The Dark Lord

by seven hundred years of ceaseless, gnawing wind. Thyatis felt a steadily rising tension in her gut, mirroring the slow appearance of a stone door covered with hieroglyphs and animal figures. Nicholas squatted at the top of the pit, watching with excited interest.

Ignoring Betia for the moment, Thyatis let her eyes unfocus, turning slightly and surveying the surrounding landscape. There was no movement, nothing out of the ordinary, no suddenly familiar silhouette against the organic shapes of rock and sky. Vladimir and Mithridates—muscles gleaming with sweat—were hauling bags of sand out of the pit, daring each other to carry heavier and heavier weights.

Circle, Thyatis signed at Betia, when she was sure no one was watching. Look for tracks or signs. Stay out of sight.

The little blonde nodded, then her hands moved sharply. Archers?

Thyatis signed I hope so, then resumed her drifting movement between the pinnacles and jagged stones. She hoped the Daughters were somewhere nearby. Any hope of them having come and gone remained faint—the amulet around her neck continued to shiver, the hum vibrating through her breastbone.

—|—

Torches guttered, whipped by the dying sundown wind. Thyatis stood at the top of the pit, now grown to a dozen paces wide and twice as long. The excavation revealed a pair of fluted, acanthus-topped pillars and a step buried long ago by the sand. Nervous, she bit her lower lip, watching men strain against stone. A massive granite slab closed the entrance to the tomb, but Mithridates and Vladimir leaned on a pair of iron pry bars, gleaming muscles tense with effort. The fellaheen made a crowd on the ramp, watching with trepidation. At least one was chanting nervously, making signs against ill fortune. Nicholas seemed terribly pleased with himself, caught in the excitement of opening something hidden for hundreds of years.

Mithridates grunted, a deep basso noise, and the bar in his hands began to bend, torqued beyond the ability of the iron to withstand. Vladimir braced his feet again and shoved, flat muscles rippling under a thick pelt of fur covering his back and upper arms. His effort was rewarded with a grating sound, then dust puffed from the edges of the stone door. Thyatis held her breath, fingers white on the hilt of her sword.

The slab groaned again, scraping, and then an opening appeared—dark and fathomless in the wavering light of the torches—on one side of the slab.

'That's it!' Nicholas shouted, scrambling down into the pit. He snatched up another pry bar and squeezed in, thrusting the iron into the crevice. Several of the fellaheen—seeing none of the Romans had perished so far—crept up and lent their own wiry muscle to widening the opening. After a long moment of grunting and sweat streaming from matted hair, the door rumbled to one side. All five men stepped back, grimacing. The tomb exhaled a draft of dull, dead air. Nicholas thrust a torch into the doorway.

Broad, crisply cut steps led down into darkness. Ruddy orange light revealed wall paintings in brilliant azure, umber, crimson and white—cranes and kings and delta fields thick with game birds and peasants working pumps, scythes, bellows. Nicholas stepped into the passage, reaching out with a tentative hand. His touch barely brushed the painted colors and they crumbled away to rose-colored dust, leaving only a faint memory on the smooth stone.

'Come,' the Latin barked, gesturing for the fellaheen. 'Bring the torches and the sled.'

Mithridates and Vladimir climbed out of the pit. Thyatis caught the African's eye as he bent to lift the wooden platform with its greased rails.

'Betia?' he whispered, casting about for the little Gaul. Thyatis flashed him a quick smile, indicating the encompassing darkness with a momentary tilt of her head.

'I'll follow,' Thyatis called down to Nicholas, 'and watch our backs.'

'Good.' The Latin singled out two the fellaheen. 'You and you, guard the camels.'

Grinning in relief, teeth white against sun-darkened faces, the two Egyptians scrambled out of the excavation. Thyatis followed Vladimir and Mithridates down into the pit, blade now bare in her hand. The tunnel was already filled with flickering light as Nicholas and a crowd of fellaheen descended, torches and lanterns held high. She turned in the doorway, casting a wary eye at the desert, but could see nothing—not even the stars, or the late moon—beyond the torches thrust into the sandy ground. Some distance away, the camels honked and grumbled at the approach of the two men.

Frowning, the Roman woman turned and stepped lightly down into the tomb. Her neck was prickling again. There is someone out there... She hoped Betia would be careful.

—|—

Quiet and patient, Patik stood in the shadow of a nearby crag. A dozen yards away, torches guttered in the wind, illuminating the pit. The Persian watched with interest, a faint gleam of light sparkling in his eyes. He never failed to be intrigued by the ability of men—even experienced soldiers—to be blinded by the simple division of light and darkness. The torches were visible for miles across the desert plain, winking between the standing stones. He and his men had approached cautiously, but even the Roman watchers had remained within the circle of light, blinding themselves. Patik had no cause for complaint.

Two of the Egyptian workers approached the camels and gear piled in the lee of one of the stone pinnacles. Both of the animals were nervous, but the men—tired from a long afternoon and evening's labor—ignored their warning grunts. Amur, his armor and face blackened with soot, rose quietly from the ground as the two fellaheen passed and his scarred hand was over one mouth, his knife sawing in one neck before anyone could do anything. The other Egyptian walked two paces, then turned, curious, missing the sound of his friend's footsteps. The Persian thrust hard, driving his dagger into the man's throat. A choking, gargled cry was drowned by blood flooding from the wound and Mihr caught the body before it could fall to the ground.

'Move,' Patik hissed, padding forward silently across the loose sand. Despite his size and bulk, he showed a feral gracefulness in motion. The big Persian paused at the top of the excavation. No one was in sight, not even in the tunnel mouth. Tishtrya and Asha slid down the slope at the Persian's signal, then crept into the tunnel.

'Are you ready?' Patik kept his voice low, even doubting there were any Romans within earshot. Artabanus nodded, looking a little sickly in the poor, wavering light. Patik doubted the mage had ever seen a man killed before, at least not at such close range.

'Good.' The big Persian descended into the pit, finally drawing his own sword. Asha was visible, ahead, crouched in the tunnel at some kind of turning.

—|—

Allowing herself a breath of relief, Shirin raised her head from the sand. The edge of the pit was only two strides away. Echoing, the soft voices of the Persians receded into the earth. As she watched, two more Persians slipped out of the darkness, one man wiping blood from a knife on his tunic and disappeared into the excavation.

'Lovely,' the Khazar woman breathed out slowly, then carefully backed away into the darkness. Beyond the circle of light thrown by the torches, only starlight picked out the tumbled stones and massive pinnacles. But this was enough for a daughter of the house of Asena. Padding softly on bare feet, Shirin circled away from the lights and the buried door. She had hoped to follow Thyatis into the tomb, but had waited—unaccountably nervous—and the sudden appearance of the Persians had almost stopped her heart with surprise.

Who else is creeping around in the darkness? she wondered, drifting behind another towering column of sandstone. Disturbed by the thought, Shirin looked to the east, hoping for the moon to rise, but Orion was still low on the horizon and when Luna did rise, she would be thin and pale. The land among the pillars was very dark and the intermittent, wayward wind obscured as many sounds as it carried. I have to do something, she decided, turning back towards the tomb. I should warn Thyatis.

A faint sparkle caught her eye as she moved back around the wall of stone. Off to her right, starlight shifted on disturbed sand. Shirin paused, looking towards the circle of torches, then back to the pale, gleaming avenue between the stones. Gritting her teeth, she darted forward, iron knife bare in her hand. Stooping over the sand, she saw the faint outline of footprints arcing away from the Roman camp. The unsettled feeling in her stomach worsened. There is someone else out here.

Head raised, eyes straining to pierce the night, Shirin followed the tracks in a half-crouch, one hand drifting over the sand, finding the shallow wells of someone moving lightly on the earth. After a few moments she reached another towering sandstone pinnacle. Gingerly, she picked her way around the scalloped, eroded wall. The breeze