The Dark Lord

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.'

Cloth rustled, then metal sang on metal. Patik managed to open his eyes and saw the shape raise something—a curved blade?—against the night sky. Frigid blue-white light played along the athame, sparking and sputtering.

'Uttish'tha,' commanded the voice, harsh syllables echoing back from the standing stones. 'Ash'hrrada!'

Patik felt Artabanus flinch and the wizard moaned, one trembling hand trying to block out the sight of the sky. The big Persian narrowed his eyes—crawling blue light played across his face—briefly illuminating the sandstone wall towering above them. The light burned his skin and he turned away, suddenly afraid he might be blinded by the witch light.

'Uttish'THA!' The sound boomed in the air, making the sand jump and quiver. Sharp, cold wind played in the avenues between the pinnacles, tugging at Patik's hair, swirling the cloaks of the dark shapes. Again, the earth groaned and shifted, then settled.

The dreadful bluish light died and slowly the stars reemerged from the encompassing dark. Patik shuddered, realizing something vast had obscured the winking, faint lights during the strange interlude. He was aware of darkness withdrawing into the sky, folding in upon itself.

Only the Shanzdah remained and the Captain turned to look upon Patik again, two faint points of radiance burning in the cowl of his hood. 'We will follow the Romans. They will lead us to the prize, the duradarshan, the Gate unopened and unrevealed.' An ironbound hand reached down and dragged the Persian to his feet, as effortlessly as a man might lift a child.

'You will run ahead, Great Prince, our hound.' Something like laughter issued from cracked, withered lips. 'And we will course behind, hunting with bright spears.'

—|—

Thunder growled in the distance, though no flare of lightning lit the night. Shirin, laboriously climbing the slope of a dune at the edge of the plain of stones, turned. Penelope, still riding on her back, thin hands clutched at her breast, lifted her head. Both women looked back, seeing nothing but darkness in the shallow valley. The other Daughters continued on, climbing the dune ridge, keeping themselves below the unseen, night-shrouded summit.

'What was that?' Shirin whispered, though she was sure they had left the Romans and Persians miles behind. Gusts of night wind lapped around her ankles, sending individual grains of sand stinging against her skin.

'Keep moving,' croaked the old woman. 'Something foul is abroad on the plain. We should not wait for it to find us.'

Shirin resumed her steady pace. The slope of the dune was long and there were many miles to cover before dawn. Haste in such soft sand would not be rewarded, save with useless weariness.

After a time, as they approached the crest, Shirin turned her head questioningly. 'Mother,' she said, using a term often heard on the Island during her abortive training, 'in the tomb—the dead Queen bore a blazon—an eight-rayed star set in gold. Was that her personal crest?'

Soft, breathy laughter answered and the Khazar woman frowned, thinking the old Egyptian would not reply.