The Dark Lord (69 page)

The clanking sound rose to a sharp pitch, then suddenly tension released on the line. Shirin fell heavily, cracking her hip on the floor. A dull, thundering
boom
sounded in the distance and grit puffed from the broken statue. Penelope rose wearily, favoring her leg. She grinned ferociously in the light of a sputtering, broken lamp.

"Sleep well, old Queen," she barked, laughing like a hyena. "Rest in the earth, forever undisturbed by the sons of Herakles the defiler!" A claw-like hand gripped Shirin's shoulder, sharpened nails digging through the cloth of her tunic. "Come, child, we've only moments to escape."

"Get up!" Thyatis shouted as grit rained down from the groaning ceiling. She kicked Vladimir over, saw he was breathing—though stunned—and grasped his wrist. The Walach was surprisingly heavy, all corded muscle and bone, but she brooked no resistance and dragged him to his feet. Pushing him ahead of her, Thyatis scuttled towards the entrance. The floor rippled under her feet, shuddering in response to a new creaking in the walls. The big Persian shouted in alarm.

Ignoring the enemy and the trembling walls, Thyatis shoved Vladimir through the half-opening beside the toppled slab, then jumped through herself. Nicholas scrambled after and Thyatis didn't wait, bolting across the outer chamber for the ramp leading up to the surface. A rolling series of thunderous cracks followed, slamming down behind them. Thyatis vaulted a wooden casket of tiny statues, skidded on an uneasy floor and slammed into the wall beside the tunnel entrance.

Vladimir, eyes wide in fear, scuttled past on all fours and up the ramp.

"Come on!" Thyatis shouted at Nicholas. The Roman ran towards her, his footing poor as the floor rippled and buckled, slabs canting up at strange angles. He leapt towards her, catching her outstretched hand. A massive block of stone plunged from the ceiling behind Nicholas, smashing on the floor, sending flakes of sandstone whistling through the air. Thyatis ducked, feeling splinters ring from her armor. Then they were both scrambling up the ramp.

Another block broke free with a roar and slammed down near the entrance to the tunnel. Dust and smoke from burning plaster billowed into the room, obscuring two figures as they stumbled and staggered out of the tomb chamber. A feeble spark of light flared from an upraised hand and the wizard appeared out of the murk, half-carried by the big Persian.

At the top of the ramp, Vladimir sprang to his feet in the octagonal chamber. Thyatis saw him start back in surprise, then the domed roof splintered, raining chunks of stone and wooden supports into the room.

"Go," she screamed, grasping hold of Nicholas' collar. Choking, the Latin scrabbled at the stone and Thyatis threw him into the chamber. At the same moment, the roof of the tunnel buckled, and came sliding down with a roar.

Flinging herself forward, Thyatis rolled out of the opening just before a granite slab crashed down, blocking the passage. Half-blinded by dust, now plunged into complete darkness, Thyatis scrambled across the chamber, working from hazy memory. Three steps on, she crashed into a dazed Nicholas. "Vladimir! Where are you?"

"Here," came a hoarse shout from the gloom. Thyatis shuffled forward, one arm under his, her right foot now bare on the rubble-strewn floor. Cursing the fickle, ungracious gods, she led with a groping hand, feeling rock splinters under an unexpectedly bare foot, then suddenly found Vladimir's shoulder. "Follow me!" The Walach barked, relieved.

Together, the three Romans fled up the ramp, Vladimir in the lead.

Behind them, the tomb rippled and shook as ancient balances and weights released, each corridor and chamber roof collapsing in violent sequence. A choking, smoke-stained wind rushed past Thyatis, the tomb's breath exhaled in final death. The walls groaned again, but the Walach gave a glad cry. "I can see the sky!"

Thyatis looked up, eyes smarting with tears, and saw a faint rectangular outline ahead filled with the cold gleam of starlight.

A dull series of
booms
rattled the ground, then tapered off into silence. In the pale moonlight, Thyatis could barely make out the slow, rolling cloud of dust and smoke issuing from the tomb door. When complete silence returned, the Roman woman turned away and trudged back across the drifting sand to the others and their camels. Nicholas was waiting, a few paces from Vladimir and Betia, who stared at the ground, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Anything?" The Latin's voice was still hoarse from smoke.

Thyatis shook her head. "No, no one came out."

"Good riddance," Nicholas said bitterly, sheathed blade held against his chest in an oddly intimate pose. "Did the amulet ever react?"

"No." Thyatis kept her voice level. She hadn't spared a thought for the prince's talisman, though it was still tucked safely between her tunic and armor. Aside from its first trembling when they approached, she didn't remember any odd sensation. In the struggle in the tomb, she'd had no moment to spare for any warning or sign the amulet might have given. "If a telecast was in there, we didn't get close enough."

Nicholas spit on the ground, silently furious. "What a waste."

"True enough." Thyatis nodded, feeling a cold, empty sensation at the thought of Mithridates' easy smile. Bending her head, she said a short prayer for the departed dead.
But you will not go into the darkness alone, comrade,
she thought.
The Aryan lords will bear you golden cups, filled with new wine. Their sorcerer will be your servant in high-ceilinged halls, overlooking fields of golden wheat.
She tilted her head towards the camels. "Let's move—the Persians may have friends about."

The Latin nodded sharply and turned away. Thyatis walked up to Betia and Vladimir, shrugging the scabbard of her own sword to a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "Vladimir, thank you," she said softly. "We wouldn't have gotten out without you and your nose." The barbarian gave her a blank, exhausted look in return, then nodded sadly.

"There's blood debt aplenty," he said, then coughed. Betia helped him stand up. The Walach managed a wry grimace in the place of a smile. "We can't pay Mithridates back... but another grain for that wizard to do his work and we'd have all been roasted on a spit."

Thyatis nodded in agreement, clasping wrists with the barbarian. "But we live," she said.

"We live." Vladimir limped away towards the pile of baggage. Nicholas was already loading the camels with bags of water and bundles of clothing and tools.

Thyatis looked down at Betia, her own weariness and grief undisguised. "Did you see anything?"

Betia nodded, her eyes smudged pits of darkness in the moonlight. Her small face seemed carved from ivory. "I saw the Persians come," the little Gaul said softly, "but before I could creep down into the tunnel, two more... men came."

"Two?" Thyatis tensed, feeling the darkness—which had seemed almost comforting, a dark cloak laid across the land, hiding them from any prying eyes—fill with malice. "What kind of men? Persians?"

Betia shook her head minutely. "I don't think so. I could not see their faces and all their garb and armor was black as pitch. They... crept along the ground like Vladimir when he hunts. They were following our tracks."

"Where did they go?"

The little Gaul pointed off into the night, towards the jumble of pillars and wind-carved spires rising from the desert to the north. "That way. They didn't come back." She shivered. "I think they were ghosts."

"Why?"

Betia's face remained impassive, though Thyatis regretted the disbelief in her voice. The girl deserved better—she was no apprentice, not any more!

"When they were well gone, I went down onto the sand," the Gaul said sharply. "They left no tracks. No trace at all. There was a strange feeling in the air."

Thyatis nodded. "If the Persians have allied themselves with infernal powers, they will receive aid from unexpected sources." She shook out her shoulders. "The more distance between us and this place, the better."

Betia said nothing. Thyatis made to take her hand, but the little Gaul flinched away.

"Keep watch behind," Thyatis said, pretending nothing had happened. The girl would deal with these matters in her own way. There was little time for anything but flight now. "Nicholas, let's move. There are
lamiae
abroad tonight!"

The camels made a low, grumbling sound, but the Latin had bound their mouths closed to prevent the ungainly creatures from bellowing. Vladimir moved downwind, a bundle heavy on his back. Thyatis cast an eye around, making sure they'd left nothing behind. Nicholas rapped the lead camel on the haunch with his switch and the animal shuffled to motion, broad three-toed feet splaying on the sand.

"What did she see?" Nicholas strode up, the hood of his cloak cast back on broad shoulders.

"Two figures," Thyatis answered, settling her feet in a new pair of boots. They were too big for her feet, but Mithridates didn't need them anymore, did he? "Betia didn't think they were human. The only other players in this game are the Persians, so I think they summoned
special
help—but it didn't quite arrive in time. They must have gotten something from our poet too."

"Huh. Doesn't matter now, does it? Not with the tomb buried under countless tons of sand and rock." Nicholas' voice was very sour in the darkness. Thyatis couldn't see his face in the moonlight, but knew the man was grinding his teeth. "We didn't cover our tracks very well. They could have followed us out here."

"Into a dead end," she said with a certain wry tone. They began to descend from the ridge, down into one of the long, stony valleys running east and west, parallel to the prevailing winds. The footing was poor, but they could make better time than on the soft slopes of the dunes. "Now the question is... did the Persians know where the 'device' really is? I think they didn't—not if they followed us out here."

"True," Nicholas said, his mood lifting. "The Cypriot was telling the truth, then! He hadn't time to contact them between finding his blessed lading document and our arrival." He stopped, though the camel kept ambling along. "Should we go back?"

Thyatis bit her lip, considering the situation. She wished the Duchess were here. Then the conniving old woman could clean up her own mess!
The needs of the moment are more pressing,
she realized.
If the prince's toy spoke true, there is a telecast in there. Is it safe to leave behind, buried in the sand? The Persians might dig it out.
Thyatis realized she was fingering the amulet in kind of a nervous tic. Nicholas was staring at her, hands on his hips, head canted to one side.

"No," Thyatis started to say, then stopped. She suddenly recognized the scent she had tasted in the tomb air. Unbidden memories rose, lifting her head with a start.

"What in Hel are you smiling about?" Nicholas growled, picking at the scab around his eye. "Do we go back or not?"

"No." Thyatis shook her head, schooling her lips to a grim, thoughtful line. But her heart was singing, though a corner of her mind cautioned vigorously against disappointment.
The coffins were disturbed,
she remembered.
Someone else was in the tomb with us. She was in the tomb. I smelled her perfume. That's why this toy didn't react—the telecast had already been taken away!

Near giddy with relief, Thyatis let herself breathe, feeling a vast weight lift from her.

"No," she said again, suppressing a wild grin, "there's nothing there. Just coffins and broken stone and dead men. Let them dig all they like." Then gladness fled sickeningly and she almost turned around, to run back towards the buried tomb, to dig wildly in the collapsed rubble. Gritting her teeth, Thyatis started walking east again.
There is another entrance,
she reminded herself,
another way out. The telecast was not there! They—she—escaped, they carried the device away in time. Betia's warning was heeded. Please, goddess, let it be so.

"What about the other one, then?" Nicholas sounded surly again. Thyatis barely heard him.

"That one," she heard herself say, distantly, "we'll find without them finding us."

Fallen stone creaked and grumbled, slowly settling. The sandstone pinnacle above the tomb adjusted itself, squeaking and shifting, to the abused fracture lines running through its stony heart. In one of the tunnels—only partially filled with fallen debris—the dust settled in thin, veil-like sheets. At the end of the corridor two black shapes knelt amid haphazard slabs and jammed, splintered sandstone blocks.

Without the hiss of strained breath, in silence save for the scraping grind of stone on stone, they lifted a massive plinth. One figure held the slab upright, while the other crawled beneath—heedless of the mass teetering above—and dug into the looser shale below. After a moment, someone coughed and a hand waved weakly from the rubble. Obsidian fingers seized the collar of the man's armor and dragged him forth. Another body was recovered in a similar manner, then all four clambered back up the sloping tunnel and out under the night sky.

The two dark shapes dropped their burdens on the sand, letting Patik and Artabanus sprawl on the cooling ground. The wizard coughed weakly, his face streaked with blood, a purpling bruise spreading on the side of his face and shoulder. Despite his wounds, the middle-aged Persian clutched a tangled leather sandal to his chest.

"You breathe," one of the dark shapes said in a cold voice. "Speak." It rolled the big man over with the point of an armored shoe.

Patik gasped, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and his eyes wavered open. The looming figure was only darkness against darkness, vaguely outlined by missing stars. "The...
cough...
Romans found nothing. The tomb was...
wheeze...
empty."

The dark shape considered this for a moment, attention turned away from the Persian noble. Patik let himself slump back into the rocky sand, laboring to breathe. His entire body was gripped by twisting, muscle-deep pain. Like the wizard, he was badly bruised, his ear still bleeding.

"The Accursed were here," the figure said, dead voice ringing hollow in the close-fitting helmet. "They would not have come, were the sepulcher truly empty."