"Blood of Apep." whispered Shezmu; his eyes wide in horror as he stepped outside of the demonic priestess' chambers.
The air in the hall reeked of blood and, somehow, fear. Perhaps it was the sweat and tears of his people that he smelled, but his mind registered it as fear all the same. Suddenly, the weight of Nitocris' body over his shoulder grew a magnitude heavier.
Corpses littered the corridor, and it was with a heavy heart that Shezmu made his way straight past them. Every Jaffa he came across lay still as the night; eyes staring into the great beyond and their mouths open in a silent scream.
"K-Kill... me."
A voice rasped and gurgled, and he realized it was Nitocris that had spoken.
Shezmu gritted his teeth in anger, feeling his fangs ruthlessly grinding against each other. The gall of the woman astounded him. To kill her now would be a mercy, and a release from the vengeance owed to her by the people she had slain.
He ignored the part of his mind that reminded him that Nitocris was a product of her upbringing, and as much a victim as the Jaffa that lay dead at his feet.
"Be silent, wretch, lest I rip out your tongue."
She produced something akin to laughter in response, but spoke no more.
Eventually, he reached a large, golden door at the end of the hallway. Willing his eyes to burn with light, Shezmu channeled every drop of his rage into his Kara'kesh to blow it open. He must have been angrier than he realized, because the hunk of metal not only gave way, but became so deformed it might as well have been rammed by a Glider.
What greeted him within was as horrific as it was blasphemous.
Each palace under the Goa'uld pantheon housed a sanctuary - a place of peace and worship where only a select few were allowed entry. Sokar, it seemed, had instead utilized his to indulge in wicked perversity.
Hanging from the ceiling were bodies wrapped from head to toe in bandages, leaving only a small slit in the vicinity of their mouths. A low, agonized wail reverberated across the walls of the sanctuary, and Shezmu reeled back in shock.
He suddenly made sense of the sight.
Even by the standards of the Goa'uld, the practice of preserving a dying soul was considered heinous. Trapped and constricted within layers of cloth, the flow of blood to the extremities of the body would gradually diminish, until eventually the limbs rotted and died.
What made the torture so effective, however, was that the victim would be fed and kept alive, fully aware of all that happened to them.
Dropping Nitocris unceremoniously onto the floor, he rushed further inside and began to cut down his soldiers.
"You..." rasped the priestess. "Are you not... pleased... with the extent of my faith?"
Despite her whisper, Nitocris managed to sound genuinely hurt.
"Pleased?" he repeated disbelievingly, and just as quietly.
Only three Goa'uld had ever been cruel enough to perform this particular ritual - Anubis, Osiris and Moloch. The mere thought of Moloch had his face twisting into something ugly, and he decided then and there that the feminicidal and infanticidal god was living on borrowed time.
"Do you even know what you have done?" asked Shezmu, throwing the priestess a contemptuous glare.
"M-My Lord Sokar... is kind. Even... the souls of his enemies... are granted sanctuary."
"You have done nothing to protect the soul!" he snarled, and began to unwrap one of the bodies. Locks of golden hair sprouted from beneath the cloth, revealing his missing Chief of Defense.
"The ritual is a farce, you foolish child. It exists to prolong the suffering of your master's victims for his own sadistic pleasure."
Nitocris seemed torn between anger and denial, but she was too weak to do anything but wriggle and spit on the floor.
The rise and fall of Medes' chest brought a small degree of peace to Shezmu's heart, but even after releasing and unwrapping every mummified body in the dark sanctuary, Seshem and Apophis remained nowhere to be found.
Yet, he promised, he would find them soon enough.
It took more than a little while, but once he awoke, Medes looked suitably sheepish. He groaned and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Ah... my Lord." he spoke, noticing Shezmu standing only a short distance away. "Not my finest moment, I'm afraid."
The young man then smiled, and Shezmu resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. That was putting it mildly, he thought, but at the end of the day, he was just happy to find another survivor.
"Thank you for- You!"
Medes' eyes had settled on the priestess resting on the floor, widening with both fear and loathing.
"Calm yourself." he said. "She is incapable of causing us any further harm. We must see to the rest of the Jaffa and leave this place forthwith."
The Chief nodded curtly, clearly displeased.
"The witch has confiscated our weapons." he said eventually. "The men and I will be of little use to you."
"Oh?" asked Shezmu, hoisting Nitocris back over his shoulder. "Worry not, my friend. I do believe we shall manage."
If there was any comfort to this utter fiasco of a conquest, it was that Sokar's Jaffa had perished alongside his own.
"You are... wasting your time."
Ignoring the taunting priestess, Shezmu and his warriors strode down the hypostyle hall. The sanctuary led out into the great hall of the palace, which was supported by tall, metallic pillars engraved with tales of old.
Most were distasteful and false, but he could appreciate the artwork if nothing else.
"I don't agree with your decision to keep the witch alive, my Lord."
He snorted at Medes' blatant opposition to his judgment. In truth, it was to be admired. He would not have made it far in the Lion Guard had he not dared to stand for his opinions.
"I live... by the will of my Lord Sokar."
Medes let out a bark of laughter; his soft features marred as a grin as vicious as it was mocking spread out across his face.
"How fascinating! To think that there exists a creature able to exert their will after being torn apart and devoured. Perhaps my Lord would consent to regurgitating Sokar's remains for study?"
"Lies!"
Shezmu sighed deeply, growing annoyed when Nitocris gathered enough strength to kick against his back.
"That is enough, children."
The hall, much like the rest of the palace, was dimly lit. Yet the beams of light shining down from above made it was clear that they had reached the end of it. A soft breeze kissed his face, and he thanked his ancestors for that small mercy.
The air of Delmak was far from fresh, but at least it did not carry with it the stench of death.
The Jaffa, ever vigilant, took the lead as they walked out into the courtyard. It was a modest thing, and that, more than anything, had Shezmu on edge. Sokar was one of the most evil megalomaniacs that the galaxy had to offer, and like every other tyrant, he took great pleasure in the fear and reverence of his subjects.
There ought to have been statues here, proclaiming his grandeur, along with lakes of blood and whatever else that appealed to his vile tastes. Instead, it appeared to be a perfectly normal courtyard, illuminated in the dead of night by the scorching remains of Ne'tu.
Something scratched and clawed at his back, and he realized that Nitocris was attempting to reach for the shattered moon. Her skeletal arm hung limply at her side; the cool bones brushing against his skin.
She produced a strangled sound; not quite a cry as much as it was a disbelieving sigh of sadness, and perhaps even relief.
"See?" gloated Medes, grinning widely as the group came to a halt.
Bits and pieces of the former moon rained down on Delmak, burning up as they entered the planet's atmosphere. The meteor shower was rather beautiful, thought Shezmu, before recalling the thousands of prisoners that had died in the mighty explosion.
He wondered if the Tok'ra had truly considered that particular aspect of their rescue operation. Some might say that the ends justify the means, but over the course of millennia, he had grown to detest that excuse.
"You're free, you creepy lady." continued the Chief. "If you had any sense at all, you would be overflowing with gratitude at the benevolence of my Lord."
Surprisingly, Nitocris had nothing to say, and kept on staring at the skies in shock. It was almost as though the priestess had been unaware of the recent developments in the system, and he wondered just how deeply Sokar's brainwashing ran within her.
"I had nothing to do with the destruction of Ne'tu." said Shezmu. "I merely disposed of Sokar. What you see is the work of the Tok'ra and the humans."
"My Lord!" interrupted a Jaffa. The young, tanned soldier strode up to him hastily, before casting a brief, wary glance toward the woman clinging to his neck.
"We've discovered a large transporter platform in the center of the courtyard." he informed.
"I see. That would explain the lack of regalia."
"We could use the device to travel back to the ship. Some of the men are still... injured."
It would be more accurate to say that they were traumatized, thought Shezmu, but he could not blame his soldiers for wishing to escape this dreary place. As such, he was not inclined to disagree.
"Very well. Standby for transportation while I contact the ship."
The crimson gem on his Kara'kesh began to glow; the light pulsating as it sought out the warship stationed nearby. For a moment it seemed that it would not settle, when finally the light grew still and constant.
Medes had already begun to assemble the Jaffa, who now stood in formation within the embedded circle on the floor. The Chief then stepped inside, and nodded.
"We're ready for departure, my Lord."
Medes barely had enough time to widen his eyes in surprise, when instead of joining them, Shezmu smirked and pressed his palm against the glowing button. The soldiers were swiftly whisked away as the rings came to life, leaving only himself and Nitocris behind.
The silence was deafening, and he promptly sat down on the floor and sighed, placing the distraught priestess at his side.
"Well, then..." he muttered. "What am I to do with you?"
Nitocris looked as though her entire world had just been turned upside down.
It may as well have, figured Shezmu. Servants who worked in the clergy of any Goa'uld had to prove themselves worthy of the honor, and someone like Sokar would surely not accept anything but utter submission.
Now that he was gone, and his hellish prison along with him, her sudden freedom would be as terrifying as it was alluring.
"It is... gone." she whispered; repeating the words over and over again. "A world... destroyed."
He could imagine the thoughts going through her mind. Frankly, even to him, the idea that a planet or moon could be devastated in the blink of an eye was horrifying. It was a power that no living being should possess.
"Yes." he said simply. "Not even Sokar could prevent the passage of fate. What does that tell you about your former master?"
She spun around with surprising speed, reaching out with her living hand to grasp at his hair. Her eyes were alight with fire, and Shezmu wondered if she would attempt to rip it out of his scalp.
The raven strands then slipped between her fingers.
"You are... an insolent god."
"I am no god at all."
She began to giggle, though it soon grew into a crazed cackle intermixed with painful, raspy coughing.
"Lies... You may not speak with the voice of the gods... but I can... sense the divine within you."
Her hand brushed against his abdomen, trailing up and around his neck. She pressed gently - almost lovingly - as though she were caressing the symbiote hidden underneath his skin. He could only shake his head, knowing that the truth was still too foreign for someone like Nitocris to accept.
Suddenly, a particularly large meteor lit up the sky, bathing them in crimson light.
He was already taking a great risk by bringing Apophis into his fold. It would not do to also have a servant of Sokar plotting revenge against his people. Therefore, when Shezmu spoke next, it was with the eyes and voice of a Goa'uld.
If the priestess desired a god, it was a god that she would receive.
"In that case, Nitocris the Third, I offer you a choice. Relinquish all ties to Sokar and serve under me, or meet the same fate as your master."