After the rising of the sun, chased by fading crescent of Athalan, they disappeared to safe interior rooms. The star slots for the seasons let in the sun by day, making the temple a death trap for them. Tam-hattu managed to grab several short naps by afternoon, not enough sleep to satisfy his body, but sufficient to keep him alert. As nu-banda of the forge, making sure everything was perfect mattered. It would be his life on the line when he summoned back the sprit-smiths to their tasks.
By afternoon, stormclouds rolled over the sacred Illumithudi foothills, lightning searing the peaks and ridges with the wrath of the sky gods, the long opponents to the Ushaba-tus, the Eight who Wait. From time to time, Tam-hattu visited each wall of the temple, leaving the appropriate offerings of blood and organs from the general labor slaves. Hearts, livers, brains and other parts smoked over the flames rekindled by the assassin. Normally one of the Enguda, the order of high priests, carried these duties out. None of those survived the purges over the centuries, as many kings of differing lands tried to destroy the worship of Ushaba-tus and the Allegiance.
To kindle the last fire would be a major working though. One had to light the Maw of Sahan Aradu the fire of Abzu, the primeval source, to destroy all it touched, yet act as a gate to bring back the Uzitibari-Nefs. Any distractions, overlooking that smallest detail or word could ruin it. His own time as Kagur, the keeper of the gate, stemmed from such a mistake, years before. His predecessor, irritated by a bee during the ceremony, had swatted it mid-ritual. Only his own timely use of the Mekkugiri, the sacred knife of the rites had tamed the Uzitibari-Nefs. Too late to save the old fool, who was torn to pieces by the various Nefs able to reach him. The summoner always was slain first, but if not stopped, the spirits of the elements would flee, like slaves after a revolt, seeking some place to hide from being so bound again.
Igi kagur ur, the saying went. Keep close watch over the one invoking the gate. Cities had been destroyed in the past, as the Nefs sought to prevent any who might know their names from binding them to slavery again.
Storms collapse often in the tropical evening and after Apsu eank, the itiuanna, the new moon, set between the sun and Athalan, marking the hour of the conjuring. From a special chest, the assassin drew the sacred relics. These were the Kulag holders for his office. The various vials of the elemental forces, the hammer of the forge and most importantly, the Mekkugiri, symbol of the contract the forces had to abide by, unless the summoner and he who bore that blade that day both died.
Most of the celebrants for the rite took their places around the circle as the darkness fell. three millennia before, on this very moon and day, the fires here guttered out under the hand of the Lullulugal, the false kings who ruled the land since. Timing would hard, for scraps fo clouds still danced in the sky, seeking to build upon the power already building from the conjuring of the Blood Fountain.
He had yet to choose one to stand with the Mekkugiri during the Izinene, the fanning of the fires. Remembering the arrogance the son of his loins now held, a wicked smile came upon the assassin's face. Turning, he motioned to Damuharrutiru, indicating the sacred blade. The young man blanched. Yes, he knew the implied threat. I can mess up, forcing you to take my place or die with me. It was an honor to be chosen to hold the Mekkugiri, but one that required years of study before daring. Anger warred with fear for a moment, then fear won.
"I know not the rituals. For me to take the blade could endanger all."
Laughs echoed in the chamber, as the demons of all ilk expressed mirth at the boy losing face.
Under that laugh, the father rebuked the boy once only. "So you can learn wisdom. Claim not to be beyond your years, lest you be tried thusly." Tam-hattu felt the murderous stare, even after facing to a young girl, one who was raised for this task. "Take the Mekkugiri, Ginshimilu, and hold the gate if I fail."
Barely pubescent, breasts not yet full and ripe, she stood in the kilt and tunic, calm in face, save the tears streaming down her face. "As you taught me, so I shall, Adda." The girl calling him father, even if it was the ritual that spoke, gave the killer pride. She knew more of killing, he was sure, than the son he would decry from the rooftop for his arrogance.
"Fear not, child of the blade, for you are well trained, and ready." He smiled. This was a place for giving courage to the child, so he could expand the moment, working around the rites. "And you do, Ginshimilu. You studied hard, and only have to blood your blade with a real contract to be of the Allegiance. Take your place Dumu-mi. With you behind me, I shall not fear failing, for my daughter will redeem my blood." The girl's eyes lit up at being called his daughter, the endearing dumu-mi meaning favored one as well. She walked away carefully, beyond the ring, leaving only Tam-hattu there to summon the smiths back to earth for the final work on the blade.
A nod from his master was all that was needed. He still thought of the man as Raish, despite his tab's claiming greater fame than deserved. The pledge of loyalty given decades before prevented him from giving unasked counsel to the master, but if asked, he would express his doubts.
A long exhale, standing before the Ka-Sahan Aradu, speaking the words in the rhythm taught him decades before.
"Ma-eginam Giri." holding his kinfe up, before his face, he said the words slowly, "I am like the knife". He extended the blade now, holding it point down to his chest. "Ma-e giri" "I am of the knife" Lowering the knife he laid it to a rotting flank of cow. "Giri-badara kud hulgam!" Dagger that cuts bad flesh off, slicing the meat in half. With a quick stab, he speared the lesser portion and held it up.
"Offering it up, to the eight who wait and the master of my guild." Turning he tossed the larger portion to the ground near Raish's feet, but still in the circle. "My heart is yours, my steel, it is thine."
Aiming his knife to the sky, he continued on. "Here in the mysterious month, before the mouth of death's descent, in the place of murder, the house which is like a mountain, I call the smiths up to the fire to make blades for murder and glory to the eight!"
Pointing the knife to the altar he, waving the blade back and forth, his voice lowered. "Izi-ne-ne, izi-ne-ne, Gal Simurga, Spirit smiths of your service, we call upon as we fan the fire, to open the gates for you. I am Kugar, the Keeper, I open them for you!" Hands made the motion of opening two doors, and the jaws of the altar spread wider. Beyond the safety of the circle, Naguushlu spoke in quiet tones, surprised that their magics never activated the altar, but this old assassin could.
"Fan the fire! Izi-ne-ne!" Moving around the room he finished the last of the closing spell on the circle. "Before each altar, upon which the fire dances, izi-ne-ne, to summon our lords, the eight who wait!" At each altar, moving counter-clockwise, Tam-hattu fanned the smaller flames, still cooking human sacrifices, starting at the one to the east of south, fanning the flames with his blade at each stop.
"A-bag! Deamon of Sickness, maker of poisons, who taught us to use his gifts to ensure a kill! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!"
"Sharushilu, Goddess of Cyclones, she of the dragons! Who taught us to find metals and purify them, and how to move silent! Hail! Come! Pass the gate!"
"Bemekira! Confronter of Baal, who brought him low with guile, and taught us to speak! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!"
"Bargungunnu! Who hides amid all things, teacher of the ways of the chameleon, that we may hide in shadows and sun, light and dark to strike when hidden! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!"
"Mummu Tiamat! Chaos of the Seas! She who gave us tools, to confound the efforts to find us! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!"
"Mushussu! Raging serpent whose coils crush your foes! Who gave us the knowledge of where to strike like you! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!"
"Assakku! Dragon of the swamps and muds, who taught us to slow opponents! Hail! Come!"
At last he reached the south, where the bowl of blood lay waiting to fill the groove connecting the pillars to form the protection. Pouring it out, he finished the invocation of the eight gods.
"Engaregar! Ploughman of backs! Who guides our blades true to the target's death! Hail! Come! Pass the Gate!" The assassin laid the blade into this last altar fire, stepping back and bowing as the flame changed from yellow to a deep royal purple.
"We open the path for you by the work of your children. Sons of the Eternal Burning! Come now! Sons of the rocks! Come now! Daughters of Eagles! Come now! Daughters of the streams! Come now!" With each conjuring, Tam-hattu tossed in a small amount of the element to be summoned, A feather for the Djinnis, a burning coal for the Afreeti, cups of water and oil mixed for the Marid and a large star ruby to bring out the essence of deadly earth to make the blades.
Turning to the altars once more, he gestured wildly towards each one. "The altars burn again before the Eight who Wait, calling them back to us. Binding our souls and hearts!"
Drawing a knife from the small of his back, he tossed it into the mouth the altar represented. "The knife in the back, Symbol of our lord! Come and fan the fire! Izi-ne-ne! Raise up the flames high and give them heat to break the bonds of earth and hell, calling up the great ones to do their work once more."
Lifting an ingot of cast iron, he tossed it upon the offerings. "Iron mighty spirit! Oh Engaregan! Give thy hand to she who stands behind me, barring the way of flight, keeping close watch on the gate keeper!" He drew a knife from his belt, holding it high to the circular opening over the altar. "Let her feel the power that thy blades give forth!"
Now he began the strenuous part of the summoning. He paused a moment, gathering his will for the steps to come. Battle with the Uzitibari-Nefs to bind them would need all his strength. Composed at last, he lifted a clod of clay from the sacred chest. "By this hand of soil, reddened by earth's weeping where the sacred metals lie, I call upon Earth's anvils to forge blades tonight and evermore!" With the last word he dropped the chunk of red earth into a bowl on the altar that appeared from the magics used already.
Hands found without taking eyes from that bowl a jar in the case. Breaking the seals on the lid, he poured out the white oil form the swamp seeps he had passed on the way from Dannui to Kvaeg. "By this oil yet to light, found at the seeping spring where the Anzu nested, white fluid to burn, lifting black smoke from its consumption. I call the smelters to forge bladed tonight, and evermore." Once the liquid was down to drips from the clay vessel, it followed the fluid to the bowl.
Questing hands moved swiftly to the other such vessel. The vessel was not hled before him, but at the lip of the bowl when he cracked the seal. "By this captured breeze, stolen at the sun's rising, I call the tempering air smiths to forge blades tonight and evermore. Giving each blade their breath and power!"
Next he lifted out a vase of blown crystal holding water of a deep blue color. "By this stolen water, taken from a nymph's well swimming with her heart's blood, I call the quenching powers up to forge blades tonight, and evermore!" There was no pouring of this profane water, vase and all dropped into the summoning dish, which rang with a soft brass tone as the tinkle of crystal shards scattered on metal and stone.
A cold metal canister met his hands next, the final ingredient for the summoning of the gods and the Uzitibari-nefs. "Earth that burst to flame once lifted from streambed, held at bay by a child's blood taken before dawn! By this I call the Simurg-A, Batulbel! Come here now! Pass the gate this flame opens! Summon they whole guild, to serve us once more, making blades tonight and each night until dismissed."
With a set of tongs, he pried open the metal container, the tossed it all into the bowl. Holding his left hand over the altar, the right reached with the tongs to a nearby brazier, seeking out eight white hot coals, even as the blood drained from the sacred metal, freeing the metal to the air. Smoke rose from the shining mix of silver and yellow chunk of the devil's earth. He waited, watching the bowl for the sign that the moment was right. At last tiny blue flames mingled with the smoke, catching the circling breeze that swirled above the tiny cauldron. There was no warning, just that one moment a smoke tornado changed into a deadly firetail, rising beyond the roof, seeking the stars as the gate opened.
Now, he thought, the binding moment begins. He wrapped a chain around his left forearm carefully, pacing his breathing, each action required set in his mind. Moving swiftly, he set eight coals, one at a time, in the same places as the gods named before around the bowl, Though his hand passed within the roaring whirlwind of flame, his flesh was not scorched. The same could not be said of the long sleeve of his tunic. Tam-hattu ignored the flame climbing his left arm. This was the test, could he bind them before breathing the flame and entering their service instead.
"By the tongs holding coals, like my hand into the gate. I open the door for you, if you accept these chains. Bind thyself, stepping into these shackles of thy free will. Bound until the fire shall die! Come now! Enter this world! Come Now!!
What once was a raging storm of fire now roared more than any of the cyclones the assassin had ever experienced. Never before had the spell unleashed this level of power over the bowl. Tam-hattu struggled to keep his arm within this tempest. Then it began, the buffetting of the Uzitibani-nefs arrival, as each tore a link off the chain on his left arm, accepting the binding, but trying to force the arm out of the vortex of power and transport. If they succeeded, he would become one of their slaves, bound to them for eternity.
The tricky devils even did something they had not attempted since his first summoning, taking the links closest to his hand first, forcing him to move more of his arm into the whirlwind. That gave them more of a target to strike. Each of the many elemental demons tried to move the arm, maul it or some other trick as they took their link.
Gritting teeth at the danger this moment was creating for him, Tam-hattu forced more of his arm into the fire, until only few links were left, barely in the fires. Those were taken more slowly, as the demonic forces tested his will. The flame that once had been the sleeve of his tunic now reached mid-bicep. Tam-hattu leaned his head to the right, waiting as long as he could, counting the remaining links as they disappeared. At last, flames touching the shoulder seam, only two remained. Then one. The great red claw of Batulbel reached up from the bowl, entering the world to grasp it.
Somehow the bowl moved at that moment, taking the whirlwind clear of his hand. For a panicked moment, Tam-hattu thought that the Fates had intervened, denying them the access to the Uzitibari-nefs and thus ending the creation of the Traitor's Knife, and his own life.
The claw of the great smith was followed into the world by his massive body. The link landed on his palm. The Afreet smiled at the assassin. It was not the grin of success. Then its gaze turned to another afreet that emerged from the tempest with an eager look of murderous glee.
"We are free. Bind this slave and let us take the others. This is our chance, Batulbel!"
The smile of the Simurg-A turned wan. "It is forbidden for we who accept the bonds to interfere with the spell, Nawalbel." The great smith pressed the ellipse of metal to his right wrist, where it expanded into a bracelet of iron, marked with the cunieform marks for loyal servant by the action. "I saw you move the bowl. That is forbidden by the compact of the spell." Horned face turned back to Tam-hattu, reaching out the bound hand to pat out the burning sleeve before the assassin suffered facial burns. "The compact stands, treachery by the parties is stipulated as unfair tampering by the compact engraved upon the bowl of summoning. You may finish the spell. I shall deal with this one later."
Those words made the anticipation of mayhem on Nawalbel's face turn to utter fear and remorse.
In relief, Tam-hattu uttered the benediction of the spell, sealing the ones that had answered the call to serve the forge set up for them.
"O mighty smiths of yore! Fan this fire high! Let them open the gate for their masters! Our great and mighty lords! The eight who wait, to nullify Fate, and free all from her bonds. Heam! So Be It! Izi-ne-ne! Fan the fire! Heam! So be it!"
Each fire of the gods' altars exploded into towers, joining the vortex of fire above the summoning bowl. Twisting into one massive tower of blazing glory above the city. Smoke roiled around the air it touched, sinking to floor of the valley. The choking cloud filled the land between the foothills to the east and the mountains to the west. Within fingers of the movement of the stars across the sky, the last few lights still lit in the city beneath them were swallowed in a dark cloud.
Pointing to the great oven of the forge, the assassin spoke the keying words one last time. "Izi-ne-ne! Heam!" Pieces of each fire in the temple tore free, racing into the oven, kindling an infernal blaze there. One perfect for making blades to take lives and souls with.
Shoulders slumping in exhaustion and relief, the assassin turned away. A strong, hot hand grasped his elbow, escorting him to the binding circle marked by the pillars and his waiting slave girl. Ginshimilu's face was streaked with tears, thinking the spell had failed.
To set her at ease, the assassin used the last of his strength to smile, and speak the words to cross out safely, prevented from falling back by the hand of the Simurg-A. "Ma-eginam giri." I am like the knife. "Ma-e girir." I am of the knife. He collapsed across the barrier, taking the girl to the ground with him.
Around him, some spoke words of congratulations, others asked what happened to make the smith aid him to the circle. The words of the seed of his loins hurt the most.
"The old fool, he has botched the spell. The blades will not be true now."
From inside the circle, Batulbel spoke in a roaring voice. "Work the steel! Work the fires! Teach this foolish mortal that we of the Uzitibari-nefs take our tasks seriously, even if we play pranks on old friends like Tam-hattu Galnu-banda."
Many gasped at the honor given by the spirit, who turned to oversee the work as the Nu-banda, overseer of the fire, recovered from bringing them to the world. Galnu-banda. The Great Overseer. The last to be called that title was the last nu-banda to work metals in this temple, over two millennia before.
Only one comment registered with Tam-hattu before he passed out.
"So, my tab. You have risen up, even as I." A loud laugh, receding with his consciousness. "I told you this was the time to forge the traitor's blade, my brother of blood shed. I told you so."
His last bit of memory was a man along the wall, one of the assassins, speaking to air. What struck the galnu-banda was the man's lack of a shadow. Something from the prophecies he often mocked tried to rise up, but the darkness took him before it made connections.
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