The Eye of Anubis: Book Nine

NeoTiamat · Post by **NeoTiamat** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 3:44 pm

The Temple of Anuberith, Kamarn-Quse, Har'Akir
August 19th, 761, 3:19 PM; Day 155 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Rock wrote:"You say we are not your friends. How about we become such now? I have no particular talent for it, myself..."

"No... You don't." Devereux said coldly. The professor and sometime-eldritch-entity cast a look behind himself, towards Tomas, before adding heavily. "None of us do."

"But..." Devereux said at length. "We can try."

"Professor, if you fear the things you see ... would you care to learn defensive techniques, for your own peace of mind?"

"Peace of mind?" Charles Devereux smiled a bit at this, as though the very idea of such a thing was really rather funny. After a moment, the smile fell away, and he continued to speak. "Thank you Miss Mournswaithe. I think that would be... an excellent idea."

Devereux stopped at the end of a corridor. It was a fairly small corridor, with a generally unremarkable door at the end of it, though it was of the same otherworldy iron as half the doors in Kamarn-Quse. And yet, there was something subtly different about this door. It seemed almost cozy, almost pleasant, and also oddly disconnected from the rest of the city. Even at a glance, magic filled the air.

Devereux fished a small, iron key out of a pocket and opened the door.

"She's inside."

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The room was organized around a low table, surrounded on three sides by cushioned couches. A bowl of dried plums rested on the table, still fresh, along with a little bronze statuette of a leaping cat. The Anubite's war-mask rested on the table beside the cat. The couches were a tawny color and covered in what seemed to be fur, while the cushions had tassles.

Towards the sides of the room were a few cupboards with glass doors, inside of which various knick-knacks were scattered about. Souvenirs, really. A few scraps of color cloth, a crystal apple, a brass plaque inscribed with a dedication. Few had anything more than sentimental value.

It was beside these display cases that the Anubite stood. She looked up as you entered, then returned to examining the little pewter ankh in her hand. As was often the case when you saw her without the ominous war-mask, it struck you just how fragile the woman looked. A small, petite Akiri woman, with shoulder-length black hair and a dusky skin, no older than her early twenties, at a guess. She was not beautiful, admittedly, but she was pretty despite her somber mien.

Behind the Anubite, however, was the focus of the room. Like Nebebit, like Marchosias, the owner of this apartment had a formal work of art upon the back wall of the entrance room, a beautiful painted relief. A winged, wolf-headed beast that you could still recognize as a stylized version of Marchosias, was kneeling in an act of praise, as was a beetle-headed beast that you could only assume was Ronoph, albeit rather easier on the eyes than the actual demon.

The golden-armored figure they bowed to was eminently recognizeable, though this time Menetnashte was without her mask.

Rock of the Fraternity · Mon Feb 09, 2009 4:06 pm

"So," Lia says after staring at the mural for a fraught moment. "This is interesting." Red eyes glaring fiercely at the mural and then the face of the Anubite, Lia takes one step forward.

"We have passed the gauntlet," she says, voice almost ... serene. "The black key, if you please ... Menetnashte."

Nathan of the FoS · Post by **Nathan of the FoS** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 4:11 pm

For some reason this is totally unsurprising.

Well, either that or Charles has lost (temporarily, one would think) the capacity to be surprised.

Stepping forward, because although he does not really have any idea of what to say he knows there are several people here who he doesn't want talking, he bows and sets his habits of courtesy in gear. "What an unexpected surprise, Madame...Menetnashte, I suppose it must be? I confess I had not expected so, ah, revelatory a meeting at the present time. Or ever. I take it that this is your city, and you are our...hostess? I hope we have not been overly unruly guests. It would seem that a search for the Tomb of Menetnashte must be all in vain, although I suppose we might still interest ourselves in a cenotaph--however lively its putative occupant. But presumably you have brought us here, to this...sanctum sanctorum...for a reason. Would you care to enlighten us as to..."

Who in the Mists you are? Why you are doing this? What that thing with the obelisks was about?

At this point the iron rule of courtesy interjects itself. She's a lady. In point of fact, a queen.

"...how we might serve you?"

NeoTiamat · Post by **NeoTiamat** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 4:41 pm

Menetnashte's Quarters, The Temple of Anuberith, Kamarn-Quse, Har'Akir
August 19th, 761, 3:27 PM; Day 155 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"She didn't ask you to come to the temple." Charles Devereux corrected the mathematician quietly. The bony, long-limbed man seemed much less the figure of laughter at the moment, sitting down on the cushioned couchs. "I did."

The Anubite merely smiled mysteriously for a heartbeat, bringing up the pewter ankh. Even as you watched, a dark corona of energy surrounded the small trinket of metal, a blue-black lightning that sparked and swirled around the little ankh.

The world became darker, colder, and quieter. Shadows appeared at the edges of your vision, and whispers spoke in your mind. The paranoia... the hatred... the suspicion... all the raw evil Kamarn-Quse dredged up, all of it came back now, constricting your heart like a serpent.

"Kamarn-Quse is Menetnashte's city, but it is of Beherith as well." Distantly, Devereux was still talking, though you only heard his words as through a pain-filled haze. "If you can survive Kamarn-Quse, you might survive Beherith."

The Anubite gazed at you solemnly, and the pewter ankh deformed in her hand, melting in the black-gloved fingers to take the shape of an eye, a living, sentient eye of tin and copper and lead. The darkness grew, the shadows of Kamarn-Quse whispering into your mind all that had gone wrong in your lives. Then the Anubite closed her palm, concealing the eye within. It was as though a switch had been thrown, and the shadowy haze disappeared, as if it had never been.

"Go forth and destroy Beherith, people who might have a chance." Charles Devereux said coldly.

Rock of the Fraternity · Mon Feb 09, 2009 4:44 pm

"I do not willingly march blindly into traps," Lia says, voice flat. "I wish to know your stake in this, your reason for doing this." The 'your' is directed straight at the Anubite. "You tested us just now, to see if we could do what you want? Fine. Why do you want it. Who or what and where is 'Beherith'. These questions, I would see answered ... of your courtesy."

lostboy · Post by **lostboy** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 5:46 pm

Fear touches Sascha's face, an uncommon feeling and an unwelcome one. The knight has seen the darkness within himself, darkness this woman controlled with a gesture. Had exhaustion not dulled his wits, anger might have been his first response, as it is fear clutches his soul, causing his voice to crack slightly as he speaks.

Rock wrote:"You tested us just now, to see if we could do what you want? Fine. Why do you want it. Who or what and where is 'Beherith'. These questions, I would see answered ... of your courtesy."

"I must agree, there are perhaps too many questions that our fate and the fate of all these lands hang upon that remain unanswered, at least to the mind of a tired warrior. Perhaps you may grant us some knowledge of this path you set us on, who or what is Beherith?" Sascha asks in low voice.

NeoTiamat · Post by **NeoTiamat** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 5:56 pm

Menetnashte's Quarters, The Temple of Anuberith, Kamarn-Quse, Har'Akir
August 19th, 761, 3:29 PM; Day 155 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Menetnashte's brown, dark eyes flickered for a moment at Lia's accusatory tone. It was perhaps not the wisest move to be so harsh to one who had at one time ruled a sizeable chunk of the known world through wits and magecraft alone.

The Anubite opened her palm and placed the pewter ankh, uttely unharmed, back upon the display case shelves, closing them carefully. Then, with a single pass of her hand, the blue-black lightning began to fill the room, an encircling globe around the questioners. The Anubite's eyes filled with the same dak lightning.

Then the room turned into an illusion. One so perfect, so detailed, that you were there. You were at the fall of the Cult of the Jackal, centuries and centuries ago.

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It shouldn't have turned out this way. Menetnashte, always so proud of her skills at organization, at her ability to delegate, at keeping her empire running, had forgotten the most important detail. And now her empire was falling to pieces. She smiled ruefully to herself. The irony was delicious, really.

"I am sorry, Hierarch." Nebebit said with a deep bow, the fear evident in her voice. "We have not found the Pledge-Child."

The scene was inside Menetnashte's war-tent, the night before the Battle of Dahnitae. All of her generals were gathered within, all the leaders of the Cult of the Jackal. Those that lived, at least. Marchosias was there, brooding, grim, likely planning to betray her before the battle ended. Menetnashte accepted this. Ronoph was there also, though the brute beast was near useless. She thrust her mind back to the High Inquisitor's words.

"A child of one of the founding priesthoods, a being of great spiritual potential. Can you not find a single one?" Menetnashte would have laughed, had it not been so patently ridiculous. If there was one thing she had never expected, it was that she would one day run out of descendants of the old kings. "In all of the land, from all of the dynasties, not a one?"

The were-leopard cringed slightly. "The old palace was taken two months ago, and the Alliance of the Gods slew all those we had raised. One escaped, but I cannot find him. It is as though he and his mother have been swallowed by Ammut. I have tried spells, I have sent all my agents, I cannot find him!"

Menetnashte sighed, looking down upon her sullen shadow. The Shadow-Fiend, Beherith, twisted happily, engulfing Nebebit's own shadow swiftly. The were-leopard cringed once more, suspecting she knew what was about to happen.

"Back." Menetnashte ordered her daemon-pact. "The Pledge is not yet broken, I have time. You are yet my slave, Beherith, Once-Lord."

The shadow retreated, angry, annoyed, resentful. Marchosias watched this event with seemingly incurious eyes, but Menetnashte knew better. The desperation in the room was palpable. Nebebit relaxed minutely, though Menetnashte couldn't for the life of her fathom why being likely killed on the field of battle tomorrow was better. Well, no matter.

"Then we return to our old plan, it seems." Menetnashte spoke, her voice soft, but assured. "We confront the Alliance of the Gods on the morrow, and we capture Ahmose. His family were once the high priests of Osiris, he will satisfy Beherith long enough for us to find the Pledge-Child."

Nebebit and the others cheered slightly at Menetnashte's smooth lies, though Marchosias still watched her with immutable features. Menetnashte wished her own spirits could be so easily raised. Ahmose XXVII would qualify as the yearly fulfillment of the centuries-old pact with Beherith.

How was Menetnashte to capture Ahmose when Beherith already refused to honor much of his own part of the pact, however, was a question to which Menetnashte had no answer. Perhaps a miracle might yet occur. To one who had accomplished everything by her own wits and skill, it was an uncomfortable thought.

But it was the only one left to Menetnashte now.

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"Awaken, witch-queen." A rough kick accompanied those words.

Menetnashte roused herself from the stupor of the spells cast about herself. The Alliance of the Gods was clumsy, but their ranks of priests had power, this she was forced to admit.

"Rise, and see your fate." Another kick.

Menetnashte looked at her sometime foe. Ahmose XXVII was a cruel, mindless youth of fifteen or so, which was likely the worst embarassment of the whole business. To be beaten by a worthy foe was one thing, but this was really rather pathetic. Menetnashte was grabbed by the arms and pulled up, the light hurting her eyes a little.

Still, she ignored Ahmose in favor of her true captors. The priest of Thoth, Djihety-Mus stood tall before her, flanked by the other leaders of the Alliance of the Gods. Djihety-Mus even looked a little like his god, a tall, stork-like man with a long nose. Yet he was the true leader of the Alliance, whereas Ahmose, with his royal bearing and bloodline, was a foolish puppet.

"Menetnashte, your reign is at an end." Djihety-Mus said simply. He was too much the ascetic to permit himself more than a very small smile of gloating. "The Cult's tyranny is finished."

Menetnashte didn't dignify this with an answer. At her feet, Beherith swirled, the devil caring nothing for the fate of his one-time mistress. A slave for centuries, he was content to escape.

Still, even without him, Menetnashte was not without power. The Hierarch of the Jackal formed a spell in her mind, then blew a breath towards Ahmose. The cruel youth's face turned deathly still, as he watched the skin along his arms sprout dark, diseased sores. The plague proceeded faster than thought, the ugly sores bursting.

"Stop this!" Djihety-Mus spoke words of power, and the disease halted, then slowly, grudgingly reversed itself. Ahmose sat back upon the ground, sweat gleaming on his pale face. The priest of Thoth continued. "Menetnashte! For your crimes, the gods have decreed a punishment."

The Hierarch of the Jackal turned her attentions towards her true foe. Djihety-Mus continued. "To kill you, to feed your soul to Ammut, would be too simple, and a waste of your powers. No... we shall use you."

The Thoth-priest took forth a dagger of stone, and stepped inwards. There was blinding pain, though Menetnashte had survived worse in her time, and her spells let her live, even as Djihety-Mus stepped back, holding her still-beating heart in one hand.

"First, we shall bind your slave, that never again may Beherith corrupt the people of Har'Akir."

At this, the shadowy devil twisted and turned, but he was held fast by the terms of his Pact, and by the power of the Alliance of the Gods. Thrice a hundred priests spoke, and thrice a hundred gods listened. The powers of the world whispered, and the skys shook. A network of power, pillars of fire and ice and lightning and light crisscrossed the world. Rainbows of color sparkled, wrapping about the angry, unholy shadow.

Beherith screamed, and all the shadows in Har'Akir screamed with him.

Djihety-Mus prayed, and thrice a hundred priests prayed with him.

Inch, by inch, moment by moment, the devil-god was incanted into Menetnashte's beating heart. With the stone dagger, Djihety-Mus opened the heart, and with ivory needles and shimmeing thread, he closed it shut again after Beherith entered it. Three words of power were spoken, of Binding, of Closing, of Eternity. An emerald light covered the heart, obscuring it from sight.

When it was done, what remained as not a heart, but an emerald, a giant emerald like an eye. Inside what was once her heart, what was once her soul, Menetnashte saw the black flaw that was Beherith.

"By grace of Anubis, and Thoth, and Osiris, and Ra, and Isis, and Set, and Ptah..." Djihety Mus spoke, listing the three hundred gods of the Alliance. "Beherith, you are bound."

Beherith screamed once again, but none screamed with him.

"As for you..." Djihety-Mus turned to Menetnashte. "Broken-souled, you shall be cursed. By word of Anubis, whom once you claimed to serve, you will live. Live for an eternity, for an age, to guard Beherith and be unsouled, till such a day as even the Devil-God may die."

Menetnashte looked up at the priest of Thoth, and in him she saw Thoth, the Ibis-God, and behind him another shadow, a darker vision, a vision of a Jackal-God. She said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"Menetnashte, you are now dead." Djihety-Mus said, even as Menetnashte's spirits surged."What lives now is a nameless servant, slave of Anubis."

"Be Sundered."

"Be Forgotten."

"Be Cursed."

Thus was Menetnashte, the Hierarch of the Jackal, sundered. Thus was Menetnashte, the Hierarch of the Jackal, forgotten. Thus was Menetnashte, the Hierarch of the Jackal, cursed.

But even as Menetnashte slipped down into unconsciousness, feeling the heavy fate settle in on her, she looked up at the god she once claimed to serve. He nodded, and even now, Menetnashte saw that hope still lived.

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"Do you understand?" Charles Devereux said at length, as the illusion faded away.

The Anubite, the nameless servant, turned away to look at the relief once more, of a time when things were different.

Rock of the Fraternity · Mon Feb 09, 2009 6:03 pm

"You desire release," Lia states. No more.

Kaitou Kage · Post by **Kaitou Kage** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 6:45 pm

After the illusion faded, Kuzan remained quiet and still for a long time. The scene replayed itself again and again in the priest's mind as his golden eyes stared blankly into space. The only sign that he was at all alive and awake was the slow rising and falling of his chest as he breathed.

And who could blame him? At least since Kermanshah, everyone knew that Kuzan was somehow directly connected to the Jackal Wars. It was no secret that he'd been alive during the time of Menetnashte, and that somehow, some way, he'd reappeared here, in the current age, as a young man in his early twenties. But who ever really suspected his original fate was to be a sacrifice to honor a fell pact? Who would've guessed that his spirit was meant to sate a demon's hunger?

Did Marchosias know when they met him? If he had, the demon didn't say anything. The Anubite -- no -- Menetnashte certainly knew, and Kuzan wondered as he watched her why she didn't tell him back in Kermanshah. He wondered a lot of things, really. Surely, she recognized him when she saw him the first time in Dementlieu, right? And again when they met in Hazlan? She knew before he did, so why didn't she tell him?

"I find it extremely ironic," Kuzan's voice when he finally spoke was quiet and carefully controlled, "that you expect me to help free you from the same creature you planned to offer me up to. I was just a sacrifice to you, food to feed your pet so you could keep using its power. Now you are asking me to be your savior?"

The priest, the child with great spiritual potential, now a man some centuries later, stepped forward. It made sense. He understood why he so easily grasped the powers of the gods. He made so many jealous back in Sri Raji because he could work the minor miracles with greater ease than them. He earned the good will of the higher priests and the ire of the other novices. And it all pointed to this. It was in his blood. He was born to be a conduit for divine energy, a vessel to carry and fuel the powers of gods -- and demons.

"What makes you think I would even want to help you?" Kuzan asked, "You planned to kill me and it's only by the determination of my mother and the gods that I'm alive today to confront you. You are suffering for your crimes, and a more fitting crime I'd be hard-pressed to imagine. So why should I help you find the release you would have denied me?"

A hint of ire crept into the priest's voice as he spoke, but he kept his speech under control. His hands, however, clenched into fists and his arms trembled just slightly from how tightly he squeezed.

"Why shouldn't I just leave you to suffer?" he asked as he stared into Menetnashte's eyes.

yalenusveler · Post by **yalenusveler** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 7:06 pm

"Because we don't have a sodding choice. If we don't do something about this situation, that madman Cavendish will likely find a way to unleash Berith, and it'll be infernal empires all over again, except this time without the whimsy." Andre said, sounding rather irritated by this whole situation himself, though not nearly to the same level as Kuzan.

"Your punishment is rather in line with the sort levied against transgressors. I doubt you could give a Negative Confession that would please the gods. And were it so simple, I would say leave you to your fate." Andre said, staring at the now revealed Menetnashte.

"However, to do so invalidates the sacrifices of many good people who have died over this fools errand, either through direct involvement, or the simple misfortune of being near us. We leave Berith be, and although it might not be this generation, or even the next, eventually SOME fool will wake the damnable thing up, and unleash its horror upon this world. And I cannot have that upon my conscience." He finally looked away, almost disgusted.

The Whistler · Post by **The Whistler** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 8:13 pm

Otto speaks up, very quietly, from the back of the crowd.

"...How...how is it to destroy...? This Beherith... To sunder the...place of his imprisonment may be to release him...so...how?"

DocBeard · Post by **DocBeard** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 8:26 pm

"Most devils are weak against being stabbed in the throat." Tomas suggests with all the innocence of the righteous.

NeoTiamat · Post by **NeoTiamat** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 10:15 pm

Menetnashte's Quarters, The Temple of Anuberith, Kamarn-Quse, Har'Akir
August 19th, 761, 3:29 PM; Day 155 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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The Anubite could hardly have helped noticing Kuzan's bitter accusation, or Andre's equally displeased reaction. At the same time, Menetnashte ignored them completely, as has been her habit ever since you first met her. She'd ignored you shooting her with a pistol, so angry denunciations likely had little effect. Then again, after one has been cursed by a god, the annoyance of mere mortals is barely worth noticing.

The Whistler wrote:Otto speaks up, very quietly, from the back of the crowd.

"...How...how is it to destroy...? This Beherith... To sunder the...place of his imprisonment may be to release him...so...how?"

DocBeard wrote:"Most devils are weak against being stabbed in the throat." Tomas suggests with all the innocence of the righteous.

The Anubite exhaled sharply, a half-snort of amusement that was as much as you ever got in the way of emotion from her. She gestured briefly to the room, a gesture that encompassed all of Kamarn-Quse, all of the trials and travails you had gone through since arriving at the Dread City.

The implication was rather clear. If the mere memory of Beherith, imprinted on the stones of Kamarn-Quse, could nearly destroy you, the actual fiend was a power not to be denied.

"There are... methods... to killing Beherith." Devereux continued to explain. How he knew this information was really a rather curious question, but a question for another time. "A loophole in his Pact, if you will. Menetnashte's Pact with him didn't specify her as the Pact-Maker. And the Pledge need only be of the lineage of a faith's founder or restorer, to be slain as a seal to the Pact."

"If the Pact-Maker and the Pledge are the same person... the Beherith is dragged down into death with the Pact-Maker." Devereux licked his lips slightly. "And in this Expedition... there's a few people who are of the right lineage to be a Pledge."

The professor's eyes lighted on Kuzan. "You."

He let his gaze slip from the priest, to find its way to Andre. "You."

Devereux craned his neck slightly, to look up at the tall, ragged figure of Sacha. "You."

He finally turned, slowly and reluctantly letting his eyes falling on Tomas. "You."

Devereux bowed his head. "There may be other ways... but she doesn't know them."

YalenusVeler wrote:"However, to do so invalidates the sacrifices of many good people who have died over this fools errand, either through direct involvement, or the simple misfortune of being near us. We leave Berith be, and although it might not be this generation, or even the next, eventually SOME fool will wake the damnable thing up, and unleash its horror upon this world. And I cannot have that upon my conscience."

"Andre..." Devereux said quietly. "Who's talking about generations?"

This time, Menetnashte deigned to notice the others present. With a single gesture, a black flame appeared to dance upon her palm. Flickering, cold, as though the negative of some luminous fire. The Anubite twisted her palm slightly, and the flames shifted and morphed, forming into the image of...

...Samael Maleagant.

...John Lancaster Cavendish.

...Lord Balfour de Casteele.

...Fassahd al-Muharin.

The flames died down as the Anubite dismissed them. The seemingly-young, millenia-old woman looked at you, her eyes neither expectant nor admonishing. Merely... curious.

"Generations...?" Charles Devereux repeated. "Andre, with or without your help, this will be over in a fortnight."

Kaitou Kage · Post by **Kaitou Kage** » Mon Feb 09, 2009 10:25 pm

"So one of us will have to die to destroy Beherith and the Eye forever?" Kuzan asked, still carefully keeping his voice and temper under control. The effort put considerable physical strain on the priest, visible from the veins starting to bulge slightly from his forearm.

Finally, he held out his right hand toward Menetnashte and opened it, displaying the brand on his palm.

"The Lorelei said this mark you placed on me is a seal," he said, his gaze focused and golden eyes intense, "A seal of what? What am I protecting? This Dikesha, what does it mean? Does it just mark me as a Pledge-Child or is there a greater meaning? And how is it the same and different from Derry Hazel's? Menetnashte's Sin, Menetnashte's Curse, Menetnashte's Fate. What does all of that have to do with me?"

Nathan of the FoS · Post by **Nathan of the FoS** » Tue Feb 10, 2009 1:06 am

Charles is impressed despite himself by this last oracular pronouncement about how this Beherith must meet his doom. Generally speaking he can match lineages with anyone; the first Charles Martel was the founder of a dynasty himself, after all. But restorers of religions...was never in the family's line of work.

Saving Dementlieu from raving barbarians, on the other hand, has been. And it sounds rather as if it may come to that, at least if John Lancaster Cavendish (or another of these worthies, perhaps) gets his way.

As for Menetnashte--well, she made her bed a good long time ago and has been lying in it ever since. Perhaps there is something to the idea of divine justice after all.

"You are saying that one of our fellows must make a pact with Beherith, then sacrifice himself as the pledge corresponding to the pact, yes? Assuming one of these gentlemen were to volunteer himself, what would we have do to make sure of encompassing Beherith's downfall, and what can the rest of us do to help?"

Café de Nuit

Welcome, friends, to our establishment.

The Eye of Anubis: Book Nine