"Snake God"
By Amanda Swiftgold

Part Six: Battlezone

      He was stuck again. How had he expected to carry his things without the use of his arms? He couldn't even get up as it was, and day was coming, faster and faster. He'd tried dragging himself pathetically along the ground, but that hadn't worked too well, and neither had anything else he'd tried. Sekhmet was just about to give it up when he remembered Essah.
      Father? he thought experimentally, too tired to put effort into speaking. I need you again. He concentrated on projecting his thoughts, and Essah came rapidly, this time. Sekhmet frowned up at him.
      "Yes, I heard you," he began. "You're hurt," Essah stated. Sekhmet, sprawled on the ground, didn't say anything, suddenly feeling exhausted. "You realize I would have come to help you, if I could have."
      He nodded, finally finding the energy to reply. "Sure. Your master needed you. But it's past now. No use dwelling on it. I can't move my arms." He nodded down at them, and Essah knelt next to him, a look of puzzlement on his face as he noted the bruises, the welts.
      "What happened to you?" His voice was full of shock and some other emotion. Essah lifted his arm, holding it between his hands, and began to heal it. It prickled fiercely as the blood returned to it.
      Sekhmet winced and replied caustically, "Well, Father, I only had the humanity beaten right out of me. Nothing much, you know. I'm sure I'll be fine. Why don't you tell your master I'd be glad to come help him any way I can? Perhaps being evil will be fun."
      Essah paused and looked at him in concern. "You don't really mean that. You aren't evil, and it is nothing to joke about. You cannot join the Dynasty!"
      He sighed as Essah began to heal his other arm. "All right. I won't, just stop hounding me!" He paused for a moment. "Her own father killed her, Essah. I tore him apart right in front of them all. I was punished for it, and I should be dead now. You wouldn't even have known... come to town one day and see my head on a spike by the gate!" He laughed weakly as his father shifted to ease some of the pain in his back. The cold wind began to blow, making him shiver.
      "I would have known," he replied mildly, removing one of his own expensive-looking robes and handing it to him. Sekhmet just held it, looking at the sun's position in the sky. "I am sorry about that, about her," Essah continued.
      "Just don't. It's over. I don't need sympathy, I need help. They'll know I'm not there by now. What am I going to do? This is going to happen everywhere I go--"
      "Not everywhere. On the other side of the light-forest, a few miles away, is the fortress of the daimyo and his army. They need fighters. Offer your skill to them, and they will not turn you away." Essah stood up. "I have done what I can. You are not fully healed. I advise resting somewhere safe until you are able to fight well again."
      "Sure." He moved his arm gently, flexing his fingers. "I'd better get out of here before they start searching."
      "Very well. Another word of advice, my son. Your powers will not hinder you there. Work on them as you travel."
      He frowned, slowly, shakily getting to his feet. He pulled his robe on, the fabric irritating the wounds but not badly enough that he couldn't stand it, and then Essah's as well. It blocked the cold somewhat, but it wasn't even winter yet. What would he do then? Sekhmet didn't even want to think about it.
      He was hardly able to hold onto the sword, putting it in his belt. Maddeningly, his hands still shook, but it was much better than before. At least he had a chance.
      "Thanks," he muttered, turning around. Essah was beginning to bother him a little. He thought it might have something to do with those warnings against joining the Dynasty. He was getting so tired of hearing that...
      "Of course," Essah replied from behind him. "Be careful." He vanished again, and Sekhmet shook his head before continuing on.

      Now what? I know I can't stay in the forest, especially this one. Best not to make a stupid mistake twice... but I'm not healed enough yet, and when it snows even a child will be able to track me. This cave will have to do for now.
      He looked inside it. It was very small, but it would work to sleep in. He frowned. It was going to be incredibly boring. And he needed something, anything, to keep from remembering. He sat just in front of the cave mouth, and his thoughts turned to Essah.
      What did he say? 'Your powers will not hinder you...'  What powers? Surely he had nothing useful... nothing to keep the army from turning him away, and yet... An idea came, and Sekhmet smiled. It would take time, but that he had. A lot of time.

      It was cold, but the earth kept him warm. He had changed his mind. It wasn't a cave. It was a hole. A rather large hole, but a hole nonetheless. But it was warm, and protected, and as the snow fell down outside it didn't really matter that he could hardly turn around.
      He had been working on his magic, like Essah had suggested, working on one thing in particular. Sekhmet hadn't been sure that it would work at first, but he'd surprised himself. He didn't even know what to call it, but he was positive it would help.
      He gazed at a medium-sized stone sitting in the snow outside the hole and concentrated on it, slowly lifting it into the air. He immediately felt a wave of satisfaction as it hovered, seemingly on its own. He stared at it, holding it there until his eyes watered and he had to blink. It was progress.
      Sekhmet was almost ready to leave. Almost. He had healed enough that he could practice without feeling any pain, and was improving so that he could almost lift his sword and hold it in the air for a minute. He was getting rather impatient, but as the wind blew outside he reminded himself that he had all the time in the world.

      Time had passed, and finally he was satisfied with his skill, enough to begin the journey to the fortress-town of Kaze, the lord's capital and military base. He checked his snares a final time, unfortunately finding nothing, and then began to travel.
      He didn't worry too much about covering his tracks, or about the cold. All in all, the winter had been rather mild, and whatever snow fell had usually melted by the next day. And when he stopped to rest, he noted proudly that he could lift three large rocks along with his sword at once.
      "I only hope I'll actually get a chance to use this hard-earned skill," Sekhmet muttered pensively, kicking away a clinging vine that had caught on to his foot. He was nearing the outskirts of Kaze, and was beginning to come across small farms. And then something told him Essah's coming, and the sudden bright glow solidified as usual into the form of his father.
      "Must all your entrances be so dramatic?" he complained half-heartedly. "I'm the only one you have to impress, and after five years it's getting kind of old."
      Essah, who had opened his mouth to say something, closed it and glared at him. "And what has put you in such a fine mood?"
      "Oh, the usual," he yawned. "Do you need something?"
      "No, but you do." Sekhmet noticed abruptly that he was carrying a box. "I do not think they will provide armor for you. This you will need, if you wish to stay alive." Essah proffered the box, and he took it reluctantly.
      "Thanks," he said automatically, peering inside. The armor was well made but not expensive, threaded with yellow cords, the color of the daimyo... what was his name? He couldn't recall it.
      He began putting pieces of the armor on, aided by the snake-god. He hadn't worn armor in a while. "Forgot how uncomfortable this is," he said out loud, balling up his old, blood-stained robe and throwing it far away into the brush. The other one he folded to take with him.
      Essah stood looking at him for a while, and finally Sekhmet bowed to him. "I thank you for this kind gift. You honor me with your sustained presence."
      "There is no need to be sarcastic, Sekhmet. I am bothering you, it is clear. I will not say I understand it, but I will abide by your wishes." He bowed slightly. "Do me honor." He vanished, but with no light this time. He was just simply not there.
      Sekhmet sighed, feeling annoyed as he always did recently after speaking with Essah, and began walking again, slowly, to get the feel of the armor. What is your problem? he berated himself. He helps you, heals you, and you shrug him off as if he was your servant, meant only to do these things! Have a little sense! He's a god, no matter who he serves! He could kill you easily, if he chose. It was all so confusing. Why wasn't everything just black and white?

      He wandered down the road to the fortress, chewing on a piece of dried meat. The peasants and farmers gave him only cursory glances. To them, he was just another soldier. The walls of the actual city loomed ahead of him, and inside that was the fortress. He rubbed the mud off his feet on a rock and brushed the dirt away from his armor before approaching the gate.
      The guards standing there looked at him, boredom evident on their faces. "State your business," one said, as if he could hardly care less.
      "I wish to join the army," he replied, hoping it was the right thing to say. The two stood straighter and glanced at each other.
      "Excuse us," the taller man said, and they stood a short distance away, conferring. He was able to hear a lot of what they said, although they were taking pains to keep it down. Apparently they thought he might be a spy or something. He muffled a yawn.
      "So, let the general decide," he heard. "Ask him."
      "But what if he's busy?" There was horror in the guard's voice as he forgot to keep his voice quiet. He looked embarrassed and then went through the gates.
      It was a short while later when the man returned and addressed Sekhmet. "The general will see you. Follow me."
      He nodded shortly and followed. They passed down crowded streets and up to a walled manor. As they passed through that gate, Sekhmet looked around, trying not to seem too naïve or in awe. But he had never seen so many walls, not to mention people, in his life.
      They entered the house and went into a large, dark room. Candles shone all around, although it was still late afternoon. An older, black-haired man was here, sitting at a table. He looked up as they came in. "Ah, so you're the one who wants to become a soldier in our army." He waved away the guard. "I am General Shoka. And you?"
      "Sekhmet, my lord," he answered, bowing deeply. Shoka frowned and picked up a brush and a piece of paper from the many scattered across the table.
      "Ah, Sekhmet. That is all?" He glanced up again.
      "That is all," he replied cautiously.
      He muttered "Hmm," once, bending over his writing, and then straightened. "Well, then, boy, you must know we don't allow just anyone to join our ranks. We may need fighters, but we are not desperate. So," he began. "Can you fight? Do you have any experience in battle?"
      He nodded and told of the many battles he had fought almost thanklessly for his clan. But the general was still not convinced.
      "Many young men can boast of the same," he replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. "But your voice... how old are you?"
      Sekhmet ducked his head almost involuntarily. It must be... what, now? I was born in the fall, I think... don't hesitate, he'll think you're lying for some purpose. "Eighteen, my lord," he answered formally. The man seemed to look at him for the first time.
      "Remove your helmet," he ordered easily, and Sekhmet realized with a shock that he should have done so when he had come in. Bad manners aren't going to get you into the army, fool! he told himself. He pulled it off, wondering with some amusement what Shoka was going to do. He let the candlelight fall full on his face, on the green hair, hiding the smile. He didn't know why it was so funny. It just was.
      The general blanched a bit but managed to hide any other emotions he may have felt. "A demon?" he asked, almost wistfully, to Sekhmet's surprise.
      "No, my lord," he answered wryly. Suddenly it seemed like he should be. "Merely the son of one." Shoka appraised him critically.
      "Can you do magic?"
      He found himself nodding slowly. "Some," he replied stiffly as the general began to grin.
      "You must demonstrate. We shall have to see about your fighting skill as well." He paused, as if he was waiting for something.
      "Uh, outside, of course," he started, unsure. Shoka nodded.
      "Of course. I shall join you shortly." As Sekhmet bowed and began to leave, he shouted for a messenger. "Send for all the generals currently in town immediately! They shall have to help make this decision." He could hear no more as he was escorted outside.

      They all arrived rather quickly, but even so the wait was making him nervous. The four other generals besides Shoka had gathered to watch his demonstration, as well as a gaggle of off-duty soldiers, and most of them were looking at him as if he was some kind of strange pet. He frowned to himself and waited until Shoka announced they were ready.
      "This warrior here will show his skills in both magic and fighting. If they are sufficient then he will be allowed to join this army." The was some discontented murmuring at this, particularly from the soldiers, but Shoka, being the head general, nodded and gestured for him to get on with it. He did.
      He took a deep breath, slipping easily into a state of concentration, almost a trance, and gestured at a soldier, hardly noticing the expression of fear on the man's face.  His sword was yanked out of its sheath, floating over to swirl and spin around Sekhmet's head. He picked up three more weapons the same way and turned toward the five tall practice posts set in the ground. There were murmurs and gasps from the people standing around, as if they were unable to believe what they were seeing.
      He waved at each of the posts in turn and sent a blade flying over to sink deeply into the wood. Then he unsheathed his own sword and focused on it, letting the energy inside flare up and be seen. He directed the energy with his mind, guided it over to the center post, swinging the sword down. The post exploded in a shower of splinters.
      There was a dead silence as the onlookers gaped. Sekhmet ignored them and turned his gaze to Shoka. The general was nodding in approval. "Well," he stated with a broad smile, "you still have to show us your fighting skill. Be sure not to use magic this time." He waved his hand and a soldier ran up. Sekhmet moved into a defensive stance.
      His opponent lunged forward, jabbing for his chest. He dodged and swept to the side, the blade just barely scratching against the man's armor. There were cheers and shouts from the onlookers, and he was surprised when he heard a few people calling to him, urging him on. He fought harder, determined not to lose this chance.
      Suddenly they were at a standstill, blades locked together, and Shoka with another wave gestured the soldier away. His opponent bowed to him and then to the general, and Sekhmet did the same.
      There was a tense moment before Shoka nodded, smiling. "You are worthy of joining our army, Sekhmet. I will take you under my own command." He addressed the officers next to him. "Just think of what we could do with his powers!" The other generals nodded hesitantly, and Shoka commanded someone to drill him on procedures.
      Sekhmet bowed deeply to hide his smile as the general returned to his tent. Eventually the crowd drifted away, and one of his new commanders beckoned for him to follow. He did, feeling tired and a little dazed. I can't believe it! Essah was right! But... what will happen now?

      The winter had turned to spring, and Sekhmet had proven himself in battle a few times. The other soldiers had generally accepted him, although a few of them teased and insulted him like his clan had, some even going so far as to challenge him. But after a few defeats that, at least, had stopped, although their hate for him hadn't.
      He had been reprimanded for the fighting too, but Shoka was inclined to be somewhat lenient with him, considering the circumstances. It hadn't taken very long to get used to the routines, and Sekhmet found that he liked being a soldier very much.
      It was a fairly warm, breezy day, and Sekhmet stood on guard duty with his sort-of friend Aysanio outside the wall to the daimyo's palace. The lord himself was not in Kaze, instead visiting allies in neighboring lands, but still his residence needed to be guarded. It was boring work, but when no one was around he could at least talk with the other man. And today there was a strange tension, a building sensation in the air.
      Aysanio stood at attention, holding a naginata in a bandaged hand. He was generally a quiet, easy-going person, but in battle became entirely different. He'd gotten that wound stopping an attacker's sword with his hand. The blade had gone through his armor and into his palm, fortunately not damaging it very much. He sighed, glancing around. "There's nothing happening," he complained.
      Sekhmet was about to agree when the noise of many voices was suddenly heard, coming towards them. He straightened up as the group of people, wearing the mon of one of the generals, passed. The two guards exchanged curious glances, and after they had gone Aysanio stopped one of the servants trailing behind.
      "What's going on?" he demanded in a low tone.
      With a quick bow the man blurted, "Fourteen men have been afflicted with a sickness, lord, in the past day. They have fevers and pains, and one of them just died in his sleep while others cry out as if possessed. And now one of the generals is sick as well!" He then glanced down the road and rushed after the rest.
      Aysanio had gone pale, and Sekhmet turned to him. "You know something about this sickness. It isn't just one of the normal afflictions we've all had since joining the army. So what is it?"
      "I don't know what it is called, but I have heard of it before. It's very deadly, and could kill half of our men or more before it is driven away." He made several strange warding gestures. "I shall pray that it passes us by."
      Sekhmet personally didn't think that praying was going to do any good, but he said nothing. He wasn't worried about it, really, since he had never been sick much before. Why would he start now? But he had no more time to think about it.
      For then there was more shouting and yelling, and from their position up on the hill of the fortress they could see sudden activity in the town below. And then a group of priests went by, one stopping before them.
      "You," he commanded, leveling a finger at Aysanio. "Come with us. We need some strong arms to carry the sick to where we can tend them."
      Unable to refuse, the soldier followed after the priests down the road, leaving Sekhmet to stand there and wonder.

      He was off-duty some days later, wandering around the town and watching the people. They were all nervous, afraid, praying not to be afflicted with the horrible sickness. He walked until he came across Aysanio, leaning against a post near the sick-building. He was pale and drawn, holding his wounded hand near his chest.
      "Aysanio," Sekhmet greeted him, walking over. "When was the last time you got some rest?"
      He shrugged. "A long time, Sekhmet. I've been carrying bodies... so many dead! And more falling sick every day... why are the gods visiting this upon us?" That the plague was being sent upon them by the gods was one of the most popular theories in the camp. Another was that their enemy had powerful sorcerers that were trying to kill their men and then attack. As more men died, more of the remainder were being put on watch for the enemy.
      He frowned, pulling Aysanio's hand away from him and unwrapping the bandage. The wound looked bad, festering. "I don't think it is gods. But I'm not sure what it is... I do know that you should get some rest. And get this wound cleaned up. It's infected, I think."
      Aysanio nodded and moved to push himself upright, but he failed utterly and collapsed. Sekhmet caught him before he could fall and took him the short distance to the priests' building. There some harried men took him away to lay him on a mat.
      The air in the room stank of disease and the people inside were either delirious, thrashing about, or lying there as if they were dead. As he paused to look at them, he was suddenly drafted by an acolyte to carry bodies and the sick.
      He had no choice but to obey, but hated the duty nonetheless. Hated watching men lose control of themselves, blubber and wail and cry. Nothing the priests were doing seemed to help, and only a few recovered on their own. But still Sekhmet carried them to the building all the way from the walls of the inner fortress-town, and carried them out when they had died.
      He checked on Aysanio when he could, when he had a moment, but still he lay unmoving, as if he was dead, mousy-brown hair matted from laying down so long. He could only hope he'd be one of the ones to recover. Doesn't it fit, that one person I might call my friend would die like this? he thought as he was sent to collect more of the sick, as others brought bodies out to be buried. And this went on for days.
     
      Sekhmet was resting in the barracks on his mat, concentrating on eating a bowl of rice. The soldier nearby him was poking at a wart on his foot with a knife, wincing and cursing alternately as he tried to cut it off. Sekhmet frowned down into the bowl, not very hungry. "Damn!" the man said again.
      "Why don't you burn it off?" he sighed, setting the bowl aside.
      He looked introspective for a moment. "Haven't tried that!" The soldier stood up and limped away. Sekhmet leaned back, stifling a yawn. He had only a few minutes before the priests would call for him again. Best to make the most of the time he had.
      He closed his eyes for what seemed like only seconds, and then there was someone standing in front of him. It was another common soldier, holding a naginata. "You are the warrior Sekhmet?" he queried.
      As if there was anyone here who didn't know who I am! "Yes," he answered slowly.
      The man held out the weapon. "This is for you. The soldier Aysanio wished you to have it." He stared at it blankly until he finally realized what had happened.
      "He's dead," Sekhmet stated, lurching to his feet and taking the weapon. The soldier nodded. He put it in the corner along with the rest of his things, and ran out.
      He wasn't sure why he was running, or what he expected to find. The man had said Aysanio was dead, so why were his feet taking him to that disgusting sick-house? But he had to see for himself, although his head was spinning and he felt nauseous.
      He skidded to a stop outside the door and walked in. It was true; Aysanio's bed was empty. He felt a brief flash of remorse, and a longer wave of dizziness. Everything faded for a moment, and when it returned another priest was standing before him.
      "Soldier," he said, "I need you to carry a message to General Shoka of the death of General--"
      Sekhmet simply stared at him for a moment before blacking out and landing at the priest's feet.

      In the muggy, hot sick-room, sweating with fever, Sekhmet dreamed. He was burning, burning, and there was no way to escape it, no way at all. He seemed pinned by a heavy weight on his chest, tried to push it off but couldn't, couldn't breathe, couldn't escape the heat... and it was so dark, so silent, and there in the silence, pinned to the ground, he was burning slowly...
      With a violent gasp, he managed to open his eyes, only to see more darkness, hear more silence. He wasn't even sure that he'd opened his eyes or woken up at all. And then shapes suddenly appeared around him, and he began to calm down, shoving away the thick hot blanket.
      Sekhmet's mouth was dry, prickly, and he licked his cracked lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. He was incredibly thirsty, but there was no one around to bring him water, and he would have thrown it up anyway. But he wanted it, even so. There wasn't anything left in his stomach, and the thirst was worse than the heat or the nausea the water would bring. He wasn't sure how he would able to stand it much longer.
      The attending priest was asleep in the corner, hadn't heard him or noticed he was awake. A few men around him were crying out and thrashing, but still the priest slept. Sekhmet didn't have the energy to even frown at him.
      He felt weak, helpless, powerless, and these were feelings he utterly despised. Although he wouldn't dare to admit it to himself, he was scared. The sickness was nothing he could control, manipulate, ignore or even fight against. There was nothing he could do to keep from dying in the disease-filled room like so many others had already. The mere thought made his heart beat painfully fast, made him want to fight again, although it wouldn't do any good at all.
      "Essah!" he called into the quiet room, hardly able to speak above a hoarse whisper. His throat constricted around the words, and he hated the weakness in himself even as he begged, "Help me! Help me, Essah, please, please, please help me!" He waited, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. I should have known... I've asked too much, I can't do anything for myself and so now I should just die. Sekhmet closed his eyes, curling up on his side around the pain.
      He only realized Essah had indeed come when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned over slowly and met his eyes, unable to say anything useful beyond another "Help."
      His father looked at him sadly, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. "Sekhmet, I am sorry, but I can not help you. What you suffer from I am unable to heal. I can not heal the unseen, only wounds."
      He raised himself with a great effort onto an elbow. "No, don't tell me that! It's not true! Why are you here then, to torment me? What are you here for? Just leave me alone and let me die! Do you want to watch? Go away and take your lies with you!"
      "You won't die," he answered calmly, shaking his head. "I believe you can conquer this, my son. Do not give up."
      "Give up? Why not, why not just give up? Leave, go away, if I want to give up then I can and -- and you can't stop me!" Sekhmet was incoherent, babbling now, filled with fear and rage and pain, and inhaling deeply, turned it all on his father. He shouted unintelligibly, voice rasping and angry, shouted and yelled and screamed, and Essah sat there, simply watching him with large, expressionless golden eyes.
      The snake-god reached out and touched his forehead with a forefinger, and the green glowing lines of his symbol appeared, mirrored by the similar mark on Essah's forehead. After a few seconds Sekhmet subsided into racking, tearless sobs, and his father pushed him back down onto the mat, using his magic to calm him and put him to sleep.
      "I wish I could help you more, Sekhmet," was the last thing he heard Essah say before he blacked out. "But this is one battle you will have to fight completely alone."
     
      The dreams came again, dreams of hands reaching for him, holding him down in the fire, and faces, people danced in the flames, taunting him, beckoning -- her face was the worst, twisted and melting, leering at him. He couldn't tear his eyes away, horrified by the sight, but when she reached out for him he wanted to go to her, reaching back, but the hands held him there.
      Sekhmet drew in a breath and screamed her name, thrashing and fighting, and then the hands were suddenly attached to bodies, bodies of soldiers and priests. They were trying to restrain him as he screamed, kicked, tried to escape, pushing away. He fought and fought until they managed to tie him down, falling back with gasps and sighs of relief.
      He writhed in his bonds, trying vainly to free himself as the priests stepped aside to confer. He didn't know what they were saying, couldn't hear, but as he struggled the eldest of them announced to the others that the sickness would have to be bled out of him.
      For some unidentifiable reason, the knife they carried over struck terror in him, and he yelled, cursing them as they slashed his forearm and let the blood drip into a bowl, cursed and then just as suddenly broke down into sobs, having lost all reason to the disease wracking his body. He screamed until his voice went hoarse and then collapsed weakly, all energy completely spent.
      When he awoke he had come back to himself, regained some of his former control. He took in deep breaths and let them out slowly. There was someone stirring in the room, a priest muttering low chants over a body. Another man took the body out of the tent, and the priest accompanied him. Sekhmet lay very still until they were gone.
      He found that he was still restrained, and struggled against the ropes briefly before quitting. He needed some other way to escape, and his gaze swept around the room, fixing on the knife the priest had used to bleed him laying on the floor a couple of feet away. Sekhmet stared at it, tried to concentrate on it, focusing. He was still too weak to do much, but stubbornly worked at it, managing to drag the knife a few inches closer before resting.
      After he had rested he tried again and again, working in this way to drag the blade close enough. When it was right next to him he waited for the right time, when the room was empty, and then summoned all his energy and raised the knife in the air.
      With a great deal of effort he slashed through one and then two of the ropes, nicking himself in the process, and then let the knife clatter to the ground. It was enough, and he pulled the rest of his bonds away, accompanied by a strange suffocating feeling, almost like dread. I have to get away from here, now! he thought frantically.
      He staggered to his feet and stumbled out the door. It was quiet outside, near dusk, and he went around the back of the building, toward where he could hear running water. The sick-building was located outside the main walls of the city, on the outskirts of the surrounding town, and so he didn't have to worry much about guards.
      It was so hot, and the river called to him through the returning haze. He moved single-mindedly to it, pausing only to throw up once more into the bushes. Sekhmet reached the bank and collapsed in the cool mud. Lying among the reeds, he took a breath and then shoved his head under the water, holding it in the freezing liquid until he needed air.
      He pushed back among the reeds, out of sight, stretching out next to the dull roar of the river, feeling cool for the first time in days. He was asleep instantly.

      It was dusk. As he opened his eyes, at first he was afraid that the sickness had somehow ruined much of his sight, but when he sat up Sekhmet realized where he was. The reeds surrounding him blocked out most of the faint light still fading in the west.
      It's still dusk. I must not have been out very long. Feels like a while, though... I should probably get back to town. He stood slowly and stretched. He felt a lot better than before, just a bit achy. It seemed that the fever was gone, the sickness departed.
      Sekhmet stumbled his way up to the fortress, entering through the gates without any problems. The guards there stared at him, but he assumed they were just wondering how he had gotten better so soon. He went toward the barracks, noticing that there was no one around. It was as if the fortress was dead.
      His things weren't where they were usually kept. He found them among the belongings of other soldiers. Can't even wait until a person's dead to take his clothes, he thought angrily, retrieving them and noting who had taken them.
      He glanced out the open door as he picked up his robe, and saw that, to the north, there was the light of many torches. "There's a gathering then... that's why no one's here," Sekhmet muttered, dropping the robe and picking up his armor instead. It was almost too heavy for him to wear yet, but he just clenched his teeth, and, glancing around once more at the deserted town, went north.
      When he arrived at the field, he recognized right away what was going on. This was the funeral ceremony for the general that had died. All the soldiers left alive were assembled in their ranks, and at the head of the crowd sat the remaining generals, Shoka among them, a gaggle of priests, and a well-clothed man Sekhmet didn't recognize.
      The priests were chanting prayers for the general, and also for the souls of the dead soldiers, to help guide them safely on their journey. Still unnoticed, Sekhmet frowned to himself. He remembered vaguely that the general had died the same day he himself had fallen sick, but usually a person wasn't buried until seven days had passed, to allow the soul to depart.
      He walked up to a nearby soldier, being careful not to disturb the service, and asked quietly what the day was. Instead of answering, the man grew pale and backed away. A murmur ran through the group, and eventually the priests stopped their chants and turned to stare at him. The noise died down to deep silence, and there were hundreds and hundreds of eyes on him.
      No one spoke for a long time, and then one of the elder priests, visibly steeling himself, called out, "Why do you haunt us, spirit? Return to the void and be at peace!"
      He blinked at them, frowning in confusion until it all became clear. "Ah... I'm not dead."
      That caused even more confusion in the ranks. Shoka stood and waved for silence. "The body of the half-demon soldier Sekhmet disappeared from the sick-tent five days ago. It was taken to the demon world. And yet," he said, out loud but still to himself, "why does his spirit remain?" He addressed his next question to Sekhmet. "Is there some worldly task you must accomplish before you may rest?"
      "No, my lord Shoka," he protested, "I am not dead. I left the sick-house and was unconscious by the river this whole time. I just woke up." He stopped. They quite obviously did not believe him. Now what can I do... haunt them? I think not.
      Some expression he let show on his face prompted Shoka to confer briefly with the man next to him, the one with the expensive-looking clothes. Then the head general descended the low dais he had been on and walked over to him.
      He peered at him curiously, walking around him as Sekhmet stood self-consciously. Finally Shoka reached out and tapped him hesitantly. He seemed surprised that his finger didn't go right through him.
      He pitched his voice so that most of the men there could hear him. "This man is real, alive as he says. Everyone return to your places! Continue with the ceremony!"
      There was a slight pause before everyone followed his commands, and as he returned to his place the priests began their prayers again. Sekhmet took his place in the ranks, well aware of the wide berth the others gave him. It seemed that fate was always conspiring against him to keep him an outcast.

      It was only a day later when he was summoned to the fortress keep itself. Perhaps not quite as surprised as he might have been, Sekhmet was granted immediate access and was escorted to a large audience chamber. The whole fortress was decorated in high style, everything arranged just so as according to tradition. The chamber itself was decorated with vases of flowers among other things.
      On a slightly raised platform sat the man Sekhmet had seen at the ceremony -- the daimyo himself. Next to him sat General Shoka, and both were wearing long, expensive embroidered robes. This was the man all the fighting was for. He quickly bowed, low to the ground, waiting for acknowledgment. Why, exactly, am I here? he wondered. Most likely about yesterday. I just want to forget that...
      "Sit, Sekhmet," Shoka said shortly. "I present to you my lord Naaza Kaeoda." He bowed to him once more before kneeling at their feet, head lowered respectfully.
      "You are the soldier Sekhmet," Kaeoda stated. He was older than Shoka but still appeared healthy, if a bit on the heavy side. "I have heard much about you. I wish to ask you about your... resurrection, as it seems."
      He explained it again as he knew it, leaving out any mention of his father. But he had to include how he escaped from his bonds, which led Shoka to order him to demonstrate his powers for the daimyo. Stifling a very inappropriate sigh of resignation, Sekhmet lifted and rearranged the various items in the room from where he sat.
      When he looked cautiously up at Kaeoda again, he noted with satisfaction that his lord looked pleased, and Shoka was fairly beaming with pride.
      "I see, Shoka, my friend, that you speak the truth. He, indeed, is an asset to our army." Kaeoda nodded down at him. "I myself shall fight in the next battle against our enemies, which we will be ready to fight a short while from now. I want you to bear my sword in the battle ceremonies that day, and ride behind me in battle. I wish to see for myself how well you fight."
      Sekhmet bowed low again, touching his forehead to the floor. "I am honored, my lord, more than I can say," he replied, hoping it was the right answer. It is an honor, yes, but why are they doing this to me? Is there more here than I realize?
      He was escorted back out into the fortress, there left to his duties until the day of the battle came.
     
      He was on guard duty on the wall, near one of the generals' residences inside the fortress. From his station he could see not only for a distance inside the fortress but also for miles around the countryside. He was watching briefly the people in the town below walk around town socializing, and the farmers further away plant their rice.
      And then, with no warning at all, Essah appeared to him. He gaped in shock and then quickly covered it up, mindful of all the people bustling around. "Essah," he muttered, "leave, they'll see you!"
      >>No, Sekhmet, they can not see me. Speak in your mind and you will not attract attention.<<
      >>Why are you here?<< he asked, focusing on something besides the tall form of his father. He scanned the people in one of the gardens a little ways away with his eyes, not really seeing them.
      >>I will tell you quickly, for I am in a hurry. I was there when you spoke with Kaeoda, and I have things I must tell you. Beware during your next battle, and guard Kaeoda with your life! Do this and I promise you will be greatly rewarded.<<
      His mind raced. >>Why should I do this? Essah, what is going on?<<
      >>I cannot explain. Just do it! It is imperative that you do!<<
      >>Essah!<< Sekhmet shouted in his mind. >>You have to tell me! What is going to happen?<< But the snake-god had left without another word, leaving him considerably angry.

After the rains of the season had ceased a bit, the day of the battle was at hand. Sekhmet and the others were wakened by the sound of the war-drum, and immediately a feeling of anticipation filled the air, as it did before every battle he'd been in. Everyone ate quickly and prepared for battle even faster, although they were sure not to make a careless mistake that would prove fatal later.
      Sekhmet was not the only one who checked his armor a second time before leaving the barracks and meeting his commander and the rest of the men. The straps were tight and in place -- there, there, and there. He was finally satisfied and hurried to catch up.
      The troops amassed on the field outside the fortress, the same field where the ceremonies for their fallen comrades had taken place. Sekhmet stood near the very front of all the assembled soldiers, holding Kaeoda's sword, and the before-battle ceremonies began.
      Kaeoda sat with his generals around him in a semicircle, Shoka on his left, and a new general to replace the one that died among them as well. He ate the traditional farewell meal and stood.
      Feeling a bit nervous, Sekhmet came forward and knelt, fastening Kaeoda's sword around his waist, and then bowing and returning to his place. He was glad that it was over, although it had been only a short part of the whole thing. The ceremonies always seemed so long to him, almost unnecessary. His clan's warriors had never performed any of the rites, and they still had won their battles, most of the time.
      The daimyo regarded him for a short moment before turning his attention back to the ceremony. He took a deep breath and shouted, "Glory!"
      As one, all the generals and troops shouted back the reply "Yes!" It came as a deafening roar, again and again, as Kaeoda put on his helmet and mounted his horse. The flags were raised, and those of the men who rode horses mounted as well.
      Sekhmet, for the first time, had a horse as well. He had been taught how to ride it, but was still not very good. But that didn't seem to matter as, for once, he was swept up in the spirit of the others. The priests chanted for victory as they marched to meet their fate.
      It was not far, and a good place for battle. There were easily defended hills Kaeoda and his warriors hoped to capture first, and thus secure the victory more easily. They arrived on the battlefield and could hear the enemy approaching. Sekhmet waited, hearing in the distance the sounds of the war-drums and the conch-shell signal horns, directing the troops. He readied his sword in his hand, clenching the reins in his other fist. He not only had to fight, but he had to control the horse as well.
      Kaeoda directly in front of him and to his side shifted a bit on his horse, and then passed the command. The horns sounded out, and then they charged. As the shouting and screaming filled the air, Sekhmet found it hard to control the horse, as he'd foreseen. He tried to hack at people as they in turn tried to knock him down or kill the horse, and he was forever evading their blows. A rain of arrows fell down on them, lodging into armor plates, and, for the unlucky, faces and eyes. His comrades returned the volley as he mentally pushed aside arrows, keeping them from hitting him and the people next to him.
      Also, remembering what Essah had said, but still not liking it, he tried to keep his eye on Kaeoda at the same time. The older man was tiring, a few of his opponent's blows hitting their marks. And then, suddenly, the daimyo was dehorsed and fighting on foot. Sekhmet edged the horse forward a bit, knocking the helmet from the head of an enemy soldier and slicing the top of his head clean off. Had he survived, the loss of his hair would have been a total disgrace. But he didn't have to suffer that humiliation: the warrior fell and was trampled under the hooves and feet of the others.
      In the lull between one fight and the next, Sekhmet became aware that Essah was on the field. No one else seemed to see him, though, and he was standing behind Kaeoda's attacker. Distracted by seeing his father suddenly appear, he was unable to evade, and someone killed his mount. He jumped away as it fell, rolling to his feet as it crushed someone with the weight of its body.
      He was standing next to the daimyo now, and he saw that his lord was really struggling. Kaeoda inexplicably glanced away for a second, and his attacker went in for the kill. Sekhmet shouted "Lord Kaeoda!" and tried to leap forward, all in one breath, but he knew he was not in time to stop the attacker.
      Suddenly the green glowing shape of Essah behind the enemy warrior reached out and deflected his blade from Kaeoda and at Sekhmet instead. The sword went through the gap between two plates of his armor and sank deeply into his thigh. He cried out and fell as Kaeoda brained the attacker.
      Someone else tried to take advantage of his weakness to cut off his head, to be presented to the enemy lord later. This was a dishonorable practice, but of course the man didn't care about that, thinking only of the money a head would bring.
      Sekhmet's vision was hazy, and he could hardly breathe, let alone move, but he was furious at the fact that his own father had caused him to be wounded. Unable to get away, he dragged his sword upward and rammed it at an angle through his assailant's armor and though his ribcage.
      The enemy soldier's face twisted in a paroxysm of horror, and slumped forward. Hot blood spurted from the gash and onto Sekhmet, suddenly blinding him. He twisted his face away, gasping for air. He was unable to pull his blade from the man's body, and the corpse fell over on top of him as everything went red.

      When he awoke, he was no longer covered in blood on the battlefield. Instead he found himself lying on a soft mat. He looked around slowly and realized that he was in the fortress keep, in someone important's personal chambers. Perhaps the daimyo himself, he thought, blinking away the sleep. He'd been wounded before; never this badly, that was true, but still he had never ended up in the fortress afterward. In fact, neither had anyone else he knew of.
      The pattering noise of rain on the roof came to him. It had a lulling sound, and he was tempted to close his eyes again and go back to sleep. There was a rustle of cloth from behind a screen, and he slowly became aware that there was someone else in the room. A woman was tending to his wounds, and he saw that the gash in his leg had been sewn up. When she knew that he was awake, the woman left the room and returned with Kaeoda.
      He looked different now, wearing a few bandages himself, somehow appearing more grandfatherly. He sent away the attendant. "Sekhmet," he began without preamble, "you saved my life."
      He remembered then, how Essah had turned the enemy's stroke aside from the lord to him, and felt rage well up in him. "It was my duty, my lord," he said, hiding his true emotions easily. "Any other man would have done the same."
      He did not answer, instead asking "How do you feel? Is the wound giving you any trouble?"
      It was hurting, actually, but he only replied, "Not at all, Lord Kaeoda. I can't even feel it." He began to sit up.
      He chuckled. "Ah, but I know you young men. Always believing you are made of stone. Nothing can hurt you." He gestured for Sekhmet to lay back down and then took a seat next to him.
      He was confused. Why is the daimyo showing me honor, like his equal? I may have saved his life, but...
      "What is your family name, your clan name?" Kaeoda asked intently.
      Somewhat embarrassed, he responded, "I have none, my lord. I was never accepted by my clan as one of its members, never had a naming ceremony."
      The lord looked at him thoughtfully. "I shall tell you something, soldier, that I have not let anyone else know. I am dying of a slow wasting sickness, a cancer that no doctor or priest can rid me of. I sought, perhaps, to die with honor on the battlefield, but the gods have willed it not so. Perhaps you are a sign to me."
      He cleared his throat. "All my sons have died young, and my wife is gone as well. I did not take another after her death, and so I have no heirs. My only choice at this time is to adopt a heir. I am indebted to you, Sekhmet, for swaying me from dishonorable thoughts, from giving up and letting myself be defeated. I wish to adopt you as my heir."
      Sekhmet had thought that nothing more could surprise him, but he was proved wrong. "My lord," he managed to say, "are you sure you would want a demon for a son?"
      "It matters not what you are. You are an excellent warrior and an honorable man. I would be honored."
      "I too, would be honored, my lord," he said. Kaeoda smiled.
      "You shall be named when you are well. But I say now, as it will be announced, that you are Naaza Sekhmet, my son." With a bow to him, the daimyo rose, and, saying "I shall leave you to rest now," exited the room.
      Sekhmet sat up with an effort, staring after him. If what had just happened wasn't a dream, he had just gone from lowest rank to highest, all with a few words. He had to wonder somehow if the daimyo had gone insane.

      In the darkness of night Essah came to him. He was not asleep, just laying there, listening to the rain, and thinking. As soon as the snake-god appeared, Sekhmet glared at him. "What do you think you're doing?" he exploded. "Why didn't you tell me what you were going to do?"
      Essah replied, "I want for you to have as much as you can have. I can not forgive myself for letting the events in your childhood happen. I have given you power, as much as I can possibly give you. You are Kaeoda's son now, and when he dies you will be the daimyo."
      He'd thought about that during the day, wondering how the people would take it when the event happened. Essah's words jolted him back to his earlier thoughts. As it is, they too think Lord Kaeoda is mad. Should I become the lord, they will not trust me. They could always argue that he was not fit to make that choice and rise up and take the land for themselves. As he thought, Essah sat down next to him and flipped back the blanket, preparing to heal his wound.
      With a frown, Sekhmet batted his hands away. "Well, I can't get the people to trust me if I'm getting my wounds miraculously healed, now, can I?" he snapped. Essah looked a little hurt but said nothing, his face growing cold. But Sekhmet was only beginning.  "And another thing," he continued, if you're going to pull anything like that again, you have to tell me!"
      "Sekhmet," Essah interjected angrily, "if I had told you it wouldn't have worked. You would be dead now and your head displayed in the hall of your enemies!" He could only glare back at his father. "If what I have given you is not enough, then tell me what you truly want, and it will be yours," he declared.
      He thought for a moment before looking back up at the semi-human figure next to him. "You were right," he said slowly. "I want power. I want to be able to make any stupid human grovel before me." He laughed mirthlessly. "Can you give me that, Essah?"
      "I can give you all earthly power if you promise me one thing," he replied.
      "What's that?" Sekhmet asked suspiciously, having a nagging feeling as to the answer. He was right.
      "Swear to me that you will not join the Dynasty."
      "I can't do that. You said you'd give me power, and what is more powerful than the Dynasty? I've heard the stories, I've seen what hold your master has over you. Why don't you want me to join you, Father?" he asked mockingly. "Perhaps you want it all for yourself."
      Essah sent him a killing glare and vanished, leaving Sekhmet again alone with only his thoughts.

      He could not fight in the next battle, but was able to come and watch the warriors leave, Kaeoda among them. He was treated with respect now because of his new rank, and found it rather strange. After they had gone he went back inside, already bored, to wait for news of the battle. He had decided to try and get some sleep when Essah entered as usual from nowhere, carrying a bloody sword.
      Now what? he wondered with an internal sigh, and raised himself onto his elbows. Essah swept the sword up into his face, pointing it directly at the center of his forehead.
      "Hail, Lord Sekhmet," he said, his voice like ice. "You have your power, and it will be enough, believe me. You know my message by now. Stay out of the Dynasty."
      Sekhmet stared at him, and his eyes went wide. "No! No, damn you, Essah, I never asked you to do this!" He lunged clumsily at the snake-god, but he simply disappeared. As he tried to regain his balance, he heard voices outside his room, coming toward him.
      He half-ran, stumbling outside in time to see Kaeoda being carried in. The body was laid at his feet, and the blood-spattered carriers, one of them being Shoka, bowed deeply to him. Sekhmet stared in shock. Only then did it sink in, and shakily he ordered them to have the body prepared for burial.
      He turned and went back into his room, sitting down in a chair near an open window. The sky outside was gray and dark. It was going to rain again any time now.
      Shoka followed after him, waiting for the inevitable questions. The black-haired general stood in front of him, head lowered in mourning and respect. "How did he die?" Sekhmet finally asked.
      Shoka replied sorrowfully, "An enemy soldier killed him with one blow, my lord. None of our men have ever reported seeing him before. He wore no family mon or banners of any sort, and afterward he just seemed to vanish."
      He felt overwhelmed. "General Shoka, could you please leave? I really need to think about this. I-- I do not feel very well at the moment."
      "Of course, my lord Sekhmet," the general replied, bowing low and leaving the room. The whole situation had just hit him, hard. He didn't know whether to laugh, or scream. He was now the daimyo. Lord of the whole land, the army, the fortress, everything. He had power, that was true. But he had absolutely no idea what to do with it, or how to keep it now that it was his.

Part Seven