaws ready for bad thing that doesn¡¯t happen.¡± Chrrk shrugged. ¡°Ready is better than not ready.¡±


    Krrsh could find no fault with her thinking. He stood and gave a short howl that carried across the place of death, the pack leader¡¯s call for attention. All activity stopped, save for the tumbling struggles of pups.


    ¡°Pack in danger.¡±


    ¡°What danger?¡± Nchik asked, gathering her pups to her.


    ¡°Not sure yet. Krrsh tell pack what to do now. Listen.¡±


    Krrsh¡¯s instructions were not complicated, but still caused confusion. They were not like anything ghouls ever did when danger threatened. But then, Krrsh was not like any other ghoul. He never had been, really. And now he was even less so.


    ~ ~ ~


    Just before noon on the fifth day of their journey, Nighteyes¡¯ Fifty had nearly reached the Tomb. It lay perhaps three miles ahead. Nighteyes gave two signals, and the Fifty dismounted. Five unstringed their bows and wrapped their quivers well in oilcloth, in preparation for swimming across the river. It was the work of a few moments. They would approach the Tomb from the west. Another five ran eastward in the relaxed, ground-eating jog that was one of the hallmarks of the Eternal Guard. They were lost to view before they changed course to the south, and the Tomb.


    When both groups had disappeared on their scouting mission, Nighteyes waited an hour, and then ordered the rest of the Fifty to continue forward on foot, leading the horses at a slow walk. In times of war, or in hostile country, he would not have moved at all until hearing back from the two scout groups. Both would report back before the main force had the Tomb in sight.


    If they did not, well, that was a report of another kind, and appropriate measures would be taken.


    The Targus Cliff was a hazy, distant blur when the eastern scouting group returned.


    ¡°Report,¡± Nighteyes signed, and Thorn made a quick bob with his head.


    ¡°One body. Corpse eater. Beheaded.¡±


    Nighteyes frowned. Ghouls were rare and unpleasant, but not much of a threat. Killing them or driving them off with bowshot was the recommended course. They could cause problems if it came to close-in fighting. And where one ghoul was, there would be others. He had never seen a pack that numbered more than eight or so, though, and was not concerned. He was concerned about whatever had decapitated the corpse eater his scouts had found.


    ¡°What killed it?¡± he signed.


    ¡°Unclear. But the wound was ragged. Probably not sword-stroke.¡±


    ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Cave entrance near the corpse.¡±


    Nighteyes knew everything there was to know about the Tomb and its environs. He had been briefed by Little Tooth, one of the Greatest of Two Hundred that had been stationed there for a decade. Little Tooth had drawn a map of the environs and the Tomb and given it to him.


    There should be no cave, or anything else save sand and rock in the eastern environs of the Tomb.


    Nighteyes signaled the men to rejoin the main force, and called a halt. He would wait for the western scouts to report before proceeding. The situation at the Tomb was apparently not what he had expected.


    Hummingbird walked his horse up next to Nighteyes. ¡°Told you they should have left a guard force,¡± he signed.


    Nighteyes made a grunt. ¡°Telling me is pointless. I don¡¯t make those kinds of decisions, fool.¡±


    ¡°Not pointless. It makes me feel better.¡± Hummingbird smiled.


    ¡°Go away before I stab you.¡±


    Hummingbird bobbed his head. ¡°Yes, Greatest of Fifty.¡±


    Nearly half an hour passed before the second scouting group returned, wet from their crossing and recrossing of the river. Shiver, their leader, got right to the point.


    ¡°Ghoul sign. Tracks everywhere. Lots of burrows.¡±


    ¡°How many?¡±


    ¡°Hard to make an exact count. There¡¯s a mass grave and some may be burrowing directly in it. But I counted at least a dozen burrows on the periphery.¡± The corpse eaters burrowed in the sand to escape the light of day, but they rarely burrowed so deep that the telltale lumps could not be spotted by those who knew to look.


    Nighteyes knew exactly where the workmen¡¯s grave was, so there was no need to ask Shiver to sketch out the terrain.


    ¡°What of the Tomb itself?¡±


    ¡°The doors are closed and sealed. Nothing seems amiss.¡±


    ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°Flies.¡±


    ¡°What about flies?¡± They were a fact of life in the desert, and more so around corpses.


    Shiver shook his head. ¡°Biggest fucking flies I¡¯ve ever seen in my life. Huge blue fucks.¡±


    ¡°How big?¡±


    Shiver put his two fists together.


    Nighteyes almost asked if the man were joking. But Eternal Guard did not, as a rule, make jokes. Except Hummingbird. But not even he would do so in such a situation.


    Giant blue flies, however improbable, were not a threat. Corpse eaters were. Nighteyes had a decision to make.


    He could order an immediate attack. The monsters were at their most vulnerable in the day. Their vision was impaired by sunlight, and they had an instinctual fear, or hatred of the day. But rooting them out of their burrows meant close combat. Nighteyes had no doubt that his force would slaughter the scavengers, but even the slightest nick from their claws would fester, and in most instances kill. His Fifty carried no cure for wounds inflicted by the filthy, disease-bearing claws of a ghoul.


    His men waited patiently while he weighed their options. They knew as well as he the pros and cons of each of his choices.


    Nighteyes tested the wind. It was blowing steadily from the east, and not likely to change for hours. He made his decision and gave his orders. They crossed the river and then continued west across the desert before turning east-southeast a couple of hours before nightfall.


    They would be in position and waiting for the ghouls to rise from their burrows. They would cut the monsters down with arrow fire, at a safe distance. Once the nest was cleared, they could investigate this mysterious new cave without fear of their scent alerting the corpse eaters.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Three

    On the morning that Nighteyes¡¯ Fifty reached the Tomb, Orthus had gotten a somewhat mixed reaction from the fishermen who had saved him when he made his requests to their leader. One Thumb was amenable to dropping Orthus off at the capital ¨C it was on the way, after all. But waiting for Orthus for very long wasn¡¯t something he wanted to do.


    ¡°It¡¯s the tax collectors, y¡¯see,¡± One Thumb explained. ¡°Now the one at home is my cousin, and so long as he gets his cut and a little something to wet his whistle, he looks in that big basket over yon and all he sees is trash fish. But them collectors in the capital, they¡¯re different. They¡¯re not my cousins, for one. For two, they¡¯re known to go out and inspect an honest fisherman¡¯s boat if he lingers too long. More importantly, they¡¯re also known to inspect a dishonest fisherman¡¯s boat, and that concerns me, yes it does. And for three, they definitely aren¡¯t going to see trash fish if they take a peek. They¡¯re gon¡¯ see white crocs.¡±


    ¡°And tax you more?¡± Orthus guessed.


    ¡°Oh, no. They¡¯ll call soldiers and guardsmen and all sorts of I don¡¯t know what kind of people, and those people will lop off our heads faster than you can say ¡®this ain¡¯t my boat.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    ¡°Eh, white crocks are a little bit holy, y¡¯see. What¡¯s the word, Rash?¡±


    ¡°Sacred.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it! They¡¯re sacred. Sacred animals. Symbol of the river god and such.¡±


    ¡°But then why do you catch them?¡± Orthus asked.


    ¡°Well because some folks will pay lots and lots of money for ¡®em, of course. Why else?¡±


    ¡°What for?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like to ask, friend. I figure it¡¯s my business to catch ¡®em and my customers¡¯ business to pay for ¡®em, and beyond that it ain¡¯t polite to pry. But it¡¯s my understanding that eating white croc meat will get a man, uh, standing, if you get my meaning. And folks¡¯ll pay a lot for that, yes indeed.¡±


    Orthus slumped down on the rock he most often used as a stool and sighed. ¡°I understand why you wouldn¡¯t want to linger around the capital, then. In fact, it was extremely generous of you to offer to stop there at all.¡±


    One Thumb shrugged. ¡°You¡¯re a good sort. We¡¯re good sorts. Well, we¡¯re law-breakers and blasphemers and such, but we¡¯re happy to help if we can.¡±


    ¡°You cook good,¡± Rash supplied, and the others nodded or grunted in agreement.


    ¡°Can I think about it on the way, and let you know what I decide when we get to the capital?¡± Orthus asked.


    ¡°Of course you can!¡± C¡¯mon then, break camp you mangy lot. Time to get home!¡±


    Breaking camp, Orthus observed, consisted entirely of moving the many jars of alcohol from the Rock to the boats.


    ~ ~ ~


    In the sunset¡¯s orange light of that same day, with sails rigged and current strong, the boats of the kind, blaspheming fishermen had made very good time downriver. One Thumb had informed him that it would take three days, perhaps less, to reach the capital. Three days for Orthus to decide what his course of action should be.


    The simplest, safest course for him was simply to continue on with his new friends to their village. Myra was its name. Orthus had never heard of it, but then there were hundreds of small villages in the delta that no one had ever heard of, many because they didn¡¯t even have a name. The delta was a good place for a man to get lost in ¨C something that One Thumb had circumspectly pointed out to him early in their association. He did not know if he would like to become a fisherman. He had never been anything but a servant, and while he was used to long hours of toil, the toil he knew was of the indoor variety, for the most part. And many of his skills would be utterly useless in a place like Myra. Would a fishing village have any need for someone who could read and write? Who knew the proper dress and accoutrements for nearly every public occasion, from appearing in a court of law to appearing before the royal court? He thought not.


    But he could cook, and he could sew, and those were at least useful skills, if very patently the skills of a slave. He knew a little of the healing arts. Probably more than anyone in a small fishing village was likely to, at least. Orthus thought he could find or make a place for himself, at least to the extent that he would not be a burden on anyone.


    Or, he could risk all chance of safety by going to the capital, seeking out Anomus¡¯s family, and informing them of his death, and its cause. If the ip Garmas hadn¡¯t already been sanctioned for Anomus¡¯s blasphemy, that was. Orthus knew it was possible that they had. The emperor might well have had all Anomus¡¯s lands and wealth confiscated, or¡­ worse. The worship of old gods would definitely taint Anomus¡¯s entire family, if it had been made public. But the emperor would be free to take harsher measures against the ip Garma family, due to the fact that its head had been a blasphemer. More consequential measures.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    More fatal measures.


    If Anomus¡¯s wife and daughter still alive and healthy, then they might, too, wish to disappear. But then, if they had not been charged, if they had not been informed of the reason for Anomus¡¯s death, would it not be better for them to go on with their lives accepting whatever reason they had been given by the imperial court for Anomus¡¯s death?


    Orthus internal agonizing was interrupted by One Thumb¡¯s weighty hand on his shoulder.


    ¡°You¡¯re thinking heavy thoughts, friend Orthus,¡± the fisherman observed.


    Orthus smiled weakly in reply. ¡°Is it so obvious?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. The hand-wringing is the giveaway. That¡¯s why I keep a cup of something to drink in mine, most often. We¡¯re in a worrisome business, you see. And being worried is worse than being a little drunk. Or a lot drunk.¡±


    ¡°But doesn¡¯t being drunk so often make, uh, doing what you do more dangerous?¡±


    One thumb considered the hand that had given rise to his name. He nodded. ¡°It does, friend. That it does. But if I weren¡¯t drunk, would I be able to do what I do at all? There¡¯s a question I¡¯d prefer not to know the answer to.¡± One Thumb smiled, and Orthus gave him a weak grin in response. Then Tumi gave a low whistle from the boat¡¯s prow, and One Thumb was suddenly all business. He stood carefully and made his way forward to see what Tumi had spotted, barely rocking their narrow vessel as he went.


    After a moment, One Thumb let out a low whistle, then ordered the sail lowered and the oars run out.


    ¡°What is it?¡± asked Orthus.


    ¡°It¡¯s the imperial barge. Pull for the west bank, you scrofulous things.¡± One Thumb signaled the second boat to do the same as the crewmen heeded his order.


    ¡°The emperor?¡± Orthus exclaimed. Even he knew that when the emperor sailed the river, all other traffic cleared way, on pain of death.


    ¡°Don¡¯t know who¡¯s on it. Don¡¯t want to know who¡¯s on it. When the eagle flies, us mice do hide, yeah? We don¡¯t count feathers. That said, it looks like we¡¯ll be going nowhere for a while, so drinking is in order. Hand me that jar, would you?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because drinking is always in order when there¡¯s nothing else to do!¡±


    ¡°No, I mean why will we be here for a while?¡±


    ¡°Because the same wind and current that are speeding us towards hearth and home and disapproving, disappointed, hard-faced wives are making it difficult for that golden eyesore to go wherever it is going. Look closely.¡±


    Orthus did, and saw that the imperial barge, as well as the numerous ships that trailed it, were being towed upriver by what must have been hundreds of oxen plodding along the far bank.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be a while passing us, unless the wind shifts soon. Which it won¡¯t.¡± One Thumb unstopped the jar and took a hefty swig.


    ¡°You could help us row first, you know,¡± Tumi told him.


    ¡°I could,¡± acknowledge One Thumb. ¡°But then I¡¯d have to wait to drink. Rowing and drinking is tricky. You¡¯re liable to spill. But you¡¯ll learn, young Tumi. You¡¯ll learn.¡±


    Orthus listened to the banter of the fishermen with half an ear. His focus was on the imperial procession. For he had noticed something: Amidst all the shining gold, there was another kind of glare that intermittently caught his eye as the barge was rocked by wave and tow rope. The glare of sun on glass, rather than gold.


    ¡°They¡¯re moving the Concubine,¡± he said.


    ¡°What¡¯s that, friend?¡± One Thumb asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s not the emperor. Or maybe it¡¯s the emperor too, but they¡¯re taking the Concubine to the Tomb!¡±


    ¡°Eh, that¡¯s good I suppose,¡± One Thumb replied, clearly disinterested. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have left her out in the sun all those years anyway, if you ask me. It always seemed disrespectful. Don¡¯t go telling the emperor I said that, though.¡±


    Orthus barely heard him. His mind was working feverishly. If they were still going to inter the Concubine in the Tomb, then either they had chosen not to make Anomus¡¯s heresy public knowledge, or¡­ or¡­ they didn¡¯t know about Anomus¡¯s heresy. They¡¯d killed him and all the workmen for some other reason. In either case, it seemed very unlikely that the ip Garmas were in any sort of danger. Which meant that he had no reason to risk his freedom or his life to warn them. If they had been told a lie about Anomus¡¯s death, then he would let them believe it. It kept them safe.


    For the first time in what seemed like years, Orthus felt the weight of worry slip from his shoulders. He smiled, turned away from the imperial procession, and plucked the jar of alcohol from One Thumb¡¯s hands. One thumb had made deep inroads into its contents, but Orthus, never much of a drinker, managed to empty it before he lowered it.


    One Thumb regarded him with a raised eyebrow for a moment, and then turned to Tumi. ¡°You see? Our friend doesn¡¯t even know which end of an oar to hold, but he still knows what¡¯s important!¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Across the water, Greatest of Two Hundred Little Tooth stood at the starboard side of the imperial barge, staring intently at the two fishing boats that had dropped sail and were now rowing hard for the west bank of the river. The distance was great, for the Great River was wide, and the light did not favor clear sight. But Little Tooth was almost certain he had recognized one of the faces aboard the lead boat.


    He had spent a decade watching over the ten thousand workers. He had come to know all their faces. He would not have sworn he could recognize all of them instantly, but most of them, yes. But the face he had seen ¨C or believed he had seen ¨C did not belong to one of the workers. It had been the face of Anomus ip Garma¡¯s personal servant.


    The Architect had been the only one laboring on the Tomb to be allowed any contact with the outside world, and so the Eternal Guard had taken some extra measures to ensure that neither he nor his servant attempted to leave, especially in the period after the architect¡¯s son had perished. They had also been ordered never to interfere with or in any way upset the architect, and so their surveillance had been by necessity at arm¡¯s length. Neither had tried to leave, but the fact remained that Little Tooth knew the slave¡¯s face well.


    And now he was almost certain he had seen it aboard the distant fishing boat. Almost.


    If he had survived the execution of the Tomb¡¯s workers, he could carry the tale. And if he carried the tale, it would mean, at a minimum, the death of every Eternal Guardsman above the rank of Greatest of Five who had participated. He knew his emperor¡¯s mind, and methods.


    He signaled for his second, Acacia, who appeared by his side almost instantaneously.


    ¡°Note the two fishing boats on the far bank,¡± he signed.


    ¡°Yes, Greatest.¡±


    ¡°Once the sun is set, take a lighter with ten men and kill all aboard. Do not attract attention when you depart. Let none escape. Do not return until it is done. Do not speak of what you are to do, or what you have done once you have done it.¡±


    Acacia bowed his head and brought his fist to his chin, and then went to do Little Tooth¡¯s bidding.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Four

    The same night Krrsh was made pack leader, he led his pack away from the place of death for good. It took longer than he expected.


    Running away from potential danger was a very ghoul thing to do. Leaving a food source before being driven away was less of a ghoul thing, perhaps, but not unknown. But what Krrsh told the Ironclaws to do before they left was not something they had ever done. They couldn¡¯t see the point.


    ¡°Why make burrows for food?¡± Grik asked for the tenth time. ¡°Food no need burrow. Food is¡­ food.¡±


    ¡°Burrows not for food.¡± Krrsh explained once more. Not so much for Grik, who Krrsh suspected would never understand, as for the others, who at least had a chance to understand. If he repeated it enough times.


    ¡°Listen. Take food. Put in burrows, like ghoul. Cover with sand, like ghoul in burrow. Make many burrows like that, at least three claws of hands. Understand?¡±


    Grik nodded, but pounded at his ugly, scarred head while he nodded. ¡°Make burrows for food. But why, pack leader?¡±


    ¡°Because when bad thing comes, it see burrows, think ghouls sleeping here. Attack here. Maybe not chase.¡±


    ¡°But why not just run? Run is ghoul way. Burrows for food is not ghoul way.¡±


    Krrsh wanted to bite Grik. Instead, he confused Grik even more. ¡°Whatever ghouls do is ghoul way. We do this, it is ghoul way. If we not do this, not ghoul way. Pack leader says do. Now do.¡±


    Grik latched on to the last part, at least. He joined the others in creating false burrows, at least, even though his expression was still strained.


    ¡°Why pack leader do? ¡°Chrrk asked him quietly, suddenly appearing at his side. Or maybe she had been there for some time. Chrrk was quiet when she moved. Too quiet. ¡°Give Chrrk answer, not Grik answer.¡± By which he knew that she meant give a complete, rather than a simplified answer.


    ¡°Bad thing coming. What is bad thing?¡±


    ¡°Bad thing could be any thing,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Yes. But no. Storm is bad, but ghoul know what to do. Lion is bad, but ghoul know what to do. Krrsh think¡­ Wrna not talk about bad thing coming if it is storm, or lion.¡±


    ¡°So what is bad thing?¡± she asked him, her lovely, calm eyes intent on his.


    ¡°Men. Nothing more bad.¡± Krrsh knew his thinking was right on this. And he also knew that Builder had an enemy, and that enemy was a Man. The pack leader of men. And that Builder expected to fight Men. And that meant Men were coming.


    Chrrk gave a single nod. ¡°But why these burrows?¡± she asked, waving towards where the Ironclaws were dragging corpses out of the pit.


    ¡°Men see burrows, Men attack burrows.¡±


    ¡°But Men will find food in burrows, not ghoul. Then men will look more for ghoul.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Krrsh acknowledged. ¡°But first they sit and watch food burrows. Maybe for a long time. Maybe give up. Maybe give pack longer to go.¡±


    Chrrk looked at the pack, many of whom were arguing about how deep to put the food, or whether to put two food in one burrow to make it go faster and for less work.


    ¡°Running is faster,¡± she observed.


    Krrsh, staring at the squabbling pack, sighed. He could not say she was wrong.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°This is the place with no bones,¡± Krrsh told them nearly two hours later, standing in front of the tunnel¡¯s entrance. ¡°Inside is¡­ Builder. Not ghoul. Not man.¡±


    Wrna scratched at his gray muzzle. ¡°Not ghoul or man. Then what?¡±


    ¡°Krrsh not know what. Maybe Wrna know what. But Builder¡­ friend.¡± It was not a common word, for ghouls. ¡°Builder talk, but ghoul not see him. Ironclaws not scared, yes? Yes.¡± With that, Krrsh turned and entered the tunnel. The Ironclaws followed, but some of them were definitely scared.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus observed the ghoul pack as they entered the tunnel. There were eighteen adults ¨C ten male and eight female ¨C and six children. Or pups, rather. Four of the females were also with child.


    His first impression of them, as a group, was that they were not terribly impressive. Though he knew they were self-aware creatures, their postures and actions were bestial, more so than Krrsh¡¯s, by and large. Most were obviously frightened, though a few seemed unconcerned. Or were at least adept at hiding their fear. The one with its fur gray with age was one. The female whose fur was a dark brown that approached black was another. But of them all, only Krrsh moved with confidence. But Anomus supposed that was only to be expected. Krrsh was familiar with the surroundings, after all.


    Anomus decided to greet them. The adults, at least. It meant speaking simultaneously to eighteen individuals, but since the words were identical, it was not a difficult endeavor for him.


    ¡°Krrsh has returned to the Tomb with is pack. Congratulations, then, pack leader. And welcome, Ironclaws.¡±


    Most of the ghouls cowered and searched the tunnel for the speaker. Krrsh, of course, did neither.


    ¡°Builder. Ironclaws come, yes. And Krrsh pack leader.¡±


    ¡°I have prepared a place for you and your people. You will find the entrance to it were your borrow was. It leads down through the catacombs. Please ensure that your people do not disturb any of the bones there.¡± Anomus would have had to route the entrance far out of the way to avoid the catacombs. And he wished to see if the ghouls could be trusted to leave the bones alone. He would of course know instantly if any of the bones were disturbed, and could take whatever measures were appropriate. The bones were in no real danger.


    Krrsh took some time to consider what he had said. ¡°What means ¡®disturb?¡¯¡± he finally asked.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°Do not eat or touch any of the bones you see,¡± Builder explained.


    ¡°Ah.¡± Builder was strange about bones, yes. Krrsh knew it. Krrsh turned to his pack. ¡°We go down, pass many bones. No touching, no gnawing. You pups ¨C no play with bones, or pack leader will cut off your ears.¡± He gave the pups his fiercest glare.


    Several of them cowered back, ears flat. But one looked Krrsh in the eye, yawned, and farted.


    ¡°Rao like Krrsh when Krrsh pup,¡± Wrna observed. ¡°Very like Krrsh.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ bad,¡± Krrsh replied, remembering in quick succession some of the bad things he had done as a pup. Things like throwing scorpions on the pack leader. While the pack leader was mating. He shuddered.


    ¡°Wrna must watch Rao,¡± Krrsh declared. ¡°All the time.¡±


    ¡°Wrna need sleep.¡±


    ¡°Wrna old. Old sleep not much.¡± Krrsh turned to the pup in question, and gave his fiercest glare. He poked a claw into Rao¡¯s nose. ¡°Leave bones alone, you. Pack leader not joke.¡±


    Rao¡¯s mother clamped a hand over the pup¡¯s snout before he could clamp down on the pack leader¡¯s finger with his needle-sharp teeth. ¡°Yes, pack leader,¡± she said.


    ¡°Good. Follow now.¡±


    Krrsh led them the rest of the way down the tunnel, to the cave that Anomus had created for him previously. It had changed. Now it was the entrance to a spiraling stone staircase. Krrsh pointed to the place with no bones, just a few feet away. There wasn¡¯t much need to say anything about it. All of the ghouls had smelled the meat before they had even entered the tunnel.


    ¡°Hungry, eat. But later.¡±


    Krrsh descended the stairs, and the pack followed. Very quickly he reached the place of bones. He had never seen it before, and paused on the stairs to look. In the very dim light, he saw long stone hallways stretching out in four directions. In all the walls he saw whole skeletons. Many skeletons. Many, many bones.


    He had stopped to look at this place. But also for another reason.


    ¡°Builder.¡±


    ¡°Krrsh.¡±


    ¡°Ghoul not need much light. But need some light. Go down more, no more light. Cannot see.¡±


    ¡°I understand. Yes, of course. Do you know how to make fire, Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°Krrsh not know. I know fire, but not how to make fire. That is Man thing.¡±


    ¡°Then I will teach you. It may take a little time. Have your people make themselves comfortable. Once you have lit the torch I will provide, you can then descend.¡±


    Krrsh brought the pack down to the bone place, telling them again to touch no bones and staring at Rao while he said it. Then he sat down to wait for Builder¡¯s promised ¡®torch,¡¯ whatever that was.


    After a moment, a rough, flat-sided gray rock about the size of his palm slowly formed before him.


    ¡°This is flint,¡± Builder said.


    Beside it, a smaller bar of metal formed, its surface even rougher than the flint.


    ¡°This is called a steel. When you strike the two together, it should create sparks.¡±


    Krrsh took up the flint and steel and bashed them together. The results were unimpressive. Except for the sound, maybe.


    ¡°Not so hard, and drag the steel across the flint.¡±


    Krrsh did so, and was rewarded with a small cascade of sparks. They died quickly, before they touched the floor, or very soon after.


    ¡°Is good, Builder. But not enough to see.¡±


    ¡°You are correct. Now comes the difficult part.¡± A third item slowly formed before Krrsh ¨C a small pile of wood shavings.


    ¡°To make fire, you must strike sparks into this tinder. Once a spark catches in the tinder and makes fire, you must gently blow on it to make it bigger, or the fire will quickly die. I warn you, it is more difficult than it sounds. Be patient.¡±


    Krrsh struck sparks onto the wood shavings, once, twice ¨C and a tiny flame came to life! Krrsh bent down to blow on it, but the flame went out before his muzzle even got close.


    Krrsh let out a low grown of frustration and set to work once more.


    The same thing happened again.


    And again. And again. And again.


    Soon Krrsh was crouched awkwardly over the tinder, nearly on his elbows, trying to strike sparks and blow as soon as they caught in the shavings. It was not a dignified look for a pack leader. But on the sixteenth try, Krrsh was quick enough. A spark landed, the wood lit, and Krrsh blew ¨C and watched the pile of tinder scatter across the floor at his over-strong breath.


    Krrsh had never felt so frustrated. The desire to hurl the flint and the steel down the passageway was almost overwhelming ¨C in fact, before he even realized what he was doing, he had raised his arms to do just that.


    Suddenly the firemakers were plucked out of his hands.


    ¡°Pack leader not patient,¡± Chrrk admonished him, and set to gathering up the scattered tinder. When she had it in a pile once more, Chrrk began raining sparks down on it.


    Builder spoke in Krrsh¡¯s ear. ¡°When she has set the tinder alight, you will need to place the rough end of the stick into the fire. Gently.¡±


    ¡°What stick?¡± Krrsh asked, looking around. He saw that a long stick had appeared beside him, with one end chopped up so that it very nearly resembled the tinder.


    ¡°Oh. Wait. Builder say when she do. Not if. If Krrsh cannot do¨C¡±


    He glanced at Chrrk. She was blowing gently on the slowly growing fire that had bloomed in the pile of tinder. She thrust her arm towards Krrsh, her hand opening and closing.


    With a whuff, Krrsh put the stick in her hand.


    In less than a minute, Chrrk was holding a lit torch for all to see. The other ghouls stared at the flames, firelight and awe dancing in their eyes.


    ¡°I like her,¡± Builder said in Krrsh¡¯s ear.


    Krrsh rolled his eyes. But he felt the same as Builder.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus created more torches at the base of the ramp, as well as additional flint, steel and tinder. He also created simple torch holders along the walls in the ghoul home, all while Krrsh and the female worked to get a fire lit. He admonished himself for being negligent in that regard. He had grown so used to being able to ¡®see¡¯ without regard to lighting that it had simply skipped his mind. He would have to provide for ventilation, else the ghoul¡¯s home would soon fill with smoke. But it could wait. He was eager to view the ghouls¡¯ reactions to what he had built for them. And then, once they had had time to settle in, he needed to have a conversation about the lifting of their curse.


    He had inspected each of the creatures, and each had the same diet-related condition that lessened their mental capacity and forced them to eat human flesh to retain what wits they had. Even the ones in the womb. It was written into the secret code that governed their physical shapes and mental attributes.


    Anomus could alter individuals without claiming them, in essence erase that portion of their code, but the trait would still be passed on. If future generations were to be free of the disability without his direct intervention, he would have to delve deeper. He believed he could do it, but would have to attempt it to confirm it. It was one of several things he wished to speak with Krrsh about.


    The female ghoul, the fire starter, led the procession down the stairs and to the base of the ramp, torch held high. Krrsh was behind her, seeming both annoyed and pleased in equal measure by her success.


    She stopped as soon as she entered the space, and gave a sharp, indrawn breath.


    The first thing visible upon entering the ghoul home was the frieze. Seeing it had obviously had an effect on the ghoul.


    Krrsh nudged her in the back, and she started forward down the ramp again, slowly, her eyes not leaving the eyes of the twenty-foot tall ghoul on the wall.


    Krrsh too, saw the artwork, and he too had a strong reaction.


    ¡°Welcome to your new home,¡± Anomus said to them. ¡°I hope that it is a place of safety and growth for the Ironclaws.¡±


    ¡°Builder,¡± Krrsh said, and pointed to the frieze. ¡°Who is that?¡±


    ¡°That is Ironclaw. That is ghoul. Or what ghouls can be.¡±


    ¡°Is it a god?¡±


    ¡°No. It is just a picture. If you don¡¯t like it, I can remove it.¡±


    Krrsh was silent for a long time. He walked down the wide ramp, but just like the torchbearer, just like all the other ghouls who entered the space, his eyes never left the frieze for long.


    ¡°Do you want me to remove it, Krrsh?¡± Anomus asked.


    ¡°No, Builder. Is good.¡±


    The ghouls spent the rest of the night exploring their new habitat. Some played with fire, with the painful if predictable results. Anomus explained to Krrsh what the small chamber with holes in the floor was for. Thankfully, the ghouls seemed to latch onto the idea of a lavatory, perhaps because their sense of smell was so acute.


    Only one of the ghouls seemed to be unhappy with his surroundings, a wide, scarred male whose name was Grik.


    ¡°Where to make burrow?¡± he complained. ¡°Stone very hard, much work to dig¡±


    Krrsh slapped him in the back of the head. ¡°Burrow for what?¡±


    ¡°Burrow for Burning Eye, pack leader!¡± to which Krrsh silently pointed a claw towards the domed ceiling. Grik followed his leader¡¯s finger with his eyes.


    ¡°Oh. Ohhh,¡± Grik finally exclaimed. Then, after a moment, ¡°Still like sand. Sand soft. Sand warm. Yes.¡±


    Slightly exasperated, Anomus created a basket of wooden slats in front of the annoying creature, who stared at it as it formed, mouth agape.


    ¡°Grik can go and collect as much sand as he likes.¡±

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty Five

    Nighteyes¡¯ Fifty had silently positioned themselves in a semicircle around the burial pit while the sun still bled on the horizon behind them. They left only the river for the ghouls to retreat to. While ghouls were capable of swimming, they did not excel at it, and would be easily picked off by arrow fire from the bank if any did make it into the water. All of the Eternal Guards were proficient bowmen; the Subori empire had been won, and was kept, on the strength of its archers.


    In addition to the powerful recurve bows that were the standard issue of the Eternal Guard, each was armed with a short sword, the curved khopesh that was popular with the Subori and their near neighbors. Some carried an axe in addition to this basic armament, while others were armed with javelins or spears. And each carried the short bronze dagger with which their tongues had been severed. Ceremonial and symbolic they might be, but the Eternal Guard kept them close, and kept them sharp.


    The Fifty lay flat on the sand, waiting for the sun to set, and the ghouls to rise. They were disciplined. Only their eyes moved, scanning the ground that the ghouls had claimed.


    Sunset became dusk, became night.


    Minutes dragged by. Nothing stirred in the sand that they so carefully watched.


    Nighteyes waited half an hour before rising. The slight noise of his movement was enough to draw the attention of his men. He signaled them to stand and draw their bows and then, laying his own bow down on the sand, took up his spear and approached the burrow closest to him.


    Quiet as his movements were, he knew that a ghoul¡¯s hearing was acute. If one were still in the burrow past sunset, it should already have detected his approach. When he thrust his spear into the slightly raised hump of sand, it was without any expectation of a response.


    The spear¡¯s tip met flesh ¨C he knew the sensation. He drove the spear deeper in, twisted it, and then pulled it back with considerable effort.


    A corpse came with it, appearing reluctantly from the sand. A desiccated, human corpse.


    ~ ~ ~


    While the rest of the Fifty ensured none of the other ¡®burrows¡¯ housed an actual ghoul, Nighteyes conferred with Hummingbird.


    ¡°What is your assessment?¡± Nighteyes asked his second.


    ¡°Someone has a strange sense of humor.¡±


    ¡°This is no time for your jokes. Be serious.¡±


    ¡°I am. Ghouls don¡¯t play tricks. They aren¡¯t smart enough. All they care about is eating and not dying, you know this. So if it wasn¡¯t ghouls who laid out the false burrows, it was done by humans. But don¡¯t ask me why.¡±


    ¡°There are no human tracks anywhere in the vicinity, Hummingbird.¡±


    ¡°I know. But what else could it be?¡±


    Nighteyes hesitated. If it had been anyone other than Hummingbird, he would not have exposed his wild thought.


    ¡°It might be an ifrit.¡±


    Hummingbird raised an eyebrow. ¡°Now who¡¯s joking?¡±


    Ifrit were powerful, capricious desert spirits. They were also exceedingly rare. Some believed they were nothing more than creatures of folklore. But Nighteyes had seen one, once. In a battle against the Sea People, he had watched from a distance as one of the imperial sorcerers had unleashed an ifrit upon the enemy. The scene of devastation it had caused was something that would stay with him until the day he died.


    Hummingbird had not seen that battle; he had been injured in a previous skirmish and had spent the time recuperating.


    Nighteyes merely shook his head. ¡°I do not say it is one. I only say that there is more at work here than we understand. We should not mistake what we think for what we know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Greatest. So what are your orders?¡±


    ¡°Finish here. Search well for any tracks. If any are found, we will follow. If none are found, we cross the river and investigate the cave entrance.¡± It was unlikely they would find any tracks they hadn¡¯t already noted. The desert breeze was sufficient to fill any made in loose sand.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°Krrsh.¡±


    ¡°Builder.¡±


    ¡°Your pack is settled and well?¡±


    ¡°Pack is good, Builder.¡±


    ¡°I am gladdened to hear it. But now we have things to discuss.¡±


    Krrsh grunted acknowledgment. He was tired. His head was tired more than his body, but his body was tired, too. It was nearly day, and much had happened that night. But talking to Builder was important, yes.


    ¡°First, I must know if you will let your pack decide if they wish the curse lifted, or if you will decide as pack leader.¡±


    It was a good question. A hard question, yes, so also a bad question. Good questions should be easy, Krrsh felt. His brow furrowed in concentration.


    ¡°Pack do what pack leader say. That is ghoul way. But¡­ pack leader cannot make ghoul do all things. Cannot mate unless other says yes. But ghouls will not understand about curse. Not like Krrsh. Maybe Wrna, maybe Chrrk understand. Other Ironclaws not understand.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    No, it was definitely not a good question. It was making his head hurt. He stopped himself from beating at his head. He was pack leader now; he must look like he knew what to do, always.


    ¡°Do ghouls like the curse? Do they think it is fair?¡± Builder asked, and Krrsh huffed in response.


    ¡°Builder not understand. Ghoul do not like curse. Ghoul do not not like curse. Curse is curse. Think about curse for what?¡±


    ¡°So you believe your people couldn¡¯t imagine the curse not existing, save perhaps for Wrna and Chrrk.¡±


    ¡°¡¯S what Krrsh said.¡±


    ¡°In that case, it seems to me it is your duty, as pack leader, to decide for those who cannot decide for themselves.¡±


    Krrsh considered that. Reluctantly, he decided Builder was not wrong. It made his head hurt more. He settled for massaging it instead of beating at it.


    It was not nearly as satisfying.


    ¡°There is more,¡± Builder said. Krrsh groaned.


    ¡°When I lift the curse from a ghoul, it is only for that ghoul. Any children, any pups will still carry the curse. I believe I can heal that as well, but again, I will only do so with your assent.¡±


    Krrsh slowly worked through Builder¡¯s words to get to the marrow of his meaning. When he did, Krrsh looked around furtively. None of the other ghouls was paying him much attention that he could see, so he allowed himself a few quick knocks to his skull.


    He had to decide not just for the Ironclaws, but for all Ironclaws, forever.


    And no curse was a good thing. He knew it. Just as an adult ghoul might draw a thorn from the paw of a pup despite its howling and its fear of further pain, so too he knew that taking away the curse from ghouls would be best for them. He had decided for himself, it was done, and he had not died. But a new worry had risen in him since then, pushed back and unrecognized because of all else that had happened. He could see it now, though; now that the choice was in front of him for all the others.


    Gods had put the curse on ghouls, almost all of them.


    Maybe they didn¡¯t notice one ghoul without the curse. But a whole pack? Wouldn¡¯t they notice that? And wouldn¡¯t they be angry?


    Krrsh asked as much of Builder, who was slow to reply.


    ¡°I do not know,¡± was his eventual answer. ¡°I cannot tell you what may happen. I cannot say what is best for the Ironclaws. But if it were my choice, I would risk the anger of all the gods, if it meant righting the wrong they have done.¡±


    ¡°Builder sound¡­ angry,¡± Krrsh observed.


    ¡°I will tell you a secret, Krrsh. I am always angry. I will always be angry, until the day I kill the emperor. Without my anger, I would already be dead. But forgive me for speaking about myself. Before you is a difficult choice.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Krrsh must think.¡±


    ¡°I understand. Please tell me when you decide.¡±


    Krrsh grunted in acknowledgment, and Builder spoke no more.


    Take curse away. Maybe make gods angry. Maybe gods kill Ironclaws.


    Don¡¯t take curse away. Ghouls live. But still ghoul. Hunger still hunt ghoul. And no green fields, no forests.


    No hope.


    But ghouls live.


    But no hope.


    ¡°Wrna. Chrrk,¡± Krrsh called across the big open space, and the two ghouls came to him. One with a graceful stride of youth and strength, and the other with the more careful tread of long life.


    ¡°Pack leader,¡± said Wrna. Chrrk said nothing, merely staring at him with her calm, secretive eyes.


    Krrsh scratched at his head. ¡°Krrsh ask you: what is better, big hope happen or stay safe?¡±


    ¡°Safe,¡± Wrna answered immediately.


    ¡°Why?¡± asked Chrrk.


    ¡°Chrrk forget why. Choose.¡±


    She was quiet for a long time. She looked down at the floor, then up at the big picture of Ironclaw on the wall. Then she looked at Krrsh.


    ¡°Chrrk choose hope,¡± she finally said.


    Krrsh nodded. ¡°And if hope bring danger. Chrrk still choose hope?¡±


    She nodded, and there was no doubt in it. They looked at each other, and the look lasted.


    ¡°Why Krrsh ask?¡± Wrna wanted to know.


    ¡°Not important,¡± Krrsh answered. ¡°Old one no worry.¡±


    Wrna frowned at him, and then hobbled away. When he was gone, Chrrk crossed her arms under her small breasts.


    ¡°Now Krrsh tell Chrrk.¡±


    ¡°Maybe Chrrk not want to know.¡±


    Chrrk flexed her claws. Her very sharp claws.


    ¡°Sit. Pack leader no stare up. Not right.¡± Krrsh smiled, and Chrrk growled. But she sat. Krrsh pointed a claw at her and his face grew serious.


    ¡°Chrrk no tell others. Krrsh only tell you, yes.¡± He waited for her nod, and then continued.


    ¡°Krrsh no more have curse.¡±


    Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. ¡°How?¡± was all she said. Ghouls rarely lied. They rarely thought to.


    He shrugged. ¡°Builder. Now Builder take away curse from all Ironclaws. All but Wrna.¡± That simply, he had made his decision.


    Chrrk stared at Krrsh for a long time, eyes wide. He could see her thinking about what that meant. Then she looked up at the picture of Ironclaw once more. But once she looked back at Krrsh, her eyes were narrow and hard.


    ¡°And then?¡± was all she asked.


    ¡°And then Ironclaws fight for Builder.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus waited until the ghouls slept to make his alterations, resisting the day-torpor once more in order to do so. He took care and took his time. These were not nearly mindless insects; they were sentient creatures. Allies. A people already altered in an act of injustice and, he felt, blatant cruelty.


    He could not offer them what the Faceless One had offered him. He could not give them a path to retribution. But he could, and did, remove the shackles that had dragged them down into subhuman status. All except the elderly one.


    He understood Krrsh¡¯s decision regarding the ghoul named Wrna, though he did not fully agree with it. The habits of a long life had taught the creature, doubtless painfully, that safety was to be prized above anything else. The old ghoul would not fight, of course, and now he would not, in theory, be liable for any offense the gods might take in throwing off their curse.


    Anomus doubted the gods would make such fine distinctions, if they chose to be offended. They had already proven themselves capable of condemning a whole race to a miserable existence due to the actions of a single individual ¨C why would they exclude a single individual from their notional wrath?


    Anomus kept his thoughts to himself, however. It had been Krrsh¡¯s decision to make.


    It was past noon when he finished rewriting the portion of the secret code that would have passed the curse on to the next generation of ghouls. His task complete, he was almost about to let himself slip into his strange version of sleep when one of his flies returned from the eastern entrance. Almost, he ignored it and whatever it had seen. Likely sand and rock and nothing more, after all. Its memories would be waiting when he awoke.


    But he found himself incapable of even such a slight indolence. Conscientiousness had always been a facet of his character, and now that he was no longer merely human, it had been married to a kind of compunction regarding his safety. He sifted through the fly¡¯s memory.


    And discovered three ¨C no, five Eternal Guard approaching the Tomb from the desert side.


    No. Surely not yet. It is far too early.


    Sleep now an impossibility, Anomus waited impatiently for more of his flies to return. He dispatched all that remained in the Tomb as well, from both the Well and the tunnel.


    Slowly throughout the long afternoon his spies returned one by one, giving him a clearer picture of the developing situation. Five Eternal Guard had scouted the area behind the Tomb, doubtlessly noting the tunnel¡¯s entrance. Five more had approached the Tomb from across the river, but had halted some distance from where the workers had been discarded in their mass grave. Both groups had withdrawn without getting very close to the Tomb ¨C but they had come close enough to make observations.


    Ten Eternal Guard were bad enough, when there should not yet even be one. But as the day drew on, Anomus learned their true number was closer to fifty. And they were not merely passing the Tomb on some other mission.


    No. They were an advance detachment, he was certain. They had come to secure the Tomb and its surroundings in preparation for the Concubine¡¯s interment.


    In preparation for the emperor¡¯s arrival.


    And he was not ready.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Six

    Anomus was glad of that part of him that was now inhuman. He was glad of his ability to think coldly and rationally even as the greater part of him raged.


    He had expected three months. He was not going to get them. Of that, he was now almost completely certain. The only reason for the Eternal Guard to return in such numbers was to secure the Tomb¡¯s site for the Concubine¡¯s interment. The emperor was coming, two months early. He couldn¡¯t guess why. Nor did it matter. He had to make his final preparations now, as best he could.


    Even more importantly, he had to make sure no danger was suspected. If the Eternal Guard sensed anything amiss, they might well warn Irobus off. And that was unacceptable. The very thought of his killer not entering the Tomb stoked his fury. But still he analyzed the situation with an inhuman calm.


    The tongueless killers had discovered the main ghoul camp, and had discovered it was abandoned. They seemed puzzled that the burrows had been filled with human corpses. It made them more cautious. He wished that Krrsh had not been quite so clever, in that. He would have preferred the Eternal Guard to see only what they expected and could easily understand. An abandoned ghoul site would have made far more sense.


    There was nothing to be done about that.


    The soldiers would soon cross the river to investigate the tunnel he had made. He did not doubt they had accurate information about the Tomb and its surroundings, and that information would have made no mention of any tunnel or cave on the desert-side of the Tomb. Another deeply suspicious mystery.


    He could do nothing about the false burrows Krrsh had made. But he could and must do something about the tunnel. It would mean cutting himself off from much of his mana, but that could not be helped. There was no point in growing in strength if the emperor escaped him.


    There would be no point in simply closing the tunnel¡¯s entrance, either. It had already been seen. For it to suddenly disappear would mark the third unexplainable occurrence, and increase the odds of Irobus not entering his trap. No. Completely unacceptable.


    The tunnel¡¯s entrance must be left open, then. There was no help for that. Then the Eternal Guard would enter, explore, to see if it were connected to the Tomb.


    He was tempted to let them. They were the emperor¡¯s killers, and seeing an Eternal Guardsman dead would be¡­ satisfying. A partial repayment for what they had done to ten thousand loyal laborers. But the cold, rational, remorseless part of him saw many problems with killing them now. First, there was no guarantee the entire group would enter the Tomb. And if even one survived to bring word of danger at the Tomb to the emperor, then all Anomus¡¯s plans would crumble to dust.


    Now he understood the Faceless One¡¯s cryptic warning.


    Couldn¡¯t he, though? Now that he had the ghouls, he had some power to affect events outside himself. But as soon as he thought it, he knew it wouldn¡¯t work. The ghouls were no match for the Eternal Guard, not on open ground, not on the desert sands. Only underground, he felt, and only from ambush would they stand a chance against the empire¡¯s elite. If they had had months to train, to learn even the basics of combat, then perhaps they might have stood some chance of defeating the tongueless monsters. Now? They would only die.


    Anomus could not keep the Eternal Guard from entering the tunnel without alerting Irobus to potential danger. He could not be certain of killing them all, and the result of failure would be the same What was left?


    To deceive them. To show them something they could accept, and find little or no danger in. As much as he wished to destroy these envoys of his enemy, he was far too intelligent, far too driven to risk his ultimate retribution.


    Anomus set to work altering the tunnel.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°Found the ghoul, Greatest,¡± Hummingbird told Nighteyes. ¡°Sort of.¡±


    ¡°Show me.¡±


    Hummingbird led him to the mass grave, to the part of it that had been most disturbed. Amongst the human corpses, the severed head of a ghoul lay, eyes open and swollen tongue lolling. It was obviously much fresher than the rest of the dead.


    ¡°So. Something killed and decapitated a ghoul across the river, then brought the head here. Does that make any sense to you?¡± Nighteyes asked.


    ¡°Not even a little,¡± Hummingbird cheerfully admitted.


    Nighteyes grunted. ¡°Useless. Any tracks?¡±


    Hummingbird made a dissatisfied face. ¡°Old tracks, by the river. Looks like they tangled with a herd of water horses. Nothing fresh. But then ghouls have been known to cover their tracks, sometimes. That and other sign tell us ghouls were definitely here at some point, and not long ago.¡±


    ¡°Gnawed corpses are an indication, yes.¡±


    Hummingbird smiled. ¡°That was very nearly a joke, Greatest! We can widen the search, and search again more thoroughly come the dawn. But I think we¡¯ve learned all we are likely to, here.¡±


    ¡°Well, the head tells us this is likely connected to the cave. Somehow. We will cross and see what there is to be seen.¡±


    Hummingbird nodded and pulled out a pair of signal blocks. The Eternal Guard did not speak, of course, and communicated by hand sign when close. But over distance they used blocks of wood clapped together in code to communicate, or horns, depending on the situation.


    Hummingbird sent out the recall signal. Within a few minutes, they were crossing the river. In a few minutes more, they were approaching the body of the decapitated ghoul.


    Nighteyes bent down to inspect the corpse while the rest of the Fifty paused, alert.


    There was little to learn, but little was not nothing. The only wounds on the corpse, besides the fact of its headlessness, were on the arms. They had been pierced, and not by sword or arrow, but by claws. The dead ghoul also sported blood on its claws, both hand and claw. It had been a deadly struggle.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Nighteyes drew the conclusion that the ghoul had perished at the claws of another of its kind. From the wounds, it seemed likeliest. There was no telling why ghoul had killed ghoul ¨C he was no expert on ghoul behavior, except in how it affected their fighting.


    Shaking his head, Nighteyes rose from the sand and regarded the cave entrance a little distance away.


    The ground here rose slightly towards the river, the incline growing sharper as it approached the cliff. The cave entrance was essentially a hole in the ground, rather than a more traditional cave. Given time, such a hole should have filled with sand, considering the desert wind, even in the ground so close to the cliff was far rockier than the open desert.


    Nighteyes signaled two men to cover him, and then approached hole for a better look.


    Yes. The entrance was partially choked by sand. It looked as though it were the entrance to a tunnel, rather than a natural cave Nighteyes saw tumbled stone blocks, the size of bricks, partially buried in the sand. He called for a torch to be lit. When it had been, he took it in one hand and unsheathed his khopesh, then jumped down into the hole.


    It was steeply sloped at first, but the torch showed him that the tunnel quickly corrected into a much gentler decline, and that it extended further than his torch could illuminate. He waited for a time, silent and listening. There was no sound in the tunnel at all, that he could hear.


    He studied the entrance and saw that it had, at some point been closed by mortared blocks of stone. He bent down to peer more closely at the ones that had fallen. He scraped at one with his khopesh. The mortar was crumbling, weak. Poor quality. Perhaps old. He was not an expert.


    He did see the partial footprints of a ghoul in the sand that littered the tunnel floor. Sheltered from the wind to a great extent, they had been preserved.


    Nighteyes raised the hand that held the khopesh and advanced slowly into the tunnel. Two of his men joined him, both holding their khopesh and daggers. The tunnel was too tight for bows, and in any case they had to advance at a crouch and single file.


    After about thirty feet, Nighteyes saw, the tunnel opened up. He advanced, and soon enough had come to a roughly squared-off room carved from the rock. The ceiling was low. Here the ghoul¡¯s tracks ended.


    The only thing in the room was a human skeleton, clutching a crude, stone-headed axe.


    Nighteyes gave the skeleton a quick inspection, paying attention to its axe, and then did the same for what apparently was a burial chamber.


    Nighteyes ordered a return to the surface. When he had climbed up to the desert floor once more, Hummingbird was waiting for him.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°It looks like an ancient burial chamber, maybe for some chieftain.¡±


    ¡°Then why does your face look like that?¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Like you just tried to shit, but could only manage a fart.¡±


    Nighteyes grunted. ¡°Impertinent.¡±


    ¡°I am what I am. And your face is what it is.¡±


    ¡°First, the tunnel showed no tool marks. Second, the tomb room had no dust. Third, the skeleton had not been disturbed, even though the ghoul¡¯s tracks led right to it.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°And I don¡¯t like things I cannot explain.¡±


    ¡°No wonder you¡¯re always in a dour mood, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll cheer myself up by watching you dig latrines.¡±


    Hummingbird gave a soundless laugh.


    ¡°Joking aside, there is something wrong about this.¡±


    ¡°But is there anything about this old tomb that the Greatest considers a threat?¡±


    Nighteyes considered, then shook his head. ¡°No danger that I can see.¡±


    ¡°Then his second humbly suggests he reports it when the procession arrives, and leaves it at that.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Honest fishermen, law-abiding fishermen, would have seen the lighter approaching in the dark and worried they were about to be attacked by river pirates. They would have, being honest and law-abiding, have run their boats up onto the bank of the river as soon as they saw the emperor¡¯s golden barge, and might now be frantically trying to get their boats back into the water, or perhaps preparing whatever meagre weapons they had ¨C scaling knives or the small, curved blades they used for gutting fish. And then they would have seen the armor worn by those who approached, and realized they were Eternal Guard, and while the fear would not have lessened ¨C in fact if anything it would likely have grown ¨C they would have dropped their makeshift arms and waited for whatever was to come.


    What was to come would be the raising of bows, and blood. Then the disembarking of the Tongueless, and more blood. And then silence.


    One Thumb and his men were neither honest nor law abiding. And though they loved their beer and their wine, they also preferred to not be dead, and out on the river one of their number was always alert. The Great River was full of dangers for the unwary, after all. Especially after dark.


    One Thumb had ordered both the boats to drop their anchors in the weak current near the bank ¨C both boats were double-anchored, to keep them pointing towards the far bank instead of downstream, to give the appearance of being grounded, from a distance at least.


    Torchlit, the imperial procession continued its slow advance upriver. Sulking, Tumi sat perched on the raised stern of the boat, near the tiller, keeping watch instead of drinking.


    He noticed the lighter not long after it separated from the procession, but didn¡¯t make much of it until it became clear that it was heading directly for them. It was no easy feat for the rowers to defy the Great River¡¯s current; there could be no mistake as to their destination. Tumi gave the signal, and all the banter in both boats stopped at once. Immediately One Thumb climbed up next to him.


    ¡°Where?¡± was all One Thumb asked, and Tumi pointed. One Thumb studied the approaching boat for a moment, squinting in the dark.


    ¡°Now what¡¯s that glinting?¡± he wondered aloud, and then his eyes widened. ¡°They¡¯ve got armor on,¡± One-Thumb murmured. Then, loud enough to be heard by everyone in both boats, he said ¡°Cut anchors, raise sail, and row like your wives¡¯ll be glad to see you.¡±


    Tumi immediately pulled out his belt knife and bent down. He sawed partway through the stern anchor line, paused until he felt the current take the prow, and then finished the job. It was the work of a few seconds. He rose up from his task and then turned to go down and take an oar.


    The arrow took him in the throat. The tip lodged in the bones of his neck, and he fell back into the boat, choking on iron and blood.


    The last thing his saw was the stranger they had taken to calling Friend hovering over him, staring at him in horror.


    ~ ~ ~


    Orthus watched the lad die. There was nothing he could do. Arrows were falling, speeding down from the dark, but all he could see was Tumi¡¯s eyes and Tumi¡¯s blood, black in the night, pumping out from his throat in an ever-spreading pool in the bottom of the boat.


    He saw the light fade from Tumi¡¯s eyes. Time seemed to stand still. Then One Thumb grabbed his shoulder.


    ¡°Need you to take the tiller, Friend. If I don¡¯t row, we¡¯re all dead.¡±


    ¡°I- I don¡¯t know what to do,¡± Orthus replied, voice trembling.


    ¡°It¡¯s so easy even a drunkard can do it. Push left, we go left. Push right, we go right. But don¡¯t push too hard, eh? You get us to the middle of the river where the current is strongest, then keep us there. And keep low.¡± Then One Thumb was gone, taking up the oar that had been Tumi¡¯s. It was only then that Orthus saw the arrow sticking out of the burly man¡¯s back. It was only then that Orthus registered the screams coming from the trailing boat.


    He scrambled to the boat¡¯s stern and, trying to keep as low as he could, he took the wooden tiller in one hand and pushed it to the right, surprised at how much the water resisted.


    ~ ~ ~


    Acacia dipped his khopesh into the river to cleanse it of blood, then wiped it dry on a cloth while his men dumped the bodies of the trailing boat¡¯s crew into the water. He¡¯d hoped to disable the lead boat¡¯s crew sufficiently in the initial attack to keep them from fleeing. It would have made everything much easier. Now it would be a chase.


    The lighter had no sail, and their remaining target was swiftly pulling out of effective arrow range. Acacia ordered the men in the lighter to cease fire and board the fishing vessel, abandoning the lighter to the current. His men were not expert sailors, it was true, but their training provided a basic proficiency, and they had at least double the number to pull oars as their target. He assigned Blue Egg to the sail, and took the tiller himself. In less than a minute the boat was live in the water once more, and pulling towards their prey.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Seven

    After a time, the tiller ceased responding in the way One Thumb had told him it would, and Orthus did not know what to do.


    ¡°The tiller,¡± he called out. ¡°It¡¯s pulling this way and that.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re in the deeper current then,¡± One Thumb replied. ¡°The current¡¯ll be pushing harder from behind. Just keep it steady and straight now, Friend. And take a look behind.¡± All the rowers were facing the stern of the boat, but the stern rose a little higher than where they sat, blocking the view of the attackers. Orthus turned and cautiously peered behind.


    ¡°They¡¯ve left their boat and taken the other. They¡¯re doing something with the sail, and they¡¯re starting to row.¡±


    One Thumb grunted, and Fanet cursed. ¡°Who are they, and why do they want us dead?¡± Fanet asked.


    ¡°As to the who, they¡¯re Eternal Guard. As to the why, there¡¯s no telling. We¡¯ve done enough to warrant execution, but I never thought it would be Tongueless who swung the blade.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s probably me,¡± Orthus admitted. ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    One Thumb gave another grunt. ¡°Don¡¯t normally ask, but I¡¯m curious. And maybe there won¡¯t be a chance later. What¡¯d you do to deserve their attentions?¡±


    ¡°I saw something I wasn¡¯t supposed to, and lived to tell the tale.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it. That¡¯s enough. But I don¡¯t know how they found me.¡±


    One Thumb opened his mouth to reply, but coughed instead. Blood flew out of his mouth.


    ¡°One Thumb! Are you all right?¡± Orthus knew it was a stupid question even as he asked it.


    ¡°Been better, Friend. I guess that arrow went deeper than¡¯s strictly healthy. Don¡¯t know that I¡¯ll be able to pull much longer.¡± He bent his head and closed his eyes. His oar stilled.


    ¡°One Thumb!¡± Fanet shouted, and after a moment One Thumb straightened again.


    ¡°They¡¯ll catch us up, lads,¡± he said, and his voice was very weary. ¡°Sooner rather than later, especially with us short of hands. So here¡¯s what you have to do.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus learned just how much a creature of instinct he was when the three Eternal Guard entered his sham, hastily constructed tomb.


    Intellectually, logically, he knew he was doing what was best for his goals. He could not let word get out that the Concubine¡¯s Tomb was anything other than what it had been when the emperor had last left it. He knew it, with an iron certainty.


    And still he had come within a hair¡¯s breadth of killing the three Tongueless who had entered his domain.


    It would have been so simple. The ¡®burial chamber¡¯ at the end of the tunnel rested on a pit that he had dug, forty feet deep. At the bottom of the pit, stone spikes, razor sharp. It had been all he could do, as the Eternal Guard had inspected the space, to constrain himself from dissolving the stone at their feet and send them plummeting to their deaths.


    But if he had done it, the chances of his enemy slipping away would have risen unacceptably.


    I must show them what they can accept, he told himself. Any sort of danger, anything unexplained and potentially dangerous will force the emperor away.


    He watched them exiting the false tomb. Hating them all the while, he let them go.


    The emperor was on his way. Early, far too early. Anomus forced himself to concentrate on that fact. He would arrive soon, likely in a few days, to inter his beloved concubine. So, ready or not, Anomus had to prepare his reception.


    His first concern was mana. Without it, there was very little he could do. He had stored much of it since opening the second entrance to the Tomb. While doing so had caused him trouble and endangered his plans, he decided it was necessary to reopen the tunnel entrance, at least to a certain extent for the mana flow. What he received from the Well wasn¡¯t much more than a trickle.


    He had blocked the tunnel but kept the false tomb connected to him through a network of hairline cracks, unlikely to be noticed in the Eternal Guards¡¯ torchlight. Those cracks were not enough to gain him any mana worth noticing, so he perforated the wall of the false tomb that connected to the Tomb-side tunnel with dozens of holes. It allowed more mana to flow in, and would be relatively quick to stop up the holes once again, should the Tongueless decide to re-enter the tunnel. It also allowed his flies to come and go. And finally, he needed a source of mana other than the Well, because he would now have to re-seal the undertomb.


    That first victory, the defeat of Mordun¡¯s seal and the opening of the undertomb now seemed to have happened ages ago, though in truth it had not even been a month. He had left the chunk of stone and mortar lying on the Well¡¯s marble floor, still dangerous but impotent. He would have to deal with it now, however, as well as the opening to the undertomb. If the emperor¡¯s lackeys saw this evidence that the Tomb had been violated, they would never let him enter.


    He couldn¡¯t put the golden seal back, nor would he if he could. Instead, he buried it in the floor, in the eight feet of rock between the floor of the Well and the ceiling of the Undertomb, dissolving the stone beneath it until it had sunk sufficiently, and then re-growing the stone over it.


    That still left the gaping passage down to the undertomb that had been sealed with stone and mortar, and the golden seal of the emperor of the gods that had adorned it. Recreating the stone and mortar blockage was nothing for him, but the seal presented problems. He could recreate anything, any inert substance that he had claimed, but he had never claimed gold. The best he could do was to affix a plaque of bronze, to mimic it.


    Nor, he discovered, could he recreate Mordun¡¯s sigil. When he tried, the bronze simply did not react to his will. He found that interesting. Frustrating, but interesting. He was forced to settle for something vaguely similar in shape. It would not stand up to any sort of close inspection, but then neither would bronze pass for gold, to anyone who was paying attention. But he had no better means to deceive.


    He made one further alteration to the Tomb¡¯s entry chamber. High up on the wall he created half a dozen openings whose shapes exactly matched the shape of one of the dark, diamond-shaped tiles that decorated the walls, directly behind the tiles. He tunneled down through the rock, creating small passages connecting the undertomb to these voids. They were large enough for his wasps and geckos to traverse, though not for the beetles or his lone scorpion. When the time came, he planned to flood the Well with assassins from above. If it became necessary, he could also quickly destroy the blockage to the undertomb, commanding his heavier, larger creatures to ascend the stairs.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Finally, as much as he disliked doing it, he seeded the Well and the Tomb¡¯s entry hall with traps.


    There wasn¡¯t enough space between the floor of the Tomb and the ceiling of the undertomb to create killing drops, so he decided that the pit traps he created would drop their victims all the way down to the floor of the undertomb. There was a sense of justice in letting his enemies find death among the decaying flesh of their victims. He grew five foot long, razor-sharp stone spikes on the floor of the undertomb in appropriate places, to greet victims as they fell. He laid out the pit traps in a sort of checkerboard pattern, avoiding the many support columns that kept the Tomb from collapsing into the charnel ground below.


    Anomus also prepared falling blocks, to cover those spaces where he could not construct pit traps. When he was finished, there was no place in the Tomb¡¯s entry hall that was not a killing space, and only the very center of the Well¡¯s floor was safe from death both above and below. It was impossible, of course, to create falling stones in the Well, since its ceiling was ironglass. The center of the Well¡¯s floor was supported by one of the undertomb¡¯s massive columns.


    Anomus was troubled by this. He disliked having this one safe spot in his zone of death, because it was exactly where the Concubine would be placed. Because of that, it was exactly the one spot that he could almost be assured the Emperor would stand, at some point.


    There was nothing he could do about the Well¡¯s cap, but the floor was not beyond his skill or abilities.


    A cursory inspection of the support column told him that he could not safely remove it; the floor would collapse down into the undertomb if he did so. But, with his preternatural abilities, he could hollow out the column to a great degree and reinforce it with iron, in a way that human builders could never do with natural stone. Anomus set to work creating reinforcing iron rods inside the perimeter of the hollowed-out column.


    He could collapse it speedily, but not as quickly as the other pit traps of his killing ground. It was not a perfect solution, but it would do.


    None of his traps could be triggered without a conscious decision on his part, he made sure of it. The emperor had to enter the trap before it was set off.


    That much of his battle preparations Anomus had completed before the dim ghoul, Grik, called for his attention.


    ¡°Eh. Builder.¡±


    Anomus turned his consciousness towards the call, and instantly saw Grik standing at the now-blocked tunnel entrance, holding the empty basket Anomus had made for him to gather sand.


    ¡°Builder? Where tunnel go?¡±


    ¡°I have had to close it, Grik. There are humans outside.¡±


    Grik chewed on that news for a while. ¡°But Grik need sand,¡± he finally replied.


    ¡°If Grik goes outside, the humans will kill him,¡± Anomus told the thought-challenged creature, summoning up what patience he could.


    ¡°Oh. Bad, yes. Grik no want die.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Anomus replied, deeming the matter finished.


    ¡°But Grik still need sand.¡±


    If Anomus had still possessed eyes, he would have been rubbing them. He settled for creating sand, an appallingly large stream of sand, above Grik¡¯s head. He buried the foolish ghoul in it, chest deep.


    It was a waste of mana. But it was satisfying.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus¡¯s fit of pique with the ghoul did lead him to one small discovery, though he could not immediately see any real usefulness in it ¨C he could create matter anywhere within the volume of the Tomb, even thin air.


    He experimented a little and found that, with a completely unacceptable expenditure of mana, he could keep that matter floating, refusing gravity¡¯s pull, and of course the larger the item, the greater the expenditure of energy. He filed the discovery away.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°There¡¯s no outrunning them,¡± One Thumb told them. ¡°The only chance for you all is the river. You dive deep and swim far before you surface. Less likely to catch an arrow that way. Dive from the prow, out of their view. And you each go in different directions. Scatter. Can¡¯t chase you all. Not quickly. Have to take off their armor. After that, it¡¯s up to the gods.¡±


    The big man was fading fast. Every word of his short speech was accompanied by blood.


    ¡°You go first, One Thumb,¡± Fanet said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be daft. Still beer to drink. Fanet first, then Hull, then Goti, then Friend. Left-right-left, understand? In oars, now. I¡¯ll take the tiller.¡±


    ¡°One Thumb-¡± Goti started, but One Thumb hushed him.


    ¡°No time. Get going. Tell my wife she¡¯d better not remarry. One man suffering her is enough. Go.¡±


    The fishermen pulled in the boat¡¯s oars, and One Thumb crawled towards Orthus and the tiller as the others began evacuating. The dying man grabbed Orthus¡¯s arm and pulled him close as they splashed into the water.


    ¡°You can¡¯t swim like us. If you try, you¡¯ll die. So you get into the water and you grab onto the prow, below the water line, and pray they don¡¯t notice you. Understand?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Orthus said.


    ¡°No time for that. It¡¯s just the world. Go.¡±


    An arrow hissed down out of the dark and buried itself in a blood-spattered oar.


    Orthus went.


    ~ ~ ~


    A short distance upriver, high priest Charn, Beloved of Vernith, stood at the prow of the imperial barge and stared into the dark. Behind him, the Concubine lay in her ironglass coffin. Around the coffin knelt half a dozen of Charn¡¯s acolytes, chanting the Prayer of the Dead, endlessly and futilely, though they did not know it.


    Behind the barge, a dozen other boats, carrying Hesia¡¯s grave goods, and guards, and priests, and slaves.


    Charn was unhappy. No. He was¡­ troubled.


    Everything was as it should be; he had seen to it, though the effort had been exhausting. Venal and self-centered though he might be, the high priest of the goddess of the underworld was devout. He took his duties seriously. And something was wrong. The thought nagged at him, and would not let him alone.


    He did not know what. Charn had gone over the preparations for the interment again and again, and could find no fault. He had done everything his faith said should be done, everything his goddess demanded. And yet¡­


    And yet. The emperor¡¯s indifference to his beloved¡¯s interment was one thing. Yes, it troubled him. Charn was self-centered, but that did not mean he could not read other people. In point of fact, it was one of his natural skills, and had played no small part in his rise through the priesthood.


    He knew Irobus to be mercurial, petty and cruel. The emperor had ever been so. But his devotion to the Concubine had always been, in Charn¡¯s estimation at least, evidence of his ruler¡¯s humanity. Such as it was.


    That Irobus would move on from that devotion a decade after her death should not, perhaps, have been surprising. More surprising was that it had lasted so long. So Charn tried to tell himself. But it rang false.


    Charn admitted - in the safety of his own thoughts if nowhere else - that he had long viewed the emperor¡¯s show of grief as being overwrought. A man pretending, beyond all reason or necessity, to an emotion that simply was not natural in its duration or intensity. And then Irobus¡¯s sudden change of attitude, as if he had simply grown weary of keeping up the pretense¡­ Charn did not understand it, but he believed his intuition. It was troublesome, but ultimately did not affect his obligation towards the Concubine, her shade, and her corpse.


    If that were all that troubled him, he could have accepted the situation and slept soundly. But it wasn¡¯t all.


    None were higher than he in Vernith¡¯s priesthood. No mortal stood closer to the goddess and Her affections. She was his master, and he, Her willing slave. Every sacred rite that he had performed, from his first days as an acolyte until the present, had filled him with a sonorous, solemn peace; an ephemeral but very real connection to his deity.


    Every rite he performed, from his first day until the day that he currently was living had filled him with Vernith¡¯s presence. Except any rite or prayer having to do with the Concubine. Then, he sensed no approval or disapproval from Vernith. He sensed nothing at all.


    He had long blamed it on the emperor¡¯s decision to forego the traditional adornments in the Concubine¡¯s Tomb, but since Irobus¡¯s sudden and inexplicable indifference toward Hesia¡¯s eternal fate, Charn had begun to doubt that was the cause.


    But for the life of him, no matter how long or hard he thought, Charn could not think of a reason why. And that worried him, deeply.


    He stared out into the dark towards their unseen destination, an imperfect and sometimes unpleasant man, trying to solve a puzzle that he did not possess all the pieces to.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Eight

    A man clings desperately to the hull of a boat. It is a boat made of wood, not the bundled reeds of poorer fishermen, and so there is very little purchase for his trembling fingers. He digs broken nails and bleeding fingertips into the faint grooves between uncaring planks, to keep his place. If it were not for the water, buoying him and pressing him against the hull as the boat advances downriver, he would quickly lose his precarious place.


    Above him, in the boat, killers.


    Above them, unseen by all in the black of the night, the Faceless One. Watching.


    And then there is one other.


    ~ ~ ~


    What do you here, Reaper? The voice was feminine, silky, disapproving.


    The Faceless One turned His head. Beside him, Vernith regarded Him with bright eyes. Her proud jackal head was framed by the nemes crown, but She forbore to wear the false beard.


    I could ask you the same, He replied. She did not answer, nor did He expect Her to.


    I merely observe, He finally informed Her.


    What is your interest in this slave?


    He shrugged. Just that. My interest.


    Will you intervene?


    The Faceless One considered, then shook His head. No. That one helped to prepare offerings for Me, but he is no worshipper of Mine.


    Then tell Me Your interest. And in return, I will propose a question I suspect You have not yet thought to ask.


    He neither liked nor disliked the usurper of the underworld. Or, to be more accurate, the Faceless One both liked and disliked Her, but not enough to excite in Him the desire towards any particular action. Still, it had been a long time since He had conversed with one of His kind. So He chose to reply.


    The slave is involved in a larger issue that concerns Me. More I will not say.


    More is not necessary. It is clear this slave is connected somehow to what You have done.


    And what have I done?


    You have created an aberration, Reaper. I know it, and soon all the other gods will as well, if they do not already.


    I have not broken the compact, Vernith, so I care not what the others know or do not know. And the ¡®aberration¡¯ You speak of is my disciple. Have a care with Your words. Words have power, and consequence.


    She placed a hand on His arm. How long had it been since He had been touched by another? He could not immediately recall.


    If the aberration disrupts the burial rite of the Consort, a rite consecrated to Me-


    Then You will do nothing, He interrupted, for you know as well as I that the woman is not dead, and therefore not Your concern.


    Vernith changed tack then, a silent admission that the Faceless One¡¯s argument was faultless. Your ¡®disciple¡¯ has lifted the curse from a ghoul pack.


    The Faceless One turned to face Her directly. Steel entered His voice. Then he has righted, in part, a wrong for which You are responsible. One You have done nothing over millennia to atone for.


    And what is it You think I could have done, Reaper?


    Slowly, gently, He removed Her hand from His person. I do not know. But something greater than nothing seems appropriate to Me.


    Vernith crossed Her arms beneath Her breasts, and He saw the fists that She made, hidden though Her hands were. It is a mercy that they survive at all. If I had attempted to do anything, they would no longer exist.


    Speak not to Me of mercy, goddess. Mercy is a hateful concept. I am that which waits beyond mercy¡¯s false promise. I am retribution.


    She snorted. You are an old, inflexible thing, just as the one whose position I claimed was. Your intransigence will cause untold misery and chaos. And You will call it justice.


    He considered Her words. You are nearly correct. I will call it retribution. Justice, true justice, is even more ephemeral than mercy.


    Even if the empire falls in consequence, Old One, with all the blood and death that will follow?


    He shrugged. Even then. Empires rise and fall. The desert is littered with their monuments. Now make good on our bargain; tell me the question you believe I have not considered.


    Very well, She replied, turning her gaze if not her attention back to the mortal in the river. It is this: what do you think your ¡®disciple¡¯ in the desert will do, when it realizes how simple it would be to take your power and your place?


    The Faceless One laughed. Of course an usurper¡¯s thoughts would turn to usurpation. But simple is not the same thing as easy, Vernith. Not at all. And just as I am not your former master, the Architect is not you. He shrugged. If there is nothing else, I wish to observe what happens to the slave without distraction.


    Vernith spoke no more. But She did not depart. She, too, watched the mortal drama playing out below.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ~ ~ ~


    By the time Acacia and five of his men came alongside and boarded the second boat, only the dead were left to greet them. One of their targets lay at the bottom of the boat, an arrow through his neck. Another sat slumped by the tiller; an arrow through the back. His men were already scanning the water, bows drawn, for the missing men. It was a waning moon and visibility wasn¡¯t what it might have been, but after a few moments the thrum of bowstrings from the starboard side, followed by a sharp cry. Acacia signaled the other boat to collect the corpse.


    Two left. Acacia assumed they would have split up when they abandoned their boat, so he joined the guardsman on the port side in scanning the waters. It took a long time, but eventually Acacia¡¯s patience was rewarded.


    The man had been a strong swimmer. Acacia doubted he could have made it to the river¡¯s bank as quickly as the target had. At such a distance in the dark, from the unstable deck of the boat, taking the man with an arrow required skill, or luck. Acacia did not believe in luck.


    He took the recurve bow from the guardsman next to him, drew, sighted, centered his self and slowed his breath ¨C and loosed.


    A few seconds later the man on the bank stumbled, swayed. Fell to the mud.


    Acacia passed the bow back to its owner. ¡°Continue searching the water,¡± he signed. ¡°There¡¯s one left.¡±


    A minute passed, then two. The second boat had reached the corpse and was hauling it aboard. Still, no sign of the final target. Acacia grew certain that the man hadn¡¯t tried his chances in the river. There was nowhere to hide on the boat, save for a large wicker basket amidships. It was not large enough to hold a full-grown man. Still, he ordered it checked. All it contained were white crocks, barely longer than a hand.


    So they were poachers. It explained their quick reaction to the Eternal Guard¡¯s approach, at least. But it did not move him any closer to finding his stray.


    He wasn¡¯t on the boat. He wasn¡¯t swimming away. That left only one place to search.


    Acacia ordered two men to remove their armor and search the boat¡¯s hull. They went over the side carrying only their daggers. It would be enough, Acacia knew. But when they returned, a shake of Pebble¡¯s head told him their daggers were unblooded. Acacia ordered the same action taken for the second boat, with the same result.


    Then he must have drowned. Acacia, not being a fool, would present it to Little Tooth as a fact, rather than a supposition. He was dedicated, but he was also ambitious. One did not become the second to a Greatest of Two Hundred by being complacent.


    Little Tooth had ordered him not to return until it was done. Acacia would not willingly carry a black mark on his record for a single poacher, simply because he had not been able to recover the body. Anything might happen to it; it might be eaten by crocs, or it might become lodged somewhere on the river¡¯s bottom, or it might be carried downstream further than they could estimate, or search for.


    No. Recovering the body was a lost cause. Being punctilious about it would do no one any good.


    And if the man had somehow survived, improbable as the idea was? Well. A poacher who had seen all of his companions slaughtered would keep his head down very far indeed, for a very long time. Acacia saw no danger in telling Little Tooth that the deed was done. And whatever he told Little Tooth, the Eternal Guard with him would back. His fate would be their fate, after all, for good or ill.


    He signaled the second boat to collect the dead man on the shore and then rejoin them. Once it had, he ordered the crocs released so as not to offend the river god, and then transferred all the corpses to the second boat and set it alight.


    They rowed back upriver to rejoin the procession in the light of its makeshift pyre.


    ~ ~ ~


    Orthus had nearly lost his grip when the second boat made jarring contact with the one he clung to. They were silent, of course, but as the killers boarded, their movements were communicated to him through the wood and the boat¡¯s small motions.


    He was very, very afraid. All the Tongueless had to do was stand at the boat¡¯s prow and look down, and his fate was sealed. As the moments mounted, his terror swelled. He could not remain where he was. At the very least, he had to move to the boat¡¯s stern. It would be more difficult to spot him there. Or better, he could move to the second boat; they would not suspect anyone hiding there, since they had already claimed it. He hoped. But moving might attract their attention. His heart pounding, he was torn with indecision.


    The thrum of a bowstring above, and the resulting death cry decided him. Who just died? he wondered, his heart aching and his guilt threatening to choke him. But the cold, hard part of him, the part that did not want to die, took control.


    Move, or it will be you, next.


    He took a deep, quiet breath, slipped fully beneath the water, and swam against the current toward the stern of the second boat.


    He had barely reached his target when it began to pull away. He broke the surface. Desperately he grabbed at the cut anchor rope that dangled above his head, and missed ¨C but saw that the tiller was rocking aimlessly back and forth. They were rowing away, using only their oars to propel and guide them, not bothering with the tiller.


    Orthus grabbed hold of the wooden blade and clung to it for his life, praying he would not be noticed.


    The boat did not travel very far before it stopped in the water once more. He risked a peek round the stern and saw that they were collecting a body from the water. He couldn¡¯t tell whose. Guilt rose up in him once more, and he ruthlessly shoved it back down. Yes, it was his fault that all these men were dead, but he had not killed them. So he told himself, but the pain in his heart throbbed on, unconvinced.


    He risked a look on the other side of the craft, and saw that they were now about halfway to the river bank. He did not think he was likely to get any closer.


    Stay hidden, or swim?


    He almost certainly would not get a better chance. If he were to do anything, now was best, while at least some of them were distracted and land was near.


    Orthus breathed deep, prayed silently to any god who might be listening, then let go the tiller and sank beneath the surface.


    ~ ~ ~


    The Faceless One watched the mortal attain the river¡¯s bank, and collapse in the mud. He felt the goddess of the underworld depart, without a further word. There was little enough to say that hadn¡¯t already been said, and what had been said mattered little. Only one thing the usurper had uttered stayed with him; when she had accused him of seeking a false justice.


    He was a dark god, a god of blood and death. He was called merciless by mortals and immortals alike, and did not dispute the fact. He despised the very concept of mercy. But not because he was evil ¨C and not because mercy was for the weak. Mercy was, in His philosophy, a quality found only in the incredibly strong.


    Few mortals and fewer gods possessed that sort of strength.


    And thousands of years had taught Him that something so rare could never be relied upon. Mercy amounted to a false hope. It was to be shunned.


    And if mercy was a false hope, then how much more justice? Justice was a dream. No scale could ever be built to weigh or measure the injustices done in a single second of a single day.


    If existence truly cherished and upheld the concepts of mercy and justice, there would be no need for Him, and He would without complaint let his essence dissipate in the divine wind.


    No, usurper, youngling. I will not call what comes justice. I will call it retribution, and though it will not balance any scales, it is all I can do. And it is more than any of you others will do.


    He had cast His die, and events would play out as fate or chance decreed. He could see the possible branchings as well as any of the Elevated, and they all branched out from the tomb in the desert.


    All but one.


    What had attracted Him to this place, this time, this mortal was the fact that he also carried the potential to influence the final outcome of the Reaper¡¯s gamble. It was a faint chance; faint enough that Vernith had not noticed it. But compared to Him, the usurper was an infant.


    The Faceless One grunted to himself. Vernith had Her part to play, but Her actions were almost wholly predictable. Her motivations were transparent. She would react, rather than act.


    But this mortal, this runaway slave with a death sentence hanging over him¡­ he was a variable that the Old God could not plan for. His potential was simply too obscure.


    As the tongueless ones rowed away, the Reaper watched the slave rise cautiously from the mud and stumble northwards.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Twenty-Nine

    Mother Moon was somewhere up above, but of course Krrsh could not see her through so much rock. She was getting old, fading and withering, showing less of herself each night, and soon she would all but die. For one night, her son would rule the sky, would hold all darkness in his hands, while his mother was reborn.


    That was never a good night.


    The no-face god was not the enemy of ghouls. But he was not a friend, either. If his mother had not told him to not curse the ghouls, would he have? Krrsh wondered. It was a thought that troubled him for two reasons. First, because it wasn¡¯t something a ghoul would normally spend time thinking about. Not even one as clever as Krrsh.


    It did not have anything to do with survival. It was a thought that was not useful, and one he had no way of answering besides. Would the lifting of the curse mean his head would be filled with many such thoughts? Krrsh was afraid that it might. And the thinking of thoughts, of questions, that he had no way to answer came with a special sort of¡­ discomfort that he did not like. Not at all.


    It was like a thirst that could never be slaked.


    The second reason his thoughts about the no-face god bothered him was in front of him, carved into the stone of the place with no bones. It was a picture of the new moon. The night that Mother Moon was almost dead, and the no-face god held all the power of the dark.


    And it was carved above the entrance to where Builder said his heart lay.


    Builder had called him to this place, to show him something. Krrsh had already seen more than he expected, and he had not yet entered. Besides the new moon, Krrsh had seen the place with no bones now had big spikes growing out of the floor, like giant thorns of stone. He could not understand why, what they were for.


    It seemed to Krrsh that he should understand more about things, once the curse was lifted. Not less. Another thought to make his head hurt. He sighed.


    ¡°Why do you pause, Krrsh?¡± Builder asked him.


    Krrsh grunted, and shook his head, and entered the place of Builder¡¯s heart.


    There were stairs down, and at the bottom of the room a blue-white light - and a giant scorpion. It was bigger than a ghoul. Krrsh froze at the last.


    ¡°Fear not. I command it completely. It will not trouble you.¡±


    Slowly, Krrsh descended the stairs. He still kept a wary eye on the unmoving scorpion.


    ¡°The light you see, the crystal that it comes from, that is me, Krrsh. I wanted you to know this.¡±


    ¡°Krrsh not understand. All tomb is Builder.¡±


    ¡°If you lost a finger, you would survive. If you lost your heart you would not. This crystal is¡­ my heart, I suppose. Or my mind. Or both. If something were to happen to it, I would almost certainly die.¡±


    Krrsh thought about this. Even to him, it seemed foolish to tell anyone about a weakness. ¡°Why Builder tell Krrsh?¡± he asked.


    ¡°If I cannot trust you, Krrsh, then there is no one that I can trust. And I must trust someone. Please, pick up the crystal.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°I cannot move it myself. I have tried. I need to know if it can be removed from the black stone it rests upon. And what will happen to me, if anything.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Krrsh asked again.


    ¡°My enemy is coming, Krrsh. Soon. I feel¡­ exposed. If possible, I would like the crystal to be taken deeper - further from the surface, and the entrances to the outside world.¡±


    ¡°Builder wants to hide glowing rock better.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Builder. Are you no-face god?¡±


    ¡°What? No, Krrsh. I am no god at all.¡±


    ¡°Why no-face god picture on your door?¡±


    Builder was quite for a while. Then he answered.


    ¡°I was a man. Just an ordinary man, a builder. I built this place for the emperor¡¯s concubine, his¡­ mate, after she died. When I was finished, the emperor killed me and all the others who built it. The Faceless One came to me as I was dying, and offered me a choice. A chance to kill the emperor. I took it, and He changed me into what you see now. You saw the reaper¡¯s moon carved above the entrance because this place was the Faceless One¡¯s, before. An old, old place of His.¡±


    Krrsh mulled over all that Builder had told him.


    ¡°Ghoul do not worship no-face god. Only Mother Moon,¡± he finally said.


    ¡°It makes no difference to me, Krrsh. I worship no god at all. I will not interfere in your beliefs. I only require that you fight for me, when it is time ¨C and I think your people will not be ready in time, in any case.¡±


    ¡°What Builder mean?¡±


    ¡°I thought I would have two more months ¨C two moons more - to prepare. But my enemy will arrive much sooner than that. In a matter of days at most, he will be here to lay the Consort to rest. Now, all I ask of you is to help me to move the crystal, if it can be moved without adverse effect, and to guard it once it is relocated.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus had attempted to move the crystal using first the geckos, and then the flies. He had been met with failure. None of his minions would approach within a foot of the black stone. He did not understand why. He was frustrated both by the lack of understanding and his inability to command his creatures. He theorized that the black stone, the Reaper¡¯s stone, had something to do with it, but he could not imagine what. And so he had called Krrsh up from the Ironclaw¡¯s den. If the ghoul also could not move the crystal, at least he could explain what prevented it.


    Anomus had not expected to have a conversation with Krrsh; or at least not a conversation with such disparate topics. The ghoul, in Anomus¡¯s estimation, was thinking more deeply about many things, and unexpectedly questioning things. Some of that could be because of his new position as pack leader ¨C the concern that they would be forced to worship the Reaper, for instance. But would Krrsh even have noticed the sickle moon carved above the chamber¡¯s entrance, before the lifting of the curse? Anomus wasn¡¯t certain, but he thought not.


    Krrsh, at least, was displaying an intelligence equal to a human. And if the ghoul was as intelligent as a human, was it right to think of him as a ghoul at all? It was an interesting thought, but not an immediately important one.


    ¡°First, please just touch the crystal, Krrsh. If you cannot for some reason, stop and explain what you felt.¡±


    ¡°If Krrsh touch bright rock, will it hurt Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Anomus admitted, ¡°but I don¡¯t believe so. If you feel any discomfort, then you should stop immediately.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    He watched with that sense of his that was more than sight as Krrsh hesitantly reached towards the crystal, then poked it gently with a claw.


    ¡°Did you feel anything?¡± Anomus asked.


    ¡°Nothing, Builder. Small cold only.¡±


    ¡°All right. Now pick up the crystal, if you would, then set it back down after a moment.¡±


    Krrsh reached down again, a little more confidently this time. His hand closed around the crystal and lifted up.


    Immediately, the world went black for Anomus. Every connection, every sense went dead and disappeared. He was suddenly a consciousness cut off from everything. It was as terrifying as it was abrupt. It felt like an age had passed in that void before Krrsh returned the crystal to its resting place in the shallow, bowl-shaped depression at the top of the black stone, but it was no more than a few heartbeats. Anomus fought to reign in his panic; if he had still had a heart, it would have been pounding.


    ¡°Builder?¡± Krrsh said, bringing him back to the present.


    ¡°It seems the crystal cannot leave the black stone,¡± Anomus told him. ¡°If it does, then I lose all connection to and control of the Tomb.¡± The Reaper had given him power, yes, but that power flowed through the black stone. He was dependent upon it, upon the Faceless God. It would take time for Anomus to work through all the ramifications of that limitation, but the fact of it made him deeply unhappy.


    ¡°What Builder want to do next?¡± Krrsh asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. But there is nothing more that you can do at the moment, Krrsh. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Then Krrsh ask Builder questions.¡±


    Anomus did not wish to have a conversation with the ghoul. He wanted to think upon his newly discovered limitation, and to plan and continue his preparations for Irobus¡¯s imminent arrival, and to go over the latest ¡®reports¡¯ from the flies. But Anomus knew that trust was something both to be built and maintained, and so he acquiesced.


    ¡°What questions, Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°Builder was pack leader, before. Yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes, in a way.¡±


    How many in Builder¡¯s pack?¡±


    ¡°Ten thousand men.¡±


    ¡°Ten th- Krrsh not know that number.¡±


    Anomus sighed, mentally. The ghouls knew so little. There was much he could teach them, but there was so little time to do it, and so many other things that must be done. ¡°Your people count by claws. Five claws to a hand. My ¡®pack¡¯, before Irobus killed them, numbered two thousand hands.¡±


    Krrsh considered that. ¡°Builder. Krrsh not know ¡®thousand.¡¯¡±


    ¡°What is the biggest number you know, Krrsh?¡±


    Krrsh scratched at his nose. ¡°Krrsh knows ten hands. Krrsh knows numbers get bigger, but ten hands¡­ that number Krrsh can - can hold in his head.¡±


    ¡°Look at the wall behind you, Krrsh, and I will explain.¡± Anomus could at least show him the simple tally system that even the lowest of slaves was taught.


    ¡°Ghouls and men have five fingers on each hand. Five is a good number for counting, because of it.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Here is one hand,¡± Anomus said, causing five lines to appear on the wall, four vertical lines crossed by a diagonal one. ¡°Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Builder. Is easy.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, two hands,¡± he said, causing a second tally of five to appear. ¡°Two hands makes ten.¡±


    Krrsh grunted in agreement.


    ¡°You understand ten hands. Here is what that would look like, using these tally marks. Ten hands makes fifty claws, or fingers, or whatever it is you might be counting.¡±


    Krrsh looked at the marks on the wall and grunted again, but with a little less certainty.


    ¡°Now. We add another ten hands. That makes twenty hands, or a hundred claws. When you add the same number again like this, it is called ¡®doubling.¡¯¡±


    Krrsh nodded, slowly, staring at all the tally marks. No grunt accompanied it.


    ¡°When you make a hundred claws ten times, it is called a thousand.¡±


    Krrsh sat utterly still, his eyes wide. One eye twitched slightly.


    ¡°My ¡®pack¡¯ was ten of this number. Ten thousand. This is what it would look like if we were to tally it.¡± The chamber¡¯s walls were covered of tally marks, now.


    Krrsh just sat with that for a time.


    ¡°Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands. There are larger numbers. Numbers do not have an end, though the things to count do.¡±


    Krrsh did not respond. He sat as still as a statue, all except for his eyes.


    ¡°Are you all right, Krrsh?¡±


    ¡°This ¨C this was your pack?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You know this already, in a way. All the corpses you and yours have feasted on, they were my pack.¡±


    ¡°So many,¡± Krrsh whispered, scratching at his forehead with a claw. ¡°And what is the number of the pack you will fight, Builder?¡±


    ¡°There are not enough walls in this Tomb to tally it.¡±


    ¡°Builder cannot win.¡± Krrsh voice was dull, certain. His body slumped. ¡°Too many.¡±


    ¡°I do not want to fight them all. I will not fight them all. I won¡¯t have to, Krrsh. Only the emperor, and whoever he brings with him here.¡±


    The ghoul¡¯s next question was simple, and straightforward: ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°They do not know that I survived. Irobus, my enemy, does not know that I am waiting for him. Like the one who waited for you in the sand and attacked you, I will ambush him. Unlike the one you defeated, I have no throat to chew out, no head to sever. My body is stone, and my weapons are many. Irobus has never had an enemy like me. When he enters the Tomb, he will die.¡±


    ¡°And Builder want ghouls to help.¡±


    ¡°Yes, if necessary. As I said, I do not think I will have time to prepare your pack, to teach you what I know of fighting.¡± Anomus regretted the fact. Given time, he believed he could have forged the ghouls into an effective fighting force.


    ¡°At this point, with what we learned today, I believe your greatest use to me would be to take the glowing crystal and hide it, keep it safe, if it seems that I am somehow losing the coming battle. I have no wish to see you or yours die for nothing.¡±


    But Krrsh shook his head. ¡°Builder take curse away. Builder ask ghoul to fight. Ghoul will fight.¡±


    ¡°Only if it makes sense for you to do so, Krrsh. Your people have no training and no experience with battle. The Eternal Guard would slaughter the ghouls if you were to fight now.¡±


    ¡°Ghoul are fierce.¡±


    ¡°Undoubtedly. But that is not enough. Not against the Tongueless. They are trained from the time they are children to slay the enemies of the empire. They do not doubt, or fear, or pity: they kill. Trust me, Krrsh, as I trust you.¡±


    Krrsh nodded. ¡°Builder say, Krrsh trust.¡±


    ¡°Good. Was there anything else?¡±


    ¡°Picture of Ironclaw, Builder.¡±


    ¡°Yes, what about it?¡±


    ¡°Ironclaw have cloth. Around middle.¡±


    ¡°A shendyt, yes.¡±


    ¡°Ironclaws also want.¡±


    Anomus would have smiled, if he were able. He had no issue with the ghouls going about naked, but clothing was the mark of the rise from animal to civilized, if anything was. He did not know if the ghouls would realize it, but a simple piece of cloth could say more about their advancement than nearly anything else to Anomus¡¯s mind, at least.


    ¡°Your pack would also like to wear shendyts?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The corpse of every murdered worker had been clothed in the simple kilt; most of cotton cloth, some linen. It was no strain for Anomus to reproduce the material. ¡°I am happy to oblige them.¡±


    ~ ~ ~


    Nighteyes watched the tomb entrance. Not the great bronze-sheathed, sealed doors to the Concubine¡¯s Tomb. Two of his men guarded those, and there was nothing to draw his attention there.


    No, he watched the hole in the sand behind the Tomb. Two men were also stationed there. They thought it pointless, but knew better than to complain. Especially when the Greatest of Fifty was practically camped in front of the place they guarded, leaving it only when duty or nature made it necessary to do so.


    Eventually Hummingbird approached him about it, as he knew his second would. The man leaned down so no one else could see his signs.


    ¡°What the fuck are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Watching the cave entrance. What does it look like I¡¯m doing?¡±


    ¡°Honestly? It looks like you¡¯re going insane. The men are starting to worry.¡±


    ¡°Sit down,¡± Nighteyes replied. ¡°Watch with me.¡±


    ¡°Watch what?¡± Hummingbird replied. But he sat.


    ¡°Tell me what you see.¡±


    ¡°I see Rice Grain picking his nose. I see Bright Scale trying not to fall asleep. I see a lot of sand and a hole in the ground.¡±


    ¡°Keep watching.¡±


    Hummingbird sighed. ¡°Nothing. Nothing. Big fucking fly. Nothing. Rice Grain wiping a crusty booger on the bottom of his sandal. At least he didn¡¯t eat it. Nothing. Nothing. Another fly.¡±


    ¡°The same fly, or a different one?¡±


    ¡°You know what? I have no idea. They all look the same to me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a different one. The first one you saw entered the tomb and didn¡¯t come out, so the second had to be a different one.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°Keep watching. Tell me how many flies go in and how many come out.¡±


    Hummingbird sighed. Nighteyes stood.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    ¡°Take a shit, get a drink. Watch, don¡¯t talk.¡±


    Hummingbird gave him a rude gesture and turned back to his new task.


    When Nighteyes returned a half-hour later, he handed Hummingbird a wineskin and said ¡°Report.¡±


    ¡°Seven flies entered. Three exited.¡±


    ¡°And do you find anything strange about that?¡±


    ¡°Other than the fact that they¡¯re huge? Not really, no. They¡¯re flies. Flies fly.¡±


    ¡°They are acting like bees, Hummingbird, not flies. Bees, going to and from their hive. They go in, do whatever it is they¡¯re doing, and then go back out. Like bees collecting nectar and returning to the hive.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s nothing in there save a skeleton with an ax.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°So why are you obsessed with this?¡±


    ¡°Because it doesn¡¯t make sense. Which means there¡¯s something here I¡¯m not getting.¡±


    ¡°Nighteyes. So what?¡±


    ¡°So it might be a danger.¡±


    Hummingbird put a hand on his shoulder, briefly.


    ¡°Listen to me, Greatest. Tomorrow the procession arrives. We have done everything we are supposed to do. There are no threats in close proximity to the Tomb. We have investigated everything that might possibly be considered a potential danger. If you go to Little Tooth talking about flies acting like bees, do you know what will happen? By the end of the day tomorrow, you will be calling me Greatest, and that¡¯s if you still have your head. I do not want you to lose your head, and I fucking well do not want to be Greatest of Fifty. So please, please, forget about flies and bees and dusty holes in the ground.¡±

 Authors Interlude: On Revenge Stories

    No revenge tale ends well.


    For such a story to be written at all, a terrible injustice must incite it. It begins with horror and loss of some sort. The particulars will vary, but the inciting event is one that cannot be undone or made whole. The main character of such a story is one who has been thrust into a world that, to them, is practically indistinguishable from hell.


    The character who ends up seeking revenge has suffered an indignity sufficient to motivate them to become obsessed with it. Their life has permanently been marred by the inciting event, the Terrible Thing that occurred. Their life, their thoughts, their emotions, is dominated by it. There is no forgetting or forgiveness. The injustice that occurred, for the protagonist, is one that never truly ended. At some level, it continues, endlessly.


    At every step of the way, a story of revenge is also, to some extent and inescapably, a story of trauma.


    And the one(s) responsible for the Terrible Thing? They must exist in a revenge story, be they real or perceived. Without them, there is no tale to tell ¨C or rather, the tale is one of tragedy, but not one of revenge. A revenge story must have its villain, because the main character in a revenge story must have an architect of their sorrow, an adversary whose downfall they can pursue. Very often, that adversary, that pursuit, is the only thing keeping the main character alive at the outset and through most of the story. Absent the goal of revenge, the main character has nothing, or so they believe with every fiber of their being ¨C whether they admit or even realize it.


    There are only three possible endings to a revenge story. First, the main character fails to secure his revenge. Second, they obtain it. Third, they abandon the quest. But in a very real sense, which of the three endings we finally come to is not so very important ¨C because there is always, always the aftermath to contend with, and it never sees the main character made whole.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    If the character tries and fails to bring down their adversary, then we have an unadulterated story of defeat and injustice. The bleakness in such a tale is unrelieved. It is nihilism in literary form. I make no judgment regarding the literary worth of such a story, but I would point out the fact that it robs both the character and the reader of catharsis. And catharsis has always been the point of most every story told. The ancient Greeks didn¡¯t create it; they simply recognized the fact.


    If the character sees the defeat of his or her adversary, then at least some account has been made of the awful event that set the story in motion ¨C but it cannot ever undo that event. The scars remain, the loss is not offset by gain, but by yet more loss ¨C the costs paid by the main character to obtain revenge at the very least. At every step, the main character is in danger of becoming the thing that he hates, in order to obtain revenge. And if the main character does triumph, then she will have ended her reason to exist. Finding a new one is rarely a simple task. And the possibility of one person¡¯s retribution being another¡¯s Terrible Thing is very real. Too often writers gloss over the aftermath, the grim string of cause and effect that, in the real world, has given rise to endless bloodshed, generation after generation of it.


    The third possible ending in a revenge story is the abandonment of the quest. In it, the main character comes to the personal realization that revenge is not worth the cost. They choose to go no further down the dark path they have been travelling, not out of fear or cowardice, but out of realization. They somehow, through internal strength or external grace, fight their way free of the hellscape their existence has become and reach toward something brighter, something better. But even then, they will forever carry the scars of what has been done to them, and whatever they have done in response. Though they may heal, they can never return to being who they were. They can never regain what was lost to them. All they can do is accept it.


    There are no happy endings, when it comes to tales of revenge. The only question a reader should have when embarking on such a journey is how badly will this end?

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Thirty

    It was not traditional. But even Charn had to admit, when the Tomb came into view, that it was beautiful.


    The Targus Cliff was situated on a long bend in the Great River. While the river flowed in general terms from south to north, this particular stretch saw its course altered to west-east. The midafternoon sun was in Charn¡¯s eyes as they approached, causing him to lift a beringed hand to shade them. What he saw was worth the squinting against the glare.


    Charn could not fault the builder, whoever he might have been, for the skill with which it had been constructed ¨C or the impropriety that the Tomb represented, for that matter. When an emperor commands, his subjects obey, as Charn knew all too well. And in any case, Vernith had little to say about a tomb¡¯s exterior, except that it should match the dignity and worth of its occupant. The Tomb¡¯s fa?ade did that, in Charn¡¯s estimation; if anything, it went too far in representing the Concubine¡¯s station in life. It was too grand for a slave, however famed or favored. A simpler, more traditional mastaba, built on a site of significance, would have been appropriate in Charn¡¯s estimation. But then the emperor himself had expressed his intent to be laid to rest there when the time came - and the decision had not been Charn¡¯s to make, only to advise upon.


    Behind him, the lesser priests had shifted to the chant of arrival without being told. Before him, Eternal Guard were waiting at the quay. For better or worse, the Concubine¡¯s interment was almost complete. Charn¡¯s feeling of misgiving had not faded; if anything, it had grown stronger. But there was nothing more to be done about it.


    When the imperial barge had been secured to the dock Charn stepped onto the stone quay, and the Greatest of Two Hundred that had been assigned to lead the Tongueless guarding the procession appeared at his side.


    ¡°Speak to the ones who went before us,¡± Charn told him. ¡°If there are no issues, I will unseal the Tomb and we will begin transferring the Concubine and her grave goods.¡±


    The scarred man bowed, then stepped away to converse with one of the guardsmen who had been waiting. Charn took no interest, since he did not understand their hand-sign. If he had paid any attention to their interaction, he would have been able to read something from their body language. He might have inquired into the cause of the tension displayed in both men¡¯s frames. And upon learning it, he might have allowed his own misgivings more weight.


    But he paid the tongueless killers no mind.


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°Report.¡±


    Nighteyes lowered his salute and began to sign. Little Tooth disliked any extraneous word, and so he kept his report brief. Little Tooth would ask for further information if he wanted it.


    ¡°One dead ghoul, Greatest. Signs that a pack made a den across the river, then abandoned it. A previously undiscovered tomb behind the cliff, small and ancient, not connected to the Concubine¡¯s. The smell of death emanates somewhat from the Tomb¡¯s opening at the top of the cliff.¡± That was where Hummingbird had urged him to stop speaking. Nighteyes forced his hands to his sides before they started signing about human corpses in ghoul burrows. Or flies. Especially flies.


    ¡°A second tomb was never noted before.¡±


    ¡°It appears a retaining wall collapsed at some point after the Concubine¡¯s Tomb was completed, exposing its entrance.¡±


    ¡°Noted. You killed the corpse eater?¡±


    ¡°No, Greatest. It was dead when we arrived.¡±


    ¡°Cause of death?¡±


    ¡°Throat torn out, and then it was decapitated. Not by a blade.¡±


    ¡°Strange. Anything else of note?¡±


    Nighteyes hesitated. All he had to do was say ¡®no.¡¯ He raised his hands again to say it.


    ¡°Flies, Greatest.¡± That was what came out instead.


    ¡°Explain.¡±


    ¡°There are flies here of unusual color and size, as big as birds. They are unnatural, and their behavior-¡±


    Little Tooth frowned and made the sign for ¡®silence.¡¯ Nighteyes froze.


    ¡°I asked for anything of note. You speak to me of flies. Tell me how flies present any danger to the Eternal Guard or the burial party.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Greatest.¡±


    ¡°Then why are you wasting my time speaking of them?¡±


    ¡°An intuition, Greatest.¡±


    Little Tooth stared at him. The moment stretched. The Greatest of Two Hundred¡¯s stony expression did not change, but his next words told Nighteyes what he thought of his ¡®intuition.¡¯


    ¡°Send your second to me. You and the rest of your men will secure the boats in the procession.¡±


    Nighteyes understood both dismissals. He brought his fist to his chin in salute and went to do his superior¡¯s bidding.


    He avoided Hummingbird¡¯s eyes.


    ~ ~ ~


    The first thing that captured ¨C no, assaulted Charn¡¯s attention once he had unsealed the Tomb¡¯s great doors was the stench of decay. It was nearly unbearable. He turned away, retching, and strode to the end of the quay. A slave brought him a scented cloth unbidden. He pressed it against his nose and mouth and shouted for the guard captain.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    The leader of the Eternal Guard appeared once more at his side, scratching with charcoal on a scrap of papyrus. When he had finished, he handed it to Charn:


    The Emperor had the workers slain. A portion of the corpses were placed on the level below the Concubine¡¯s Tomb.


    ¡°And no one thought to tell the high priest of Vernith? Goddess below!¡± Charn balled up the papyrus and flung it into the river. His sense of disquiet swelled, along with his rage. It was one thing to kill slaves and place them as servants in a tomb ¨C an ancient custom that had fallen out of fashion, and one that Charn felt personally disgusted by, but not strictly speaking inappropriate. But it was quite another to do so without any of the religious rites to quiet their spirits, or to secure the blessings of no less than four separate gods that it was necessary to placate for the endeavor. If the person responsible had been anyone other than the emperor, Charn would have had his head.


    As it was, there wasn¡¯t a thing he could do, except wait for a time in the hope that some of the miasma would clear. But he could not wait too long; the quay could only accommodate one boat at a time, and the unloading, boat by boat, would take hours. With only a few hours of daylight remaining, he had no time to waste. Working at night would be begging for some accident, he felt, and he could not afford to lose any of the Concubine¡¯s grave goods to the river ¨C or any misfortune in this already tainted endeavor.


    And then, because the situation wasn¡¯t awful enough, the leader of the Eternal Guard approached him once more, with another scrap of papyrus.


    ¡°What?¡±


    The man handed him the scrap. Two words were written on it:


    Simoom coming.


    Charn uttered a very unpriestly word. Then he screamed at the slaves and under-priests to begin unloading the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus.


    ~ ~ ~


    Anomus ¡®watched¡¯ the Tomb¡¯s doors open, felt the sunlight pour in, along with the daytime mana that was as enticing as it was impossible for him to utilize. He waited for someone to enter ¨C but no one did for several minutes. Finally, pair after pair of Eternal Guard marched in. Ten took up position along the walls of the Well, while a dozen more armed with torches stalked through the rest of the Tomb, inspecting and securing each of the other rooms.


    The Architect marshalled his own troops, sending his wasps followed by the venomous geckos into the vents he had prepared, in preparation for Irobus¡¯s appearance.


    He also lined the stairs up to the Well with his beetles, in case the Tongueless discovered his new false wall and penetrated it. The undertomb itself he cleared of minions, ordering them to the periphery. Soon the emperor¡¯s people would fall like rain onto spikes, and any who managed to survive would be swarmed by his creatures.


    Just as soon as Irobus made his appearance.


    His desire for the man¡¯s death was like a sickness in him now; a psychic ague that tormented his bodiless self. If he¡¯d still possessed flesh, it would have been feverish and aching with it.


    Anomus cautioned himself for the hundredth time to wait until the emperor had crossed the entry chamber and walked to the Well before striking. He could not chance letting the murderer escape. He listened for any mention of his killer ¨C surely they would discuss where Irobus would stand for the rite, or how best to ensure his displeasure would be avoided? They did not. None of the interlopers made any mention of the emperor at all.


    Anomus watched as slaves and priests carried in the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus, set up a gilded trestle in the center of the Well, and set the ironglass box down upon it. Sorcery throbbed from the thing, but he gave it scant attention. Only Irobus¡¯s impending entry mattered to him. He watched the slaves scurry out in haste, and the priests begin to chant. He waited for Irobus to make his appearance, sure that the man would come at any moment.


    Instead, both slaves and Eternal Guardsmen began bringing in boxes, jars and baskets in obvious haste. A fat priest appeared at the doorway, directing the slaves with words and blows, cloth pressed to his nose. The man was clearly agitated; Anomus could sense the sweat rolling down the man¡¯s face, and ¡®hear¡¯ the man¡¯s rapidly beating heart. His orders were louder and harsher than the situation seemed to require.


    Endless grave goods poured into the tomb, borne on the backs and in the arms and hands of slaves, who were themselves nearly as alarmed as the priest, judging by the alacrity of their movements and what Anomus could only call the scent of fear that poured from their bodies along with their sweat.


    It took him a little time to realize that their fear was not only the simple, expected fear of punishment that was the lot of every slave, nor yet just the superstitious dread one might expect them to feel upon entering a house of the dead that reeked of death. It was more, and once he went looking for the source it was not hard to find. It was in the very air that poured in from the open doors, and from the opening at the top of the Well.


    Simoom. Faint, the traces of distant scents brought near and barely perceptible the change in air pressure ¨C but rapidly gaining strength. The Concubine¡¯s interment was cursed in more ways than one, it seemed. Anomus knew without doubt that the Eternal Guard would not let the emperor remain on his barge during a simoom. They would take him to the safest, most sheltered place available, which as far as they could know would be the tomb.


    So where was Irobus? Where was the murderer of thousands?


    ~ ~ ~


    ¡°Tell me about your Greatest,¡± Little Tooth instructed Hummingbird. The older man¡¯s face was emotionless, and his hand signals economical, almost peremptory.


    ¡°He is conscientious, Greatest, and tireless in the prosecution of his duties.¡±


    ¡°Is he mad?¡±


    ¡°No, Greatest. Nothing I have observed of his actions has been anything but professional. And sane.¡±


    ¡°Did he speak to you of flies?¡±


    ¡°He did, Greatest.¡±


    ¡°Are you of the opinion that they present some possible danger?¡±


    ¡°I find it¡­ doubtful, Greatest.¡± Hummingbird swallowed before continuing. ¡°However, more than once I have been wrong, and Nighteyes has been proven right. There is a reason he was elevated to Greatest of Fifty.¡±


    ¡°Do his men love him?¡±


    ¡°They do, Greatest. We do.¡±


    ¡°Do they fear him?¡±


    ¡°They respect him, Greatest, and would follow wherever he led, without hesitation.¡±


    ¡°Loyalty is often misplaced, and love can wither or sour. Fear is more durable, and more sure. What are you called?¡±


    ¡°Hummingbird, Greatest.¡±


    ¡°You are now Greatest of Fifty. You may keep Nighteyes as your second, for now. Go and oversee the securing of the boats.¡±


    Hummingbird brought his fist to his chin then turned and walked quickly to the Tomb¡¯s entrance, where wind and sand was now swirling in and the simoom¡¯s moan was beginning to be audible, as slaves scurried back and forth with their burdens.


    At least it was not to be an execution, he thought. Then he remembered Little Tooth¡¯s ¡®for now¡¯


    Not an immediate execution, he amended.


    Nighteyes could escape into the simoom¡¯s fury. He could survive it, and the desert beyond, indefinitely. Few were better suited. But Hummingbird knew Nighteyes would never consider it, and didn¡¯t even think to urge it of his lover.


    When he exited the tomb, his eyes were immediately drawn to the south, and to the wall of sand and dust rapidly advancing toward them. The daylight had already begun to take on an eerie, red-orange cast.


    Hummingbird felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Nighteyes.


    ¡°Little Tooth ¨C¡± he began to sign, but Nighteyes cut him off.


    ¡°No time. The not yet unloaded boats must be run aground, now, or they will surely be lost. No place to secure them here at the cliff.¡±


    ¡°Do it.¡±


    ¡°Already begun. All the priests are inside. Should the remaining slaves be sent in as well?¡±


    ¡°Who remains outside?¡±


    ¡°Only our Fifty and another dozen or so slaves.¡±


    ¡°Can they help you secure the boats?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then use them.¡±


    The simoom¡¯s moan suddenly became a scream. Hummingbird signaled to the Guard at the tomb¡¯s doors to close them, and then went to try and help save the remaining grave goods from the fury of the storm.


    Just before the doors shut, Hummingbird heard the harsh clacking sound of a command baton, the symbol of office and commander of attention given to Tongueless officers of Little Tooth¡¯s rank and higher. Almost, he pretended not to hear it above the simoom¡¯s howl. But discipline forced his head around.


    Little Tooth stood in the narrow gap of the nearly shut doors and gestured him to come inside. And so he went.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Thirty-One

    They closed the doors. Heavy though they were, the punishing wind threatened to force them open if they were left unattended; the primal fury of a desert storm was impossible to dismiss. Anomus watched with a sort of nebulous dread as the fat priest detailed a dozen slaves to bar them with their very bodies ¨C there was a mechanism to seal them, but the seal would be permanent as far as they knew, and besides, it could only be engaged from outside.


    Outside, the simoom had begun to rage and the emperor¡¯s servants had closed the doors to the tomb. And the emperor had not, not at any time, shown his face.


    Anomus felt as if he were suspended above a great void. Below him was nothing, forever. If he ¡®looked¡¯ down, if he contemplated or acknowledged what was beneath him, he had the sick certainty he would fall, endlessly.


    Is this madness? he wondered. Is this despair?


    He could accept neither. And so, for a little while, for perhaps the space of a dozen nonexistent heartbeats, he let all rational and irrational thought swirl past and through him, unacknowledged. It was almost like a numbness. It was almost like death.


    But the hated fact lodged in his consciousness like a splinter, like a spear, poison-tipped and burning.


    The emperor had not come.


    That undeniable, terrible fact eventually scorched its way into the cocoon Anomus had reflexively put around his mind. When it did, he fell ¨C but not into a void. He fell into a bottomless pit of rage, of fury.


    There was little logic or reason to be found there, either. It was simply a different kind of escape from the intolerable reality of his defeat.


    The slaves who pressed themselves against the doors to keep the simoom out knew only that, somehow, their task had become easier. They had no way of knowing the great bronze-sheathed doors had suddenly become fused together, or that a hundred men could not have forced them apart.


    ~ ~ ~


    Little Tooth was signing something to him, But Hummingbird was not paying any attention. Behind the Greatest of Two Hundred and high up on the tomb¡¯s wall, he had just seen something¡­ impossible.


    One of the diamond-shaped tiles had turned to dust right before his eyes. Then another. Then many. And then something worse.


    Little Tooth was signing to him. Hummingbird gestured for imperative silence, heedless of his superior¡¯s certain wrath, not even bothering to look at the commander. He pointed up at the new holes.


    If Nighteyes¡¯ flies were improbably large, the black wasps that issued forth from the diamond-shaped holes in black clouds could only be called gargantuan.


    I should have stayed outside, he thought, drawing his khopesh, his palms suddenly sweaty. Why did I not stay outside?


    Hummingbird heard a scream from one of the side chambers, and then another, and then everything began to happen at once.


    ~ ~ ~


    Charn stood at the head of the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus. Half a dozen lesser priests knelt on either side of it, each with an oil lamp or censure in hand. The all watched him expectantly, waiting for him to begin the Rite of Entombment.


    Charn was not paying them, or the corpse, or the ritual he was meant to be leading any attention. Instead, he was staring in confusion at a round brass plaque that had been affixed to the wall just to his left.


    It was like a mockery of the Seal Against Evil. Such a seal could only be fashioned from the purest gold, not base brass. The glyphs were correct ¨C ancient high Adambric, and the litany perfect ¨C But Morn¡¯s sigil was a crude mockery of the real thing.


    The Tongueless commander had informed him that the entrance to the underchamber housing the slain slaves was in this general area, and that it had been sealed by them at the emperor¡¯s order.


    Was this the seal the emperor had commanded to be placed? Impossible. It made a mockery of the father of the gods. Only disaster could come of it.


    Below the plaque the words ¡®NONE SHALL PASS¡¯ had been inscribed into a stone.


    He reached out one fat, beringed hand to touch the plaque, and then thought better of it.


    ¡°Blessed Vernith,¡± he whispered, ¡°what evil have we stumbled into?¡±


    The first scream had him whip his head around as if pulled by a string. He saw a storm of wasps pouring from holes high up in the walls; impossible wasps as big as cats in their bodies. Guards unsheathed blades, which flashed yellow in the lamplight by the doors and orange in the simoom-blooded light that seeped in from the ironglass ceiling of the well.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Screams of pain, perhaps death were sounding from all the far-flung portions of the tomb, now. Charn knew even the Tongueless could speak the universal language of agony, and his heart began to beat impossibly fast.


    He backed away unthinking from the plague of wasps, until his back came up against the wall. The Guards were hacking at their winged opponents with skill, but the number of wasps made each fight desperate. They swarmed out of their holes and attacked the nearest person, be they slave or Eternal Guard. The slaves were defenseless and undefended, and when the monstrous wasps plunged their stingers into exposed flesh, screams of hellish agony were the immediate result, along with visibly blackening, corrupted skin.


    The Well seemed to be free of murder holes. Few wasps immediately found their way towards the priests, who all followed Charn to the far wall in a panic, their sacred duties wholly forgotten.


    Charn did not at first believe his eyes, when he saw a stony skull begin to materialize above the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus. Ink-like tendrils trailed away from the back of the skull. The thing¡¯s dead, eyeless sockets seemed to regard the glassed-in corpse for a moment before turning its regard to the cowering priests.


    ¡°Where is Irobus?¡± The thing asked with a voice like broken glass. ¡°Where is the emperor?¡±


    ¡°H-he did not come,¡± one of the lesser priests replied. Another threw his ceremonial stone lamp at the apparition; it struck the skull on the jaw, to no effect.


    ¡°Then you will all die in his place,¡± the skull said, and disappeared, inky tendrils dissipating like smoke and stony skull disintegrating into sand that pattered onto the ironglass sarcophagus.


    The floor beneath them began to disintegrated as well. Underpriests screamed and clawed at each other and fell into an unknown blackness


    Charn lunged across the writhing, flailing mass of his brethren, using their bodies as stepstones, and flung himself on top of the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus.


    ~ ~ ~


    Hummingbird swung his khopesh in tight, controlled arcs, his back against the wall. The wasps, while far bigger than they had any right to be, did not seem to be tougher, quicker or any more intelligent than the common ones, and they employed no real strategy as they attacked. In that, their size was actually a hindrance: they offered his blade a larger target, and half a dozen of the creatures lay in a half-moon at his feet.


    He could not afford to let even one through his defenses, however. From what he could tell virtually all of the nearly naked slaves had been stung, and they had died quickly, screaming all the while. Two of the Guard had fallen as well in the shock of the initial assault, but the survivors had all done as he had, putting their backs against the solid wall so that the winged tormentors could not approach unseen. And all of the Tongueless were fearsome with steel.


    The wider fight was lost to him; he could not spare the attention to see how any others fared. Still, the Tomb was filled with a terrible, unignorable hum from the hundreds of wings of their tormentors.


    Little Tooth was nearest him, and he was nearest the doors, which were now blocked by the corpses of half a dozen slaves. He gave the barking cough that signaled a request for attention, and when the Greatest of Two Hundred glanced at him, he motioned with his head towards the Tomb¡¯s doors.


    After a moment the man nodded his assent.


    The Eternal Guardsmen did not have to like or even respect each other in order to work in unison. A lifetime of training had ingrained the ability to perform cooperative tasks. Hummingbird made it to the pile of corpses and began to clear them while Little Tooth defended both of them from the winged assassins, his gold-washed steel khopesh a blur in the lamplight.


    Hummingbird dropped his sword and began dragging the still-blackening corpses away from the bronze-sheathed doors as quickly as he could. He could not hear the simoom over the buzzing of the hell wasps, but he knew that it certainly had not abated in the scant minute or so since the doors had been closed. He expected the doors, massive as they were, to be pushed open by the fierce winds once he had sufficiently cleared away the weight and blockage of the dead slaves.


    They did not.


    He found the recessed ring on the left-hand door, cleverly incorporated into the swirling design that adorned it, and pulled. The door did not budge. He pulled for all he was worth, to no greater effect.


    Puzzled, verging on alarmed, he studied the door for signs of some secret lock ¨C and discovered that the two doors had been fused together ¨C two doors no longer, but one solid impediment. Impossible, but true.


    Well, he thought, at least Nighteyes and the others are spared this hell.


    Little Tooth coughed for his attention.


    Hummingbird turned and picked up his khopesh, then looked the Greatest of Two Hundred in the eye. He shook his head. Then he resumed killing the wasps.


    The jewel-colored lizard that fell on Little Tooth was as long as his forearm, and almost impossibly fast. It bit the older man on the neck and flung itself away before Hummingbird could do anything about it.


    He put his back against the sealed doors and watched the Greatest battle on for a few moments, then crumple to his knees. Still he swung his khopesh, though drunkenly. Wasps descended and stung him once, twice, a dozen times.


    You should have heeded Nighteyes, Hummingbird thought. We all should have.


    Greatest of Two Hundred Little Tooth died on his knees, his skin blackening and swelling like overripe fruit, but his corpse refused to topple for long moments.


    Then the stone floor beneath it turned to sand, and it tumbled into darkness, right before Hummingbird¡¯s eyes.


    ~ ~ ~


    He had released the wasps, giving them only the simple command to kill. Some quiet, logical portion of his mind knew that he might direct them to better effect, but that voice was small and weak and lost in the tide of frenzied hate and despair that gripped him now.


    He had lost the chance to slay his slayer, and the only consolation given him was the chance to kill Irobus¡¯s functionaries. When the priests had confirmed his worst fear, there was no reason or strength left in him sufficient to keep him from seizing that gory, bleak consolation, and he had embraced it fully. Anomus, Architect, Builder ¨C that person was gone. All that was left was the Tomb, and the Tomb was savage.


    The vestiges of humanity left him by the Reaper had, until then, been successful in keeping in check the new instinct that constantly prodded at him to destroy any interloper. But like a man escaping despair in the sap of the poppy, he ceased his resistance, spurned reason, and instead sank into the instinct¡¯s embrace.


    There was no need to think, only to punish, to rage, to eliminate the invaders.


    Only to kill.


    In every corner of the Tomb, death went stalking, and found its prey ¨C and with every death, with every human soul released a surge of mana, of raw power came to him with such force and black pleasure that it would have made him gasp, had he lungs.

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Thirty-Two

    Deep in the lowest level of the Tomb, below the Place with No Bones and the other place, filled with bones that were not to be touched, down in the Ironclaw home, every ghoul felt¡­ something. A sudden change. Not one for the better. Over countless centuries of being reviled and hunted, ghoul-kind had honed an almost supernatural instinct for danger.


    Danger had arrived. They all knew it, the way they always knew where Mother Moon was in the sky, even when they could not see her.


    The Tomb, which had been a safe and welcoming place since they had first set foot in it, suddenly was not. It was not a scent in the air, but it was like that, thought Krrsh, and it was undeniable.


    Some great predator was loose in the den of the Builder, stalking its halls.


    He glanced at Chrrk, who was showing old Wrna how to make fire. She had suddenly frozen over the small pile of wood scraps, body tense, her ears pricked forward and the lips of her muzzle slightly drawn back in the faint beginnings of a snarl.


    ¡°Danger,¡± Krrsh announced to the pack. ¡°Grik, go and watch the entrance.¡±


    ¡°Why Grik?¡± asked Grik.


    ¡°Because Krrsh is pack leader, and say so.¡±


    Grik opened his mouth to dispute, but apparently found the logic inescapable. He went. The other Ironclaws withdrew from the central chamber to the smaller, more defensible side dens they had chosen for themselves. All except Chrrk, who abandoned her fire tools and went to Krrsh¡¯s side.


    ¡°What is it?¡± she asked him, voice low. ¡°Feels like hunter near.¡±


    ¡°Builder¡¯s enemies are here,¡± Krrsh guessed out loud, trying to make it sound as though it was not a guess.


    ¡°What do we do?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Builder said do nothing. He said Ironclaws not fight.¡±


    ¡°And if Builder loses? If the hunter finds us?¡± Her eyes were on him, clear and deep and clever- and worried.


    Krrsh was silent for a moment, then told her his feeling, his fear.


    ¡°Krrsh think Builder is hunter.¡± He flexed his claws. ¡°We wait. We watch. If we have to, we fight.¡±


    ¡°We should go. Chrrk think maybe we should go,¡± she said, uncharacteristically unsure of herself.


    Krrsh shook his head, sure of this if nothing else. As sure as he could be. Besides, Builder had closed the tunnel to outside, leaving only the big doors. The doors that Builder¡¯s enemy would come through. Maybe had come through already.


    ¡°Krrsh talk to Builder now?¡± she suggested.


    ¡°No. We wait, quiet and still. Let the lion pass. Do not give it prey to see, or scent to track.¡±


    Chrrk looked long at him, and then nodded once.


    ¡°As pack leader say.¡±


    Krrsh only hoped he had said right. That the danger did pass. That it was not trapped inside with them.


    A cornered lion would fight the fiercest.


    ~ ~ ~


    Hummingbird watched as great square sections of the floor fell away, and quickly grasped that a pattern was beginning to emerge, like some massive checkered board. He estimated that where he stood would also fall, and quickly stepped back to the bronze doors where, if he was correct and the pattern bore out, the floor would remain stable.


    All the while his mind raced to take in the situation, he fended off wasps, his sword arm beginning to feel the strain of constant exertion. He was lucky that he had not yet been set upon by one of the hellishly fast, agile lizards.


    More like geckos, came the thought. As if it matters.


    The treacherous ground offered the creatures no real discomfort; if the floor disappeared beneath one of them, they simply flung themselves away from danger. Vertical walls were perfectly traversable to them, even the ceiling itself. He was more than a little jealous.


    Hummingbird could not see much of whatever lay beneath what had been solid floor. It was pitch black down there, and most of the lamps they had brought were now extinguished, leaving the low, rust-red light the bled in from the Well¡¯s cap at the far end of the hall as the main source of illumination. But when the floor had begun to give way, the already awful stench of decay that pervaded the Tomb became a thousand-fold worse. He had no choice but to breathe in great lungfuls of it as he battled for his life, but it was an added misery in an already terrifying situation.


    Why did I ever become an Eternal Guard? he thought as he cut another wasp from the air. Ah, yes. I¡¯m a slave and had no say in it.


    He could imagine Nighteyes scolding him. ¡°Now is not the time for jokes,¡± his lover would say, ever-serious. But Nighteyes was wrong. Now was probably the very last time for jokes he¡¯d ever get. If not now, then when?


    I will miss that ever-serious face, though. Well. Being dead, I actually won¡¯t. He flinched away from a wasp that flew straight at his eyes, body impossibly curved to present its stinger, already dripping with venom. It slammed into the door behind him instead, and he pivoted instantly and crushed it with the pommel of his khopesh. Death is a slave¡¯s ultimate comfort, if you think about it the right-


    Above his head, he heard something ¨C a shifting, a grinding of stone against stone, loud enough to catch his attention over the hum of hell-wings and the screams of the dying.


    Oh, great gods, what now? he thought as he glanced up, and saw a massive block of stone that had once been part of the ceiling descending towards him, gaining speed.


    He wasn¡¯t yet ready for the ultimate comfort. Not like that, at any rate.


    He threw himself into the reeking blackness.


    ~ ~ ~


    Charn was lost to his terror. It had thoroughly conquered him. Where once was a clever, calculating, far-sighted master of temple and court politics, now there huddled on the glass sarcophagus of the emperor¡¯s concubine a man too frightened to even look up and see what might be coming to end his life. His eyes were tight shut, and all that kept him from screaming out his fear was the single thin reed of his faith ¨C thin, but genuine. Instead of screams, what passed his lips was prayer. Shaken-voiced, it was true, but devout nonetheless.


    Around him, around the Concubine¡¯s sarcophagus, the floor had given way, and all the lesser priests had fallen, screaming, into the unknown. Most of those screams had found an end, though others in the tomb still shrieked out pain and fear.


    He had thrown himself upon it instinctively, the way a drowning man might climb on and cling to the floating wreckage of a ship in a storm. It certainly seemed as if it had been the right action to take, considering the fates of the other priests. He did not know why the casket had not plummeted down into the depts blow the Well. He did not even think to wonder. He only praised Vernith for it.


    Until the sarcophagus began to tilt.


    His whispered prayer to Vernith gained in volume as the coffin increased its pitch, and he clung to the ensorcelled glass with a desperate strength as the floor beneath it, and him, completed its collapse.


    He and the Concubine plummeted into the dark.


    The coffin slammed into¡­ something, presumably a lower floor, with a squelching sound and enough force to dislodge him from it. He was thrown a short distance away, and the surprise of it forced his eyes open. In the gloom, he found himself in a vast, man-made cavern. Rank upon rank of columns filled the space, and everywhere a column did not stand, man-high spikes of stone penetrated, like a deadly forest.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    There were many slaves and Tongueless speared on those spikes, some writhing, others lolling limp in death.


    Charn looked down and realized he was half-submerged in what could only be rotting, oozing, partially liquefied flesh. The high priest of Vernith knew all stages of decay. The prayer passing his lips was pushed aside by the contents of his stomach. But even over his shuddering heaves, he could hear the harsh buzzing of wasp wings descending, and once more he took up the litany.


    He saw bizarrely beautiful, impossibly large lizards darting toward him as well, jumping from spike to spike, and in the deeper, further gloom, bulky, indistinct shapes plowed their way towards him through the foulness. When one came close enough, he understood that they were beetles, monstrously transformed, massively enlarged, and unnaturally armored.


    He did all he could do. He prayed; loudly, endlessly, he prayed, and hoped that Vernith held some consideration for one who had devoted his life to Her.


    ~ ~ ~


    Hummingbird landed feet-first on one of the corpses of the slaves who had died by the doors. It was a good thing he did, for the corpse had landed on a brutal stone spike before him and been pierced by it through the stomach.


    Hummingbird¡¯s sandaled feet struck the dead man¡¯s back on either side of the barely protruding spike tip, driving the corpse further down and the spike perilously close to his crotch; he avoided being impaled by the narrowest of margins, then descended to the squelching, reeking, rotting floor of the new, lower level of hell he had been trapped in.


    He still had his khopesh, and his wits, and his life. All of it seemed terribly improbable to him, and a hideous amount of struggle for a bleak reward, but it was what it was.


    The first of the geckos to find him was quick, but his blade was quicker; it ended up in two writhing pieces on the offal-smothered floor. He had no time to congratulate himself, as a swarm of half a dozen wasps immediately proceeded it, and had him ducking, dodging and slipping as he cut them from the air, one by one.


    He did not notice the monstrous beetle until it was almost too late. He lashed out with his khopesh, but the beetle¡¯s armored body turned it, drawing sparks. It swiped at him with a foreleg, and he cut that away using sheer force.


    Another of the geckos threw itself at him from out of the gloom while he was about it, and he was forced to throw himself into the fouls sludge to dodge the attack. Immediately he forced himself back on his feet and brought his blade in line with the angle he guessed it would attack from next. He guessed correctly, and the blade¡¯s edge split the creature¡¯s head down to the base of the neck.


    There was a reason he had been selected for the Eternal Guard. Even as a child, he had been viper-quick and level-headed in the tests administered in the imperial slave pens. Time, training and experience had turned him into a master bladesman, if only an indifferent leader.


    Hummingbird¡¯s battle became a running one ¨C or rather a slogging one. Keeping his back against a wall had been an advantage when he had faced only wasps, but the geckos were more than happy to use any solid surface to get to him, and the hulking beetles could pin, and possibly crush him against a solid surface. So he moved, and kept moving.


    It was not as graceful a dance as he might have had on the sand. The footing was treacherous. But his skill was extraordinary.


    Hummingbird¡¯s battle stretched across the length of the undertomb, from beneath the doorway of the Tomb to the far wall, near the Well ¨C and near the hidden door to the Reaper¡¯s sanctum and the Tomb¡¯s heart. By the time he reached the far wall, dozens of his foes had joined the soup underfoot, wasps, geckos and beetles.


    But Hummingbird knew something else also stalked the hellscape. He could hear it raging and smashing, though he could not see it.


    His limbs were leaden by the time he found himself, suddenly and surprisingly, against the far wall of the hell-pit. His lungs worked like bellows, and the sweat of his exertion mingled with all the filth of death that had coated his golden skin and bronze armor during the battle. He did not know how long he had fought. Time meant nothing, and at the same time, he knew that his had grown very short.


    His legs were trembling, and so he put his back against the wall. Not for protection, just to keep upright.


    He had no idea that he was at his true adversary¡¯s door. But the adversary noticed at once.


    ~ ~ ~


    It was not Anomus. It was not the Architect, nor the Builder that was the cold, crystal heart of the Tomb now. It was a beast that operated almost wholly on instinct. That instinct commanded it to obliterate the creatures who had invaded its territory, and it did.


    There was no guile, no strategy or tactics involved in its ferocious assault on the interlopers. It commanded its creatures to kill, and they killed. It activated the death traps, haphazardly, and more men died. And with each death, the Tomb absorbed, more energy, and pushed conscious thought and human emotion further into the darkness.


    Everyone above the undertomb was dead or dying ¨C two hundred slaves and as many Eternal Guard. Most were dead from the venom of his minions; the remainder had been crushed by falling stone.


    In the undertomb, a dozen intruders had now been reduced to just two, two splinters in the nebulous flesh of the thing that did not think of itself in any terms, but only in terms of what it possessed.


    One of the intruders offered no resistance, but the Tomb¡¯s thralls nonetheless could not kill it. Some unknown force prevented them from doing so, though they surrounded the hated man and continually pushed forward to make the attempt. The Tomb tried to end the human directly, by means of a hastily created stone hurled at stunning speed, but the stone was deflected by that same invisible power before it met soft flesh.


    The Tomb howled its frustration and beat at the intruder with fists of pure force, to no greater effect. Denied its satisfaction, it began to tear at the new corpses that decorated the spikes all around, and then turned to the ironglass coffin that lay in the muck nearby, and the corpse that lay inside it.


    Here, too, it was frustrated; the sarcophagus resisted the Tomb¡¯s blows nearly as well as the mysterious force that protected the living man a few paces away. The Tomb rained down blow after blow on the recalcitrant thing, blows powerful enough to crush skulls, to crush stone, to beat metal back into formlessness, into oblivion.


    Eventually the ensorcelled coffin cracked.


    The Tomb was about to finish the destruction of the thing when it sensed the other interloper, temporarily forgotten, had reached the very threshold to the chamber that held its heart.


    A new instinct surged through it then, washing over and subsuming its rage: fear.


    It was all the more dangerous for it.


    ~ ~ ~


    There was no warning. One moment Hummingbird was summoning the strength to lift his khopesh once more as a lumbering beetle advanced, and the next, he had been seized by some giant, invisible, crushing hand. He could not breathe. He could not even struggle. His sword slipped from his grasp. He had found his end.


    ¡°Why?¡± he wheezed with brutalized, tongueless mouth, all joking lost at the end. ¡°Why?¡±


    And then, intelligible only to him, ¡°Nighteyes.¡±


    And then nothing.


    ~ ~ ~


    Perhaps it was the threat to the sanctum being dispatched that brought Anomus back. Or, perhaps, it was the shock of the Tongueless asking that simple, almost plaintive question aloud.


    Anomus awoke from the madness of violence, sickened by it yet buoyed by the tidal wave of energy gained from so many deaths. Never before had he held so much power. Never before, since awakening to his new existence, had he wanted it less.


    He dropped the corpse. He surveyed his domain with his inhuman senses. He despaired.


    He had no remorse about all the Eternal Guard he had slaughtered. They were nearly as inhuman as he, stone-faced dealers of death. Ten thousand skeletons in and around the Tomb were testament to it.


    But the slaves, unarmed and unarmored, expendable pawns in the machinations of the powerful¡­


    He would have spared them. If he had been in control of his faculties, he would have spared them. They had no more deserved to die than he had, than his workers had.


    The blood on his metaphorical hands differed from Irobus¡¯s only in quantity, and the realization made him wish he had the means to retch. The guilt of it and the misery¡­


    Words and thoughts were weak things, when put to the task of facing up to his bloody deeds. He suffered for a time with revulsion-laden self-knowledge that passed beyond articulable thought.


    When his thoughts began to clear, to become more orderly if no less grim, one question haunted him: Was this bloodlust a thing imposed upon him by his transformation, or was it something that had always lived inside him, never woken, a seed of evil that had never experienced, before then, the conditions necessary to germinate? He had always been a peaceable man. He¡¯d never even been in a fight, beyond the normal childhood tussles.


    He had no answer to his question. It was, perhaps, unknowable, though that made it no less important to ask. He only knew what he was capable of now. The evidence lay all around, in red ruin.


    All were dead, save one ¨C the fat priest of Vernith. The high priest of Vernith himself, judging by his clothing and jewelry. How had one such as him, cowardly and utterly without martial skills, survived?


    When Anomus turned his attention more closely to the man, the answer became apparent. The priest was chanting a prayer to his patron, and she was answering it. Around the man, like a gossamer shield, or shell, the power of a divinity that was not the Faceless One existed. It was invisible, but he could sense it. So, too, could his assassins. Beetles, geckos and wasps surrounded the praying priest, still single-mindedly intent on carrying out his order to kill, but they were stopped by the protection granted to their prey by the goddess of the underworld.


    Or at least he assumed it was Vernith who sheltered the terrified high priest. Anomus could not imagine what other god it might be.


    He found himself unable to care. He was full and fit to bursting from the killing and the power it gave him, absolutely glutted ¨C and crushed by the pointlessness of it. Irobus lived and breathed and continued to rule, and the deaths of these, his functionaries and slaves meant nothing to anyone except those who had been slaughtered. Irobus certainly would not care.


    Anomus had failed. Now he would have eternity to reflect upon that failure, down in the dark, alone save for mindless insects and the primitive ghouls, while the emperor continued as a living god, no whim beyond his reach, and no accountability allowed to reach him.


    Anomus contemplated a future as bleak as any afterlife the priesthood could threaten the living with, and there was one who was responsible for it all.


    The Faceless One.


    ¡°Reaper,¡± Anomus whispered, knowing the Old God would hear him if He chose. ¡°You have betrayed me. You offered me revenge, and gave to me instead a pointless lie. What have You to say for Yourself?¡± He paused, then said even more quietly, ¡°What could You possibly say? You made me into a monster, and I did not resist. But it is You who is truly monstrous.¡±

 Volume 1: Blood and Stone: Chapter Thirty-Three

    The Faceless One appeared before the black block as he had before ¨C suddenly and awfully present, with all his dread, in the space of an instant. The air itself felt somehow heavier, pregnant with the Old God¡¯s power.


    I offered you a chance, the Faceless One replied. Only that. Such was our compact. I am not the god chance, or fate, or destiny. Do not reproach Me, and do not seek comfort from one such as Me if you must struggle for your vengeance.


    ¡°Comfort? A chance? I have no chance, Reaper. All You have given me is cruelty. You allowed me to hope! But the truth is You have put me in a prison, for eternity.¡±


    The Faceless One bent down and seemed to regard Anomus¡¯s crystal more closely. He reached out with one shadow-sloughing hand and put a finger on the crystal.


    Anomus shuddered at the contact. It was as if the void between the stars had brushed against his very essence.


    That is only true if you insist on it being so. How badly do you want your revenge, Architect? Not badly enough, if you despair at the first hurdle. Perhaps I misjudged you. Perhaps I should withdraw My favor.


    The Old God¡¯s finger tapped lightly against the crystal¡¯s surface, an implicit threat. What the Faceless One had made, He could unmake.


    Did Anomus want that? To find an end, even if it was oblivion? Was it time to turn away from vengeance?


    Some portion of him still howled at the thought, though he could see no way forward.


    ¡°I want Irobus to die.¡± That was the bedrock upon which his whole existence was founded, and it had not shifted.


    Then kill him.


    ¡°Tell me, Reaper, how am I to manage that? Here I exist, trapped, immobile, by Your choice. The emperor sits on his golden throne far, impossibly far from my reach. Give me the power to relocate, and I will end him. Or admit our bargain was nothing more than a lie!¡±


    I have given you all that is in my power to give. What you do with it is, has always been, and will always be up to you. The Faceless One withdrew His hand and straightened once more. You spent your mortal life consumed by the design and construction of things that had never before existed. If you now have greater hindrances, so too do you have greater abilities. Succeed or fail, struggle or fall ¨C I have given you your chance. Ask nothing more from me.


    He paused, shadows dripping from his hideous form like black gore.


    In the end, He continued after a moment, a single death is not such a difficult thing to engineer. Life is far more fragile than stone and steel. Do not call upon Me again until it is done, Architect, for I will not answer.


    With that, the Faceless One was gone.


    ¡°Reaper! Reaper!¡± Anomus¡¯s screams became wordless, and the tomb trembled.


    ~ ~ ~


    The pack was frightened. The walls and ceilings shook and sweated dust and sand. A muffled, intermittent scream of what could only be great pain was just audible to all the sharp-eared ghouls. Pups sought the comfort of their mother¡¯s arms, while many of the adults bared claws and fangs in involuntary reflex.


    Krrsh knew he had to go and find out what was happening, just as he knew he had to appear untroubled. Even if he hadn¡¯t known, the furtive looks directed at him by Chrrk would have led him to understand it quickly enough.


    The time for waiting was over. If Builder had been a stalking lion before, he was a wounded one now.


    Builder had saved Krrsh, when Krrsh was bleeding to death on the sand and stone. He had to go, even though the lion was most dangerous when wounded. But only Krrsh, no need to risk others.


    He tried to put some swagger in his walk as he left the ghoul-home to talk to Builder, like the walk of Ngrum before. A walk that said with no words, ¡®everything I see and smell is mine¡¯.


    He was not sure he succeeded. But he tried.


    The screaming had stopped by the time he reached the Place with No Bones. His swagger he had abandoned as soon as he was out of sight of the pack.


    Krrsh looked on the destruction, his long jaw hanging open in surprise, and what he would have called dismay, if he knew the word. Many dead. Much blood, its smell sharp in his nostrils. There were bones, now, in the Place with No Bones. Many. Some were splintered and broken and poked out of ruined flesh, some were cut clean through, by what force he could not imagine. Men and altered insects littered the floor, broken, rent, dead.


    For the first time in his life, Krrsh looked upon corpses and saw not at first meat, not sustenance, but death. Destruction. Involuntarily, he hugged his own ribs. He did not have a word for what he felt, but that did not stop him from feeling it. Builder was his friend, and Builder had done more for ghouls than anyone.


    But Builder also had inside him a vicious killer.


    It was then that Krrsh lost any remaining doubt that Builder had once been a Man.


    Krrsh moved further into the cavernous, column-punctuated chamber, and spied a female human in a see-through box. It was much like the boxes Men made for their dead, but Krrsh had never seen one that was not stone or wood. The box was cracked in many places, and the woman lay on her side in it, her long golden hair spilling over her face.


    He had never seen hair that color, except on a golden fox.


    In another place, in a corner, he saw the only living things in the Place ¨C a fat Man surrounded by Builder¡¯s creatures. None of them were attacking. The fat Man stood trembling, and was saying something over and over, but Krrsh didn¡¯t understand his words. Much meat and fat on that one. Also the smell of piss, and fear. Krrsh was not good at seeing emotion in human faces. His nose was much better. But the man looked very afraid.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Krrsh shook his head and continued his quiet way down the rough stairs to Builder¡¯s chamber.


    It seemed to Krrsh that Builder¡¯s light had dimmed somehow. But it was still there. So was the giant scorpion. Krrsh tried to ignore that one, but it was hard. Very hard.


    ¡°You won, Builder,¡± he said, when he realized Builder would not speak first.


    ¡°No,¡± came Builder¡¯s voice after a long moment. ¡°No, Krrsh, I have lost.¡±


    ¡°All are dead or dying, Builder. Except the fat one who pissed down his own leg.¡±


    ¡°But not the emperor, not the pack leader. Not the one who matters.¡±


    ¡°Did he run away?¡±


    ¡°He never came. All of this was for nothing.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he will come later.¡±


    ¡°He will not. He will either seal this place for eternity, or send sorcerers and endless armies until it ¨C until I am destroyed. He will never now risk coming here himself.¡±


    ¡°Why did you think he would come, Builder? This place is far from all the places of Men.¡±


    ¡°For his concubine.¡± Builder sounded very tired.


    ¡°Krrsh not know that word.¡±


    ¡°His mate. This place was built for her. He was supposed to come with her when she was brought here. He did not.¡±


    ¡°Is she the one in the box?¡±


    ¡°She is the one in the box, yes.¡±


    ¡°She was supposed to live here?¡±


    ¡°You could say that. And no, before you ask, I don¡¯t know why the emperor didn¡¯t come.¡±


    ¡°You could ask her, Builder. The Woman.¡±


    ¡°She is dead, Krrsh.¡±


    ¡°Builder wrong. Woman not dead. But she will be soon.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Not enough air to breathe in the box. Even with the cracks.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean she isn¡¯t dead?¡±


    Krrsh scratched at his muzzle and shrugged. ¡°Just that, Builder. Woman not meat yet. Ghoul know meat better than anything.¡±


    Builder did not reply. Krrsh had the feeling Builder wasn¡¯t paying attention to him any longer.


    ~ ~ ~


    SILENT EVERMORE. That, the first line of the Subori hymn for the dead, was inscribed on the ceremonial knife that took the tongues of the Eternal Guard. They were the Silent Ones, the Tongueless. But they were also known as The Dead Who Fought, if only to themselves.


    Those words were also worked into the Tomb¡¯s fa?ade, above the giant, bronze-sheathed doors that would not budge no matter what Nighteyes and the rest of the Fifty tried to force them open.


    After the simoom had spent itself just before dawn, Nighteyes had tried to open them to report the funerary barges secured. At first, he had not thought much about not being to open the doors, assuming they had been secured against the storm. But when constant beating on the doors produced no response, he became concerned.


    When he noticed that the thin line of wind-blown sand at the base of the door was discolored, rusty, damp, a sick sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He took a few grains between his thumb and forefinger, sniffed, tasted, spat.


    Blood, corrupted by some unknown agent.


    He stood and turned to Rice Grain, who was closest.


    ¡°We must these doors open, whatever it takes.¡±


    ¡°What if we damage them?¡± Rice Grain asked, clearly worried about the disapproval of Little Tooth inside.


    ¡°We will destroy them if we must. Go and get tools. There were many across the river. Take three with you.¡±


    They worked through the day, and were no closer to their goal as the light began to fade, though the doors looked as battered as if they had endured a siege.


    Nighteyes knew he would have to give up this labor and return to the capital, to report what he knew of what had happened. But the moment he did so meant he had given Hummingbird up as dead. His men knew it as well, and though they stole glances at him, none suggested they abandon the effort.


    No one, not even Nighteyes, truly believed Hummingbird still lived.


    He had sent scouts to clear away the sand from the ironglass cap and report on what they saw in the Tomb¡¯s interior. When they had returned, they were speechless.


    ¡°Best you see for yourself, Greatest,¡± said Bent Reed. And so he had gone around the cliff, past the ancient tomb with its suspicious flies and up the slope to the cap, and looked down into the Concubine¡¯s Tomb.


    Hell had come to the Targus Cliff. He had no other words to describe what he saw. Destruction, both of the Tomb and of those living souls who had entered it. The floor had collapsed, in many places, and it seemed as if the ceiling had been deliberately dropped on those places it had not. In the deeper gloom that filled the space beneath where the floor should be, it was impossible to see anything clearly, though he thought ¨C or perhaps imagined - he could see dark, indistinct shapes occasionally moving in the darkness.


    There was no sign of Hummingbird.


    Nighteyes kept at the doors until the sun kissed the horizon, then dropped the scavenged pickaxe he had been wielding against the door, and signaled the others to cease as well.


    ¡°We must return to the capital,¡± he signed, ¡°to report. And to return the grave goods still unloaded.¡±


    ¡°What happened here, Greatest?¡± asked Bent Reed, finally voicing that which they all wondered, but had not dared to ask while Nighteyes had been so ferociously intent on gaining ingress to the Tomb.


    Nighteyes thought to correct Bent Reed ¨C to tell him and the others that he was no longer Greatest of Fifty. But no formal order had been issued by Little Tooth. And he would need every scrap of power and authority he had, if he were to ensure that he and his Fifty were part of the force the emperor was sure to send against this place.


    He looked at Bent Reed, but addressed them all when he replied. ¡°The blackest of magic happened here. More I do not know. More I do not need to know, to want to see it destroyed. Prepare the barges, now.¡±


    As the convoy took to the river in the still, star-filled night, Nighteyes stood in the stern of the trailing boat, looking back at the place that his second, his closest friend, his lover and his fucking heart had died. And he hated, more than he had ever hated before in his harsh, brutal life.


    ~ ~ ~


    The barges were long away and out of sight when Vernith¡¯s high priest crawled out of the false tomb on hands and knees and onto the starlit sands, and then stumbled his way to the river.


    When he saw that all the funerary barges were gone, he knew he was stranded in the deepest desert, alone, and would probably perish there ¨C but the fact that he was alive at all was already miracle enough for one day. He had lived, where hundreds of others had met terrible ends. His goddess had made sure of it. Unworthy though he might be, She had cradled his life in the palm of her hand, sheltered it when so many others had been taken by death, like chaff in the wind.


    And he was certain that he knew why.


    He did not know what dark, furious force now inhabited the Concubine¡¯s Tomb, nor why it had cleared a path through the foul remains of the slaughtered workers for him to follow up to the living world. But he had seen the ironglass sarcophagus taken apart by some invisible power, and he had seen Hesia stir and then awaken, as if she had only been sleeping for a decade instead of being dead.


    The high priest of Vernith, goddess of the underworld whose bailiwick was death and all that followed after, knew that that was flatly impossible. Which meant that the Concubine had not, in fact, been dead.


    Which meant¡­ many things, possibly. All of them terrible.


    Hesia had sat up, eyes wild but the rest of her face like stone, and looked around at the horror of her surroundings, seemingly uncomprehending. And then she had uttered a single word.


    ¡°Free.¡±


    And then Charn¡¯s path out of hell had formed, and a disembodied voice, charged it seemed to him with impatience and sorrow and hope and fury all at once, spoke to him, like someone leaning in to tell him something of great import, in confidence.


    ¡°Leave now,¡± said the voice, ¡°or you will never leave here at all.¡±


    Charn had not required a second push.


    When he made it to the bank of the Great River, Charn threw himself to his knees and put his forehead down onto the silty mud of the river bank, and gave heartfelt thanks to his patron deity. Then he drank deep and washed himself and his clothing as best he could. Then he sat down in the sand for a time, wondering what he should do next. He was not unduly concerned about himself. Vernith had saved him from certain death, and he now carried an unshakeable conviction that the desert would not be the end of him.


    He had work to do for her, the Blessed Goddess; why else had she spared him?


    That work frightened him far more than the open sands. It was not every day that an emperor offended the gods, after all, nor was it every day that a fat, venal priest was charged with bringing him to account.


    Charn had no idea how he could accomplish what he was convinced was Vernith¡¯s will. He only knew that the rest of his life had been bought at that price.


    He stretched out his arms and back, stood, and began his long walk beside the river, towards his destiny.