It was a beautiful afternoon. From Horus's vantage on the balcony of the palace's western tower, clear, deep blue skies arced over Ikalur's turquoise bay toward the endless expanse of the Adriande Sea. Where the waters of the bay and sea merged, the sea's waves glittered, studded by thousands of miniature reflective suns, brilliant white globes, so blinding, Horus had to shade his eyes.

To the north, a dark speck pierced the darker blue of the heavens. Faint, it came—the sound he had been waiting for—the piercing cry of a falcon announcing her return home. Horus lifted his gauntleted arm, bracing himself for the oncoming rush of the bird's landing. She arrived, her talons encircling his arm, gripping him hard, the weight of her sudden and reassuring. He carried her into the mews, freeing the leather scroll case from around her leg as he walked. Once settled onto her perch, she ruffled her feathers and eyed him as he set aside the tiny scroll case and collected a fat morsel of raw rabbit flesh from a covered bowl.

With a quiet word of affection, he tossed it to her, enduring a stab of envy. Once, long ago, he too could soar across the skies, unfettered by the pull of the land. As she worked her way through the sinews of flesh, he glanced at the map tacked to the wall of the office, reflecting on how far she had flown—all the way from Chaus's capital city of Itin—and in how little time she had accomplished the return trip. Two days. He had begun to suspect Elati possessed more enhancements than just the speed of the sun's rise and fall and the near-everlasting youthfulness of its people. He sensed the power of the Creator was stronger here, though why he couldn't guess.

Horus left the falcon to her meal and returned to the balcony. Putting his back to the sun so it would warm his shoulders, he pulled the message from the scroll case.

We are with Serde. Chaus is prepared to stand against the invader. We have begun preparations for war.

Beckoning one of the mews' runners to him, he handed her the note. With a quick bow, she sprinted away to make her way down the three hundred thirty-three steps of the tower's stairs and through the maze of the palace's corridors to the office of the king.

Horus glanced back at the falcon, already halfway through her breakfast. He had been taught to tether the birds as soon as they were set upon their perch, but he liked giving Yryn the freedom to eat, she deserved as much after her grueling journey. Midway through tearing a length of sinew free, she lifted her head, alert, and tilted her head, listening, a glistening strip of flesh hanging from her beak.

"What is it, Yryn?" Horus asked, eyeing her, wary. The bird lowered her talon, slow. The meat hit the stone-flagged floor with a soft slap. Her feathers flattened and she hunched down. Too late, Horus realized what she was about to do. He lunged for her just as she surged past him in a rush of feathers.

"Yryn!" he cried. She shot out over the bay, heading south, her keening cry fading in her wake. Horus bit back a curse. He cut a look at her empty perch, regret clawing at him. Yryn was one of the queen's favorites. He wondered how would he explain the falcon's sudden departure. Yryn had never done anything like this before, and to leave her breakfast unfinished, it was—

In the distance, just on the edge of his hearing, a deep, throaty roar. He turned, his spine prickling. The roar deepened, surrounding him, holding him captive to its heavy, seductive thrill. From over the forested hills north of the city, it came: black dark, hulking, massive. A ship he knew far too well. It thundered over the bay and screamed past the tower, circling the city in a wide arc, searching for a place to land. Through the haze of his despair, a memory jangled, urgent, calling to him. Over breakfast, Baalat had said she would be in the palace for the day, attending the queen who had as yet been unable to conceive. A bittersweet task, after Baalat's broken confession the night before—His thoughts shuddered to a halt. Dread touched him. No. Not the palace.

He ran, taking the stairs three at a time. Of all the places Baalat could have been today, why did she have to be with the queen? He stumbled and caught hold of a niche in the wall. He would be no good to her with a broken ankle. Forcing himself to slow down, he continued, steady, taking the steps two at a time instead of three, frustration tearing at him.

Outside, the ship continued to scream past in regular circuits, its high-pitched whine blistering his ears. Halfway down the stairs, he began to nurse the hope Sethi might not land after all. He might merely fly overhead to let the king know of his awareness of Ikalur, and return another day.

The steps fled from under Horus's feet. He eyed the markers as he went. Two-thirds of the way down. Almost there. Outside, one last deafening sky-shattering scream, followed by the gushing roar of the ship's engines cutting out as it came to rest. Blinded by the windowless interior of the endless staircase Horus bellowed a curse, desperate to reach Baalat, to not be too late.

He burst out of the tower's lower rooms and into the courtyard, unprepared for the sudden onslaught of pandemonium. Everywhere, chaos. Courtiers ran, directionless, their decorum lost, and their elaborate garments and headdresses askew; servants cowered in alcoves, weeping; soldiers pushed their way through the milling mess, torn between trying to keep order, and shoving their way through the press.

Horus shouldered his way past a huddled group of white-robed sages bunched up against a cart. One of them climbed into it and raised her arms to the heavens.

"It is the ancient prophecy," she cried, her voice rising, high and shrill over the noise of the crowd, "the invader has come through the impenetrable wall of light. Without the protection of the gods we will be cut down like wheat to the sickle."

In the wake of her proclamation the courtyard erupted in renewed wails. Misery sloshed back and forth in the confined space, gaining momentum, suffocating, oppressive. Grinding his teeth, Horus shoved his way through, rough, uncaring of those who fell in his path. There was only Baalat.

He reached the courtyard's gate. Hulking over the crushed oyster shells of the black and white squares of the garden's game board—meant to be populated by tokens of horses and costumed men and women—thin tendrils of exhaust trickling from the ship's tail, Marduk's warship cooled in all its powerful, malevolent, brutal glory.

Under the ship's curved wing, a door slid open. A heartbeat later, he came, the resurrected god of war, clad in a white kilt etched with golden symbols. In utter silence, he descended the ship's floating steps and emerged from the wing's shadow into the sunlight, the golden fractals on his chest jerking, stuttering, suppressed, broken. On his hips, a pair of Marduk's weapons glinted in the afternoon light.

Dispassionate, cold, Sethi's golden eyes raked over the ruined gardens, lingering, impassive, on the once-verdant flowering bushes blackened from his landing.

"Bring me your king," he called to a young palace guard standing alone at the edge of the board, holding his spear out, defiant. The youth shook his head and lifted his spear higher. A challenge.

Sethi strode to the youth. He took the spear from him and tossed it aside. It sailed over the scorched garden and smacked against the courtyard wall. "Tell him Sethi, god of war, Commander of Marduk's armies, Mighty, Lord of All, Giver of Life, and Taker of Life demands Serde's allegiance."

The guard shook his head again, his jaw set, stubborn. "I will not," he cried, though the glint of tears glistened in his eyes. "I will die before I kneel to the enemy of Elati."

Sethi's brow twitched. "How old are you, boy?"

"Sixteen," he answered, though he held his ground as Sethi stepped closer and towered over him.

"So young," Sethi said. "And have you yet known the pleasure of a woman?"

The youth blanched. He nodded, uncertain.

Sethi laughed. "You are a terrible liar. Last night I bedded the queen of Thes Dios after her husband refused to kneel." He glanced at the curved flight of a dozen marble steps leading up from the game board to the palace. "Do you think tonight I will be taking Ikalur's queen to my palace to savor her delights?"

"You will not," a voice rang out, imperious, hostile. From the shadows of the palace, the king of Ikalur stepped onto the terrace, clad in a purple robe edged in gold, a crown of golden leaves upon his brow.

Sethi turned, his golden eyes hardened. "Ah, at last."

Horus eyed the group following King Rhewyn down the steps to Sethi—four royal guard and a half dozen members of the high council. The queen was not among them. Horus breathed his thanks to the Creator. Baalat was safe. For now. He edged his way along the shadows of the courtyard wall, drawn to the god he once had been, fascinated by the transformation of Egypt's once-commander into an immortal god. Sethi had taken on the attributes of the god of war: the clothing, the golden fractals, and blazing eyes, yet he was nothing like Horus in his bearing or demeanor. The essence of Sethi's mortal personality and physique persisted in a bizarre juxtaposition of man and god. The stink of Marduk's corruption permeated him, violence saturated him, and malevolent power suffused him. Whatever good Sethi possessed, Horus could see no trace of it in the hard features of the being eyeing the king with cold contempt.

"You have come to us from beyond the impenetrable wall of light," King Rhewyn said, meeting Sethi's baleful look. "The prophecy has foretold it. And now you have come to Ikalur." The king lifted his chin. "Let us not waste time. What are your terms?"

"Only this:" Sethi said, "Serde's allegiance to Lord Marduk, a quarterly payment of tribute, and Serde's army will be mine to control. If you fulfill these conditions, you will be allowed to remain on Serde's throne and know a certain degree of authority."

Rhewyn glared at him. "So I will be powerless while you force my men to oppress our allies in the name of your overlord." He looked across the devastation of his gardens. The muscles in his jaw thinned. "And if I refuse?"

Sethi rested his hands on the handles of his weapons. "You die, your queen becomes my concubine, and your kingdom will be enslaved to Lord Marduk's allies." He tilted his head to the north. "This morning, Chaus's king pledged allegiance to Elati's one true lord. He is prepared to sack the cities of Serde on my command and has been ordered not to spare a soul, mortal or beast until you kneel to him."

Rhewyn said nothing for a long time. Sethi pulled the weapon from his belt, and pressed an indentation on its handle. The thing gave off a quiet chirp and several blue lights gleamed along the handle's edge. It began to hum, quiet. He pointed it at the youthful guard still standing close by, listening, pale.

"You said you would not kneel to the enemy of Elati," he said as the guard stepped back, his courage waning. "This is what happens to those who don't."

The boy didn't even have a chance to cry out. A beam of blue light shot out from the nose of the weapon, and in less than a heartbeat, he was gone, obliterated into a smear of blue particles, the faint outline of his form lingering, ephemeral, before fading away as though he had never been.

Horrified cries came from the councilors surrounding the king. The group shrank back, leaving Rhewyn to stand alone before the monster Sethi had become. Within the gardens, fearful murmurs filled the air. Horus knew what the people were thinking, without a body to inter, there could be no soul—the boy would never know any kind of afterlife. Sethi carried total annihilation in a weapon small enough to hold in his hand. He pointed it at the king and lifted an eyebrow, a question.

Rhewyn knelt. He lifted his face to Sethi, his eyes filled with hate. "Serde is yours."

Sethi tucked the weapon into its holder. "It appears you are not a fool after all." He looked over the palace, proprietary. "I am hungry. While I dine you will prepare Serde's tribute." He strode up the steps into the palace—its new owner, arrogant, hostile, indomitable. He stopped at the top, and eyed the still-kneeling king. "My share shall be a dozen of your most beautiful women. If they do not please me—" he tilted his head to the yawning gap where the boy had once stood, defiant, with his spear, "—they will not be returned to you. Only your most beautiful women will suffice. I care not whether they are married or maids, they belong to me now."

He turned and entered the palace. "And bring me a sage," he called as he disappeared into its shadows. "Your most learned one."

Rhewyn rose and ascended the steps, following after his new master, a dog, beaten into submission. When the king was gone, silence swallowed the garden, blanketed by the quiet of dread, and of death.

Horus wasted no time. He slipped into the palace to begin the search for Baalat, a new fear sawing into him, leaving him raw and aching. Baalat was not safe, not with a face like hers. The perfection of a goddess still lingered on her features. He pushed his way through the chaos spreading through the palace, past the frightened screams of women caught in the grip of the soldiers once sworn to protect them, pleading for their husbands to save them. Dread circled him, black serpents, their fangs glistening. They coiled around him, hungry, seeking his despair. No. He would not lose her. Not today. He ran.