The Dark Lord (68 page)

"Stand back," Thyatis barked, as the fellaheen crowded up. Mithridates and Vladimir pushed through the men, each man holding an iron-headed sledge. The Roman woman drew her blade, letting the mirror-bright metal rasp from the sheath. Nicholas took up a position on her left, his blade bare, and—for an instant, in the dim light of the torches—the length of metal seemed to gleam with an inner fire.

Thyatis nodded to Mithridates. "Clear the opening."

The African set his shoulders, muscles bulging under his tunic and the sledge whipped into the plaster lathes, shattering the ancient wood. More dust billowed forth, but Mithridates narrowed his eyes and the opening was entirely clear in three more blows.

Thyatis fanned the air with her straw hat. The light of the torches revealed a short passage and a startlingly normal-looking door. Surprised, she felt a breath of cold air brush her face.

"I'll go first," Nicholas said, eagerly shouldering Thyatis aside.

A loud
crash
echoed through the hidden tomb and Shirin scrambled out of the watch post. The Daughters had frozen in shock at the sound. They were staring in horror toward a second opening to the Khazar woman's left. Another crash followed, then a third. Shirin raised an eyebrow.
Well,
she thought,
I guess the Romans did live to find us!

"Out!" Penelope hissed, harsh voice cutting through the silence and surprise. "Everyone out through the tunnel. Now!" The older woman drew back, her shortsword aimed at the sound.

The women around the second sarcophagus abandoned their tools and ran for the passage, cloaks flying out behind them. Shirin darted across the chamber to the opened coffins. Penelope was in the tunnel mouth, her face a furious glare, beckoning for the Khazar woman to hurry. Behind Shirin, she heard the clatter of men forcing a door open. Faint streaks of light painted the wall above the sarcophagi, thrown by Roman torches. In the poor light, Shirin paused, gazing curiously down upon the centuries-dead figures in the two coffins.

At her left hand, a woman of medium height was fully wrapped in traditional bandages, her hands crossed on her chest, holding a crook and an ankh. A golden mask covered her face and a jeweled, golden sun-disk holding a layered eight-rayed star lay on her breast. The Khazar woman frowned, seeing the star, old memories intruding.
How odd...
she thought.
Why does she bear a crest from old Persepolis?
The death masque showed a personage of no great beauty, but even across the centuries Shirin felt a palpable chill to look upon the likeness of Kleopatra, Lord of the Two Lands, Queen and Empress. Small ceramic jars lined the stone bier, wrapped in gold and silver vestments, accompanied by goods of all kinds.

Another crash reverberated through the dusty air. Shirin wrenched her hand away from the star jewel.
No time for souvenirs!
she thought guiltily. The second coffin held a man—tall, proud, with broad shoulders—though his silver masque revealed a petulant lip and his strength of personality paled in comparison to the Queen. For him, the Khazar woman felt only pity before dismissing him from her mind.

Orange light flared bright against the wall and Shirin faded into deeper shadow. Penelope was already gone, the sound of running feet fading in the tunnel. Halfway up the steps, Shirin paused, looking back into the tomb, wondering if a familiar figure would appear, silhouetted in the light. Instead, a man appeared in the broken door, leading with a long straight sword. The metal flared bright in the darkness and Shirin drew back again.

At her breast, the ruby became suddenly warm and she clasped a hand over the jewel, hiding an unexpected pale red glow. Entirely surprised, Shirin ducked down behind a fallen column, wondering what could possibly have excited such a response in the jewel.
Where did Thyatis get this thing?

The Roman soldier crept forward, torch sputtering in one hand. "There are two coffins here," he shouted, "and they've been disturbed!"

The scrape of a sandal on stone registered in the periphery of Thyatis' attention and she spun left, blade rising into guard, even as a hurled spear flashed past. One of the fellaheen staggered, the iron head driven between his shoulder blades with a slapping sound. The man barely had time to cry out in pain before blood flooded his mouth and he was on his hands and knees, shuddering with death tremors.

"Ware!" Thyatis shouted, the tip of her sword flickering in the air. Another spear point lunged out of shadow and was deftly knocked aside. "To me, Romans! To me!" She bounded forward, snatching a dagger from its sheath on her belt with her free hand.

Men rushed around the toppled slab, curly beards gleaming in the light of fallen torches. One of them, towering a head above the others, leapt into Thyatis' path. For a single, frozen second she thought dead Chrosoes had returned to life—so closely did the bareheaded man swinging a spiked mace at her face resemble the King of Kings. She leaned aside, the mace blurring past, and lunged. The tip of her sword sparked from the man's breastplate, then skittered to one side. He jumped back, slapping her thrust aside with his own blade. They circled, the world narrowing down to the scrape and rustle of feet on stone, mirror-bright metal cutting the air, harsh breathing filling their ears.

Beyond the Persian's shoulder, Thyatis caught a glimpse of Mithridates swinging his pry bar over his head like a stave, a wild, hoarse shout roaring from his lips. The fellaheen, pinned against the tomb wall, were wailing in fear, and another hurled spear cut one down.

The Persian lord attacked, mace smashing overhand as he led with his right foot. Thyatis bobbed aside, evading the blow, then slashed her blade at the man's face. His own sword snapped up and sparks shivered in the air. A furious passage followed, blade on blade, the Persian stamping on the attack, Thyatis nimbly evading his powerful strokes. She blocked a sharp cut with the dagger, letting the blades bind, going hilt to hilt with the man. He grunted, feeling the strength in her arm, then shoved.

Thyatis spun aside, letting his motion carry him off-balance, then let her own momentum slam her left elbow into the side of his head. The iron vambrace on her arm cracked against his ear, drawing a shout of pain and spattering blood. She cut viciously with the sword, though the Persian rolled away. The Roman blade scored a long gash across his thigh, just above the knee. He went down.

Another Persian shouted wildly, charging at Thyatis. She whirled, blocking his spear down and away with her sword and dagger
en crosse
, then snap-kicked him in the face. The Persian staggered, stunned, and Thyatis' wrist flicked over, driving the point of her
spatha
into his jugular. Choking, the man fell backwards, fingers groping wildly at his throat.

In the same moment, Mithridates bellowed, catching two of the Persian soldiers across the chest with his pry bar, lifting them bodily from the floor. Massive muscles straining, the Numidian slammed them into the nearest pillar with a ringing
clang!
Breathless, the Persians were flung to the floor, armor creased by the blow. Grinning wildly, Mithridates sprang forward through the gap. Another Persian soldier threw himself at the Numidian, cutting sideways with both hands on his longsword. Mithridates parried with one end of his iron staff, smashing the blade from the man's hand, then lashed the bar across the Persian's face. Metal met metal with a ringing
bang!
and the side of the Persian's helmet caved in, spraying blood across a nearby statue. The stricken man crumpled like an empty sack.

Thyatis wrenched her attention away, wildly parrying an overhand blow from the big Persian's sword. In her brief moment of inattention, he had regained his feet. Now he attacked furiously and Thyatis met him blade for blade in a whirl of strike and parry and counterstroke. They lunged back and forth across the stone floor, barely cognizant of the melee swirling around them.

Her arms burning with fatigue, Thyatis slowed a fraction as she tried to evade another blow. The haft of the mace slammed down on her right arm, knocking the dagger loose. The blade spun away across the floor. Bloodfire surged, driving her limbs to new speed. She slammed the Persian's blade away, then rotated smartly, hewing down with the
spatha
in both hands. The man tried to wrench the mace away, but the keen edge of the Roman sword struck the wooden haft and squealed through dense oak.

Casting the stub away with a grimace, the Persian circled, panting, both hands on the hilts of his blade.

Thyatis did not pause, rushing the man, her blade singing in a deadly figure eight. The Persian parried, then blocked, grunting as the Roman woman put her shoulder into the blow. They locked hilts, sandals sliding on the bloody floor. Her vision narrowed to a shimmering gray-ringed tunnel, Thyatis realized the man hadn't used the point of his blade at all, relying instead on a blizzard of cuts and slashes. Blade shirring on his, she flicked the tip of her
spatha
up. Eyes wide, the man flung his head back, narrowly avoiding losing his lower jaw to the bright metal.

Taking the opening, Thyatis slammed his breastplate with a lightning-quick kick, sending him to the floor in a clatter of metal. Regaining her balance, she danced in, stabbing viciously as he scrambled away, sword lost, across the stone floor.

An upflung hand took one of her blows, the
spatha
biting into splinted mail on the Persian's forearm. Thyatis wrenched the blade back, then sprang away as the man kicked at her legs.

Relieved of immediate engagement, the scene around Thyatis sprang back into focus. Frenzied words, spoken in some unknown tongue, reverberated in the air, sending a wild chill washing over Thyatis' arms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mithridates charge a portly, middle-aged man in desert robes, the iron bar whirling above his head like a scythe. The Persian made a stabbing motion in the air, his voice rolling like thunder. Vladimir loped forward, a gore-streaked axe in his hands. Nicholas was looking up from a dying Persian, surprised, the brilliant ruby glow of his longsword shining in his eyes. Dead and wounded men littered the floor.

"Sorcerer!" Thyatis shouted, hurling herself behind the nearest pillar. A violent alizarin flare followed hard on her shout, coupled with an enormous, ringing
crack!
Tremendous heat billowed past and Thyatis ground her face into the column, eyes squeezed shut. Even through her lids, she caught a glimpse of the room blazing with witch light and felt her armor swell with sudden heat.

The echo of the blast rang and rang, reverberating from the walls. Plaster caught fire, ignited by the flames. Thyatis scuttled out, low to the floor, and saw the Persian wizard stagger to his feet, haloed by a wheel of fire. Mithridates' corpse toppled to the ground, torn in half by the blast. Droplets of molten iron hissed and sizzled on the stones. Face contorted in hate, Thyatis snatched up a discarded hammer and overhanded it at the Persian.

The metal head struck the air with a tinny, ringing sound and then the wooden handle burst into flame. Stunned, the Persian wizard flinched back and the corona of near-invisible fire around him flickered out of existence. Before Thyatis could react, a huge groaning sound filled the room. Feeling the floor tremble under her feet, the Roman woman jumped back, groping for the shelter of her column.

To her right, one of the pillars—shattered by the sorcerous blast—cracked, splitting lengthwise. Stone and debris cascaded down. The entire room shivered, stone grinding on stone. As Thyatis looked up, a queasy feeling roiling in her stomach, the ceiling spiderwebbed with cracks, jetting dust, rippling like a lake disturbed by a fallen stone.

"Go, go, go!" Penelope, seamed face twisted into a rictus of commingled fear and blazing anger, wrenched Shirin along the corridor, flinging the younger woman forward. Ears still ringing from the mysterious blast, the Khazar woman picked up her robe and sprinted up the tunnel. The entire tomb seemed to sway, the ground still trembling with motion.

Ducking under the lintel of a corridor junction, Shirin turned, staring back down the tunnel. The Egyptian woman came up limping, coughing in a cloud of billowing white dust. "Go." She shoved Shirin out of the way, falling heavily into the rough-hewn room. "Turn right and climb the ramp!"

Penelope fell to her knees, tangled in the loose cloth of her robes, a harsh gasp wrenched from thin lips as her left foot touched the ground. The ceiling groaned in counterpoint, countless tons of rock shifting minutely. Gritting her teeth against the choking cloud, Shirin hooked an arm under the older woman's shoulder and dragged her up. "We're both getting out," she hissed, hoisting Penelope onto her shoulders. Despite her imposing personality, the Egyptian felt spindly and bird-like, light on Shirin's back.

Without waiting for another tremor, the Khazar woman sprinted up the right-hand tunnel.

At the top of the ramp, the corridor split again and the other Daughters were waiting, eyes wide in fear. Shirin staggered to a halt, Penelope's forearm tight around her neck.

"Run," the old Egyptian woman barked at her followers. "Make sure no one's watching the Hunter's door!" Shirin made to follow, but Penelope slapped her breast hard. "There... the statue."

Shirin ran to an alcove holding a cat-headed statue girded with spears and banded armor. Favoring her ankle, Penelope swung down and leaned against the wall. Grimacing, the old Egyptian slammed the pommel of her knife against the god's chest. Pottery cracked, then broke under a second blow. Shirin, pushing aside curiosity, lent her own weight to the effort, shattering chipped edges, revealing a cavity inside the statue.

"Grasp hold of the loop," Penelope gasped, one hand—now streaked with blood from lacerated knuckles—groping inside the opening. Shirin thrust her own hand in, found a waxed, slippery length of rope and pulled. There was a distant ratcheting sound and she felt a heavy resistance on the cord. Penelope grabbed hold of the ancient black rope as it emerged from the broken statue. Pulling together, both women strained against the line, bracing their feet against the statue pediment.