The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) by Matt Gilbert

closed them again. He was warm now, and for a moment, it
seemed all would be well. Then he tried to draw a breath.
    His body seemed to move of its
own accord. He hurled himself onto his stomach, the claws of a
hundred cats scraping at his lungs and his belly. He heaved and
vomited seawater onto the sand beneath him. It seemed as though he
were filled with it.
    Shouts arose around him. “Ahmed
lives!” “Liar! He is dead as stone, I saw him!”
“Dog! Come and see!”
    Ahmed recognized Sandilianus’s
sharp features as the soldier knelt beside him. Sandilianus nodded
and gave him a smile. “So he is. I am glad to be wrong.”
    Ahmed, fairly busy trying to
breathe, simply nodded a response.
    Another shout. “Ho! Tahir
is dead!”
    Ahmed, still unable to speak,
managed to struggle to his feet as Sandilianus called out in an
incredulous shout, “What? How is he dead?”
    Sandilianus charged toward
where Tahir lay on the sand, surrounded by four of the crew. Ahmed
followed as quickly as he could. One of the men was trying to
explain what had happened. “He called to Ilaweh, and then he
dropped dead.”
    Sandilianus gave the man a
quizzical look. “Tahir called to Ilaweh? You are certain?”
    The crewman nodded, and
Sandilianus shook his head in wonder. “Then we can guess why
he is dead. He must have hit his head, and hard. It’s the only
way Tahir would be talking to Ilaweh!”
    The others nodded and murmured
agreement, and Ahmed nodded too. It was easier than speaking his
true thoughts. In his heart, Ahmed felt Sandilianus had the right of
things the first time. I was dead, and Tahir alive. Somehow, Tahir had taken his place. That is madness!
    Yet
it felt true.
    Perhaps I hit my head, too. He decided that it would be best to take stock of himself
before doing much else, especially contemplating insane notions.
Save for the water left in his lungs, which was still forcing itself
from him every few moments in fits of ragged coughing, he was
reasonably whole. His shoulder ached from where he had bashed it
against the cabin door, and he had plenty of bruises and scrapes,
but these were nothing. No broken bones, no gashes or anything
requiring treatment, certainly.
    With a start, he remembered
Brutus’s papers and the charge he had lain on Ahmed’s
shoulders. Ahmed reached inside his shirt and sighed his relief to
find the oilcloth bag just where he had placed it. As he pulled it
out to examine the contents, something hard and heavy fell from his
shirt.
    He bent to retrieve it and
wiped sand from its surface. It was metal, covered in years of
calcified accretions, but clearly artificial. It was difficult to
see what it had once been, though it seemed it might have been a
depiction of a face. There was a hint of a nose, a mouth, perhaps an
eye. But it was strangely proportioned, if so.
    The sword Brutus had given him
had also, miraculously, made the journey to shore. Ahmed had stuck
it in his belt, and Ilaweh had been kind. Ahmed took the blade and
carved at the deposits on the lump of metal, gradually clearing the
surface as best he could with such a tool. He was pleased to see
that his guess had been correct. It was a face, or at least half of
one, the right side of a tiny lion’s head, mouth open in a
roar, empty eye socket staring at him in blind fury. Likely, there
had been a gem there, once. The side in the middle was smooth, with
no sign that there had ever been a left side at all. But why make
half a lion head?
    Ahmed shrugged. Might
as well ask why it ended up in my shirt, for all the good it will
do. He held it up to the sun, examining it, trying to
work out what sort of metal it was. It shone like gold, but it was
far too hard. Even steel did not scratch it.
    He tucked the piece into a
pocket. It would make a nice souvenir, a memoir he could show to his
children some day, and tell them of the time he had sailed the
ocean, been shipwrecked, and almost drowned. For now, he had other
matters to attend. He checked