Pyramid of Blood (Swords Versus Tanks Book 3) (5 page)

Wisdom-at-Night’s eyes twinkled.

"Be that as it may," said an older man, mounting the platform. "You have violated the Temple of the Dancing Earth Fish."

Wisdom-at-Night’s dark eyes fixed on Jasmine. "Lord Obsidian-Death has a point."

The newcomer touched his throat. It was decked out with finger bones, strung together with what looked like braided human hair.

Where’s Tom when we need him?
thought Jasmine. He’d know what to do, and he wouldn’t be quite so distracted by the young priestess. His best Integration anecdotes revolved around palming off improvised gifts on ignorant natives. Jasmine did a mental inventory of Airship 01’s cargo. "We bring a gift for the God – a magic box that plays strange music. It must be delivered direct to this temple, hence our choice of anchorage."

It took only a few minutes to bring out the gramophone and set it up. Jasmine cranked the handle and Oakbottom Brown’s piano boogie woogie shrilled out across the blood splattered pyramid summit.

Wisdom-at-Night put a hand to her throat – a gesture of assent? "Dancing Earth Fish, Patron of Travellers, welcomes these visiting magicians who bring Her such a gift."

"It is for the Priestess of the Dancing Earth Fish to pronounce on the fate of travellers." Lord Obsidian-Death inclined his head, making his feather headdress sway. "But since you are also warriors, it is for the War God to offer you hospitality. Leave your weapons – my people’s trust stretches only so far."

Sir Ranulph appeared beside her. He ducked to murmur in her ear. "Is this wise?"

Jasmine shrugged. "You want your magic. We both need fuel." Then she added, "But for God's sake secure our retreat."

"Strangely, I had a similar thought." Sir Ranulph drew himself up so that he towered over the Tolmecs. "My thanks," he said. "I am Sir Ranulph Dacre, an earl of the realm of Westerland." He bowed. "Your offer does us great worship. However, your pardon if I leave ten men with the vessel." His eyes twinkled. "It gets lonely."

Lord Obsidian Death put a hand to his throat. "As you wish. Food and drink will be brought." Again, the lips and voice did not match. Jasmine glanced at Sir Ranulph. Did he even hear the same words?

Sir Ranulph nodded to Thorolf who gave the order to Sigurd. The blond warrior told off a guard detail while Thorolf had the remainder leave their axes, swords, shields and rune-etched mail on the airship.

"I perceive that you still carry your daggers," said Lord Obsidian-Death.

"That is truth," said Sir Ranulph. "But such trifles mean nothing between friends." He grinned wolfishly. "Lead on, Sir Priest."

The Tolmec priest stared up at the mountainous knight, then turned on his sandalled heel and set off down the steps into the shade of the vast airship.

"Wait!" Lady Wisdom-at-Night put a hand on Jasmine’s bare wrist. "This one is a woman. You would not desecrate the Place of the Warriors for her sake? It falls to me to entertain her."

Jasmine shuddered.

Sir Ranulph shot her an enquiring glance.

"I’ll be fine," she lied. She leaned closer and hissed, "Just in case — the fuel we're after is called 'Firewater'. We'll need barrels of the stuff. You'll recognise it if you drink it."

Sir Ranulph nodded. "Be careful."

"You too, Big Guy." Jasmine kissed his cheek then hurried off after the naked priestess.

CHAPTER SIX

In the lamplit interior of the pyramid’s sanctuary, Jasmine curled her fingers and tried not to fidget.

The flames danced. Lady Wisdom-at-Night's body jewellery twinkled like the constellation of an ancient goddess. With perfect deportment, the priestess knelt on the flagstones, not a quiver in her bare flesh.

Jasmine uncurled her fingers. She wanted to reach out and touch. Instead she sat quietly and watched in the manner she imagined an ambassador should.

Wisdom-at-Night's eyes flickered to Jasmine. She smiled coyly. "My gift to you."

Jasmine made herself smile back. It was easy as long as she didn’t think about how far from home she was, how, just beyond the portal, flies feasted on the blood of sacrificial victims.

A slave girl stepped forward… only it wasn’t a girl. Jasmine flinched but could not look away from the scar tissue.

The eunuch set down an earthenware pot before Wisdom-at-Night’s knees. Jasmine noted that his long fingernails were each cut to a sharp point.

The long-skulled priestess fished inside and produced a length of barbed wire. Despite herself, Jasmine lent forward. Not barbed wire: thick cord with thorns pushed through it at regular intervals.

Wisdom-at-Night met Jasmine’s eyes. She extended her tongue and pinched it. A dark welt marred the centre of the pink expanse. She squeezed and the edges of the welt gaped to reveal a hole. The girl shuddered, setting her body-jewellery jangling.

Jasmine’s mouth went dry. A dark excitement welled up in the pit of her stomach. Wisdom-at-Night was a monster, and yet…

The priestess laced the cord through the hole in her tongue, then drew the end back down into the pot. Her gold-ringed fingers worked in little jerking motions, again and again drawing through a barbed length. Blood glistened on the tip of each thorn. The ruby drops spattered her naked thighs and plopped rhythmically into the pot.

Ears pounding, Jasmine looked on, horrified… aroused… starting at each splat of blood as if it had been the first… and never breaking eye contact with the pierced priestess.

An age later, Lady Wisdom-at-Night pulled the end of the cord free. She took a taper from a slave and plunged it into the pot. Flame gouted to the low stone ceiling, then a column of oily smoke. The smoke coiled… writhed… and Dancing Earth Fish opened her wickedly fanged mouth.

Jasmine sprang to her feet. "Fuck! I’ve got heatstroke. This isn't real."

The goddess just writhed. Her Voice vibrated in Jasmine’s chest: I TASTE YOUR SOUL, MORTAL.

Giddily, Jasmine edged around the apparition. It was pretty solid for an hallucination. But if
that
was supposed to be a fish, it was the kind you threw back and tried not to ever think about again. Too many eyes, for a start. And the flippers looked more like tentacles.

Wisdom-at-Night knelt behind the scaly form, staring ahead with blank eyes. Jasmine turned to the nearest eunuch. "Is she OK?"

The slave opened his mouth. Behind the filed teeth, his tongue was just a stub.

Jasmine turned back to the manifestation. It certainly
looked
real, except where the glittering scales ended and the smoke somehow began. No matter how closely she inspected it, she could not quite fix the point of transition. Was this one of Stella Ibis-Bear’s Spirit Forms? Or more of Lowenstein’s Anomaly?

The Voice screamed. The Goddess’s jaw distended and a familiar swarthy face emerged from between the fangs. "
Surprised
?" asked Marcel.

The face was younger, but bore the old battle scars. "Um," said Jasmine. What did you say to the hallucinated ghost of your best friend. She shrugged. "So, what’s Heaven like?"

Marcel’s shade grinned. "
Well, there’s a lot more fighting and drinking than they let on in Sunday School.
" The god’s jaws twitched. Marcel frowned. "
But, I can’t talk about that.
"

Jasmine peered closer, trying to make out whether his neck was embedded in the floor of the fish’s mouth. "So, you’ve just popped in for a chat?" she heard herself say. "Can I get you a drink? The local firewater’s supposed to be good."

"I’ll stick to mead,
" said Marcel. "
Now, listen up soldier girl. All this mind power stuff from Lowenstein is crap. We –
you
– are up against real magic."

Jasmine’s temples throbbed. She shook her head. "Good job I’m hallucinating, or we’d be fucked."

"
You
are
fucked
," said Marcel. "
One more thing; tell the driver of our old tank that the right throttle grip is stuck with chewing gum – it came loose ages back, but I couldn’t be arsed filling in the Maintenance Request Forms.
"

"Right…" said Jasmine. "Don’t you want to know how Tom’s doing?"

"
Tell him I approve
."

There was a dull thud. The fish god vanished, taking Marcel with it. Lady Wisdom-at-Night sprawled face-down on the flagstones. The position hid all her piercings, except for the row of gold hoops on each ear. For an instant, she just looked like an ordinary, naked girl – perhaps a model from Rosetta's
South Seas
series.

A eunuch broke his stillness to scoop up the priestess. Wisdom-at-Night raised her head slightly and gasped, "Follow."

Jasmine stumbled into the failing daylight. There, like an intruder from another age, was the great nose of Airship 01, Ranulph’s ten Northmen still standing guard before the aluminium gangplank.

Overhead, the clouds boiled, promising a thunderstorm.

Jasmine descended the great stair in the shelter of the tethered airship. She tried not to see the swarms of flies orbiting the putrid hearts displayed on each side altar. Instead, she focused on checking the six creaking mooring lines.

Wisdom-at-Night’s palace lay close by the Dancing Earth Fish's pyramid. The procession wove through a forest of square-cut columns and into a five-sided courtyard with a cushioned altar in the middle. Cymbals clashed. A gaggle of gold-collared girls —
Priestesses? Slaves? Handmaidens
— engulfed the eunuch. They swept the naked priestess onto the altar, and set to work with sponges and jars of fragrant oil.

More handmaidens descended on Jasmine. Giggling, some tugged at her blouse, then her belt buckle. Others knelt at her feet to unlace her combat boots.

It was too hot to struggle. Jasmine let them peel away her sweat-soaked uniform and regulation grey underwear until she stood pale and naked amongst the dark-skinned girls.

Somewhere, a drum pulsed. The girls organised themselves into an aisle leading up to the platform. Slowly, keeping time with slap of palm on drum-skin, Jasmine’s bare feet measured out the distance to where the priestess lay like a sacrifice on her stone bed.

As Jasmine reached the altar, a handmaiden moaned. Another whimpered. All around her, hands flickered and girls shuddered and shimmied on the spot.

The damp heat became unbearable. Swaying, Jasmine took the final step.

Wisdom-at-Night twisted and intertwined her oiled fingers with Jasmine’s. "I have given you a gift. Now you must give me a gift in exchange."

Jasmine remembered the human hearts on the pyramid. Those nimble, delicate fingers had parted ribcages and torn organs out of screaming victims. With a sigh, she let Wisdom-at-Night draw her down onto her slippery body.

The priestess’s mouth tasted of fresh blood. When the girls began to tie Jasmine to the altar, she could not find the will to resist.

#

“Lord, do you remember when we fought three days in armour under desert skies?” said Thorolf. “This is worse.”

Ranulph nodded. He blinked away the sweat and concentrated on tearing his feet free of the sucking mud without losing his boots. He had already given up swatting away the mosquitoes.

Lord Obsidian-Death’s men were escorting them through the city’s temple district. All down the hellish street, stone devils leered at queues of fly-mobbed worshippers, each laden with baskets of fruit or flesh. In the gloomy interior of each boxlike temple, more flies buzzed, and gold glittered on the limbs of priests.

Ranulph remembered the way Lady Maud made deductions about Jasmine’s people based just on their war engines. If the red-haired sorceress were here now, she’d have said that a city like this implied the existence of a vast empire. Even so, apart from the priest’s strange ability to speak Western, there was no sign of any real magic.

"Is your own city this magnificent?" asked Lord Obsidian-Death, his lips moving independently of his words.

Ranulph made a play of surveying the scene. Give insult, or admit weakness? The air was heavy with the cloying smell of a summer battlefield. His empty stomach lurched. Admitting inferiority would be... unwise. Better a courtly answer. What would Albrecht have said? "My home does not boast quite the same qualities."

Lord Obsidian-Death grunted and picked up the pace. They trudged in silence until he announced, "The Place of the Warriors!"

A wide stair led up the side of a stone platform. Tolmec warriors bracketed the steps. The squat brown men were naked except for simple breech clouts and feather headdresses, but each clutched a double-handed axe tipped with shiny black glass.

Ranulph’s fingers itched for the hilt of his dagger. He smiled wryly. Even if they weren’t outnumbered, daggers against axes would be interesting. "Halt!" he ordered.

"Is there some problem," asked Lord Obsidian-Death.

Ranulph shook his head. "I merely wish to show you the courtesies of my country." He turned to the housecarls.

The warriors had lost all order. Some flexed their fingers. Others shifted their weight from foot to foot. A rictus smile flitted across Thorolf’s face. This was a warband preparing to fight, not feast.

"Dress the ranks," said Ranulph in Northern.

Thorolf turned and barked, "Form up, two abreast. Eyes front! Show these midgets we're not a procession of mincing Ilian eunuchs."

Lord Obsidian-Death’s eyes narrowed. "You have more than one language?" he asked, still in Western.

"That is truth." Time to take a chance. Ranulph switched to Northern. "You sheep-shagging mother-sodomiser."

Lord Obsidian-Death’s expression didn’t change. Either the Tolmecs had some very strange domestic customs, or else the priest’s magic made him master of just one language at a time… and Tolmec sorcery was as hamstrung as the Runes, meaning Ranulph had failed in his quest. He switched back to Western. "Your pardon, Sir," he said. "My followers only understand the second of our two languages."

Lord Obsidian-Death drew himself up. "The Tolmec Empire long ago abolished all slave tongues."

"Really?" said Ranulph. "How very interesting – excuse me." Formed up into a compact column, the twenty two housecarls now seemed dwarfed by the Tolmec city. He switched to Northern: "This is all a test, my friends. Don’t let them rattle you. Be polite, and perhaps we’ll get out of here with enough 'firewater' to quench the airship’s thirst."