Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 (21 page)

`Are you afraid, Deodatus?' Tertius had asked.

What kind of a dumbass question was that?

In retrospect, the smart move might have been to say `yes'.

When Jack had shaken his head, Tertius had smiled that weird
smile again and said one word.

`Swim.'

There hadn't been much in the way of alternatives, really. The
semicircle had closed in, and rather than suffer the disgrace of
being pushed into the river, Jack had jumped. His satisfaction over
the elegantly executed dive had lasted precisely two seconds. Then
he'd hit the water. How it could possibly retain its liquid state at
those temperatures was beyond him.

If Carter were here, she'd be able to explain it. After she'd read
him the riot act. With all due respect, sir, are you insane? Daniel and
Teal'c wouldn't be far behind. And the debriefing with Hammond
would be a positive ball. And they probably were right, the lot of
them. But how the hell else was he going to get any answers?

He'd figured that he might as well swim for it while he still
could. Over on the far shore a lone torch had guttered in a bracket
mounted to sheer rock. It had marked the landing site. While he'd been battling the current, worried that his legs might cramp, the
procession of Smurfs had filed across a gracefully arched stone
bridge, dry-sandaled and warm. He'd arrived a good five minutes
after them, in a calm niche. There'd been a handhold, but nothing
to stand on and no way out of the water. Fifteen feet above his
head a set of steps had been carved into the cliff. On them, Tertius,
peering down with polite interest and clutching a coiled rope. The
damn rope had stayed coiled.

`You did well," the bastard had pronounced. `Now wait.'

Wait?

For what? His tooth enamel to chip?

Jack had thought of several anatomically unfeasible suggestions
to make to Papa Smurf He'd even tried to utter them. Annoyingly,
he'd been unable to force so much as a single syllable past the chatter
of his teeth. Instead he'd hung there, feeling his body temperature
leech away and resigning himself to the disgusting hunch that he
wouldn't get out of here until he looked like Harry Maybourne
after spending quality time in a Siberian freezer. He couldn't
remember the moment he'd fallen asleep, but he'd definitely dozed
off. Common symptom of hypothermia. Normally you don't wake
up. He had. At the opposite end of the spectrum.

Someone must have jumped in and tied the rope around him as
soon as they'd seen him go under. Then they'd hauled him from the
local ice water reservoir. To deposit him in the local steam cooker.

We don't burn people.

They didn't. They parboiled them. That's where the bowl
of worms came in. Eating worms was a walk in the park by
comparison.

Though in a way he was grateful for the heat. It distracted from
the more obvious similarities between his current abode and the funfilled if slightly disorienting accommodation at Baal's stronghold.
The square shaft had been driven some ten vertical meters deep
into basalt. The walls were glassy and smooth enough to make a
fly skid, and moisture-laden air burned off them in little swirls of
steam. The former reminded him of the pictures Daniel had brought
back from Pinata Blanca. The latter implied that touching the walls
would be a colossally stupid idea, even by his exalted standards.

Nothing to be done, except sit and see what'd happen next. It
wasn't the thing he did best, but at least the sitting part was made
bearable by a bulky wooden grid that kept his six from turning toast.
Reassuring somehow, because it indicated that the Smurfs fully
expected him to survive this. Or maybe they had a sarcophagus.
Slow death, only to wake up to acid and daggers...

Hot, viscous air pouring down his throat and into his lungs told
him he'd gasped, and he was rewarded for that folly by a near
overwhelming urge to cough. Also a stupid idea.

Jack tried to relax and coax his breathing back to normal. In
through the nose, out through the mouth. That way the mush that
passed for air down here had a chance to cool off a bit before it met
his bronchiae. Eventually he caught himself staring up the shaft.
Another piece of acquired behavior. He was waiting for figures to
appear in the small, bright rectangle above. If they were the wrong
way up, he'd be in trouble.

Stop it!

This wasn't a gravity well. Else they'd hardly have gone through
the trouble of lowering him into the Turkish baths on a harness and
ropes. How did the heating work, anyway? Probably geothermal.
The place was volcanic in origin. It'd pretty much simmered down,
he guessed, but there'd still be a few hot spots here and there.
Geysers. Steam vents. Rifts with magma bubbling up. Bad thought.
Any thought was bad. Better not to think at all.

Forearms resting on pulled-up knees, he gazed at his hands,
watched as tiny beads of sweat formed on their backs. The beads
grew and glistened in the dim light filtering down from unseen
torches. Once they were large enough they'd start to slide.
Sluggishly at first, sometimes slowed by the massive obstacle a hair
represented, but then they'd wobble onto a wet track where other
beads had slid before. Friction suspended, they'd pick up speed and
run over or around his knuckles and down his fingers. It tickled.
At the tips of his fingers they'd stop and hang, bulging gradually,
until they were heavy enough to make the drop. Sometimes it took
another bead bumping into them. Then they'd fall. Some landed
on the wood, leaving dark splotches. He was careful not to move,
so the beads from his right index finger always hit the same old splotch. Others, like the ones falling from the ring finger of his left
hand, always dripped through the grid and struck hot stone below,
fizzing into steam.

At some point, he didn't know how much later, he realized that
there were no new beads forming. What moisture there was on
his skin had condensed from the steam, but he wasn't sweating
anymore. More annoyingly, he had nothing left to watch. Kinda like
your television kicking the bucket on a Saturday night. Happened
to him once. NHL playoffs, too. Ice hockey. Ice was cool. His
melted ice was to die for...

Five seconds or five hours after that, Jack lazily blinked at
something gray and grainy. Wood. He was lying on the grating,
wishing somebody upstairs would check the recipe book. He had
to be done by now. Roasted dry, as a matter of fact.

Maybe they were checking. He could hear voices. Then he
noticed a broad leather strap across his chest and under his arms
and sweat-slick hands struggling to grab hold of him. The hands
finally found purchase and attempted to stand him on his feet, with
the same result you'd get when trying to stand an eel on its tail.
Jack thought it hysterically funny. He'd laugh if he could breathe.
As it was, he simply flopped back onto the grid.

After that they decided to skip the standing-up stage and
proceed directly to reeling him in. He felt a pull on the harness
and slowly came up until his toes lost touch with the ground. The
hands were still there, holding him steady and stopping him from
swinging. Good idea. If he started to swing, he'd strike the walls
and get broiled on top of everything else. The air became fresher
and breathing crawled back into the realm of possibilities. Around
the edge of the shaft he saw figures looking down at him. The right
way up. He'd known it all along.

More hands as he got to the top, drawing him over the side,
releasing the harness, keeping him from falling again. Torches and
swords and hands, but no faces. No. Different faces. It was a raven.
They were wearing masks.

"Have faith, Deodatus," quoth the raven.

If this was scripted by Poe, he probably should start to
worry. He'd done the pit part, so now he'd get to move on to the pendulum.

"It is nearly over," quoth the raven.

And I was just beginning to enjoy myself.'

Jack had meant to say it and found that his throat refused to
cooperate. What came out sounded like a series of croaks. He
croaked some more.

Can I have some water?

The raven nodded gravely and quoth, "Follow me, Deodatus."

Unless the guy made straight for the nearest fountain, he'd have
to scoop the freeze-dried instant colonel back into his jar at the end
of the evening. Jack couldn't recall when he'd last been so thirsty.

Surrounded by the zoo, two of whom made sure he stayed
vertical and dragged him a little whenever necessary, he wobbled
after what he presumed was Tertius. The shaft had been at the deadend of a steep tunnel, and now they descended steadily, until they
reached the river cavern again. This time he was allowed on the
bridge. Over on the other side, the raven fluttered past stalagmites
and towards an opening that was illuminated.

Three shallow steps led up to a short corridor and, beyond that,
into a large, austere room. The head wall was decorated with a
relief that seemed to be an exact copy of the one Jack had seen
in the assembly hall this morning... Yesterday morning? He had
no idea how long he'd been in this place... In front of the relief
hung a fire basket, like the eternal light in a church, and along the
remaining three walls ran stone benches. Above them, at regular
intervals, were iron brackets.

One by one, the men filed in, stuck their torches into the brackets
and sat, swords held tip-down in front of them. Two lions escorted
Jack to the center of the room. Lion Number One carried a silver
flask, Lion Number Two a piece of silken rope. The raven waited
until everybody else was seated, then he took up position opposite
Jack.

"Kneel, Deodatus."

The bird had left out the before your god bit, so Jack chose to
comply. It was surprisingly easy. The lions let go of him, and the
rest happened pretty much naturally.

"Paene corvus renatus est."

The raven is almost reborn.

Cool.

Tertius removed the mask with the slow, measured gestures of
ceremony and presented it to Jack. "Receive this in token of thy
renewal."

Then he nodded at Lion Number One. The man under the mask
uncorked the flask he was holding and held it to Jack's lips.

"Drink."

It smelled cloying and fragrant and nothing like water.

"Drink," the lion growled again.

Nearly over... He might as well go through with it. Jack took a
sip and gagged. On top of his parched tongue and throat, he now
had a mouthful of honey that wasn't going anywhere. He couldn't
swallow. It was the least of his problems.

In a deft, unstoppable move, Lion Number Two whipped that
silk rope around his neck and yanked it tight. And kept tightening it.
Jack dropped the mask, knocked the flask aside, frantically groping
for the rope, clawing to force his fingers under it, knowing it was
way too late. He didn't stand a chance. Sparks started exploding
before his eyes, and he desperately fought to draw air past the rope,
past the goddamn honey. Not a chance. None at all. A faraway part
of his mind registered that his hands weren't where he thought they
were, not struggling anymore, flopped to his sides, and he dimly
saw Tertius' face through the sparks.

We don't burn people... you have my word that none of us will
harm you...

Trust.

Unmoved and smiling, Tertius faded to black.

"Please, my friends, join me."

Hamilgart poured dark red wine into four goblets. The low
table and the pitcher and glasses had been brought and arranged
by servants who'd slipped down the stairs again. Sam puzzled over
whether they were slaves or whether this was their job, and they
got paid and went home in the evening. Well, not this evening,
anyway---

The sunsail that protected the poop deck was still up, although they hardly needed protection anymore. Sunset had been nearly an
hour ago, and now the sky had deepened to midnight blue with a
halo of pale yellow and lavender still lingering in the west. Above
the eastern horizon hung a pair of moons, ghostly and transparent,
and the third was on the rise.

"Thank you," she said when a goblet was pressed into her
palm.

"We must celebrate," declared Hamilgart. "Tomorrow we
shall wipe out what has blighted our lives and offended the Lord
Meleq."

Daniel slowly turned his glass between his hands. "I thought
this was about getting back Luli and Jack and Dr. Kelly. I don't
recall any mention of wiping out anything or anybody."

"Oh no! You misunderstand me, Daniel Jackson. I merely
meant that the Phrygians shall offer resistance. The likes of them
never are persuaded by reason. But our valor shall teach them the
righteousness of our cause, and we shall bring them back with us to
face the splendor of the Lord Meleq." Beaming, Hamilgart raised
his goblet. "I drink to your health! And to our mutual endeavor!"

Suspended beneath the sunsail dangled small oil lamps. The
shine of their flames caught in the glass and tinted the wine a
vibrant scarlet. The color of seared flesh or of blood gushing from
wounds left by a sword. Rattled by the morbidity of that image,
Sam raised her glass to return the toast.

"Your health, Hamilgart."

She took a token sip and watched as Daniel and Teal'c swapped
glances and followed her lead. Teal'c barely wetted his lips.
Symbiote or no, he didn't like to drink, but he went through the
motions for politeness' sake. Suddenly she couldn't stand the
hothouse atmosphere under the canopy any longer and fled outside
into the darkness by the railing.

The oars were raised and jutted up along the beams like some
forbidding fence. Above them arched the pregnant billow of the
sail. When the rain had stopped, the wind had turned as well and
blew briskly from the north. No doubt Hamilgart and everyone else
aboard interpreted it as a sign that Meleq approved of their plans.
Whatever they were. A few hundred meters astern sailed the second battleship and a smaller vessel that had arrived from Sidonia the
night before, manned by a crew of hoodlums trying to look like
soldiers. The ships glided before the wind like gray reflections on
black glass. All in all, they carried nearly two hundred armed men.
Overkill.