The Scarlet Ziggurat


 The Scarlet Ziggurat Copyright © 2023 by Anthony Ryan.
 All rights reserved.
 Cover illustration Copyright © 2023 by Didier Graffet.
 All rights reserved.
 Ebook Edition
 ISBN
 978-1-64524-170-6
 Subterranean Press
 PO Box 190106
 Burton, MI 48519
 subterraneanpress.com
 Look not to the ruins of antiquity for wisdom
 For all their treasures are as dust
 —Injunctions of the First Risen.
 The Scarlet Ziggurat
 The column of slaves coiled across the desert, a monstrous, sickened snake, shedding exhausted or thirst-maddened souls like desiccated scales. The procession of bent-backed, shuffling unfortunates had been a third again as long when it departed the lush farmland south of the Allied Ports. As the journey wore on, it grew both thinner and shorter, its route dotted with the corpses of those it discarded along the way. They would stagger from the ranks, too spent or deranged to cower from the whips of their master’s guards, wandering out into the sun-baked, dune sea. Most would collapse after a few tottering steps to lie upon the sands, sighing out their last breaths even as whips cracked and split their flesh. Others would continue to stagger into the dunes, usually falling victim to the guards’ strong-bows, although a few would contrive to escape, if certain death in the deep desert could be called such.
 The idiocy of your kind never ceases to both appall and amaze, my liege. 
 The acerbic drawling voice in Guyime’s head was accompanied by a thrum from the sword on his back, a sensation he never failed to feel despite the sturdy scabbard that contained the blade. Such was the nature of his curse. The invisible, yet unbreakable chain that entwined his soul with the creature inhabiting the ancient weapon ensured he would always sense its presence, and never be deaf to its words.
 There are, what? the voice continued. Over two thousand slaves in this horde, kept in check by no more than fifty guards. Overpowering their tormentors would be a relatively easy matter, costing but a few lives. And yet, there they march in their misery for no other reason than they fear the sting of a brute’s lash. The human, I have come to understand in my atavistic sagacity, is but a fleece-less sheep that walks upon two legs instead of four.
 Guyime said nothing to contradict the demon, as had been his custom for decades now. He could have pointed out that these wretched people were mostly slaves from birth, conditioned into subservience from infancy. They knew only toil and the punishment that rewards indolence or defiance. Also, so far into the desert, chains were unnecessary, since every soul here was dependent on the water casks burdening the backs of their master’s camels. In some ways, he reflected, they were as bound by invisible chains as he. But he said none of this, for he had learned that engaging with the creature was an exercise as fruitless as it was enraging.
 The call of Captain Olmyn’s horn drew his gaze to the caravan preceding the main column of slaves. It consisted of a long train of camels laden with the water required to sustain so many this far from civilisation. At its head stood the gilded, covered litter bearing the master of this expedition of unfortunates.
 Not only them, the voice chimed in as Guyime started towards the litter. For a slave is still a slave, even if he carries a sword. Quick now, my liege. Your master summons you.
 Guyime allowed the hot bolt of rage to shudder through him, gritting his teeth against the impulse to snarl back a tirade of insults. Such things were pointless and, a small part of his soul would always force him to acknowledge, suffering a demon’s taunts was a meagre penance when set against his crimes.
 The slaves carrying the litter of the Sorcerer Magnus Tygraxis Uhl Berlius were the elite of his human inventory. Each stood at least the equal of Guyime’s height, and some even outmatched his stature. Bronzed muscles bulged in shoulder and thigh as they knelt, lowering the covered platform to allow their master to descend without the risk of an undignified stumble.
 The sorcerer’s silks billowed in the stiff breeze of the evening desert as he stepped down onto the sands. A tall man, Tygraxis had the ability to convey a sense of near magisterial importance even in the smallest gestures. Guyime watched the sorcerer come to a halt, stroking his pointed beard with an air of deep contemplation, his always calculating gaze fixed upon the seemingly featureless stretch of desert below the tall dune where they stood.
 Theatrical arse-head, the voice sighed. As if he doesn’t already know with absolute certainty what’s down there.
 Guyime waited at a respectful distance, exchanging a wordless nod with Captain Olmyn. Although a far less impressive figure than the hulking litter slaves, Guyime had judged this wiry, rat-faced man as an excessively dangerous soul early in their acquaintance. Featuring an un-placeable accent and bronzed skin that may once have been a shade or two paler, the mercenary captain’s origins remained opaque. Nor did Guyime feel any inclination to ask. The man was as skilful with the scimitar at his belt as he was the whip that never seemed to be absent from his grasp. Even for Guyime, such skills demanded respect, albeit uncoloured by a shred of affection.
 “Ah, you’re here. Good.” Guyime turned to find Tygraxis beckoning to him with a ring-laden hand. “Come, tell me what you see.”
 Striding to the sorcerer’s side, Guyime afforded the undisturbed dunes below a short inspection. “Sand,” he said. His tone was curt and, as usual, he didn’t append the honorific of ‘Magnus’, something that would have earned the direst retribution for any of Tygraxis’s other servants. The sorcerer exhibited no sign of offence, but Guyime caught Olmyn’s resentful flinch at the insult. Punishment was his province, and he took a professional pride in administering it.
 “Yes, my dear fallen king,” Tygraxis said.