“Hey daddy?”
“Yeah?” King asked, looking into the wide, brown eyes of his adopted daughter, Fiona.
“How many times can a guy die in one day?”
“What?” King felt a strange twist in his gut. They were sitting at a breakfast table. Somewhere familiar, but not. Was this Rome? The Coliseum filled the background view, but it looked restored.
“She’s right, baby,” said a soft voice. Sara, King’s fiancée, slid up beside him, wrapping one arm around his chest and placing a plate on the table in front of him with her free hand. Her voice was like honey, but wrong. Different than he remembered. She was speaking Aramaic. “How many times can you die in one day?” She patted his chest. “Now, eat.”
King looked down to see his own head resting atop the plate, staring back.
The dream snapped to black as King awoke, but he didn’t open his eyes or even move. The dream was a hard one, but he’d had enough just like it that he no longer woke up violently. They’re right, King thought, how many times can a guy die in one day? It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered that, and he doubted it would be the last. Extreme situations seemed to seek him out. Or maybe it was the other way around? He did, however, hope it would be the last time he asked the question for a while.
Though his body had the uncanny ability to heal with almost instantaneous efficiency, making him practically immortal, it didn’t change the fact that arrows—or swords or spears or falling off a cliff, for that matter—hurt like hell. And that was just the physical aspect of his condition. He shuddered to think of the psychological damage that was being done to him, every time he faced the cadaverous breath of the Grim Reaper.
First things first. Time to see how bad it is, he thought.
He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He wasn’t eager to see whatever dire circumstances awaited him. He presumed that Sereb-Meloch’s men had caught up to him, and probably dragged him back to the campsite. Maybe even laid him out on the sacrificial altar for good measure. Time to face the music.
Before taking a look around, he decided to let his other senses pick up on a few things first. A habit he had long since cultivated. The first thing he noticed was the intense light burning into his eyelids. The sun had risen. And from the position of the light, he guessed it was close to noon.
He could also make out the crackling of a campfire just off to his right. From the severe warmth on his face, he was pretty sure he was laying fairly close to it, because it was too chilly out for the sun to warm him that much. He could also discern that he was on his back, which meant that the arrows must have been removed. A shuffling sound a short distance away told him that someone was nearby, possibly keeping watch over him, waiting for signs of life to return, so the high priest could be notified. And finally, he caught the slightest whiff of something foul in the air. Excrement. From some sort of animal. A horse maybe. It didn’t really surprise him. Zaidu’s mercenaries had managed to get a few pack animals safely up to the summit of Mount Mashu. It stood to reason they’d be nearby, grazing on what little vegetation was not frozen by the eternal winter here.
He cracked one eye open and scanned the terrain. To his surprise, he didn’t seem to be in any portion of the camp he recognized. For one thing, the dense stands of cedar trees appeared to be sparser here. Second, to his right, he could see Mashu’s peak, high above him. Apparently, he was at the base of the mountain now.
How long have I been out?
There was no telling. There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to the amount of time between his so-called resurrections. Stab him in the heart, he might wake up a day or two later. Drop a piano on his head, and he might be dancing a waltz in under five minutes. The amount of trauma or the way in which the injuries occurred had little, to nothing, to do with it. All he knew was that he had awakened in some of the strangest places anyone could possibly imagine—which at times, was even more unsettling than the whole ‘dying’ thing.
A soft gasp from behind him brought his thoughts back to his current predicament. Whoever had been lurking about had noticed he was now awake.
“Katea non latrisy,” spoke a soft, high-pitched voice in Akkadian. “Etuo siri Ba’al Marduka niaban?”
King was still picking up the language. Was far from mastering it, but he could get the gist. He turned his head in the direction of the speaker. As he’d suspected, it was the boy, Belshazzar.
“No, I’m not Lord Marduk,” King answered as best he could. At least, he hoped that’s what he said. “Just a soldier. Trying to get you home to your family.”
The kid looked at him suspiciously, which was just fine with King. It gave him a chance to rifle through the loads of historical and mythological miscellanea Deep Blue, his former black ops handler and friend, had forced him to study while leading the Chess Team. If memory served, Marduk was an ancient Mesopotamian god. Depending on who you asked, he was either a benevolent protector or guardian, as the Babylonians told it, or he was a vile dictator and devourer of innocent children, as the Hebrews portrayed him. Either way, he was seen as a fierce warrior and champion of the other gods when they went to war with the mother of all gods... What was her name? Tia-hut? Tia-nep? No, Tiamat. He couldn’t recall much more than that, other than that Marduk had apparently killed her and set himself up as king over the other gods.
So the question was why the boy wanted to know whether he was Marduk or not. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to discover the answer.
“If you are not Lord Marduk, how is it that you control the elements of fire, air and earth?” Mercifully, Belshazzar had reverted to the easier to understand Aramaic language. He moved into view, just as King edged himself up onto his elbows and attempted to sit up. His back burned, as though a thousand white-hot needles were jutting from his spine.
King stared at the boy for several moments before fully understanding the question. The explosive I used to blow open the gate. To the people of this time, it must have seemed like the work of the gods. Or magic.
“I don’t control them. It’s just science.” He knew from history that the Babylonians were quite advanced in the sciences. It was a concept he was sure the boy would understand. “Chemistry. A little sulfur…er, brimstone is what you call it. A dab of zinc. Some pine sap, some clay and a few other odds and ends. Mix them together and you can get quite an—” King fumbled for the word. He wasn’t sure there was one in Aramaic for it, so he switched to Greek and hoped the prince would understand. “—explosion.”
Belshazzar nodded, but King could tell by the look on the boy’s face that he was quite skeptical. “So how is it that Ba’aleti Ereshkigal could not take you despite all her attempts?” the prince continued, using the name of what King remembered to be the Babylonian goddess, or ‘Lady’ of the Underworld. A fancier name for the Grim Reaper. Death.
He took a good look at the kid and smiled. Perhaps ‘kid’ wasn’t the best way of looking at him. In this world, he would be considered almost a man. Could be married off in only a year or two, if his family deemed it appropriate. He could even march off to war if necessary. No, he’d have to stop thinking of the prince as a child and more as a young man.
“It’s a long story.” King pushed himself off the ground and stood. His legs still felt like two sticks of rubber as he attempted to balance himself. “But trust me. I’m not Marduk. And before you ask, no, I’m not any other god either. Just a man that’s tough to kill. If I was a god, that whole debacle up on the ridge would have gone a whole lot smoother.”
Belshazzar still looked doubtful, but he didn’t push the issue. He just pointed over to the campfire and smiled. “I prepared some food with which to break our fast. Some fish I caught in the stream over there. We still have several hours of sunlight left, but I say we should be moving well before the sun sets.”
King glanced at the blazing fire. Its acrid smoke billowed up into the gray, noonday sky as high as he could see. Instantly, he spun around, scanning the horizon while simultaneously drawing his sword from its sheath. It was such a foolish move on the prince’s part. The fire would surely draw Sereb-Meloch’s attention. Even though the priest had insisted that Namtar and Tiamba couldn’t venture out in the light, that didn’t mean his own men couldn’t be on the prowl even now. For all King knew, they were making their way toward the camp…
Wait a minute.
“The camp,” he said, almost to himself. “Last I remember, I was running away from Sereb-Meloch’s camp. I was shot by some arrows and fell. How’d I end up here?” He paused before adding, “And where exactly is here, anyway?”
Belshazzar gestured toward the food he prepared. “Do not worry about the heretic,” he said, as he crouched by the fire and flaked off pieces of the fish onto a slab of wood he’d fashioned into a plate. He handed it to King and smiled. “Eat. Regain your strength. We have a long journey ahead of us.” The prince waited until King had taken the food before explaining. “I must admit, I didn’t exactly follow your instructions last night. I ran as far as the edge of the forest, but then I watched what happened to you. When you were shot, you were propelled forward, toward a slope. The snow carried you far down the mountain—a fall that would have certainly broken every bone in a normal person’s body. I had despaired that you most certainly had not survived the descent, but to my surprise, you had. From that point, it was a relatively easy thing to fashion a gurney and pull you down the rest of the mountain, using the snow’s help. I found a secluded spot to make camp and then waited for you to awaken—after I dressed your wounds.”
“But Sereb-Meloch,” King insisted. “Why aren’t they…”
“Sereb-Meloch is much too focused on the last leg of his mad venture to worry about us,” Belshazzar said. The way he spoke…the way he held himself…it was getting more and more difficult for King to see him as a child any longer. “He will send his assassins, I am sure. But for now, his main concerns are the Girtablilu demons—children of the dread Tiamat.” The prince paused curiously and scrutinized King once more. “If you are not Marduk, how is it that Namtar and Tiamba ceased their assault on you?”
King swallowed hard at the memory. Had he heard Tiamba correctly? If so, how on Earth could they have known his callsign? How could a creature, locked away for centuries, more than three thousand years before he was ever born, know who he was? The questions unnerved him more than he liked to admit. Still, for the time being, he felt it best not to dwell too much on it. He was determined to get the answers, but for now, he’d let it go. He looked back at the prince and shrugged. “I have no idea what that was about. And honestly, I’m not going to worry about it.” He wolfed down the fish, savoring the rich taste. It felt like eons since he’d last eaten anything. “Right now, my only concern is getting you home…to Nebuchadnezzar.”
Belshazzar looked up from his breakfast to stare thoughtfully toward the horizon. Then he shook his head. “We cannot return home. Not yet.”
“Why not? I went to a lot of trouble to get you out of there. The king has offered a very promising reward for you, and though I’m not ordinarily a mercenary, I could use the money.” He paused before adding, “Besides, it’s my nature, but I won’t feel right until I know you’re safe.”
The boy turned to look at him. “This reward… How did you hear about it?”
It was a strange question. King wasn’t entirely sure of the relevance, but he saw no harm in answering.
“A caravan a few weeks ago. Merchants traveling from Babylon. They told me you’d been taken while on a hunting trip with your cousins.” King paused. He’d also heard that Belshazzar’s cousins, along with two bodyguards and three attendants, had been killed during the kidnapping. This kid had been through a lot for someone so young. “The caravan chief told me about the reward, and the rest is history.”
The prince smiled at this. “And this merchant did not specify the terms of the reward?”
“He didn’t really need to. A king’s grandson is kidnapped. The king offers a reward for his safe return. Simple.”
This turned the boy’s smile into a deep throated laugh. “Perhaps where you come from. Or perhaps, if said prince was anyone other than Acolyte Prime to Ba’al Marduk.”
“Um, I’m not exactly following you.”
“The reward. It is not for my safe return, but for my assassination.”