The Lovers Of Mylitta.

To rid the temple of these holdovers, slaves wishing their freedom were frequently required to engage them. Tummaz cringed at the thought of the human refuse he would likely encounter in the recess of the temple. Rumour had it that the current crop of atrocities had turned many a slave back to his master.

Finally brushing the dust off his badly worn garments, he headed for the Ziggurat, feeling he had wasted enough time. He had been told he would find the temple priest within the Great Tower, as the Holy Man usually spent his nights atop the tall structure, reading the fate of the city and its leaders in the wanderings of distant stars.

He did not have to enter the building as the priest was waiting for him at the entrance. Tummaz felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight of the man as he stepped into the sunlit street. Old, but yet vigorous, he stood erect, an imposing figure in his long flowing robe decorated with mystic symbols. His piercing eyes and long grey beard were all Tummaz could discern of his face as he gazed in awe at the glowing apparition.

“You are Tummaz?” the old man asked in a low, steady voice, before Tummaz could speak.

“Yes, You have heard of me?” Tummaz uttered half surprised by the recognition.

“I am Radrkenzor, guardian of the temple of Mylitta”, he continued as Tummaz peered into his fiery eyes. “As such it is my duty to show you the way that you must go to reach the women you are to set free.”

“I am ready to accomplish any task required,” Tummaz heard himself say, trying to maintain his courage in the presence of the Holy Man, amidst an almost tangible tension that charged the atmosphere.

“Do not be so hasty, young man. The task demanded of you might well prove more difficult than facing death in the midst of battle,” the priest continued in an emotionless tone, “You would probably favour a sow over the woman you are about to meet. But come, see if you are up to it.”

Tummaz followed the pries across the narrow alley that separated the temple from the Ziggurat. The Holy Man pointed the way:

“Follow the hall till you reach the end. There, in the inner entrails of the fane you will find the human refuse that not even vermin will approach. Go and do what you must … if you have the courage.”

Tummaz found these words rather disconcerting and felt a mounting sense of apprehension. Was the priest trying to discourage him? Why? He surely could not profit from any failure on Tummaz’s part. Grabbing a torch off the entrance wall, he headed down the narrow dark corridor as the thought of being returned to his master soon stifled any reservation he had about his forthcoming ordeal.

He walked on down the hall till, reaching the end, he found a small entrance to the left. As he entered hesitantly, his torch before him, he found himself in a small dank room where his eyes came to rest upon a squatting figure which gazed at the earthen floor, apparently oblivious to his stare.

He was repelled by what he saw: a lump of misshapen flesh, the merest semblance of a woman. He could clearly see a large hump on her back, her limbs grossly deformed, sagging like those of a resting puppet, a contorted face in which nature seemed to have done her utmost to violate the laws of symmetry and proportion; the eyes uneven as to location and size, the nose upturned and crooked, the gaping mouth that bared blackened jagged teeth from an abnormally forward protruding lower jaw. Even her skin had not been spared, having the melted-wax texture of scalded flesh.

Slowly he approached the drooping figure. She was still, her mind seemingly unwilling to accept the thought that the approaching stranger was to be her deliverer. As her closeness encroached upon him, he froze, repelled by the putrid stench.