Swords & Heroes Story #25

The Skull of Siyaj Kek by Greg Mele

Jun 17, 2025

Today’s offering, ‘The Skull of Siyaj Kek’ by Greg Mele, is a bit longer than I normally publish here on this platform, but I think you’ll find reading this Mesoamerican caper worth your time! This tale of Azatlán features Mele’s recurring adventurer, Sarrumos the Sailor, who has appeared in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and Tales from the Magician’s Skull, but stands alone for new readers. In this story, we’re introduced to an alluring thief named Isura, whom, I’m reliably told, might appear in a sequel novella. I can’t wait. But for now, let’s see how this sorcerous heist adventure pans out, shall we? + Ed.

The Skull of Siyaj Kek by Greg Mele

A Tale of Azatlán

I. A Thief by Any Other Name

The young Naakali noblewoman struggled in the grip of the guards, trying—and failing—to pull free of the short, stout men’s hands holding her by wrist and elbow.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I demand my immediate freedom!”

Lord Komal, her captor, sat cross-legged on a thick pile of petate-mats atop a nobleman’s dais. Like most Kaketzewáni, he was not particularly tall, though his headdress of egret feathers made him seem so, as he lounged drinking a chilled mug of chokatl spiced with dried chilies.

“Lady Alikké, welcome to my home.”

He made a small gesture with his little finger, and the men released her.

The young woman swallowed nervously. Lord Komal did not rule Tokolatl, but he was among its wealthiest men, an aristocrat with exotic tastes who dallied in trade and meddled in politics. Although decidedly afraid, the beautiful young woman drew herself up to her full height.

“What is the meaning of my presence here?” she repeated, angrily, her hands clenching in rage.

“I suspect the Lady knows…or rather, it should come as no surprise were I to say she is neither a noblewoman, nor is her name Lady Alikké—but Isúra, a freewoman from a clan of no great repute. More germanely, you are a thief.”

“That is preposterous! I am the Lady—”

A raised dark hand, each finger wearing multiple rings interrupted her.

“Your own confederates—that little chit that poses as your ‘lady’s maid,’ for starts—have confessed to it. Oh, don’t blame the poor girl! One can hold quiet so long under the lash’s caress. But I have her testimony, and with it several valuable…trinkets…that I suspect were not gifts, including a bracelet from the palace of the Lord Governor of Tokolatl himself. Turquoise set in silver…. Yes, I see you recall it.”

Isúra bent her head in defeat. This was the price of her greed. Posing as a traveling noblewoman who had lost her entourage and baggage in some plausible, but vague, accident was a well-developed scheme that had proved profitable in many cities, but there was always the risk of reaching too far. Now she was found out.

She looked up to the real, and very dangerous, aristocrat sitting atop the dais.

“What must I do to avoid being revealed?”

When he told her, she gasped.

He had commanded her to steal the blue jade Skull of Siyaj Kek, an ancient relic from the deep south, made from its rarest and most precious stone. Long thought lost, it had somehow come into the possession of Chak-xib-Chak, a Wahtēmallek merchant who imported rare items from his distant homeland into the city, and whose reputation was far more sinister than Komal’s own.

“I won't do it! Chak-xib-Chak is said to have allies and servants not of this world; he trades in things forbidden decent men. I have no experience with such matters! How will I deprive him of his greatest treasure? If I am lucky, I’ll be found dead in an ally, or floating in the harbor.”

“You underestimate yourself, my dear,” Komal said, sipping his chokatl. “Most men are too simple, relying on force or crude burglary. Whereas we will play to Chak-xib-Chak’s weaknesses to get you close to the Skull.”

“But how am I going to steal it?”

“Quite easily, I suspect, ‘Lady Alikké.’ Shake your hair loose, behind your shoulders, then turn slowly about.”

The mockery with which he used her false name and title was almost worse than the command itself. Flushing, conscious of her vulnerability, she complied, trembling in both fear and rage, her fists clenching as she imagined every way she’d take revenge—if only she survived this ‘interview.’

“Yes,” he said, slowly taking her in, “you will do very nicely for my friend Chak-xib-Chak.”

“What…what do you intend?” she demanded nervously.

“Chak-xib-Chak allows none but his ever-growing harem of slave women into his private chambers—not even his guards. Who is to say whether his appetites are truly so…vigorous…or he simply thinks them less of a threat? What matters is that his tastes in women run to the exotic and the refined. A highborn Naakali woman? At least one whom we shall pass off as such? That will delight him.”

Ignoring the horror on his captive’s face, Komal continued. “I have arranged for one of my colleagues, who often engages Chak-xib-Chak in the rubber resin trade, to make him a gift of three slaves. One girl would draw too much attention, whereas several should prove interesting but not too interesting. You will be among them.”

“But what if he isn’t interested? What if he decides to sell me off?”

“You are beautiful and quite resourceful. See that he does not,” Komal said with a dismissive wave of a ringed hand. “You will be provided with a potion—ironically made of medicinal plants found in Wahtēmallán—which, when added to a cup of balché or palm wine loses all taste or scent. The imbiber shortly falls into a deep, even fatal, slumber, but its lethality is slow enough that none should suspect for many hours. Once Chak-xib-Chak has succumbed, you shall take the Skull of Siyaj Kek and flee.”

“How will I know where the Skull is to be found?”

“It is an elongated skull, as large as a man’s, plated in blue jade, with cunningly wrought eyes; I should not think it hard to recognize! My spies say the merchant keeps it close and makes offerings of blood and copal incense to it each day as if it were a god. Find it!

“Of course, I realize that you will be in no position to smuggle anything with you into Chak-xib-Chak’s home, so another of my agents will be working with you and will make himself known when the time to act comes.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“He will see that you obtain the poison and a blade, should you need it to effect your escape,” Lord Komal said. “After all, it is not he who is likely to be alone with Chak-xib-Chak.”

“I see,” Isúra said, swallowing hard, face flushing.

“Of course, he will aid your flight, after the deed is finished. Until then, my men will come to your apartments to collect you after all the arrangements have been made.” The languid eyes rotated up, as if fascinated by the deep blue enamel that covered the ceiling; when they lowered again, they were sharp as obsidian. “Do understand, Isúra, that you will neither escape the city, nor find allies within it. The law does not tolerate thieves or frauds, and you are a foreigner as well. Be grateful that you are being allowed to play the slave and are neither made one in truth nor put to the executioner’s garrote.”

Isúra said nothing, head down, mind racing but finding few options.

“If all goes well for you, we will not speak again. Now, if there are no further questions, you may rise,” he said. She leapt to her feet and ran to her clothing, which lay strewn on the tiles.

“No,” he said. “I have work to do. Dress outside. Leave the chemise here.”

She retreated, clutching her garments about her like a shield. “Yes, Lord,” she said softly, and backed from the room.

Isúra was walking so hurriedly, her mind lost in the dangers ahead, that she did not see the man slip from the shadows until he had caught her arm in one broad, scarred fist.

“Greetings, ‘Lady Ereka.’ Or is it ‘Lady Alikké’ now? Both? Neither? It seems there are a shocking number of aristocratic Naakali women of just your description running about this Kaketzewáni port.”

The man was not tall, at least as Naakali measured such things, only half a hand taller than her, and his skin was darker, his mixed-race heritage obvious. But the emerald-green eyes, shoulder-length waves of auburn hair, and short chin beard proclaimed his Naakali parentage, as did the pleated kilt and sleeveless tunic he wore.

“Sarrumos!” she gasped. “What are you… Get out of my way!” Isúra demanded imperiously. She was decidedly finished with being man-handled and mocked. Her mind went to her small bronze knife, wondering if she could draw it, slide it between his ribs and be gone with none to notice.

“Gladly—when you return my pearls.”

“I don’t know…” she began, saw his look, and abandoned any ruse, while again considering her knife. “They were hardly yours. You stole them!”

He smiled a lopsided grin. “Conquest at sea. Petty theft is your specialty, my lovely rogue.”

She snorted. “A pirate—”

“Corsair, if you please. Completely different.”

“—lectures me on right behavior?” She tossed her long, dark hair and tried pulling her arm free once more. “In any case, I don’t have them.”

“You went through a small fortune rather swiftly, then.”

She finally succeeded in freeing her arm. “Do you think gowns, necklaces, and golden armlets—the tools of my trade—come cheaply? Ow!”

He held up the pearl earring he had plucked from her left ear. “It seems there was some left over.”

“Give that back,” Isúra snarled, reaching for the earring. But Sarrumos held his arm up and back, and as she reached for it swiftly plucked free the other earring.

“As I paid for them, I’ll keep these and call it a downpayment on what is owed. Now, what was your business with Lord Komal?”

The young thief flinched at her blackmailer’s name, thinking of the humiliation and threats she’d just endured, but thrust her chin out defiantly. “That’s not your affair.”

“Hah! While you owe me ten times the worth of these trinkets,” he held up the earrings, “all your schemes are my business. Besides, I’ve played pirate a time or two for Komal and know the man. He’s dangerous, Isúra.”

“Piracy? I thought you were a corsair.”

“Same thing.” He winked. “But I am serious, whatever he has you about, don’t do it. He does not trade fairly, ever.”

The young woman’s hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously, wondering if he knew how in over her head she already was. “And this matters to you why, exactly?”

“You owe me a small fortune in pearls, and made a fool of me besides?”

Isúra’s eyes softened; her teeth nervously nibbled her lower lip. “Alright, but we can’t speak on the street, not here. I have a room over a balché-house rented in case my ruse failed and I needed a haven. Let us go there and I will tell you,” she grinned impishly, “mostly everything.”

Isúra’s room was a small addition to the balché-house’s flat-roof, reached from a set of crumbly adobe steps on the building’s outside. Sarrumos followed her into the small, cobwebby room, keeping his back between her and the door.

“So, what madness with Chak-xib-Chak is Komal embroiling you in?”

Isúra, who had gone to pour water from an amphora on the small table into a simple, earthenware goblet, turned, eyes wide with surprise. “Why would you—”

“I told you: I’ve worked for the man. He’s obsessed with that Wahtēmallek—offered to pay me handsomely to kidnap the man on one of his many southern voyages.”

“And you declined?” she asked, handing him the goblet. He stepped forward to take it.

“Of course—it’s not as if I were a pirate.”

Even Isúra smiled at that, but her mind was racing. She had posed as Lady Alikké when Sarrumos had captured their ship. Playing at being a captive of the ship’s captain—who, although her lover, could not exactly claim otherwise, as he’d just drowned—she’d promised Sarrumos a small fortune as reward for her safe return to port. She’d used that time to get close enough to the man to find where he’d hid the pearls, rob them, and a few gold trinkets whose loss he still seemed ignorant of, and escape almost as soon as they were ashore.

And now, a moon and two cities later, here he was. He was clearly clever, and bold, and could fight… She glanced up at him and nodded fearfully.

“Yes, it was about Chak-xib-Chak and… Oh, Sarrumos, I am in so much trouble!”

The young corsair was about to reply, but then his arms were suddenly filled with the soft curves of a beautiful, young woman, and he was painfully aware that without a chemise, her dress fashionably cupped, lifted her bare bosom. Isúra, pressing her lips to his, felt his heart pounding and experienced a momentary vain thrill knowing she could rouse him so.

Then she snatched up the heavy amphora and slammed it into his skull.

Sarrumos went down without a word, his eyes rolling up into his head as he fell with a heavy thump. Isúra hesitated just a moment, then darted through the door and down the ill-kept stairs back into the crowded streets of the city.

Moving hurriedly through side alleys, before entering the broad central avenue that traversed the city from east to west gate, she stopped, arranged her long hair over one shoulder, and straightened the multi-colored flounces of her gown. Looking unruffled, aloof, and self-assured, the perfect Naakali noblewoman, she stepped out into the street and headed for her actual apartments, where Lord Komal’s men would collect her.

“The Captain realizes this is the third time this woman has made a fool of him?” Ollad asked dryly, as he plucked small pottery shards from Sarrumos’s head. “Far be it from me to tell him what to do, but—”

Sarrumos winced, as much from the ill-concealed smirk on his first mate’s homely face as the pain throbbing through his skull. “Your point, oh wise one?”

The barbarian shrugged, his long, crimson-dyed mohawk bobbing. “The pearls are gone, and whatever scheme she is about, nothing good comes to us for it. Why not be done with this, gather the crew and set sail?”

Sarrumos winced as Ollad washed out his torn scalp and braced himself for the bone stitching needle’s bite. “Wisely said, my friend, and your points are all well-taken. But I have another idea…”

Sighing, Ollad was perhaps less gentle than he could have been as he began stitching.

II. The House of Chak-xib-Chak

Kaketzewán was a confederation of four kingdoms, whose princes ruled together as secluded, absentee lords on the island-city of Anuxkaal, and whose people spoke a common tongue and descended from common ancestors. They were also united in their contempt of the Wahtēmallek city-states to their south, even though that ancient people’s pyramidal temples had risen towards the heavens a millennium before the first Kaketzewáni broke earth with a hoe or piled stones to build a home. Thus, although one of the city’s wealthiest residents, Chak-xib-Chak’s sprawling home lay amid the foreigner’s ghetto like a rare orchid amidst a pile of manure. Outwardly, it was massive, nearly a palace in size, but presented only a simple white adobe wall and glimpses of the gardens within to the outside world.

Inside, however, the house betrayed its owner’s vast wealth and love of artistry. Every wall was painted in murals of deep, russet reds and brilliant aquamarines; every door had carved lintels of dancing gods, heroes, exotic beasts, and creatures that were assemblies of all three. Rarities of jade, gold, turquoise and stegodont ivory were openly exhibited, apparently unguarded—except by the rumors that those who sought to cheat or rob Chak-xib-Chak met baroquely terrible deaths.

Sarrumos hurriedly put that thought from his mind as an overweight male servant brought him into an antechamber where he might wash away the dust and sweat from walking the city streets on a hot afternoon. Dressed in a richly embroidered vest and elaborately pleated cotton kilt, a gold armband coiled like a serpent about his left arm, Sarrumos looked the part of an aristocrat, as he disdainfully sniffed the marigold blossom he carried.

“Tell your master that Lord Mnéktu Six-Flower Atrekkos of Mukenete is here on a matter of commerce.”

With a low bow the portly servant led him into the courtyard at the house’s center, featuring a small carp pond and fountain before which rich cushions were arranged. A second servant, a lovely young woman, disappeared into the house but returned shortly with chilled nectar and a tray of honey-covered locusts and candied papaya.

Crunching into a locust, Sarrumos leaned back against the trunk of the lone tree surrounded by dahlias and tried looking jaded as he sat immersed amongst a level of luxury his own father—a true, landed Naakali lord—could not afford.

When Chak-xib-Chak appeared, his entry was as mysterious as his reputation—one moment, Sarrumos was alone, sipping nectar and watching the carp swim, and the next, his host was standing before him, dressed with a simplicity belying his incredible wealth. Chak-xib-Chak was a big man for a Wahtēmallek, easily Sarrumos’s height, but squarely built, round-shouldered and bowlegged. Of a people who struggled growing facial hair, his thin wisp of beard and long mustachios were distinctive, as was the impressive curve of his nose.

“The Obsidian Flower Clan does my house much honor,” he said in perfect High Naakal, the refined language of the Imperial elite, while making a small bow of his head.

Sniffing his marigold to hide his frown, Sarrumos’s mind scrambled. He had not mentioned a clan, merely a lineage name and city… Had he randomly picked an aristocratic family that had active dealings on Tukolatl?

He chose to simply say nothing, and the burly merchant-prince added, “It is a long way from Mukenete… What brings the Great One to my humble home?”

“A not so humble home! The glories and treasures of Chak-xib-Chak are famed even in the Empire, and,” he let his hand gesture expansively about him, “I see it is all true. Many a Naakali wannax would envy your success. But I do come for a specific purpose. My clan seeks a marital alliance, one that, if I might speak plainly, is somewhat higher than my lineage, and such ambition must be won with extraordinary gifts. Gifts such as the treasures it is said my host exports from the deep south.”

The merchant nodded slowly, face inscrutable, as he bit into a candied papaya slice with almost ridiculous slowness. “Such as?”

Sometimes the best deception was to speak almost the truth. “It is said Chak-xib-Chak trades in the rarest of treasures: the blue jade of Zama.”

“Ah. Yes…a stone reputed for its beauty, rarity, and many properties…medicinal, spiritual and…otherwise.”

“It is greatly coveted by Naakali women of high birth.”

“The Great One will pardon a humble merchant his directness: the stone is also priced accordingly.”

Sarrumos sniffed his marigold. “Of course, and the Obsidian Flower is prepared to pay handsomely.”

The merchant considered, then nodded. “What stone I have—both carved and in raw form—is kept inside, with my personal treasures. These,” he gestured about him dismissively, “are just amusements to impress the ignorant. Come.”

Together, they walked along another corridor painted in rich frescoes, its floor carpeted with llama-wool rugs from distant Tzantzutzwányu. Chak-xib-Chak opened a rosewood door, carved with terrifying underworld figures, and ushered his guest into a broad sitting room lined with shelves, upon which idols in jade, gold, and stegodont ivory snarled, grinned, or stared expressionlessly at the two men. Sarrumos could only wonder at what treasures dwelt within the many gold caskets scattered among them.

After a moment, he realized that his host was smiling at his gaping mouth.

“I am glad to see the Lord Mnéktu is so taken with my humble goods. But please,” he gestured to the thickly-piled petate-mats at the room’s center and the low, mahogany table between them, “let us drink chokatl—spiced and chilled, as we do in the south—and speak of business afterwards.”

Once they were seated, the burly Wahtēmallek merchant struck a small gong, and a slim female slave, clad only in a sleeveless jacket of gossamer-thin cotton and a short hip wrap, hurried in and knelt. The merchant ordered their drinks; she bowed then slipped out of the room.

While they waited, the two men spoke about the sorts of empty pleasantries that Sarrumos had found tedious when he lived in his father’s palace—having to suffer through them while playing the role of ‘Lord Mnéktu’ was decidedly worse. He was saved by the slave girl returning with their drinks. Setting the tray on the small table, she bowed forward, head to the ground, displaying breasts beneath the low-necked jacket far fuller, and lighter-skinned than before, and Sarrumos tensed with realization.

Isúra sat back on her knees and for just a moment her eyes met his and grew wide, panicked. Then, the beautiful thief regained control and said mildly, “Your drinks, Masters.”

Chak-xib-Chak gestured for his guest to choose a chilled cup and smiled. “I thought the Lord Mnéktu might enjoy being served by one of newest treasures—and a reminder of his homeland’s beauty.”

Sarrumos’s eyes narrowed. Few Naakali, certainly not ‘Tenaakali’—the pure born aristocrats—found their way into slavery, and certainly not to foreign masters, whom the Naakali deemed inferiors. He was being tested.

He made a point of letting his eyes move slowly over the kneeling girl, taking in every curve, the heavy gold earrings that pierced her ears, the small jade studs set in her nose. Isúra flushed and lowered her head with a shudder.

“For one born so high to fall so low—what was her crime?” Sarrumos asked languidly, sipping from his cup.

The merchant shrugged. “She was a gift. A bit of a spitfire, until my overseer’s lash calmed her down. I am told she tried using her charms to seduce men from their wealth and was found out.”

“Well, then she is just where she belongs.” He saw Isúra wince, and thinking of his own healing scalp, suppressed a small, admittedly petty, smile.

He allowed the conversation to return to trivialities as they sipped their drinks, keeping one eye on Isúra, then decided the time for action had arrived.

“I thank Chak-xib-Chak for his hospitality but can hold my curiosity no longer: that jade figurine is of a jaguar is it not? I feel the style is known to me.”

The merchant followed his gaze and laughed. “Only if the Great One is familiar with the highland style of Elder Baak. Let me show you.”

He rose and turned to fetch the figurine. As he did, Sarrumos slipped out a small clay vile and upended its contents into the merchant’s half-full cup of chokolatl. Seeing what he was about, Isúra let out a small gasp, shaking her head frantically, but the deed was done, and the burly Wahtēmallek returned with the anthropomorphic figurine.

“This is a balam-totem, one of the Jaguar Folk from whom many southern kings claim descent,” he explained animatedly. “Such are still made, but the jade workers of Elder Baak—not the current city, but its antecedent.” He lifted his cup and drank deeply, neither Sarrumos nor Isúra hearing another word he said, their eyes riveted to the merchant, unsure what would happen next.

Chak-xib-Chak finished his drink, licking his lips with a small look of consternation, then set the empty goblet down, forgotten and returned to explaining what made the figurine so unique, and expensive, should his guest desire it.

“All in all, an excellent piece, though likely not as a betrothal gift. For that, I might suggest—” He started to rise, swayed violently, eyes blinking rapidly, one ringed hand reaching to touch his forehead. He crashed heavily to the floor, unconscious.

Sarrumos leaped up and moved the merchant onto the mats, propping him beside the table, as he listened for a heartbeat.

“You’ve killed him!” Isúra hissed, rising to her feet.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort, he breathes.”

“Yes—for now—but it is a poison, and that was more than enough to kill.”

Sarrumos looked down at the unconscious merchant then to the young thief. “Oh…”

“What are you doing here?” Isúra demanded, as she padded on bare feet to close the heavy door.

“Among other things, rescuing you—not that you deserve it. Weren’t you told to expect one of Komal’s agents?”

“You?” she gasped.

“Yes! Well, no, not exactly. After you tried bashing in my skull, I spent the better part of a ten-day searching for you, until I intercepted Komal’s man. Ollad and I persuaded him to explain what he was about. Then I took his place.”

“You weren’t supposed to do any of this! I was supposed to drug him in the night, when the house was quiet.”

Sarrumos pointed to the sprawling merchant. “Well, I did, so now we need to go with my plan.”

“Which is?” she demanded, her face and breath growing more flushed with anger.

The corsair shrugged. “I haven’t one yet, but I am sure I will, by the time we need it. Did you find the Skull? I certainly don’t see it here.”

“Yes! He keeps it in his own chambers, in the place reserved for a shrine.” She paused, and he saw her skin pimple as she shuddered. “Sarrumos, the wild tales they tell—that Chak-xib-Chak worships the Skull; offers it blood and speaks to it—it is all true! That and…more.”

She trembled, remembering the strange chants she’d heard at night, only sometimes in Chak-xib-Chak’s voice—the slave called to tend upon his offerings, who’d simply been gone come morning with no one in the household willing to speak of it.

“If don’t give the Skull to Komal, he—”

He stepped forward and gripped her by the arms, firmly, but his voice was surprisingly kind for a man she’d robbed and assaulted.

“Isúra, Komal plans to either keep you in his own harem or cut your throat to silence you, as he deems best. His own man confessed to it. Instead, I say we take the Skull, and,” he looked about, “a few of these pieces for our trouble, then get far from here on the Wave-Serpent, where Komal can’t reach you.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because I am the gods’ own fool. And it was a good chance to see you dressed like this and make a profit besides! Now we must hurry!”

Blushing at his words, Isúra nodded, and opened the heavy door slowly.

III. Hearts and Shadows

“Behind that curtain is where the Skull lays.”

They’d passed quietly through the house, avoiding another of the female house slaves busy on some errand of her own, and slipped into the broad bedchamber, one wall of which opened onto the central courtyard where he’d first met Chak-xib-Chak. Arms decorated in golden bands, a jade necklace adorning her throat below the wooden slave collar, they’d turned Isúra into living contraband before leaving the treasury. Sarrumos, who held the obsidian knife Komal’s agent was given, would have his hands free to fight.

Skirting along the inner walls to avoid being seen by anyone passing through the courtyard, Sarrumos saw the innermost wall had a deep niche, covered by a curtain of thin, red maguey cloth behind which the outline of a human head could be seen.

Tearing aside the curtain, the corsair let out a small gasp. The entire alcove was plated in black obsidian polished mirror bright. Seated at the center, between offering bowls of copal incense and tall candles, was the Skull of Siyaj Kek itself.

Slightly larger than that of a mortal man, the Skull was misshapen, the cranium ovular, distended towards the rear, creating a long, flat forehead. Sarrumos had thought it would be like some of the temple relics he had observed: a mortal skull plated in blue jade. Instead, it appeared to be carved from a single, massive piece of the precious stone, into which a thin gold circlet was set like a diadem, and on that band a collection of other precious stones. The eye pits were filled with spondylus shell, with blank onyx creating a ‘pupil’ for the eyes. The Skull’s gaping jaws held no tongue, but instead a small, copper tray upon which lay a strange, shriveled object, clearly painted in the tacky remains of drying blood. It took Sarrumos a moment to realize that it was a mummified human heart.

“Lovely, is it not?”

The low voice cracked the tense stillness like the heart-stopping blast of an explosion. Sarrumos whirled about and saw Chak-xib-Chak standing before them, smiling dangerously, his dark eyes twinkling with menace.

“What—?” Isúra gasped weakly. “How.”

“One does not live so long, or so well, as I, little slave, without being cautious. A Naakali girl is gifted to me, and a ten-day later a Naakali lordling comes seeking to buy my most expensive wears? It seemed prudent to suppose a plot was afoot.”

“How did you know I wasn’t Mnéktu Atrekkos?” Sarrumos asked dry-lipped; denial seemed absurd.

“A thief would not use his own name. As to the rest, well, have not a dozen thieves tried to steal the Skull?” He spoke softly, but his eyes were malevolent. “I congratulate your boldness, if not your cleverness—none have tried murdering me by the clear light of day.”

“You drank the poison! You should be unconscious—dying,” Isúra said.

“I should,” Chak-xib-Chak agreed, walking slowly toward them. “And yet, here I stand. Did I not say many have tried taking what is mine? What more is a man’s than his life?”

Sarrumos watched the merchant’s approach, judged the distance, and sent the small obsidian blade flying. It bit deep into the notch between the clavicles, sinking deep into his fleshy throat.

Chak-xib-Chak stumbled, made a wheezing gasp, and reflexively pulled the blade free. Garnet red blood, which should have gushed as the knife came free, merely trickled. The moment the blade was clear, the wound began closing, while something neither shadow nor mist but nearly both and blue as the Skull of Siyaj Kek itself, flowed forth.

Gripping Isúra’s arm, Sarrumos sprang back, trying to shield her with his body, as Chak-xib-Chak, face convulsed in a mask of bestial rage, lunged forward, and caught her by the wrist. For a moment the comely Naakali thief was pulled between them in a tug-of-war and felt if she’d be torn in twain. But the blue jade mist, having coalesced into something approximating a man’s form lunged at Sarrumos, clenching his throat with translucent hands that felt horrifically substantial. A numbing chill flashed down through the corsair’s body, made worse as Sarrumos gripped the spectral hands with his own, gasping for air.

“You have defamed my house, betrayed your master, and sullied the Skull with your impure touch!” Chak-xib-Chak swore at Isúra, his big hand squeezing her slender wrist as he pulled her into his arms. She felt herself lifted effortlessly and fought kicking and scratching as she was carried into the Skull’s curtained alcove.

“Siyaj Kek hungers for all death denies. Together, you will feed him with your blood, your pain, your fear—”

Isúra did not need to hear what else she might offer Siyaj Kek’s shade. Her eyes swept the room helplessly; saw naught but the Skull leering at her. She bit her teeth down hard into the merchant’s thumb. Her captor registered little pain, but she bit harder, felt sinew tear and the gap in a joint burst as coppery-salty taste filled her mouth. Apparently, her captor’s ensorcelled flesh was not immune to all damage. Chak-xib-Chak screeched as his maimed hand lost its grip. Isúra spat the severed thumb free, raking painted nails at the injured man’s eyes to claw her way free.

Snatching up one of the offering bowls, she smashed it across his face for good measure and fled the alcove to find Sarrumos faring poorly. Having fallen to the floor, he was crawling on all fours, reaching desperately for the obsidian knife that lay close to where the room opened into the courtyard. The blue shade sat astride him, a flickering arm seeking to crush his throat in the crook of its elbow. As the young corsair’s eyes bulged and his face turned purple, the rest of his body grew pale with red blotches as if frost-bit.

Seeing his quarry, Isúra sprang past the downed Sarrumos and snatched up the knife, using it to slice at the shade, but the obsidian passed through it ineffectually.

With all his strength, Sarrumos pulled against the spectral arm stealing his air and gasped. “Heart! Stab…heart!”

“I can’t see its chest!” Isúra cried in despair.

“Not…” Sarrumos gasped, eyes bulging in anger now as well as strangulation. “There! Heart…Skull!” He tried to point behind him, towards the alcove she’d just fled, and that drove him face down onto the floor.

“Oh,” she said worriedly, biting her lip. Already, Chak-xib-Chak was stumbling toward her, clutching his hand to his chest, his wounded face nearly healed. Keeping the fallen corsair between the big merchant and herself, she again stabbed at the wraith to no avail. Returning to the alcove was a dead end.

“H…heart!”

To the Nine Hells with it!

Hurling the copper offering bowl still clutched in her left hand at Chak-xib-Chak, she leaped nimbly over Sarrumos’s flailing legs and dashed back toward the alcove, the merchant’s bellowing curses now echoing through the villa. Tearing aside the gossamer drapery, Isúra looked down at the blue jade Skull and the mummified jewel it held between its jaws and drove the obsidian blade straight down just as a massive hand closed about her neck.

There was no scream, only a terrible gasp, and sucking in of air, as the hand released her. Isúra did not look back, just twisted the knife in the heart, then drew it back and struck again and again, slicing the shriveled organ to pieces, until she heard a heavy thump behind her. Turning, she saw Chak-xib-Chak lying sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, pupils fixed and set in death’s empty gaze, his maimed hand lying over his heart. No, where his heart should have been, she realized.

Sarrumos!

Racing back into the main chamber, Isúra found him back on his feet, still fighting the specter, though it seemed frailer, less substantial, than before. In the doorway stood a pair of the merchants’ guards and several slaves, slack-jawed at what they were seeing, unsure what to do as their master’s ‘guest’ battled a flickering blue wraith who had wrapped its arms and legs about him as if he were a mount to be broken.

With a heave of his legs, Sarrumos stumbled past them into the courtyard. The moment they were revealed to the daylight the wraith began unravelling into tendrils of blue mist that dissipated faster than morning dew under a hot sun.

Sarrumos doubled over, hands on knees, panting heavily as he sucked in air. Only now did the guards start coming to their senses, holding their short-hafted axes at the ready. Seeing this, the corsair held out a hand as if signaling they should give him a moment to catch his breath.

“Chak-xib-Chak is dead, a trafficker in sorcery. The Governor will see every one of you put to death as accomplices. Or,” he added hastily, “the girl and I slip out the door, you wait a turn to summon the authorities, and this is a robbery-murder with none held guilty but us.”

“Or we kill you both, none know the difference, and we are admired for having avenged our Master,” one of the guards suggested.

“You might do that,” Sarrumos agreed, “but you just saw me slay a demon, and the girl dispatch Chak-xib-Chak—a sorcerer. So, which of you dies first?”

The guards exchanged glances, and as the shocked slaves and servants watched, stepped aside.

They slipped into the alleyway from the servants’ entrance in the villa’s sidewall; a mixed-race nobleman in decidedly bedraggled finery, and a Naakali woman who might have been an aristocrat, were she not in a slave’s attire. She clutched a large satchel to her breasts.

“Out of here, quickly!” muttered Sarrumos. “They’ll like as not give us up early.”

They fled up a shadowed alley and emerged into a narrow street off one of the main markets. It was still only late afternoon.

“Are you taking me to Komal-tzin’s?” Isúra asked.

“No. He does mean to sell or kill you—and likely throw me into the bargain. We’re headed to the wharf. I told Ollad to have the Wave-Serpent ready to sail, as I might be…in a hurry.”

“You seem practiced at this,” she said with a wry smile. Her heart was only now slowing its pounding and her mind ordering all that happened.

“A pirate’s life,” Sarrumos winked.

“I thought you were a corsair.”

“She understands at last! Come! In an hour’s time we’ll be at sea, and Lord Komal, Chak-xib-Chak, and Tokolatl behind us.”

“And the Skull?” she asked. “It will be hard to fence, but its worth—”

A little tingle of pleasure ran through her as Sarrumos abruptly caught her hungrily to him. Finding her soft lips unresisting, he kissed her long and deep, then stepped back and fingered the large satchel wistfully.

“Its worth is invaluable, but best sold to the sea bottom. Let Sayaj Kek, whatever he is, make his next pact with a porpoise.”

Isúra looked from man to satchel and back and sighed. “Well, we have the gold.”

“You have the gold—for a slave you’re wearing more wealth than half the city’s noblewomen. This time, I’m collecting my share.”

“Of the gold?” she asked, feigning innocence.

He slipped an arm about her narrow waist. “Oh yes, that too.”

Isúra smiled and let him draw her towards the wharf, surprised that all thoughts of knifing him had truly faded from her mind.

The Skull of Siyaj Kek © 2025 by Greg Mele. (6300 words) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and clipart by Gilead, used by permission.

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