6 – The Song of Nakhataway

A body, that of a woman, as uncorrupted by the passage of time as of the warriors ringed around were, lay inside the sarcophagus.  The woman had her arms folded across her chest and her eyes closed.  Her skin had a burnished bronze hue to it, in contrast to the ebon warriors.  Her cheek bones were high and her beauty, undiminished by death, had been highlighted by cosmetics, predominant being her eyelids painted green.  Her black hair had been worked into ringlets, through which silver wire had been woven, from which hung beads of silver and lapis lazuli, while a golden circlet inset with more lapis lazuli rested upon her brow.

Costly silks clung to her slender body, in the form of a sleeveless gown of deepest azure, embellished with gilt thread and worked through with pearls.  At her throat hung a necklace of silver from which tear drop shaped lapis lazuli stones hung, at the centre of which sat a giant, sparking sapphire.  Bracelets of gold encircled her wrists and ankles.  Her hands clasped a rod made of gold, the head of which took the form of a blossoming lotus, the petals highlighted with blue stones.

That she was Metsheputi was without question, her riches bespeaking of one of high status as well, even of royalty.  She appeared but asleep, as if waiting to be awakened, if not for the ice that encased her and her sarcophagus.  How she came to be there, so far from home, guarded in an eternal vigil by warriors of far Kurushu, no answers could be seen.

Blade soon joined Peregrine in the study of the sarcophagus and its contents.  Though vast riches lay on display before them, enough to make the wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, neither of them felt any inclination to claim them.  While they had plundered tombs in the past, to do so here would be to desecrate a body that they were ascertain should be left in peace, and more so, must not be disturbed.  Her peaceful beauty touched them, and her age, for she remained perpetually beautiful, a young woman taken well before her time.

“We should return the swords to their owners,” Peregrine stated, jumping back down from the table.  Walking over to the warrior she had taken the sword from, she slotted it back where it had been with great care, so as to appear as if it had never been disturbed in the first place.  Reluctantly Blade followed her example, for the sword was a fine as an example as he had ever beheld.  Never before had he wielded a blade forged by a master craftsman, and most like would never do so again.

“I do not understand this,” he said after having returned the sword to its frozen owner.  Peregrine had stridden off towards where her broken sword lay, to recover the remnants of it.  “A Metsheputi noble woman and Kurushu warriors, this far north, and more so, ones that have been here a long age if I am not mistaken, the secrets of whose existence is guarded by the Icemen, a people to whom they have nothing in common with.  It irks me that I do not know why.”

Peregrine laughed at that as she bent down to pick up her broken sword.  “You will spend much of your life irked if that is so.”

Blade sighed, his eyes returning to their half lidded state now that the danger had passed.  “It is true,” he admitted.  “My thirst for knowledge and understanding can get the better of me on occasions.”  He paused and stared hard at the sarcophagus, for a detail that he had not noticed early had caught his eye.  In the patterns of the lapis lazuli upon the sarcophagus, obscured by the ice that covered it from all but the most careful looks, he had picked out the start of a word written in Metsheputi.

Walking across to it, he began to scrape away at the ice and brush the fragments free so as to get a better look at what had been written.  Once done, he stepped back, his eyes filled with wonderment.

“This can not be.”

“What can’t be?” Peregrine asked, striding back across and up the stairs to rejoin him, sliding the remnants of her broken sword into the scabbard at her side.

“What is written here, it is a name, that of Meryti-Senefer.”

“Is that meant to mean something?” Peregrine asked, looking intently at the letters upon the sarcophagus.

“You have not heard tell of her?”

“No,” Peregrine replied, shaking her head.  “Should I have?”

“I guess not, living among the Aedring, but throughout Metsheput and the cities of the Swordlands, all have heard tell of Meryti-Senefer, for she is prominent in the Song of Nakhataway.”

“That I have heard tell of,” Peregrine announced.

A faint smile touched Blade’s face.  “I would be surprised if you had not.  The Song, though, it is thought just a myth, and those spoken in it to have never have existed.”

“It appears at least that this woman did,” Peregrine replied, staring at the sarcophagus.  She did not have the learning that Blade did, yet her upbringing, as different as it was to Blade’s, allowed her to arrive at thoughts and solutions that he would never have considered.  “Tell me of her.”

“Now?” he asked, blinking in a moment of confusion.

“There is no better time,” she pointed out.  “It may give us some indication as to how it was she came to be in this place, and what exact we are meant to do.  The mystery of this woman and our coming to this place are linked, I would not be at all surprised.”

Blade nodded slowly, composing his thoughts and taking on a stance of scholarly contemplation.  “The Song tells of the dawn of Metsheput, when it rose in revolt against the darkness that was the Baktheri, before the birth of the cities of the Swordlands, before the Navodians took to the seas, before even the Kurushu and Agakwa and the ebon men of the south founded their empires.”

“A long time ago then,” Peregrine interrupted, smiling with amusement.

“A very long time ago,” Blade agreed, nodding his head while trying to reorder his thoughts.  “A man called Anatep led the revolt against the Baktheri and went on to found Metsheput, which he went on to reign over for a thousand years, if the Song is to be believed.  He fathered three children; Khorsu, the firstborn son, Meryti-Senefer, his only daughter, and a younger son, Sesenay.  Khorsu succeeded his father when at last Anatep’s long days came to an end, yet he did not rule long for he was slain by a terrible darkness that crept up from forgotten places, the Baktheri’s final curse upon the Metsheputi before they were destroyed.”

Peregrine grunted.  “They were good at those.  Those curses still bear bitter potency, as we have seen.”

“More potent still were they in ancient days.  The Song of Nakhataway tells of how Meryti-Senefer, in an effort to defeat the curse, sought out Nakhataway, a hermit, scholar and a master of the Mysteries, yet one feared greatly throughout the lands, for his father was Baktheri, though his mother was Metsheputi, even if one of the noble blood.”  He paused in his words, a thoughtful look coming upon him as he delved into his memories.  “I remember some small snatches of the Song, though long has it been since I studied them.  Then did the Queen abase herself before Nakhataway, willing to humble herself for the sake of her people.  ‘Cousin, for that is what thou art, I beseech thee that thou dost lend us thy wisdom, for should not thou doest so, then all that hast been brought at so dear a price shall be as dust and terror shall come to all, yay, even unto thee in this place.’  Such was the lament of the most noble of queens, and such the luminescence of her beauty, and such the entreaty of her soul, that Nakhataway’s cold heart was moved to pity.“

“It is little wonder that I do not know of this song,” Peregrine observed, “For the language is of too flowery a type to appeal to the Aedring.”

Blade smiled briefly.  “I may not have gotten it correct in its entirety, nor the specific words, but you get the meaning.”

“She persuaded a man who would not normally have helped, a man whom her people feared.  That could not have been a popular move.”

“Alas,” Blade sighed, “It was not, and it led to her downfall.  Her younger brother, Sesenay, overthrew her and claimed the throne for his own.  She he had imprisoned in the deepest dungeons of the palace, locking her away in the dark to be forgotten, and those who remained loyal to her were hunted down one by one and slain.  Despite the best efforts of Sesenay and his hunters, Nakhataway escaped, returning once more to the wild places he called home, and there he hid.”

“Such is the way of civilised lands,” Peregrine responded, shaking her head.  “Behind all the airs and graces and polite words lurks treachery and betrayal.”  She looked across at the sarcophagus and back to Blade.   “I gather, then, that she did not die in those dungeons if she ended up here, surrounded by a guard.”

“If it really is her,” Blade pointed out, “But, no, she did not.  Her story did not end there, in the dark, forgotten and alone.  The Curse that had slain Khorsu returned once more, in greater power and fear.  Sesenay, secure in his power, was hosting a grand feast in his honour when it struck.  Before the terrified guests, Sesenay was devoured by the Curse.  And then Meryti-Senefer appeared, unexpected by all.  How she came to escape the dungeons was never told, but she arrived as if in answer to the prayers of those trapped in the great feasting hall by the Curse.  She faced if down in nothing more than the tattered rags that she wore, bearing no arms but the courage of her heart.”

“A brave lass then,” Peregrine said approvingly.  “From her looks I would not have thought it of her.”

“So they sing of her.  That courage caused the Curse to flee from her, driven off by the purity of her soul and strength of her heart, yet it had not been defeated.  Meryti-Senefer resumed her rightful place upon the throne of Metsehput, forgiving those that had done her wrong and beseeching again for Nakhataway to return and aid her in once and for all in defeating the Curse.  There after she all but disappears from the Song, appearing only once more, at the end of the tale, for it follows the deeds of Nakhataway from then on as he set out to hunt the Curse, and for the means by which he could defeat it.  At the end he corners the Curse in Khumuna, which is no more, and it is said that he drove it into a vessel that had been prepared for it, one from which it could never escape.  Only then does Meryti-Senefer reappear in the Song.  She tells her people that she must depart, for their sake, and the sake of the future.  No reason is given, nor where she was destined to go and nor does it say that any went with her.  I think that now we know where it was she went, but if only there were more here that could tell us the why.”

 “It is easy to see,” Peregrine told him.  “She sacrificed herself to defeat the Curse.”

“And how do you come by that conclusion?” Blade asked, a brow languidly arching.

“You do not see?  She became the vessel in which the Curse was captured.”  For her, such a thing was obvious, even if it had not been spelt out in the Song, as Aedring legends were replete with acts of sacrifice and she had become accustomed to spotting such acts in myths and songs.

“It is a possibility,” Blade conceded, “Yet without evidence to confirm it, we can not be certain.  Nor have we uncovered the Heart of Forever that we came to find.”

“Unless they are one and the same.”

Blade slowly shook his head.  “No, I do not believe that they are, not with the way the message read.”

“Come, we have not fully explored this chamber,” Peregrine told him.  “Perhaps what you seek is still here somewhere, yet to be uncovered.”

With that thought in mind, the pair set out to more fully explore the chamber, heading back to the entrance to start there.  From the open iron doors, they followed along the left hand wall, searching through the drifts of ice and strands of webs that obscured the walls in part, all the time keeping a wary eye out on the spiders lurking above.  About halfway along, they came upon a bundle tangled up against the wall, a body, yet not preserved as the ones on the dais had been.  This one was blackened from the frost, its flesh withered away and skin desiccated, pulled tight over its skeleton.  The head had been thrown back and the mouth hung wide open, as if giving voice to a silent scream.  A small spider scurried out of the mouth at their approach, disappearing into the webs that bound the body to the wall.  The body had belonged to a short man, and by his heavy set bones, a stocky one as well.  Wisps of dark hair clung to his scalp.  What remained of his clothing had been reduced to tatters.  They could see that it had been of a lightweight type, not of the kind normally worn in such cold climates.  Soft leather shoes hung loose on his feet.  Belted to his waist was a dried out leather scabbard, the sword still in it, by its looks a broad bladed Cahadian short sword, useful for both cutting and stabbing at close range.  Peregrine broke the scabbard free from the ice, drawing the sword clear.  It resisted at first then slid free.  Patches of rust touched the blade in parts, yet it still remained serviceable, and more useful than her own broken sword.  She slid it back home into its scabbard and tucked it into her belt.  The man had a pack with him, though it fell apart as they tried to open it.  A fraying bundle of rope lay in the bottom of it, alongside a set of picklocks that had rusted together, a broken clay flask and a shirt that had rotten away into shreds.

Leaving the body behind, they continued along the wall, eventually returning to the dais, where they made their way around behind it.  There, concealed by ice and webs so well that they had missed spotting it when inspecting the sarcophagus, was a small door set into the wall, this one plain and unremarkable.  They hacked away at the ice until it fell free and shattered, uncovering the door.  Peregrine gave a quick test of it by pushing on it with her hand, only to find it stuck tight.  Setting her shoulder to it, she braced her legs and heaved away.  Slowly it swung open, accompanied by the protesting grind of stone across ice.

On to Chapter Seven – The Curse Breaks Free