The clash of bronze on bronze echoed beneath the crimson-stained skies of ancient Sumer. Akkar staggered back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His opponent towered over him—a warrior from Ur, clad in a beaten breastplate of dull copper, his eyes gleaming with savage intent. Akkar shifted his weight, gripping his intricately carved dagger tightly. The weapon, inherited from his late father, bore inscriptions of protection from Enki, the god of wisdom. Sweat trickled down his bearded jaw as he calculated his next move.
The Urite lunged, but Akkar twisted just in time. Pain flared in his shoulder as a glancing blow ripped the coarse fabric of his sand-colored tunic, revealing a glimpse of his wiry but toned physique. He took the moment to glance over his surroundings. The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood, and the audience in the distant ziggurat roared with approval. Among that crowd, Akkar’s sharp eyes caught the faint glint of an obsidian ring—one belonging to the enigmatic priestess of Ishtar, Ayrua. Her presence here confirmed it: this fight was no mere contest of warriors. It was a step in a prophecy that Akkar neither understood nor welcomed.
“You should run,” the warrior grunted, circling him. “This isn’t your place, Akkar of Kish.”
Akkar’s lips curled into a grin. “You’ll have to bury me to banish me.”
And then he struck, feinting left before delivering a blow to his opponent’s unguarded side. The dagger sank deep. The Urite fell to his knees, clutching his flank, and Akkar didn’t wait for a death rattle. He turned and sprinted toward the temple as chaos erupted behind him.
The Whispering Ziggurat
Akkar’s sandals slapped against sandstone steps as he ascended the ziggurat under the waning light. His tunic, dyed a faded indigo that spoke of his humble origins, flapped in the evening breeze. The priestess was waiting at the summit, her figure wrapped in bronze silk that seemed to shimmer like molten gold. Her almond-shaped eyes held a strange mixture of serenity and foreboding.
“Did Enlil guide your hand, or was it vengeance?” she asked, her silver bracelets jingling softly as she extended a hand toward him.
“Neither.” Akkar wiped blood from his dagger and slid it back into its worn leather sheath. “Prophecies don’t leave a man much room for choice.”
Ayrua’s laughter was soft but sharp, like the hiss of a sandstorm. “And yet, you obey them. You come running to what you fear.”
The wind picked up, carrying with it the smell of scorched fields and something darker—decay. Akkar tensed as shadows shifted unnaturally around the ziggurat. The murmurs of the crowd below blurred into indistinct wails. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
“Why does the goddess summon me?” His voice was steady, but his grip tightened imperceptibly on the hilt of his dagger.
Ayrua turned, her silhouette framed against the night sky. “Not Ishtar. This is work beyond her. The gods whisper of a great Flood, one to rival what Enki once warned of. Only now, the choice of life and death is yours. Follow, Akkar, and learn the truth of your bloodline.”
Beneath the Earth’s Veins
The descent into the temple’s undercroft felt like slipping into another world. Torches lined the earthen walls, casting eerie, flickering light on carvings so ancient even Akkar could barely recognize their meaning. The air grew colder as they ventured deeper, their footsteps echoing against the narrow passageways.
“How long have you known?” Akkar asked, breaking the suffocating silence.
“That you’re bound to this?” Ayrua’s voice was soft but resonant. “Since you were a boy. The goddess chose you for reasons the priesthood cannot fathom, but your father—he knew.”
“My father was a farmer,” Akkar countered, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears. He remembered the stories, the unfulfilled promises of returning to Kish’s temple one day. The whispers he wasn’t meant to hear.
Ayrua stopped suddenly, her fingers brushing against a carving in the wall—a serpent devouring its tail. “Your father was a guardian. A man entrusted with a weapon that could destroy gods as easily as men. But not all gods were content with their role in this war.”
Beneath the serpent carving, the earth gave way to reveal a circular chamber. At its center stood a pedestal, smooth and dark as night, upon which rested a blade unlike any Akkar had seen. Its surface shimmered with a silvery glow, and inscriptions danced across it, shifting like the sands in the wind.
“Take it,” Ayrua commanded, her voice now edged with urgency. “You must wield it when the skies flood with fire.”
Akkar hesitated. The blade called to him, its glow pulsating in rhythm with his heartbeat. And yet, every instinct screamed that it was a curse as much as it was a weapon.
“You never told me the price,” he said. “Prophecies always demand a price.”
Ayrua’s expression softened, but she did not answer. Somewhere above them, the temple shook, the ground rumbling as if enraged by their intrusion. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Summoning every ounce of willpower, Akkar reached for the blade. The moment his hand touched its hilt, a searing pain shot up his arm, burning brighter than the sun. He gasped, visions flooding his mind: cities submerged beneath waves, gods tearing through the skies, and a voice—his father’s—urging him to run, to hide, to fight.
When the visions cleared, he was kneeling on the ground, the blade now in his possession. Ayrua knelt beside him, her expression unreadable.
“The gods will come for you now,” she whispered. “But so will men. Wield it wisely, Akkar of Kish.”
The Rise of the Storm
Akkar emerged from the undercroft just as the first streak of fire tore across the heavens. The ziggurat’s summit was deserted—the audience below had scattered, replaced by jagged figures dancing in the shadows. Creatures born not of flesh but of something older, darker.
The blade thrummed in his hand, its glow now a steady, defiant light. Akkar took one last deep breath and stepped forward, ready to face whatever fate had written for him.
The storm was here. And Akkar of Kish would meet it as both man and myth.
Genre: Historical Fantasy/Adventure
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Want to start a successful business? Follow these 4 simple steps
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
1 comment