Heshtat could feel the heat roiling from the jaws of the grave hound above him. He could hear the basso rumbling of the growl in its chest, could see the way the sands tumbled over one another in their rush to escape the great paw that planted itself next to his head.

  And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the god above him. He had expected the now familiar contempt in his gaze. Perhaps the detached amusement he’d picked up earlier in their conversation. Privately, he’d hoped for anger, to provoke some ugly emotion in the deity and crack his sardonic fa?ade.

  For it was a fa?ade, Heshtat knew it for certain. He had recognised the anger, the hatred, the loathing that he’d seen burning in those inhuman eyes. It was a mirror of his own, and some part of Heshtat had dearly wanted to show the god the truth of it in his final moments.

  But he’d failed in that, too.

  Rather than anger, Anubian looked curious. “What a strange speech,” he said as he stood. “And yet I can feel your conviction.” He brushed down his robes, face serene once more. “Tell me, mortal, what do you know of the Undying Pharaohs?”

  Heshtat grunted. “Little enough.”

  “And yet you swore eternal enmity against them. Tell me why.”

  “I do not recall making any claims to eternity,” Heshtat disagreed as he stood as well. There was a thud as the hound at his back took another step forward, heat billowing over the back of his neck. “Because they are selfish,” he hurried on. “They play with the world, while we live within it. I know little of the gods—”

  “As your earlier blasphemy made more than clear,” the god interrupted him with a smile. It was far more pleasant than the last though.

  “Even so,” Heshtat continued at Anubian’s gesture. “I know enough to know the great powers—the Pharaohs of Amansi, the Generals of the Aquiline Empire, the Enlightened of Helexios—they are takers. They would make a ruin of this world.”

  Anubian hummed for a moment. “No, I do not think that is true.”

  “What?” Heshtat protested. “You think them benevolent?”

  “The worlds are always less simple than you think, mortal. But no—it is not your opinions I take issue with. I do not think that is why you hate them. Tell me truly, little mortal, and I shall grant your words the consideration they are due. Lie again… well, I need not expand on that, I trust?”

  Abruptly, the heat vanished from his neck. The hound withdrew, padding a few paces backwards. But Heshtat felt no safer. The god before him eyed him with a strange intensity now.

  He sighed. “Because they stand between me and the woman I love.”

  “There it is,” the midnight-skinned god said with a laugh.

  “Is that too much of a mortal concern for one as great as you?” Heshtat said bitterly.

  “No. And it is far from yours to lay claim to. Did not my mother love my father? Vengeful Wusis brought his soul back from beyond the Final Door after Sutekh’s betrayal—something even Great Amin-Ra did not think possible. Your Book Of The Dead was written by her hand out of love alone. And was it not Sutekh’s twisted love that caused the division of the entire pantheon, and Haruw’s love and forgiveness that healed the Ennead anew? You do not have a monopoly on love, mortal.”

  “And what of you?” Heshtat asked, turning the question back on its owner. “What do you love?”

  Anubian’s burning gaze drifted from Heshtat’s face down to the Ankh hanging on his chest. “I love my family. I love the gods, in their failings and their triumphs. I love mortal-kind too, you know.” Heshtat’s expression was disbelieving, and Anubian laughed, though this time it was a pleasant chuckle rather than a grating bark. “No, it is true. I love this world in all its complexity, and do not wish to see it remade in a new image. That is why I am here, after all. That and curiosity. You do not yet understand, but you will. And I am sure that when that day comes, you will look upon me as a brother rather than an enemy. Should you survive, of course.”

  Heshtat frowned at the sudden change in atmosphere. Only moments before, he had been preparing for his death at the hands of a vengeful god, and now here was the same deity promising to fight by his side? It didn’t make sense.

  “I do not understand.”

  “As I said,” Anubian continued. Howls echoed in the distance, and the hound behind Heshtat stiffened. The god tilted his head to once side, then clicked his tongue and the hound shot off after its brothers, running deeper into the desert in search of new prey. “The world spins faster, mortal, and plans are accelerating around us. You’d best prepare yourself.”

  “And what of my friend?” Heshtat demanded, seeing a light at the end of this appearing.

  “Why should I save him?” the god asked callously. “You wish to fight for love, I now know this. But why does he fight? Why should I spare the lives of both of you? One would be enough to reach the Eye, were that not a doomed venture from the start. Of what use is he?”

  “You bastard,” Heshtat muttered, ignoring the prophecy of doom he had just heard. His mission was nearly forgotten now, all his focus on his near-dead friend.

  “You mistake yourself mortal,” Anubian said with a sigh. “I am not condemning this man to death, I am asking why I should intervene. Give me a reason.”

  “You need a reason to save a life?” Heshtat practically spat. “He has given his life in service. Not in Amansi entire would you find a more faithful brother. You say it is Horuw’s compassion that healed the pantheon? Where is yours? You say you admire Sutekh’s bravery in atonement? What about his?” he asked, throwing a hand out to encompass the dying man on the sands beside them, framed by the violet light of the midnight sun.

  Anubian cocked his head. A strangely canid gesture, as if puzzling out a new creature before him. “So he has lived a faithful life. Why deny him rest now? Why bring him back to the Waking? What purpose does it serve any but you?”

  “It would serve my queen. I cannot complete this task alone, and thousands of lives depend on it. The immiseration of an entire province hangs in the balance.”

  “No, none of that nonsense,” the god replied, waving away the words contemptuously. “I will not deny a good man his due peace so that petty queens can reach for immortality.”

  “That is not—”

  “Enough.”

  The words were final, and Heshtat shrank back from the power in them while the god turned away. As someone who had once cultivated the Heart aspect, Heshtat was familiar with infusing power into his words. It required conviction—a working of the Jb was only weakened by doubt. Perhaps the gods worked differently, but Heshtat had felt the power of the short sentence just spoken.

  There was no room for dissent within it.

  He tried a different tactic, a last desperate gamble. “If he dies, there is no one to look after his creche.”

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  Anubian stopped mid-turn.

  “He runs a school on the outskirts of Idib,” Heshtat frantically seized on the moment. “He keeps young girls and boys from falling in with the gangs that run the poorer districts. He is a good Sesh, and they love him. Without his presence to defend and teach them, and without his money to sustain them, those children will have real bronze pressed into their fists and real blood coating their hands within a month.”

  Heshtat took a final breath and begged in earnest one final time. “Your own daughter thought him a worthy channel years ago, and he still holds her in high regard. Please, lord, extend your mercy to this man.”

  Anubian gazed hard into Heshtat’s eyes for many long seconds. Then he waved a hand, and Maatkare was restored.

  Heshtat gaped, looking from the dread god to his hale friend, now sitting himself up and gasping in breaths that had ceased minutes before.

  “Do not waste this gift,” the god said softly. Heshtat opened his mouth to offer his soul once more in trade, but the divine being waved him off. “Know that while within the purview of this temple, you need not offer trade to the gods. Amin-Ra forbade it. I likewise need no thanks. There are plans afoot, little mortal, and you have found yourself caught among them. Hold to your rage and trust in your love. There are no better guides in existence.”

  And then the god turned and left. Back into the sands of the Endless Desert, form shadowed by the black sun burning above.

  “Thank you,” Heshtat said simply. There were no words that could contain his gratitude to see Maatkare breathing once more, and he was still too confused to untangle his conversation with the god.

  “We will meet again,” Anubian said, his parting words echoing in Heshtat’s ears as if he stood close by, while his silhouette hazed against the distant horizon. “And I will judge the truth of your claims then.”

  ***

  The temple rushed back to them in staggering detail. The golden engravings, the shattered masonry, the vines writhing their steady way up the remaining pillars that had yet to fall to ruin. Heshtat turned to his left, still stunned beyond words at the dramatic change in their fortunes.

  Maatkare, for his part, stood flexing his hands and patting down his chest. “Ha!” he laughed, joy burning away in his eyes as he looked over to Heshtat. “I did it! Look, my friend, look. See here,” he said, whipping his arm—and the blade it held—forwards.

  A flaming corona leapt from the edge of his remaining tulwar. It slammed into the wall some twenty yards distant with a heavy thrum, light splashing around the somewhat dim room as fire flared briefly at the impact point. Rather than orange or yellow-red, these flames burned blue, crowned by white flickers at their tips. He did it again with the back cut, and then spun, unleashing flaming cuts that roared through the air at precise angles. Heshtat had no trouble imagining the efficacy of such a power.

  “What is this?” he asked his friend, to which the man grinned.

  “A channel to Anubian. I thought I was nearly gone—I saw the Field Of Reeds before me, stalks waving high. Nemty the Ferryman flew across the sky, and I heard howls in the distance. It was terrifying, my friend, you simply cannot imagine.” Heshtat privately thought he may well be able to imagine, a memory of scalding breath on his neck flitting to the surface, but he didn’t interrupt his friend to share it. “And then the Protector Of Graves appeared.”

  “What did he say?” Heshtat asked softly.

  “Nothing,” Maatkare huffed. He laughed again, a joyous sound. “He simply looked at me, and I saw Idib once more. I thought he was calling me to the Final Door, here to escort me somehow. But the vision didn’t waver. I saw the creche, saw my students, saw a thousand moments from the last few years, all wrapped in a single heartbeat. It was disorienting, my friend, I will tell you that now.”

  He sighed and shook his head, looking down at his blade in marvel. “And then I felt the power. Oh, Heshtat, the power. You were right, it is divine.” He looked over, eyes fever bright and shining in the temple’s dim glow. The gruesome cut on his face had healed somewhat, blood congealed into a scab that would soon scar.

  Heshtat grinned back at him, memorising the lines on his friend’s face, seeing the joy burning in his eyes. “It is good to have you back,” he said simply.

  “Where did you go? Did you stay?” Maatkare asked as they set about checking their equipment.

  “I…” Heshtat began, thinking of dissembling, of telling his friend nothing of the interaction. He didn’t want to ruin the joy of his friend’s survival, nor to undercut any revelation he may be experiencing now given his vision. But no, Heshtat wasn’t a fool. He explained in detail as they re-strapped their armour, checked their weapons, took stock of any injuries and prepared for their next move.

  Maatkare whistled when he was done. He’d asked questions throughout, but now had a pensive air about him. “He does not sound like I expected,” he muttered.

  “Nor I,” Heshtat agreed. “But he is a god, and they are notoriously fickle.”

  Maatkare laughed. “Oh, my friend, this will not have helped your blasphemy problem, will it?”

  “I do not have a blasphemy problem.”

  “You met the Lord of Funerary Rights in person: the Protector Of Graves, son of Wise Osirion and a most senior god of the Amansi pantheon, only one step removed from the Ennead… and you told him to fuck himself,” Maatkare said with a chuckle.

  Heshtat pouted, which only redoubled his friend’s laughter.

  Eventually, they calmed.

  “He said this venture was doomed, did he not?” Maatkare asked.

  “That he did,” Heshtat confirmed. Then he sighed. “But if we gave such predictions their due consideration, we never would have attempted this task in the first place.”

  “Oh, do not look so glum, my pitiable friend. I did not bring it up to wallow in the depths of despair. Anubian may have declared this task a doomed one, but that was before he blessed me with the power of divine flame! I will smite whatever stands before us, have no fear of that.”

  Heshtat smiled despite himself. “You should die more often—it does wonders for your mood.”

  Maatkare responded by sending another few plumes of blue and white fire from his blade.

  “What is that?” Heshtat asked as he watched. “You never answered. I would not expect a channel to Anubian to give this type of power.”

  “Ah, my ignorant friend,” Maatkare said as he nodded sagely. “That is only because you are stupid. Allow me to explain,” he carried on quickly before Heshtat could protest. He slipped into a lecturing tone with remarkable ease. “I have awakened the Sah. My spiritual body has been reforged in Anubian’s funerary fire, and I can direct that power as I see fit.”

  “Oh, so you are a wizard now?” Heshtat asked with a smirk.

  “Pesh!” Maatkare shushed him. “Observe.” He then clicked a spark of flame above his hand, letting the fire crawl up his arm, before shooting back down and out of his open palm in a small corona of blazing blue-white flame. “I channel it through my blade to help focus the flame, but it is not a necessary step.”

  Heshtat did have to admit to being impressed. His friend, like himself, was a former Tomb Guard, and as such had once been an adept of Sah—the Spiritual Body. It should be no surprise then that he had so quickly adapted to the aspect as he awakened it once more. But it was still startling to see such mastery over an ability given only minutes ago. Most took years to fully adapt to the changes.

  Heshtat sniffed. His heightened senses took in the world around in frightening detail, and he sighed. Perhaps he should give himself some credit as well. He let his grip tighten on the khopesh now in his hand. It glowed a pale white, not as blazing bright as it was when they stood directly beneath the Other’s twilight sky, but they were still in the Other here, just shielded slightly by the spiritual scaffold of the temple, and the blade still glowed dully in the torchlight.

  His grip was firm on the weapon, his body loose and ready. He felt the strength coiling within his muscles and savoured the feeling of power coursing through him. No more aching soul, no more mortal frailty. He was an acolyte once more, his body reforged by divine power. It brought a smile to his face.

  Turning, he caught his friend’s eye, and they grinned at one another, both revelling in their new potential. Anubian may have warned them that their venture was doomed, but that god had said many things. He’d espoused contempt and hatred for mortal kind, then claimed Heshtat as a brother in struggle, as well as revived Maatkare from the brink of death and blessed him with new power. The gods said many things in Amansi, and Heshtat had never taken them to heart. Why start now?

  “What comes next?” his friend asked, brown curls swaying as he bounced from foot to foot in anticipation.

  Heshtat looked towards the doorway, hearing the growing cacophony as the Desolate grew nearer, smelling their sickly carrion scent. He gave his curved sword a few experimental swings, feeling the wound in his torso pull with only a minor twinge.

  “The Eye will reside in the centre of this temple, of that I have no doubt. We make our way to the top of the central pyramid, and there we shall face whatever guardian or test the creator left for us.”

  “I worry the glory has gone to your head, my friend,” Maatkare said. “This sensation is… it is like breathing freely once more after a decade underwater. But I am just an awakened, and you only an acolyte. We have our skill, but that is still a weak thread to hang one’s life by in the face of unassailable power.”

  Heshtat turned to his friend, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Anubian said there are no tithes to be paid for power here. We are not neophytes, and I still recall the rituals. I doubt I can ascend to acolyte again so quickly in another aspect, but the gods—or their remnants at least—are close by in this place. I have the Khet, and you the Sah. Let us see if we can add to that number, hey?”

  Maatkare nodded, teeth flashing in the gloom. “And what of the Desolate that crowd this ancient place?”

  “We offer them what we always have,” Heshtat replied with a grin. “Blood and bronze.”