Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh, any Yugioh characters portrayed in this fic or 'Lamashtu'.
Author notes: Once again, thank you for the great reviews!
The River of Thought
Gasping, he surfaced, the icy water temporarily robbing him of breath. After she had touched him, stroked him, ran her repulsive tongue over his flesh, he had felt the irrational desire to be clean once more, to shed her foul essence from his skin. He had returned by horse to the village where his lodgings were situated immediately after his encounter with Lamashtu. There, he had proceeded to hawk the valuables looted from the patriarch's tomb, obtaining the desired prices more through threats than bargaining skill in his impatience. The dip in the stream that ran parallel to the old woman's lodging house was purely impulsive, more for mind-cleansing purposes than the desire to be physically clean.
Climbing out onto the bank, he shook the water vigorously from his shaggy hair, re-tied his calasiri and replaced the shora. Just as he was slipping on his shoes, a nervous voice spoke from further up the slope.
"Good master, please help me."
Bakura looked up, noticing a pretty, young woman standing above, her entire posture betraying her worry.
"What do you want?" he asked brusquely.
"Please . . . I have lost my son. I . . .I cannot find him, I've looked everywhere. He has been gone for hours . . ."
Bakura snorted and resumed his dressing. "I've seen no boy. Now leave me be."
"Please . . .he is just a child. My husband is not due back for many days yet. I beg of you, help me."
Her eyes were now swimming with unshed tears. Bakura glanced at her in irritation as he climbed the bank. "Look, woman, I have a long trip ahead. I cannot spare valuable time looking for a stray child." He had not been expecting her to drop to her knees and clutch at the hem of his robe in a convulsive grasp. Her control had obviously deserted her in raw panic.
"I will do anything, I swear it! Only help me this once, I beg you, kind master! He is only a child . . ."
He pulled her up by the arm, none-too-gently. "Stop your wailing, stupid girl!" He shook her to emphasise his point. "How do you expect to find your child if you sit around here crying all day?"
He recognised her now. She was the wife of the paddy field-worker who lived in the rooms adjoining his. The woman was so startled that she paused for a minute, gasping for breath.
"I . . .I . . ."
"Silence!" he hissed, "Tears are for the weak. They solve nothing!"
Surprisingly, she attempted to compose herself with titanic effort, large gulps distending her throat. "My son went missing this morning. He . . . goes to get milk from the vendor a few doors away. I thought he was out . . . playing with the other children, but he . . . he never came back."
A strange feeling twisted in Bakura's stomach. On his way back from Ur, a few subtle queries and a purchased tablet of 'historical tales' had enlightened him as to the nature of the demoness with whom he made a regrettable deal. Lamashtu was renowned for her bitterness, due to her inability to have children, and thus unleashed her fury on the people of Sumer by stealing away infants, small children and even heavily pregnant mothers and devouring them. This is no coincidence he thought, glancing at the stricken mother. This is her sign, her reminder. She desires control. She will not let me go and she watches . . .
With a sense of fatality, Bakura knew that the young woman would never see her son again. Turning to her, he spoke. "Go back and search your house thoroughly. I will go over the neighbouring fields, very quickly, for I am a busy man. Do it, now! You have wasted enough of my time!"
"Thank you, kind master," she whispered, and Bakura did not miss the flash of hope in her eyes. She was about to run back indoors when a strong hand arrested her passage. Looking back, she saw that the tall man's strange eyes were not on her, but on the string of small, grubby faces peering curiously at them from the doorway. There was an undefinable expression there, one she could not read.
"Master . . .?"
His gaze focused slowly on her. "You have many other children, girl. Keep close watch on them." Releasing her abruptly, he turned on his heel and disappeared back around the corner of the lodging house. The young mother stared after him, raising a hand to her damp face. For a moment, so rapidly she could not even tell whether it had really occurred or not, she had felt a rough finger touch her forehead.
Watch over them, mother. That is your duty, above all others. I cannot bring back what you have lost, but I can remind you, because I will never heal.
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Seth tugged irritably at the light linen hood over his low headdress, offering him scant protection from the chilly evening breeze as his bodyguard accompanied him through the emptying streets. Last night had proved to be another sleepless affair, disruptive dreams being the main cause of his fatigue and restless mood. The extensive search for Bakura he had undertaken, in-between his assistance in the investigation of the missing priests, had drawn conclusive dead-ends and the reports he had formulated for the perusal of his Pharoah were far from positive. And then this tip-off. Someone had brought to his attention a robbery at a tavern in a neighbouring town which, to him at least, had reeked of Bakura's despicable, but considerable thieving skill.
Thoughts drifting slightly, as they waited for a merchant to cross over the street with his extensive baggage train following, he recalled the journal kept of Inim-shara's erratic delirium. The entries were recorded regularly in a neat, precise hand, offering descriptive footnotes at the end of each tablet. The ramblings had lent more and more weight to Seth's theory of the maddened priest being abducted by some religious faction. The brothers seek the truth, they all come to see me . . .I have no family, but one . . . We worship as one . . .We seek the Enlightenment . . .
Furthermore, there were certain entries which indicated something of a more precise nature. They bring me water, no food . . . I hurt . . . I read the things they ask . . . they bring me more . . . I read and I fall . . .
It was almost as if whatever it was they had given this man to read had caused his descent into insanity. Impossible, thought the High Priest. What could be so terrible? What was this Enlightenment?
His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the arm from the soldier beside him. Nodding, he continued along his path toward the tavern he had been directed to. It was something of a seedy affair on the outside, successfully disguising the clientele that frequented the private rooms. Seth made this inference when his observant glance happened to fall on the edge of an expensive material projecting from beneath the rough cloak of the person before him. Making his way carefully to the counter, only a single member of his bodyguard following to avoid undue attention, Seth tapped the rough surface to receive service. A curtain lifted, giving him a brief glimpse of an opulently decorated room behind, and a thin, heavily bearded man appeared, his dull eyes flitting over Seth's appearance with a practised glance.
"One of the private rooms?" he asked before Seth had a chance to speak.
"No, thank you. Are you the owner?"
"What of it?" A flicker of suspicion.
"I'm here on behalf of the city-state council to inquire about a robbery."
A glimmer of amusement now showed as the man looked at him with renewed interest. "You won't find who did it, you know. We were crowded on that particular day."
"I'd like to speak with you all the same," persisted Seth.
The owner shrugged. "As you will. I can't be too long though, customers to attend to." He lifted a jointed partition in the counter-top and beckoned for Seth and his man to follow.
"You're name, good sir?" asked Seth as they were led into the room behind the curtain and seated in low, plushly cushioned chairs.
"I am Dur-rimush. The robbery you are referring to took place a week ago."
Seth nodded. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in the low chair which forced his long legs upwards until his knees were nearly on level with his chest. "Whereabout did it happen?"
"In one of our hired rooms. A merchant's son and his friends were having a small festivity, just some wine, music and dancing girls. In the midst of it all, the torches died out. Lots of confusion, obviously. And somebody snatched their purses in the dark. Quite a large sum, which I wasn't informed of, naturally. And one of the young fellows passed out on the floor with a nasty cut to his head."
"Did anybody see anything unusual? Someone who wasn't supposed to be there?"
Dur-rimush shook his head. "They wouldn't have noticed. None of the slaves serving them did."
"How were the purses stolen?"
"The thief slipped the fastenings on their belts. Of course, some of the fools had their's loose to throw coins to the dancing girls."
Seth glanced at him curiously. "Aren't you concerned that your business will suffer now that a robbery has occurred?"
Dur-rimush shrugged nonchalantly, baring yellow teeth in a crafty smile. "Not many are aware. Those young men wouldn't want to relive that incident, oh no. And besides, there's no other tavern for miles which can offer the same quality of service that I provide."
"I'm sure," muttered Seth. "Was there anything distinct about the robbery?" He knew that Bakura liked his finishing touches. The abomination had perfected his skills to something bordering on an art-form.
"Now that you mention it . . ." Dur-rimush, paused, looking thoughtful, "There was a table-cloth draped over the unconcious boy's body. And on top of that a fruit platter with some lavender and a coin." He frowned. "Don't ask me, I've no idea what that signifies."
Seth felt his blood begin to boil. That insolent bastard, he knew I'd come looking for him! Standing abruptly, he gave a stiff bow to the tavern owner. "Thank you, Dur-rimush, that will be all."
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Out in the street, Seth took a moment to cool his inflamed nerves. He would not give Bakura the satisfaction of losing his cool over this twisted attempt at humour. He was about to turn back up the street with his bodyguard in tow, when a man whom he recognised as one of his own soldiers came haring towards them from the opposite direction, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"High Priest! I heard shouts and went to investigate, there's another attack a few doors away!"
Without waiting to hear another word, Seth broke into a run, freeing the Rod from his belt. The soldiers hot on his heels, Seth followed the direction indicated. Soon, the hoarse shouts of a single man and the raised voices of a group of men reached his ears. In swift formation, Seth's bodyguard surrounded him, spears held outwards at the ready as they advanced.
The scene which greeted them caused Seth's eyes to widen slightly. A man was being pinned up against a wall, swirling bands of darkness surrounding his wrists and ankles, holding him immobile. His robes, clearly marking him as of the landowner-priest class, were in disarray, rips and tears at his bleeding elbows and knees. A group of hooded men in grey were gathered around him in a semi-circle, one of them stepping forward and stuffing a crudely fashioned gag between his teeth.
All those days of fruitless searching, of dead ends and faceless nightmares, and now this, right within the supposed safety of the town where the people were too afraid to step outside their houses and do something about the screaming . . . Seth's rage boiled over again.
"Now!" he roared, watching with satisfaction as the hooded ring of men fell back in alarm at his shout, how they stumbled over each other in their eagerness to escape the sharp stab and slash of the spears and swords sweeping and thrusting into their midst. Seth raised the Rod before him, shadows unfurling at his feet as, one by one, the cloaked men fell beneath his influence. They dropped to the ground, some of them kicking and jerking convulsively as they attempted to fight the shadow magic with an energy of their own. Triumphantly, Seth moved forward, a screeching wind tugging at the roofs overhead as he watched their eyes, the whites showing in terrified rings as the darkness summoned by the Millenium Rod began the tortuous engulfment of their souls.
"High Priest!" came a shout to his left and he jerked his head around in horror as one of his own soldiers was struck down from behind with a dark bolt of substance. In that instant, realization hit him. Fool! Fool! You Ra-damned fool!
"It's a trap!" he yelled, "Fall back! Fall back!"
Swinging the Rod in a tight arc, he aimed at the dark shapes seeming to detach from every corner. "Bring him down! In the name of the Enlightened One!" The booming chant echoed from every throat as they bore down upon him, blasting at his summoned shadows with surprising strength. Seth buckled under the strain, the glow from the Rod forming a brilliant, desperate globe around his struggling form.
"Bring him down!"
Impossible, he thought, as black specks tugged at his vision, So many . . . Why does nobody come?
A final crushing blow and he sank to his knees, the shadows cast by his flaming Rod flickering out of existence.
"In the name of the Enlightened One!"
You won't have me . . .never you . . .
"Bring him down!"
Ibbin-adad received the tidings where he sat in the infirmary, squinting in the dim light so that he could read his copy of Inim-shara's journal. He looked up, dread filling his mind at the fearful eyes of the messenger and the soiled, azure headdress on a cushion in his hands.
"My Lord . . . The High Priest . . . he was taken."
The clay tablet shattered as it fell from limp fingers. Ibbin-adad stared blankly ahead, his last hope for the salvation of his people vanishing in the endless shadows ahead.