Atossa had taken one look at the island and immediately refused to dock.

  “Build a raft,” he said, waving his arms in Heshtat’s face before signalling the navigator to head to the riverbank on the starboard side. “Ammit’s golden teats, swim for all I care! I’ll not risk my crew waiting beside a viper’s nest like that, no matter the reward.”

  Heshtat caught Harseise frowning in confusion as he turned, ignoring the grizzled man’s whispered question to Neferu. “Ammit does not have teats?”

  Heshtat stepped adroitly around a sailor bundling away a heavy grappling hook and its length of rope. “I understand your reticence, but you will come to no harm when we arrive. There are many different factions on the island—all powerful and all in competition, just waiting for a chance to spill each other’s blood.”

  “How reassuring,” Atossa remarked, even as he strode up the desk, checking knots and examining various boat things. Heshtat had little experience on the water, and assumed it was important work, even if he didn’t understand it.

  “It is crocodilian in form,” Neferu hissed back at Harsiese, inexplicably following along behind Heshtat and the river captain. “Do crocodile’s not have teats?”

  “Atossa,” Heshtat tried again, raising his voice to be heard over the wind and the whispered discussion behind him. “It is like Amansi itself. None will make a move on us while the others watch, for any weakness they suffer as a result will leave them vulnerable to their rivals. We will be allowed to dock and decamp without issue, and you may leave free of harassment.”

  “They are reptiles, of course they don’t,” Harsiese said in a hushed tone.

  Atossa scoffed. “So you expect to simply skip ashore and face no threat from the agents of the great powers? You are not so naive.”

  “Surely you don’t believe the only purpose of a good pair is nursing, Harsiese?” Neferu asked coyly.

  “For the love of—” Heshtat held in his frustration and turned to pin Neferu and Harsiese with a practiced glare. “You are not helping. Have your conversation elsewhere.” He saw Harsiese’s face close off and sighed, taking pity on the man. Neferu was thoroughly unrepentant. “Besides, Ammit is a demon, not a true animal, so the point is moot.”

  Then he turned back to Atossa and tried one last time. “Captain… I swear to you that to drop us at that berth will bring no harm to your crew. We will be targeted, but it will be when we leave the temple, not when we arrive.”

  “And what is the word of an Amansi worth to me?” the captain asked.

  “This is my home now, and perhaps that means less to you than it does to me. I understand that. But I was not born of Amansi, as you well know. Does the word of a former Janissary carry weight in Sasskania no longer?”

  Atossa’s eyes shot his way, and they were measuring now as they slid up and down his form. Heshtat noted a couple of his crew nearby stand straighter and look his way, too.

  “There are no former Janissaries,” Cyrus rumbled from his position at the small aftcastle.

  “There were a few,” Atossa disagreed. “Not many, but the God-Queen sent some away to her rivals as a gesture of good will. It is not a practice she endorses any longer…” He trailed off, before pinning Heshtat with that considering gaze once more. “Who were you, then? Which of the thousand blades did she send to Amansi?”

  “What good would fanciful names do here?” he asked. “You would not have heard of me, and I am a different man now, at any rate. Suffice it to say I know the ways of your homeland, and my word should be all that you require.”

  “Humour me.”

  Heshtat sighed. “One of the first hundred,” he said. “Tufan Shen, if you must know.”

  Atossa simply nodded. “Very well.” Then he turned and started barking orders, signalling the navigator to turn them back to the island in the centre of the river, and the natural cove at its back.

  Heshtat raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

  Atossa just grunted. He decided not to push his luck and turned to find the rest of his crew.

  “Wait,” the river captain called. “Wait a moment. Just where does your loyalty lie, bladeborn?”

  Heshtat nearly flinched at the title. It brought back a host of memories that he wasn’t ready to face at present. “With my queen,” he said simply. Then he strode away quickly, before Atossa could see the turmoil on his face. He wished it were so simple.

  ***

  The island grew with every minute they sluiced through the choppy waters towards it. On all sides it was sheer rock walls, almost volcanic in their pockmarked majesty, standing out grim and dark against the deep blue of the river flooding past on either side. Shaped like a teardrop, the trailing edge of the island extended down river in the direction they approached from.

  Atossa’s crew steered them expertly through a dangerous passage, rocks breaking the surface on either side in a run of white water, like teeth jutting from the deep. It was the only approach that made sense though, for those sheer cliffs would be hell to climb from the choppy and exposed waters, never mind what foul creatures might lurk within.

  They approached swiftly, and soon Cyrus and another sailor Heshtat was unfamiliar with jumped ashore onto a rocky peninsular, securing a few mooring ropes around some raised outcroppings. There were no rings or bolts hammered into the rock, but the island provided anyway, with a few stalagmites that seemed a little too strategically placed to be entirely natural.

  Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when time was of the essence, Heshtat and his team hopped ashore, turning to wave at Atossa and the crew as they set about making ready to depart once more. Heshtat put the men and women of his former homeland from his mind as soon as he turned to survey the path in front, and gave his current companions a quick once over.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  They looked fierce as hunting cats on the prowl now; armour gleaming, weapons in hand, and faces steeled for violence. Heshtat had not lied to Atossa—the chances of an altercation right now were low. But low and impossible were two different things, and each of them knew the danger as they trekked forwards.

  There was a shelf of rough rock leading from their berth to a black sand beach a few hundred feet ahead, and they side-stepped and traversed their way over to it. Harsiese took the lead, his great palm axe reluctantly stowed across his back, its curved head gleaming gold in the afternoon sun against his pristine white cloak. His cuirass was similarly coloured to the axe, inlaid with the occasional opal and gemstone to give it an aesthetic gleam. Despite his very real martial responsibilities, he was still a representative of a provincial ruler and needed to inspire awe when seen in public.

  His greaves and gauntlets were likewise flashy, and when combined with the cloak around his shoulders and golden-edged shendyt covering his waist, he looked something akin to a warrior god in all his golden splendour.

  Maatkare shadowed him, the shorter man looking much less impressive in his mortal insignificance. He was still broad and muscular, as were they all, but he possessed none of the wealth or power that rolled from Harsiese in his official garb. Maatkare instead wore a heavy scaled vest, brown and functional, and a red shendyt to cover his modesty. His legs were bare save for the sandals wringing his ankles, and his head was covered by a dull red headscarf that trailed down his back like a half-shawl. On his back was a wide tulwar, an identical one clutched in his lead hand.

  Despite his humble dress, Heshtat knew not to underestimate him. He’d seen his friend cut through swathes of experienced warriors with those blades, bearing not a scratch himself in the aftermath. Kom Ombo had been a tragedy in many ways, but none could fault the terrifying competence of Idib’s Tomb Guard in the face of that baleful magic. That had all been before the cracking of his soul, but the skills remained, if not the power.

  Ahhotep was next, tottering along the ledge like he might at any moment fall into the swirling currents below, though Heshtat knew the priest was far less frail than he looked. He wore a simple brown robe, the only holy symbol his twisted staff of gnarled wood and the tome still clutched in his human hand. He was the least interesting at a glance, but in many ways the most dangerous, and the two observations were no coincidence. In a fight, the most dangerous looking opponent was the first to be targeted.

  Neferu followed the priest, lithe and agile with her athletic frame and varied cultivation. Her power was wide rather than deep, general rather than specific, and her appearance reflected that fact. Bandoleers crossed over her flowing shirt, and a thick belt held pouches and vials of varied purpose and origin. She was less visibly armed than the others, though Heshtat knew she had a dozen knives of different designs hidden about her person. Her short-cropped hair stuck up at odd angles, reflecting her mouse-like energy—her mind always moving but never in a single direction.

  Heshtat himself brought up the rear, dressed in a simple white shendyt of a style far less grand than Harsiese’s, and sleeveless leather vest reinforced with strips of bronze woven into the fabric in vertical lines on the front and back. He still wore the bracer Cleo had given him, and the Ankh of woven reed and opal around his neck, hidden beneath a half cloak that hung off one shoulder to obscure his lead arm.

  The obsidian khopesh hung at his waist, another handaxe strapped to the small of his back, though of a less impressive design than his old hyksos axe had been. This one had a simple wooden handle, and the blade was base iron rather than magically-alloyed bronze.

  He dearly hoped none of them would have cause to use their weapons or armour this day, but hope was a thin string to hang one’s life on, and it could quickly turn choking. Luckily, they made it to the beach without incident, and Heshtat took one last look out downriver, where Atossa’s barge was disappearing from sight, their mission fulfilled. They were alone now, on a small island filled with hostile agents of rival great powers, more than likely better equipped and prepared.

  They pushed on.

  The beach yielded to dense jungle swiftly. How the lush and verdant foliage had survived underwater for a millennia was far beyond Heshtat, but it was no more far-fetched than an island rising from the river. He knew the Nikea was deep past the upper nomes, and knew also that its bed was a latticework of snaking canyons and tunnels, some insulated entirely from the water rushing by above, but it still didn’t make sense how the island emerged so suddenly and with so little notice.

  That was the way of things in the land of the gods, though. Miracles happened constantly, and too much wonder was a swift way to end up dead. So Heshtat forged on, keeping his khopesh drawn and ready, and his head on a swivel. Neferu and Ahhotep watched their path with one eye in the Otherworld, checking for magical traps or movement, while Harsiese strained his impressively enhanced mortal senses for any hint of ambush.

  The jungle spread across the steep rise, and they pushed at a pace that Maatkare and Heshtat could barely maintain without losing combat readiness. When they crested the rise though, they found their temple.

  Below them, the island dipped into a massive crater, looking like a bowl forged for titans more than anything. At its centre, a lake at least a few hundred feet across sat snugly, pushing back the jungle on every side. And directly across from the lake, staring them straight in the face and impossible to miss, lay the Temple of Amin-Ra.

  Any doubts Heshtat may have harboured about the reality of their mission were blasted from his mind by the sight. He’d lived in Amansi for over two decades, and lived in the God-Queen’s first palace before that. He was no stranger to grand structures, having visited an ancient, pre-Desolation tomb of Nebet and a sanctified temple of Sebek in the last few weeks alone. This temple put those to shame, eclipsing even the bridge-city of Men-nefer for majesty, if not scale.

  The temple was anchored by a single pyramid, a thousand feet tall, rising from the bottom of the crater to join the clifftops that ringed the island. It was glorious, a structure entirely composed of what looked to be white marble, struck through with seams of gold. Even from this distance and with his mortal eyes, Heshtat could tell that these weren’t decorative strokes by impassioned painters—this was a rock lit through with the mineral itself, something he had never seen or heard of before.

  Around the central pyramid, the temple complex draped, towers of ivory rising at all four corners, and a maze-like warren of walls and buildings connecting each of them ringing the pyramid’s base. These were likewise carved of the same mystical stone, though some were partly colonised by the jungle, lush green vines snaking their way up the walls and a hint of forest canopy poking out between wall and pyramid.

  Statues and pillars ringed the lake and lined an avenue leading towards the temple gates at the foot of the great structure, and these gates were open. Not welcoming though, oh no, for even from near a mile away Heshtat could feel the gentle pressure billowing forth from that entrance. It was nothing like the compulsion he’d felt from the temple that had risen from the sands on their journey between Idib and the priest’s home. This was ambivalent, not malevolent or otherwise. It was simply the gentle pressure of power that wafted in waves from the structure.

  “Gods above,” Maatkare breathed, for once his levity entirely undermined by the sight. “How are we supposed to walk into that?”

  Heshtat knew exactly what he meant. Even here he could feel his soul warping, trying desperately to contort itself into the right shape to sup on the potent energies swirling in the air. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to stand directly before it, let alone inside it.

  But that was his duty, and Heshtat always did his duty.

  “However we must,” he answered simply.