Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh characters portrayed in this fic
Author notes: Thanks to Sirensbane, pride1289, Ryou verua and Eric's champion for your brilliant, encouraging reviews!! It's wonderful to receive your feedback. Keep reading, I hope :) Here's the next chapter.
The River of Thought
The house had been easily found. Bakura had joined a merchant train travelling to Ur from the village where he had arranged temporary lodging. Posing as a young trader in animal skins (these he had purchased with the stolen gold) he had obtained a horse and made a deal with the merchants such that they transported his goods for a fee. Laughing and chatting amiably, Bakura had made a careful assesment of the value of the items being transported. Silk, spices and incense from the East made up the bulk of the merchandise, all sold in small, highly priced quantities. Perfect for one such as himself. The caravan was closely guarded, as expected. Not too much trouble for me he thought with a smirk.
When they reached Ur he had settled his account, taken his goods and departed, doubling back as soon as he was out of sight. The merchant train had stopped at the home of one of the wealthy traders since the security offered was slightly better. Trained dogs and privately hired patrolling guards ensured the safety of the caravans in the yard adjacent to the central courtyard of the house. Bakura scaled the wall lightly, a fleeting shadow in the dark. He had smeared himself liberally with fragrant ash obtained from burnt incense, thus masking his natural body odour from the dogs. The guards were simple. A crude garrotte fashioned from the narrow, strong lengths of iron used in sword-making had done quite an effective job, swift, silent deaths guaranteed. Two were quickly dispatched, their bodies concealed under the caravan. He had to work fast. It was only a matter of time before the dogs sniffed them out.
Leaping up onto the tailboard of the last wagon, Bakura slipped behind the sheepskin flap and proceeded to empty the items of particular value into the sack he had wrapped around his waist. Just as the last chest had been emptied, he heard a shout outside. The bodies had been discovered. Satisfied with his loot, he stood atop a chest, using his dagger to rip open a long tear in the roof of the wagon and climbed out above. The sturdy wooden struts comprising the framework of the caravan provided strong footholds as he passed soundlessly overhead, listening with satisfaction to the sounds of the household being alerted and rushing out into the courtyard to inspect the damage. Lovely.
They had left the doors to the kitchen unlocked. Slipping into the house, he methodically bagged the priceless statues of Enlil and Inanna on the mantlepiece, the jewellry boxes in the upper level bedrooms and some expensive looking silk calasiris from the master of the houses's own collection. He needed a change of clothes after all. And now to find the true treasure trove he thought, running his tongue over his lips when he imagined the wealth that awaited in the deceased patriarch's tomb. He was not far now.
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Sin-nasir sat shivering like a melting pile of lard under the High Priest's icy, piercing stare. "So, you let Bakura onto your ship, gave him free passage to Sumer, your home country, let him go without informing the authorities and now you have no idea where he might be? Have I heard you correctly?" Seth's voice was hard and cold enough to cut glass.
The merchant raised his hands in despair. "What was I to do?" he wailed, "He threatened me, my crew, my slaves . . . what would you have done High Priest? Thrown away innocent people's lives and sunk the ship at sea?"
Seth was silent and Sin-nasir blustered on. "He became friendly with the other slaves. They trusted him, that accursed jakkal! I could say nothing! There were women and children on board, for Inanna's sake! You know as well as I that he has no regard for human life!"
Seth raised a placatory hand. "Quiet, Sin-nasir. I am fully aware of the danger he poses. I apologize for implying that you could have stopped him. In fact, I would strongly advise against such an attempt. But it still does not explain why you chose to inform nobody that a serious threat to the public had been brought here on board your ship."
The merchant mumbled miserably. "I was . . .afraid." He lifted haunted eyes to Seth. "Do you know what it's like, seeing him, being near him? You feel powerless, terrified, like everything is slipping out of your control. I . . ." his voice broke and he breathed deeply, continuing, "I feel as if he knows everything. That he'll know that I told you and he'll come for me now that I have."
A trickle of pity infiltrated the High Priests mind. He was aware of the feeling Sin-nasir spoke of. No matter what they prepared, how much they planned, how many lives were sacrificed in doing so, the Thief King always appeared to be one step ahead. You battle an true agent of Chaos. What makes you think you can win? a small voice spoke in his mind. Seth brushed it off as soon as it occurred. He would not fall prey to superstitious nonsense. Bakura was a man, like any other. Similarly, he could die like any other.
His train of thought was interrupted by a breathless courier who barged into the room, neglecting to knock. "What is the meaning of this . . ." Seth, irritated, rose from his seat.
"Lordship!" the courier interrupted, "Ambassador Ibbin-adad sent me . . .there's been another attack! He calls for your presence in the outer courtyard immediately!"
Seth snatched up the cloak hanging off his high-backed chair and swept out of the room, the merchant's nervous gaze following him. Curtly beckoning to his bodyguard to follow, Seth made his way out to where Ibbin-adad waited with his own retinue of scouts, soldiers and healers. Without pause and a simple nod as way of greeting, they mounted the horses provided and wheeled out of the courtyard. A steady gallop was maintained and Seth noticed that they were heading away from the city centre to one of the outposts in the surrounding countryside. When the party was forced to slow down due to a river-ford Seth found time to question Ibbin-adad.
"Where did it happen?"
The Ambassador's face was grave. "They're getting bolder. The attack was made directly on the estate of the victim. Maru-yatum was dragged out of his own front door, his house set ablaze and his livestock killed or released into the surrounding area." He paused, squinting his eyes against the sun. "His son was killed in the fire. The rest of his family managed to escape relatively unharmed, thankfully."
Seth eyes narrowed. These events were beginning to take their toll on his conscience, even though the investigation was not his responsibility. He pondered for a moment as to why they caught at him on such a profound level. Perhaps it was that these men were also of the priest class, learned and established men who were stripped of their sanity, livelihoods and identity all in one dire moment. Perhaps it was the families that were left to salvage what they could from the ruins, who had to wait hand and foot on loved ones who were once so lucid and full of life. Perhaps it simply called to his humanity, the same feeling that had driven him to seek out and punish Bakura for his atrocities against the people of Egypt. Whatever the cause, he felt obligated somehow, to offer whatever assistance he could while his stay in this troubled country lasted. Ra knows, they would need it before long. At his side, Ibbin-adad remained grim and unspeaking. I know what it is you feel. This helplessness. You may seek, you may find clues, but it will never be enough. They are your people, they are under your protection. Who do they have if not you? I know what it is to be afraid, to fail at the thing you do . . .
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For aeons she had lain in wait for this, this feeling of elation, of completion. Never had one called to her so strongly, so tantalizingly. For many years the people of this land had recognised her, fear, hatred and repulsion ultimately shaping her form. She had never disappointed, oh no. She always ensured that they caught a glimpse of exactly what they were afraid of, what they expected and more.
And then they began to forget. As the world changed so did they, complacent in their little communites and then their big cities and towns. She had been insulted at first, as their fear decreased from one generation to another. Retaliation had seemed the only option to her then. Her fabled penchant for infants and pregnant mothers soon regained their attention. She could taste the fear, bitter as bile, whenever a new child was born, espacially in the families she had targeted before. She revelled in it, feeding off their anger, their terror, as a child suckles at its mother's breast.
But, as it was those many, many ages ago, it did not satisfy. There was a gaping tear somewhere inside her that had given way to violence as time passed, so different from that first wrench she had felt when she beheld the joy of another in their newborn. Sometimes it caught her off guard. She would rage and storm, angered by her weakness, twisting her monstrous shape out into the night to hunt and returning to her lair with her appetite temporarily sated.
Nobody would find her here. She knew that. A man had been entombed here once, in a time long past. He had been one of her more repeated victims. He had a beautiful young wife, six healthy children. No fear pervaded their household. And her envy, her hatred, grew with every passing day as she watched in the shadows. She took the son first, a healthy baby boy. And laughed and clapped in glee when she saw the sickness, the shock, the misery. But more time passed, healing their wounds. They had another child, another son. And she struck again. This time she left a sign, her sign, so they knew it was her. She watched them fade, watched the life leach from them in their despair. She made her lair under his tomb, so that she could bathe in the delight of her power over them. And she revelled. But always that gaping maw within, ready to consume her . . .
A house had been built over the tomb now. A wealthy merchant and his family. The son was too old, too greedy the wife too wizened and miserly for her interest. But the merchant came home oneday and he was not the same. Her ears pricked, her mouth watered when she sensed the thing which ate his mind, which drove him further and further away into the unknown every day, away from his family. And she came alive again, she hunted again. The merchant had been buried in a tomb constructed over her old conquest. And then he came.
It could not be coincidence. She did not believe in coincidences any longer. He was strong, wild, cunning, a thing untamed. She sensed his presence approach from afar, never recognizing this feeling for what it was until he set foot on Sumer's shores. He was darkness, he was delight, tendrils of madness clinging to his mind, hands steeped in blood, his eyes aflame with fervour that caught and twisted at her heartstrings. His desire for revenge, his hatred, called to her, set her aflame with want that was sweeter than nectar and harsher than acid. She watched him, enchantment growing as he bypassed the tomb's protections and sanctity spells with practised ease, crushing their sacred seals with a callousness that made her shiver in ecstasy. A powerful soul this one possessed, at full strength, perhaps even mightier than her. But it was cast away in obscurity. She leered as she probed deeper. If he knew . . .but maybe she could use this as a bargaining chip.
His hair gleamed white in the dancing shadows that threatened to swallow the pool of light cast by his torch. He was deadly, he was perfect. Claws scraped across putrid skin and flesh and a blackened tongue flicked out against gaping, bestial lips as her mouth opened wide in a silent call of longing.
You will heed my commands because only I can give you what you seek. You will be my guide, you will lead me to the power I desire. I will make you mine, beautiful thief, forever and ever and ever.