1 – Lechery
Cross bided his time during his sojourn with the Raven in the echoing Viņsaule canyons through an interminable sequence of sleep cycles. The waking periods slipped quietly through his fingers, like sand in an hourglass. Yet he had grown accustomed to the Raven’s presence.
The Raven might have been a reluctant conversationalist, but her company was not so unbearable. She had been nothing like the terrifying creature that the extraordinary tales about her had depicted. The woman Cross beheld was nothing more than perceptive and crafty, disproving all accounts of her being primitive and monstrous. Yet that fact only made her even more threatening.
So, he waited with patience and vigilance for his moment to act, never shifting his contemplation from the ragged burlap sack that bagged all the divine chattel, but it never left the Raven’s side.
Now and again, throughout several sleep cycles, the Raven would don her justacorps and soar away from their cave, always carrying along that bag of divine chattel.
Whenever she was away, Cross foraged the canyons in search of blighted spirits to use his mystic spoon to transmogrify their grievous remains into rice, but alas, he could not uncover any and hence could not conceal the grain within the Raven’s food to determine if it was poisonous or not.
The horizon blazed into a crescendo of orange and pink whenever the Raven returned from her frequent travels. Her justacorps billowed after her in her graceful descent towards their cave.
Cross stood in awe of her flight as the swathe of inky feathers cleaved through the burning sky like an ankou’s scythe, reaping the souls of the departed.
No spirit could withstand the rippling lake of fire that was the Underworld’s blazing sky except barbots. They seemed to be the only creatures able to traverse within it without combusting into a blighted spirit or suffering annihilation. While there was no known explanation for this phenomenon, conjecture abounded that since these gentle birds were bred in the Underworld, they had never experienced a first death and, thus, could evade a second death. Some even speculated that the Master of the Underworld or even the Underworld itself had decreed that barbots would never die a second death and succumb to a fate of vacancy like the damned.
Cross was uncertain if the Raven was a fallen or demoted angel, but one thing he knew for sure was that she was equally damned as him. That rendered her as vulnerable to the inferno in the heavens as any other spirit. Still, she flew closer to the fires than any other spirit would dare, as though she had a second death wish. Cross observed her skimming near enough to the blaze, carefully twisting and turning in a graceful dance as she deftly evaded being immolated. She made it appear effortless, a supernatural feat of agility and grace.
She carelessly flung the coarse jute bag onto the bleak earth at every descent into the hollow.
It wasn’t as if she trusted him but more as if she felt secure that he would never dare cross her. On some occasions, the sack’s load had been lightened since he last saw it. Other times, it appeared burdened with an undeniable weight that made him contemplate what hidden secrets it could contain. Cross couldn’t help but succumb to the temptation that had been incessantly clawing at his mind, though he was content to remain patient for now. After all, it would do Cross no good to tackle the issue unless he had a weapon as formidable as the Raven’s rope dart.
Not only that, but Cross had also become reliant upon the Raven for sustenance. She had honed her skill of hunting barbots with preternatural precision, snatching the behemoths out of the fiery heavens in mid-flight with a single throw of her rope dart as if drawing fish from a tranquil lake. And after snaring one of the colossal avians, Cross and Gimlet would gather its carcass like clockwork.
The trio formed an unlikely bond, a harmonious little family shining in the bleakness of their broken world.
Yet, frequently, Cross considered taking Gimlet and fleeing, but he never did—for he knew she’d track them down. And the next time they ran their con, he was sure she’d not give him a single divine chattel.
Their current objects did not provide Cross enough firepower to break into Paradise, yet he was confident he could fashion a means of entry. He could use those fiery salamanders to ignite some explosives and create a hole in the wall of Paradise large enough for him to enter. To do this, he would first have to steal explosives from one of the many gangs that were always at spiritual war. The magical compass could dismantle bolts and hinges from the gates if not wholly buckle them or disarm any sentries that may confront him. But these ideas were all moot until he could separate the Raven from the burlap sack and gain access to its enchanted artifacts.
He toiled to synchronize his sleeping cycles with the Raven’s, only to discover her sleeping habits were ever-changing. He would drift off into slumber as she lingered in wakefulness, and when they both succumbed to sleep, he awoke to find her already stirring in consciousness.
During one balmy waking period, the Raven netted a trove of fresh barbot eggs she had pilfered from a nest. And as Cross fed a couple to Gimlet, the Raven’s bewitching gaze followed his every movement. He had seen the same hungry look in many women’s eyes before, though he wasn’t sure what it meant coming from her—she was always a riddle to him.
With that thought, he allowed her to witness him intently inspecting her physique, measuring her response. Even wearing her masculine clothing, he found her alluring, with a fragility that lured him in. At rest, her wings draped limp down her back like a cape of chastity. They blended intimately with her justacorps, creating an illusion of fur atop the fabric as if she had no wings at all. Her silhouette hinted at the wonder that lay beneath the garment and tested his ferocious urge to ravish her perfect blend of graceful curves and strength. He yearned to pull at strands of her silky black hair, which cascaded past her shoulders when not hidden by that hideous top hat.
The Raven locked eyes with him as if reading his mind, and electricity coursed through Cross’s nephesh. Her austere yet captivating beauty had taken hold of him, and the scent of her delicate skin was intoxicating. An all-encompassing stir to sate his craving for her surged through him, yet he remained dubious of her unanticipated ardor.
Lechery had always been considered the most trivial of all sins, and as such, it was often the indulgence of choice among those sentenced to an eternity of damnation. It brought momentary pleasure to the desolate lives of many in a realm beyond redemption. And the Underworld emboldened spirits to revel in any perverse carnal depravity, no matter how sick and wicked, free from repercussions of the living, such as pregnancy, but not disease. Choosing the wrong partner meant a soul would be liable for consequences that stretched far beyond earthly afflictions. Some unions would bring an unearthly price as lust remained the simplest technique that the Master employed to bind souls into eternal servitude.
Cross parted his lips to voice his suspicion, but the Raven put her finger across them before he could articulate any foolishness.
She smothered his mouth with hers. Her thin lips moved against his, her tongue exploring every corner of his mouth.
Their breath mingled, hot and desperate against the sweltering heat of the Underworld, as Cross hungrily drank from her.
Despite her gasps of pleasure, Cross’s suspicion of her sudden display of romantic affection lingered. But the fervor of the second enraptured him, and he could not bring himself to lament or decline her offer.
He gave in.
Cross pulled the Raven close, inhaling the scent of her hair, a mix of smoke and something sweet. His hands roamed over her astral surface, smooth and alive with heat.
Her soft gasps filled his ears, drowning out the rumble of the sky furnace.
His hand gripped her raven hair with ferocity as she tore at his clothes, her movements frenzied and wild.
The justacorps slipped from her shoulders; his shirt was lost in the delirium of their passion.
Her fingers stroked the bulges of his chest and abdomen.
Warmth trickled through him like molten gold.
The Raven pushed Cross onto the quilt with unexpected strength, pinning him beneath her. Her wings unfurled in full span like a dark halo, stark and endless against the scorching sky outside their cave. She smiled, and it was a rare sight. It lit up her face with an intensity that devoured his every doubt.
Hesitation flickered in her eyes, quickly replaced by raw lust. She moved atop him with a fury that matched his own. Her breath came hard as she wrapped herself around him, a tempest with no refuge but each other.
Cross gripped the Raven and flipped her onto her back.
Her ebony feathers rippled like a stormy wind had blown over them, creating a midnight bed of delicate petals atop the quilt.
His hands explored each silken curve of her astral surface with delicate caresses as if she were Paradise awaiting his passage. He glided his tongue around her collarbone, relishing her taste. His lips moved from her neck to her chest as he caressed his hands around each sinuous curve of her body, evoking sighs of delight from within her depths.
The Raven’s fingertips grazed over Cross’s head. Her touch was both tender and savage.
Cross hungrily drew the Raven’s succulent bosom to his lips. His tongue meandered and caressed her hardened nipple. He teased and tantalized it with each lick, showering her chest with kisses that made her shudder, writhe, and moan.
The Raven’s wings unfurled around them in a shroud of black, enclosing them in their own private universe where time and consequence ceased to exist.
Cross marveled at how fragile she seemed beneath him, how vulnerable this fallen angel could be, yet knowing she could ruin him with ease. The way she surrendered to him enflamed every dark corner of his corrupted soul.
Their spirits collided like the forces of chaos destined to meet, transcending the spiritual realm and tapping into the realm of the divine. As their ruachs entwined, the desolation of the Underworld faded into insignificance—a mere backdrop to their all-encompassing rapture. All that existed was their fierce abandon and the overwhelming desire to be annihilated by each other. They were two conflagrant wills moving together in their shared lust, each touch sparking life into their weary spirits, each kiss a pact of reckless passion renewed again and again.
Cross lost himself in that euphoric state, entranced, ensnared, and overwhelmed by the dizzying intoxication of being enfolded in the beautiful creature’s embrace. His nephesh oscillated at a higher level, a rhythm that pulsed with celestial energy. Every astral layer within him quivered as the sensation of tiny divine fingers gently plucked at the strings of his Mind, Emotions, and Will. An ethereal frequency coursed through him like a warm electric current, sending sparks of euphoria tingling through his entire ruach. A sense of weightlessness came over him, carrying him to a realm he had never been before, a place suspended between dream and reality.
The Raven’s breath became a fevered pant as she yielded to Cross’s embrace. A sweet and melodious chime rang out in the depths of her spirit, a heavenly melody unknown to mortal ears. Her cries saturated the cave as Cross delved deeper. Her frame undulated in incomparable rapture, culminating in unsurpassable heights of intense, blissful gratification.
At last, they lay panting, sweat-slicked, and exhausted, yet sated by the sheer enormity of what had passed between them. It was as if Hell’s fire had consumed them both, yet they emerged whole on the other side.
That moment with the Raven had revitalized Cross’s nephesh, breathing vigor into places once hollowed by darkness. They had stolen something precious from eternity—a means to defy their fate—if only for a heartbeat of time in the grand scheme of infinity. Their spirits had fed off one another with such voracity that he remembered what it was like to truly live—not just to exist. He felt more alive than he had in decades of death, feeling nearly as alive as he had during life itself. The despair and hopelessness that permeated the Underworld felt worlds away for now.
The Raven lay beside him—breathless, beautiful, her eyes closed as if she dared to dream again. A fleeting smile graced her lips before she opened her eyes to meet his gaze with an intensity that swayed between triumph and vulnerability.
Cross’s encounters with various hetaeras, who dwelled upon the colossal backs of the roving xrafstars, helped hone his ability to distinguish genuine passion from its hollow imitation. And he found no traces of deceit in the Raven’s unmistakable delight in their shared intimacy. Her authenticity was undeniable, a truth that both comforted and confounded him.
With newfound resolve coursing through him, Cross realized he might not need to wait until he matched the Raven’s weaponry to make his move on the sack full of divine chattel. With this new closeness between them, she might even willingly let him examine its contents if he played things right.
But would he ever dare trust her? Could she trust him? He didn’t have answers yet; only electric uncertainty surged through his limbs as they lay tangled under the grim expanse of the burning sky.
Cross cradled the Raven in his arms. The warmth of their closeness washed over him. But his contentment dissipated as he sensed the moment slip away from them. He ached to stay rooted there forever, reluctant to break the serene spell of tranquility, but an awareness of his surroundings tugged at him. This was a mere interlude before they submerged themselves back into reality.
Cross planted one last lingering kiss upon the Raven’s lips, savoring every moment until she pulled away, relinquishing his embrace.
“Stay.” The Raven’s voice was stern and insistent, commanding Cross like he was an obedient puppy.
He wondered if she now considered him hers. He wondered if it mattered.
The Raven gave him a sly look before rising gracefully to redress herself. She moved about camp with renewed vigor, hastening to don her jaded trousers, aged blouse, and bespattered justacorps. There was no regret in her motions, no shame or hesitation—only a quiet triumph that matched his own sense of conquest.
Cross rose to his feet, mirroring her actions, his hands mechanically pulling on his beat-up trousers. His mind, however, was a whirlwind of disbelief, grappling with how deftly the Raven had unraveled his defenses. Crossing the threshold of intimacy with her had transformed her into an even more formidable presence, her allure now laced with an undeniable peril.
She wore that cursed top hat again but left her justacorps unbuttoned; its loose fit revealed glimpses of skin, making focusing difficult for Cross.
“I’ll be gone for a while,” she said. “Longer than usual.” She pulled out the cigar lighter he’d coveted from the very start and flicked it open with casual ease.
A tiny salamander flared to life on the wick before vanishing as if it never existed—a brief blaze in an eternal night.
“You’re playing with fire,” Cross said, unable to suppress a grin.
She laughed at that, a genuine laugh that sent a flood of emotion coursing through him. It was not merely desire but a fierce attachment he hadn’t expected or even hoped for in a world where everything was eventually lost.
“Don’t overthink it,” the Raven said with sly mirth in her voice, tossing his shirt back at him.
Yet Cross found it impossible to resist; his propensity for overanalyzing was, in fact, his most astute trait. His meticulous plotting had been his salvation, rescuing him from perilous situations time and again.
He wondered if this new dynamic between them would affect their con—or if it already had, and he just couldn’t see it yet. Perhaps he’d played right into her hands once more; perhaps she’d shown weakness on purpose so he’d lower his guard again. A nagging suspicion gnawed at him—had the Raven detected his urge to escape? Was she employing an implied promise of more sex as a cunning snare to keep him tethered? If that was her game, she had played it masterfully, leaving him awash with profound shame. How he wished such a primitive ploy hadn’t worked on him.
Yet what worried him most of all was how little any of that seemed to matter now. For maybe the first time since he’d come to the Underworld, Cross didn’t want to care about strategy or advantage—only the strange and potent bond he felt with the enigmatic Raven.
Gimlet returned from feasting on barbot eggs and eyed them suspiciously before settling down beside Cross, nuzzling against him like an old dog seeking affection.
Cross patted Gimlet’s center horn distractedly, schemes forming in his mind—plans and possibilities now seeming far more plausible after the intimate bond he had forged with the Raven.
The Raven gathered all the provisions for her departure, unfurled her wings, and soared away into the flaming skyline, leaving Cross with a heavy nephesh as he watched her dwindle into the horizon.
Cross ached for another tender moment wrapped in the quilt with the Raven, prompting him to submit to her decree and patiently await her return.
After several languid sleep cycles, the Raven finally reemerged. Without a word, her bewitched rope dart wound around Cross, devouring every bit of mobility he possessed. Its stiff, icy twine twisted tighter around him until its grip left no room for escape.
“Well, hello to you too,“ Cross said.
“We’re going for a ride,” the Raven said.
“Where?”
“Duat.”
“That’s at least a week’s ride from here,” he said, “including sleep cycles.”
“Mmhmm,” she said.
“That’s a long way to go while tied up.”
“If our little act is going to work, you need to be bound long before we ride into the city.”
“I don’t think anyone will notice if you wait till we get a little closer.”
“You just keep your neck attached to your shoulders. I’ll do the thinking.”
The rope dart hoisted Cross onto Gimlet’s hindquarters, plopping him face down.
2 – Amenthes
Cross swayed his head to the rhythm of Gimlet’s spiked tail swiveling across the gradually shifting scenery from jagged canyons to rolling dunes.
The sand twinkled beneath the inferno above, a sea of scintillating diamonds cast in red-orange illumination.
Had it not been for the looming dread of Cross heading directly to his pursuers, the swaying of Gimlet’s tail would have lulled him into a trance-like state.
Gimlet’s hooves plunged deep into the sea of sand, a haze of dust dancing around them with each step, joining the conflagration above.
The heavens fomented with unrestrained exasperation as dappled red streaks, vibrant vermillion ribbons, and blotches of flame swept across the ebony expanse like an inextricable vortex of electricity.
Gimlet’s thick hide pulsated with heat, heightened by gusts of wind carrying a stench of minerals and spices that filled each breath.
The coarse grains were a mixture of small pebbles and larger stones that should have crunched with each step, yet the silence swallowed their sound like an old memory fading away. The desert seemed to wipe out all traces of their passing as if to keep them hidden, shifting beneath Gimlet’s hooves and erasing any sign that they had ever been there. It was as if everyone who ventured here disappeared in its vastness, never to return.
As Gimlet’s steps quieted, palpable darkness settled over the realm, signaling only one thing: something sinister was stirring within the sprawling realm of Duat. The air was heavy with a palpable sense of dread and mystery, yet the thrill of their next swindle burned steadily within Cross.
Further ahead lay mounds of ash and rubble, calcified stones crushed by whatever befell this forgotten land, cinders skirting across those broken pieces like wayward marbles. Burned spirits, long abandoned by the afterlife, were scattered among the ruins. It was an ethereal sight, where one could feel the presence of horrific secrets immortalized in history.
Mystifying spires and monoliths dwarfed the trio, not just in magnitude. These immense columns stood resolute against time’s river, their surfaces glistening like celestial jewels. Embers flared and sparks shot through the murky abyss above, setting ablaze these gargantuan slabs of obsidian, quartz, tungsten, agate, and diamond.
The ancient kingdom of Amenthes burst into view, its towering pyramids looming ever closer, standing sentinel-like against the expanse of the desert. Despite desolation all around, the city shone with a flash of brilliance. A golden sheen blanketed the kingdom, a testament to its majestic glory. This was no ordinary realm of the Underworld; the Egyptians of Amenthes had put considerable effort into preserving the sanctity of their lands.
Gimlet bore Cross and the Raven along the periphery of several pyramids, standing erect in the hazy, flame-engulfed expanse. Despite their magnificence, Cross felt insignificant against the monumental backdrop. His gaze flickered over the nine immense structures that likely harbored countless divine chattel he desperately yearned to lay his hands on.
“Raven,” Cross said. “These pyramids must have all kinds of objects in them.”
“Sure,” the Raven said with a nonchalant indifference.
A wave of envy swept Cross, acutely aware of the futility of ever attaining the divine treasures ensconced within the pyramids’ walls.
He hefted his gaze skyward to behold the pinnacles of every pyramid, recalling the illustrations in his former boss’s study that always portrayed an eye at the peaks of pyramids, yet none of the majestic structures presented any such humongous eyes.
Instead, their limestone blocks were honed immaculately, crested with gold, and ablaze amidst the conflagration. Radiant lances of smoldering fire, each more oppressive than the next, scorched down from their home in the hellish heavens and stabbed into the apexes of the pyramids.
The majestic triangular architecture reached toward the blazing sky at different altitudes, each fashioned in sleek stonework. Gleaming black, shimmering vermillion, and glimmering alabaster cascaded in a spectacle of grandeur, glinting in the brumous, incandescent sky of the Underworld.
A titanic xrafstar crested the horizon beyond the city of Amenthes, with a thunderous rumble shaking the realm’s towers and spires. Though it was leagues away, the ancient behemoth could traverse entire realms in a few epic strides, and it would arrive in the kingdom within moments—its colossal legs stretching across miles, bringing entire settlements upon its broad back.
Cross had ventured upon the mythical monstrosity before, sojourning with the Nwa-Efé tribe, who dwelled in remote hamlets nestled atop the daunting crags of the monster. Yet he had always marveled at the xrafstar’s grandeur—a relic of ages ago still carrying the secrets of whatever god birthed it.
Cross had never been interested in sightseeing the many horrifying realms of the Underworld until he became a wanted spirit. He had avoided all the wonders that each realm offered, if you could call them wonders. But now, as the notorious ‘Man Who Remembers,’ he found himself drawn to their allure of discovery and seeking the mysteries and dark corners of these forbidden lands—perhaps to distract himself from his troubles.
The trio marched closer and closer to a looming temple. A vast stone gate encircled the temple, a magnificently carved masterpiece of people and creatures more vivid than life itself, stretching into eternity.
A thousand voices in unison engulfed them as their melodious song rolled like thunder through the stifling wind.
Cross found himself involuntarily grinning and swaying in time with the thumping rhythm of their cadence as Gimlet marched them closer to the festivities, its volume increasingly growing.
He quickly resurfaced as he forced his features to reflect the role of a prisoner not to arouse any suspicions that this was all part of an elaborate plan he and the Raven had set into motion. He clung to the mask of resignation, knowing that his fate depended on it.
Oppressive gusts swept up a dizzying array of distinctive fragrances—the sweet spices of a bustling market, the floral aromas of grains and blossoms, the familiar tang of tanned leather, and the pungent musk of the ancient zoo in Xibalbá. The acrid stink of animal sweat and dung persisted, and underlying notes of moldy hay and loamy earth swirled together in a sickening tumult.
Cross beheld a sight like something out of a dream as the trio crested the gate: a dance of color and motion unfurling in an orderly procession down a lane between towering statues of revered deities and fear-inducing creatures. At its terminus stood the majestic Egyptian temple.
Gimlet navigated Cross and the Raven between the colossi of massy idols towering in the throes of the molten heavens, their silhouettes stark and monstrous against the obsidian obelisks, pointing to a spire with metal glinting off its facets like stars on fire.
An eclectic assembly of beast-people filled the temple’s courtyard—cat people ranging from panthers to cheetahs to lions, their movements lithe and silent; dog people ranging from jackals to hyenas to wolves, their human hands, and feet nimble, their toes able to cling to nearly any surface. Every imaginable hybrid of beastly spirit mingled within the heaving crowd—falcons, rams, baboons, and hippopotami alike—all glided on graceful gaits through the sweltering heat, their fur, and feathers encumbered by the oppressive air as they pressed towards the bailey’s center.
“They’re all gathered here for you, Cross,” the Raven said.
“You did all this for me?” Cross asked, a wave of emotions surging through him.
“In a way,” she said. “It’s far easier to disappear into a crowd.”
A confused melange of exhilaration and disbelief at the commotion over his memories, Cross was touched that the Egyptian people had convened to revere him with such an elaborate spectacle, yet it was ludicrous that they would go to such lengths for something so insignificant. Despite their naivety, Cross couldn’t help but appreciate the effort of these foolish and undeserving people since the squals had set such a lofty standard for honoring him.
Cross’s gaze caught that of a quartet of female faces crowned with feline features, standing aloof from the chaos.
Coolly, he winked at them.
They all shot back an icy hiss.
“Raven,” Cross said as he jostled atop Gimlet’s hindquarters, “You ever wonder why these spirits would give up their precious valuables to chop off my head? I mean, they only want memories. What good are those? Mine ain’t nothing but… they’re just useless.”
“Useless maybe to you,” the Raven said atop Gimlet’s saddle. “To them, there’s nothing more valuable than life, even when it’s just a distant memory. Some would do just about anything for an exodus. No matter how minor the escape.”
Further on, the crowd of beast-people gazed in awe at the towering jambs of blunt stone ahead. It rose like a mountain; its summit was flat as a table, and its surface was an intricate tapestry of painted gods and goddesses.
The Raven presented Cross as a prisoner to the awaiting circle of men at the temple entrance. The men bore the heads of hounds, their diamond-like eyes glinting in the eerie red-orange illumination that hung heavy in the air.
Cross feigned indignation and outrage, pretending that he had no idea the Raven would come back for him and liberate him later.
A hairless lion, its hide wrinkled and an angry shade of pink, slinked out of the temple with the spoils of Cross’s capture clenched in its paws. A profusion of ugly black splotches polluted the lion’s sagging skin.
The Raven received the sack of blessings as they had plotted. Her rope dart uncoiled itself from around Cross and rippled through the air, wrapping snugly around the Raven’s waist.
Two dogmen stepped forward, their paws clamped on either side of Cross, their grip secure.
“Get your stinkin’ paws off me!” Cross yelled with theatricality, fully immersing himself in character.
The mongrels manhandled Cross past a haunting specter, grasping a sign that declared: The Resurrection of the Dead Approaches. The End Is Near.
“You must mean the rear end,” Cross said. “Because your head’s far up your ass.”
A powerful punch landed squarely in Cross’s stomach, sending a shock through his core that extinguished his breath and resiliency. He collapsed in agony, like a marionette cut from its strings. Time stood still as he stifled a groan of agony, pondering if this foolhardy venture was worth risking his neck. Had he just put himself in more danger than he needed to? Inevitably, for the time being, all he could do was power through the pain and pretend to cooperate with these dogmen, if only for the time being.
The Raven extended Cross’s macuahuitl to the aged high priest like an offering, cradling it delicately, her palms flat against the sharp obsidian edges.
“As a token of my gratitude,” the Raven said, “I would suggest you use this blade.”
Cross’s black ichor ran warm. The Raven had not divulged to him that she would relinquish his obsidian blade into the hands of his captors. And Cross could only ponder what other surprises she had withheld and what intricate schemes she had hidden away and chose not to disclose.
His newfound distress probably came across as authentic to the Egyptians because it was now genuine. Deep in his nephesh, he wondered if the Raven had sought to drive home some point with this surprise; had she seen through his mask of pretense? Was she attempting to jolt him from his façade and force him to experience a genuine reaction to the grim reality he was supposed to be facing? Or was it all just conjecture? Should he give her the presumption of benevolence? Yet another thought for him to mull during a ruse that seemed ever more foolish.
The Raven presented the macuahuitl to the wrinkled lion with a humble head bowed before him in respect.
The high priest regally waved away the Raven’s offering without sparing a flicker of his gaze upon the macuahuitl. “We hold not the need, for our own method shall suffice,” the high priest said with a haughty demeanor. The glint in his narrowing cat eyes betrayed his impatience.
“I offer not toward your need,” the Raven said, “but instead, I propose to resonate with your purpose. This obsidian blade once belonged to the goddess Sia.”
“Are you certain?” The high priest dropped his twinkling gaze onto the macuahuitl with a sense of reverence.
“I discovered it in Re’s boat,” the Raven said. “I thought maybe I’d find the sacred papyrus in there too, but this was all I found. The deities sure left in a hurry.”
Cross now realized that the Raven deceitfully misled the high priest. She lied almost as expertly as Cross, but he could not discern why she wanted the high priest to wield his obsidian blade with such urgency.
Despite seeming interested in the Raven’s lie, the high priest did not instantly accept the blade as a tribute. He paused, lifting an inquisitive brow—or where his brow might have been if he weren’t hairless—in suspicion and doubt.
“Look, I have my bounty already,” the Raven said, lofting up the newly filled burlap sack of divine chattel. “I could’ve left town without saying a word and kept the blade for myself. I just thought it would mean more to you and your people than it does to me. But if you don’t want it, I’m sure it can make some hodder happy.”
The high priest placed his paw on the blade. “Suffer not thy haste; grant me the chance to behold.”
The flabby old lion reached out with a trembling hand and ran his paws along the macuahuitl’s surface before grasping the wooden hilt and lifting it off the Raven’s outstretched hands. The high priest raised a single paw in a gesture that venerated the blade. His coarse pads grazed it as if they were worshipping an ancient artifact, and his gaze was both awestruck and wary. As if he could not wholly trust what the Raven had told him, yet was still humbled by its magnificent aura. He inspected it discerningly, his gaze tracing every groove and etching on its surface. His feline eyes widened with awe, gleaming like polished jewels as he surveyed the artifact’s ornate engravings and meticulous craftsmanship. Finally, he nodded with a stern expression of approval and said, “Your graciousness is unparalleled. We shall accept this offering.”
The Raven slyly winked at Cross, an assurance that comforted him even as the scruffy mutts ushered him up the incline to the temple’s roof.
While escaping the fetid squals’ den beneath the wreathing fog of the misty Metnal mountains, Cross needed to draw close enough to the Raven so she could fling his macuahuitl to him. But this time, instead of being situated away from him, the weapon would be perilously close, within the grasp of the high priest and poised just above his neck. Once the Raven set him loose, all he needed to do was reach up and snatch it from the high priest’s hands.
The peak of the majestic temple soared above the tumultuous crowd of beastly spirits who bawled and jeered in the courtyard below.
Cross’s sightline extended beyond them to the gargantuan xrafstar perched like a mountain on the city’s outskirts, its form casting an austere shadow amongst the desert sand.
Hundreds of Egyptian spirits had already gathered as more spirits converged on the city in mass to witness the spectacle of his beheading, and their impending disappointment delighted Cross.
The maleficent mongrels hauled Cross towards a massive quartz slab on display for the crowd below.
Cross acted as if he were attempting to resist the dogmens’ grip. “Let me go, you dirty mutts! Why don’t you go chase your high priest down the road like the dogs you are? Your high priest is nothing but a bald pussy. You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it.”
The firelight above illuminated the crystal altar, creating a sparkle like stars dancing in the night sky. The shifting light cast odd, ever-shifting shadows across the high priest’s muzzle.
Then, with one last tug, the dogmen laid Cross on the arcane surface of the quartz altar before their hairless high priest and bound Cross’s wrists together with glistening manacles. This unexpected turn unnerved him.
The lion-priest threw his flabby, lanky arms to the flaming sky and roared a prayer in an ancient language of gods and magicians, like a ritual to evoke forgotten heka.
Cross was far from a connoisseur of the arcane arts, yet he remained confident that none of the damned could ever wield the capacity to manipulate heka. The only magic he knew about was the diablerie of devils and demons or those rare objects blessed by divinity. They were imbued with powerful heka and went far beyond what the damned could conjure with spells.
Yet the high priest’s chants and incantations rattled through the courtyard as if woven with thunderous vibrations, rippling against the stone walls in a cyclonic wave. His voice boomed and swelled until it thundered with the strength of a mighty waterfall, crashing against the walls like a thunderous clap of celestial power. His muzzle issued every word as if written in destiny’s script.
The air roiled, resonating in harmony with the fierce firestorm above. Glittering flame sparks careened across the sky, spinning in a wild vortex of heat that blistered Cross’s astral surface and seared his hair. The undulating blaze seemed to be a vengeful prayer from the high priest, awakening the gods in a rage and inciting their wrath.
The rumbling chorus of a million detonations resounded in the distance. Near the craggy Metnal Mountains, home of the squals, a rift opened in the flaming sky. Glowing hues of magenta, indigo, and azure danced across its ethereal expanse. Its brilliance was so blinding that it felt like a hammer of pure lightning struck Cross.
Yet Cross remained transfixed on the enthralling grandeur alongside the craggy lion, his hounds, and the feral mob in the courtyard below.
An azure ring of flames coursed from the rip in the firmament. This brilliant flare stretched across the burning sky for several acres as it propagated outward like a bolt of lightning, shimmering and igniting the heavens with an expanding halo.
A wall of wind raced ahead of the corona, a sight both monstrous and magnificent; its radiance ignited the opalescent sky, unleashing thunderous destruction as it reverberated towards the temple, its power shaking the pillars of its foundation to their core before it even arrived.
The crowd stilled as the thunderous echo of the approaching onslaught drew closer. The air hung in a mournful hush, like a graveyard awaiting its long-lost guests. None could escape from this overwhelming power.
A blazing surge of heat crashed into Cross, and a spiraling twister of wind howled by as the temple quaked. Its ancient stones groaned and splintered, perilously close to shattering into myriads of fragments.
The air ruptured in a thunderous boom as the detonation blasted through the atmosphere, shards of crystalline flame erupting in all directions. The clamor was near unbearable, its reverberations lingering long after the shockwave had dissipated.
The people in the courtyard stopped in their tracks, a momentary stillness washing over them like an impenetrable fog. Then, the air in the temple sucked backward in another tangible wave, as if by a cosmic magnet, towards the gaping chasm in the sky.
Cheers and trumpets blared as screams and shouts filled the courtyard, accompanied by a wild mingling of elated chatter and laughter. All the energy within the courtyard transformed into an immense, frenzied show of joy.
Cross quaked with terror and awe as he beheld the commanding heka the high priest conjured, somehow unlocking a power far more sinister and volatile than Cross had ever expected.
The aged high priest waved a golden relic above Cross, which resembled his Latin cross but bore the subtle yet striking difference of an elongated loop of metal protruding from the crossbeam.
With slow precision, the bald lion brought the ornament to rest on the tip of Cross’s nose.
A spark leaped forth, and a bolt of energy surged the length of Cross, jolting him and alerting all three parts of his ruach to stand at attention.
Steeling himself for what was to come, Cross closed his eyes as the high priest brought the glowing object closer and laid it against his forehead.
In that fraction of a second, a strange tugging sensation coursed through Cross as though some invisible force were attempting to extract something from within him; he could almost feel the inward-moving tendrils probing his nephesh before receding back into nothingness and leaving him relieved and strangely energized. As suddenly as it had enveloped him, the warmth dissipated, leaving nothing but the faintest memory of a dream. Yet beneath this façade of tranquility, something ancient stirred within him.
The high priest ceremoniously bestowed the sacred relic on the paws of a mongrel and then solemnly hefted the macuahuitl to the fiery heavens, allowing its majesty to reflect off of every layer of the rapturous crowd of beast-people.
“The past is a sea of blood and death,” the high priest said to the onlookers, “and many have drowned within its depths. But with this blade, fashioned from the hairs of the goddess Sia and blessed with all her might, we shall sever the ruach, free the nephesh, and grant the damned a swim through the mind, emotion, and will of the living. May the Great Goddess have mercy on his soul.”
The crowd’s thundering cries of joy swelled into a deafening crescendo of rapturous energy, jubilantly declared, with whistles, shouts, and ecstatic applause that seemed to bring life to the very stones of the temple. Hoots and hollers reverberated throughout the walls while some beat their feet on the floor like a drum in unison. Roars of approval multiplied in deafening intensity around the courtyard, bouncing off every surface in a call for solidarity. A fire of excitement burned, seizing the atmosphere with its vigor, as if lightning had been released into this unholy place, rolling and crashing around all those gathered for Cross.
The high priest raised the macuahuitl above Cross’s neck, and all Cross could do was wait and hope the Raven would swoop down heroically and rescue him anytime now. The idea of him being a damsel in distress was absurd initially, yet it was preferable to having his head lopped off.
But the more the high priest drawled on, each passing moment that bore no rescue from the Raven deepened Cross’s dread. Doubt loomed heavy in his mind, and uncertainty over the Raven’s desire to extricate him from his predicament condensed around him like a spectral fog.
Cross lifted his head from his bed of quartz, surveying the crowd for any sign of the Raven’s presence. He darted his gaze up to the summit of the pyramids, across the temple walls, and then down among the throng. There remained no sign of her.
Though Cross was painfully aware that the wingspan of their fragile relationship did not yet stretch far enough to overcome the aching chasm of mistrust that had formed between them, he clung to the desperate hope that the peculiar connection they once shared had endured beyond Raven’s insatiable avarice.
He waited, his apprehension growing like a smoldering fire. How long would the Raven keep him in suspense? Had she abandoned him? If she had ended their alliance, she could have been out of the city by now, galloping away with Gimlet and all the divine chattel he had so foolishly placed in her care. He cursed himself. He should not have trusted her. The damned did not hold any honor; they had already lost it in life, and now he had been foolish enough to trust a harpy unworthy of such faith. What an imprudent mistake he had committed.
The high priest gripped Cross’s head firmly, forcing it back onto the icy altar.
“Wait!” Cross yelled, convinced that this was his last hour. “Don’t do this. Please!”
Cross jolted his frame against the shackles, encasing him in an underworldly hold, and clamminess drenched him. His nephesh thumped against his ruach like a hammer. Each beat nauseatingly close together. Breath tore from his lungs in distant gasps as fear rattled from his lungs, rendering it hard to breathe. An ominous dread slinked around him like a constrictor, its frigid coils strangling him as helplessness seized him. This was not only the moment when fate had come to collect its due debt; this was when it would finally claim him.
The four brute mongrels held Cross securely as the high priest raised the macuahuitl like a hammer of fate. The sharpened stones of obsidian reflected the firelight in an almost beatific glimmer, and Cross could only hold his breath as he waited for second death to take him.
The obsidian blade swung down.
