by Stuart Daly
Armand lowers his eyes. ‘I know. It was foolish of me.’
I lower my eyes too and shift uncomfortably, believing that I must share some of the responsibility. Had I informed Blodklutt or von Konigsmarck that Armand and Diego had fought in the past, perhaps this could have been avoided. But I could never betray Armand’s trust.
Blodklutt stares at Armand for some time, his eyes hard and uncompromising. At length he sighs resignedly and pats the Frenchman on the shoulder. ‘What’s done is done. With Diego gone, we’ll now be able to focus on finding the Tablet.’ He holds up a finger in warning. ‘But I want no more surprises; we’ve had too many for one day.’
Armand looks determinedly into the Captain’s eyes and nods. ‘I give you my word.’
Blodklutt gives Armand a final pat on the shoulder before wincing in pain as he removes his baldric. ‘Hopefully that’s the last we’ll see of Diego,’ he mutters. ‘If he does return, he’s to be killed on sight.’
‘Consider it done,’ Armand says coldly, looking back to where we last saw the Spaniard, his eyes narrowed in their desire for revenge.
Having taken off our packs and baldrics, we have a brief rest as Dietrich applies a bandage to Blodklutt’s wound. Then, when the Captain is ready, we prepare our equipment and weapons.
‘So where do we go from here?’ I say, regarding the corridor, dreading what traps await us, and fearing the dangers that lie behind and may come after us.
‘We press on ahead,’ Blodklutt says, also looking up the corridor. ‘But this time we proceed with caution. In our haste to escape from the crocodile, we must have triggered the pit. We were fortunate that Francesca saw it in time. But we might not be so lucky next time. The next trap we spring might claim one of our lives.’
Francesca nods in agreement. ‘There were some pressure-stones back there, marked with symbols. But we didn’t have time to avoid them. All it took was for one of us to tread on a single marked paver, and the fake roof covering the pit collapsed.’ She pauses, looking at each of us in turn. ‘We will need to move slowly and be more careful from here on. I shouldn’t need to remind you that this mausoleum was designed to kill and maim intruders. It is essentially one large death-trap.’
‘That hardly inspires confidence,’ Armand says dryly.
‘Francesca is the finest tomb-raider in the Custodiatti,’ von Konigsmarck says. ‘We could not be in safer hands.’
Francesca rubs her chin. ‘I won’t lie to you – working our way through this mausoleum is going to be dangerous. But I’m yet to encounter a trap I have not been able to deactivate or circumvent. Rest assured, I will find the Hall of Records.’ She looks back across the pit. ‘And this trap will be to our advantage. This corridor appears to be the only entrance into the mausoleum, and the Watchers and their army of undead will have to work their way across the pit before they come after us.’
‘They’ll likewise have to fight their way past the crocodile – and possibly even Diego,’ I add.
‘Then let’s use these factors to our advantage,’ Francesca says. She readjusts the crossbow and pack slung over her shoulders in preparation to press on ahead. ‘Let’s make sure that by the time the Watchers reach the entry chamber and are forced to fight their way past the crocodile, we are deep inside the mausoleum. But we have rested long enough. It’s time we moved. We should also extinguish our lanterns. We’re wasting our oil unnecessarily here. The torches along the walls will provide us with all the light we need.’
‘How were the torches lit?’ I ask, only thinking about that now.
‘We have just entered one of the most technologically advanced trap systems designed by the ancient mind,’ Francesca explains. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the torches were activated by a pressure-stone at the corridor’s entrance. Several years ago my father and I encountered a similar lighting system in a temple in Egypt. The torches were lit by a spark created by a tinder and flint, located in the wall beside each torch, and set off by a pressure-stone near the entrance. Here,’ she says, pointing at a tinder and flint set in a small recess behind the closest torch. ‘These are just like the ones I saw back in Egypt. We’re lucky the torches will provide us with a source of light, allowing us to save our oil for later.’
‘But the torches were lit before we entered the corridor,’ von Konigsmarck, the first of our company to reach the mausoleum, says.
Francesca’s eyes narrow. ‘That’s impossible. That would mean someone had entered the mausoleum before us.’
Von Konigsmarck’s look goes distant for a few seconds as he tries to recall those frantic moments when we first raced into the corridor. He then shrugs uncertainly and says, ‘Maybe you’re right. I must be mistaken.’
‘Well, it makes no difference now,’ Blodklutt says, staring down the corridor. ‘All that matters is that we are inside the mausoleum and we have a job to do. So let’s get going before the undead start coming down after us. Let’s move.’
We continue down the corridor. Francesca is leading, moving at a steady pace, but with caution governing her every step, her eyes surveying every inch of the walls, floor and ceiling of the corridor, determined that we shall not trigger another of the mausoleum’s deadly traps.
Captain Blodklutt and von Konigsmarck are next in line, following immediately behind the tomb-robber, carefully monitoring her every move, leaving nothing to chance. Then there’s Dietrich and me, our hands resting warily on the hilts of our sheathed blades, following in the footsteps of those ahead of us, ensuring we do not tread on a trapped paver. Bringing up the rear is Armand, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that nothing is following us, his sabres held at the ready, their honed blades bathed blood-red in the wan light cast by the torches – perhaps a frightful premonition of the sea of blood that will be spilt if the Watchers’ army of undead catch us within the mausoleum.
We have not moved far down the corridor before Francesca raises a hand, signalling for us to stop. ‘It looks as if von Konigsmarck was right – some other people have entered the mausoleum.’ She kneels down to inspect a series of faint footprints in the dust coating the floor.
‘How many?’ von Konigsmarck asks.
‘Two,’ Francesca says, looking confused.
Blodklutt moves up behind the tomb-robber, who glances over her shoulder at the signs of passage. ‘What’s wrong?’
Francesca rises to her feet and stares down the corridor. ‘Maybe it’s nothing. But one of the people moved through here with great caution, judging from the measured footprints they left behind. The second person came through here with great speed. And I think they were injured, dragging their feet awkwardly.’
‘Perhaps that person was being chased by the crocodile,’ I say.
‘That’s possible,’ Francesca says. ‘But whereas the first set of footprints was made some time ago, judging by the fine layer of dust already settled atop them, the second set, left by the person who came through here in a great rush, are still wet.’ She turns to regard us, and the suspicious look on her face makes my skin crawl. ‘Meaning that somebody came through here only moments before we did.’
‘But we were the only people to have come down here this evening,’ I say, trying to replay the events of the past few hours in my mind. ‘It is not possible that somebody could have stowed aboard the Drebbel, and Hans told us that the da Vinci was not yet capable of making the journey down to the mausoleum.’
Dietrich chews his bottom lip in thought. ‘You are forgetting that Hans said that an earlier team had been sent down here.’
‘But they were killed by the crocodile,’ I reply.
‘That’s correct,’ Dietrich says, nodding. ‘But that doesn’t mean that a second team didn’t enter the mausoleum, perhaps during Hans’s absence, whilst he was travelling with us from Saxony. Perhaps two of his team, drawn by the lure of treasure, decided to come do
wn here.’
‘That would be the only logical explanation for these footprints,’ von Konigsmarck says. ‘It still doesn’t explain why there is a wet set of footprints down here, meaning that someone surfaced inside the entry chamber just before we arrived.’
‘And if a team did come down here some time ago, then surely the torches would have expired,’ I point out. ‘That is, of course, unless they avoided stepping on the pressure stone that activated them.’
‘But why would they have done that?’ Dietrich asks.
Francesca shrugs. ‘Perhaps they thought it was going to activate a trap, and decided to proceed with their lanterns.’
There’s a moment of silence as we ponder the mystery of the footprints. Then Blodklutt’s eyes flash with alarm.
‘I have a terrible feeling that someone swam down here this very night,’ he says. ‘And they did it under our noses, when we were making preparations to leave the base-camp and row out to the pontoon.’
Armand shakes his head. ‘The mausoleum lies at the bottom of the Dead Sea. Nobody could hold their breath for that long.’
‘Not if you don’t need to breathe,’ the Captain says and then pauses, making us hang off his next few words. ‘Like one of the undead.’
‘What?’ My hand reaches instinctively for one of my pistols. ‘How can you know that?’
‘I can’t,’ Blodklutt says gravely. ‘But I think it’s important that we consider all possibilities. Whilst it’s more than likely that the first set of tracks were made by one of Hans’s team, I’m not convinced by the second set.’ He pauses for a moment as he rubs his chin in thought. ‘We know for a fact that Friedrich Geist was slain atop the monastery back in Greece and turned into one of the Watchers’ minions. This was confirmed when Jakob spotted him back at Piraeus. Now –’ he holds up a finger, signalling for us to follow his line of thought ‘– let’s assume that Friedrich managed to stow aboard our vessel. It’s a distinct possibility, considering that Jakob saw him at the port, watching us board The White Swan. We assumed that he had stayed hidden in the shadows. But it’s just as likely he somehow managed to make his way around to the side of the ship and climb aboard. And if this were indeed the case, then he would have disembarked at Ascalon and followed us all the way to Hans’s camp. His initial intention may have been to wait until the Watchers arrived with their army of undead, or possibly to sabotage the Drebbel, preventing us from reaching the mausoleum. But when we chose to come down here this very night, he may have decided to beat us down here. When we returned to our tents to collect our supplies, he could have swum undetected out to the pontoon and followed the rope all the way down to the mausoleum. That would explain not only the wet footprints, but also the fact that they look as if they have been made by someone who has been injured. The undead move awkwardly, dragging their feet across the ground, leaving tracks just like these.
‘If I’m wrong, and these footprints belong to a member of Hans’s team who was injured during an encounter with the crocodile, where is the blood? And if they came through here only moments before we arrived, then surely they would have heard the sounds of combat we made. Why, then, didn’t they turn back, knowing that help had arrived? Why press on ahead – alone – into a trap-riddled mausoleum?’
‘I hope you’re wrong,’ von Konigsmarck says, shaking his head, ‘because if Friedrich is down here, then we have a major problem to deal with. Before joining the Milites Christi he fought as a mercenary against Charles X’s Swedish forces in Poland. It is said that he was the last soldier to have withdrawn across the Vistula after the fall of Warsaw in 1656. He is credited with killing over fifty Swedish soldiers during the three-day siege of the city.’
‘I have heard the tales,’ Blodklutt says, ‘and it is unfortunate that Friedrich has become our enemy. But the man you once knew no longer exists. He has been transformed into a pawn of evil. If he is indeed down here, then I will need a skilled blade up front to guard Francesca. Von Konigsmarck, I want you to be that man, as you are the most familiar with Friedrich’s fighting style. What say you?’
Von Konigsmarck nods, draws his rapier and moves up alongside Francesca. ‘It will bring me no pleasure in having to cross blades with my former commander. But we have no other option. If God wills it, then it must be so.’
Blodklutt nods determinedly, satisfied with von Konigsmarck’s reply. ‘Let’s keep moving.’
Without further discussion, we move deeper into the mausoleum.
The corridor we are following gradually descends, turning every twenty or so yards at a sharp right angle before continuing to take us deeper beneath the mausoleum. After several minutes we eventually arrive at a stone door. Pushing it open, we find that darkness lies beyond. Grabbing two lit torches from the surrounding wall, Francesca throws one through the doorway, revealing, much to our surprise, a subterranean cavern. It is about the same size as a large banquet hall, with many caves set in the base of the cavity’s walls. Inside, a small but incredibly fast-flowing underground river cuts through the middle of the floor, separating us from the closed stone door on the far side of the cavern, barely visible in the light cast by the torch Francesca threw into the space. Somewhere off to our left, the sound of cascading and crashing water indicates that the river, racing along the passage it has carved through the bedrock that lies beneath the Dead Sea, plunges down a waterfall.
Francesca guides us warily into the large cave. Walking to the edge of the intersecting river, she throws her second torch across to the other side. She then kneels down, dips her cupped hands into the water, takes a sip and says, ‘Interesting – it’s fresh.’
‘Fresh?’ Armand queries, sceptical, and tastes the water to confirm her observation. ‘But how can that be? We are deep under the Dead Sea.’
‘The earth holds many secrets,’ Francesca says, rising to her feet. ‘And we have just discovered one of them. This river must come from a source far, far away from here; perhaps some mountain range, where melting snow falls into a cave that joins up with this underground cavern. We have also found our answer as to how the crocodile manages to survive down here.’
‘I think there is more than one crocodile down here, though!’ I warn, my heart skipping a beat in fright as I notice something stirring in one of the small caves in the cavern wall.
The next instant, a massive reptilian head emerges from the cave, its scarred maw brandishing three-inch-long teeth, and its yellow eyes watching our every move. Hastening over to the edge of the river, our weapons readied for combat, we stare back at the beast, which, having fully emerged from the cave, must be over twenty-five feet long.
‘We faced one before and beat it,’ Armand says defiantly, positioning himself at the front of our group as the first line of defence against the giant beast. ‘And if we’ve beaten one, then we can beat another.’
‘But can we defeat several of them?’ von Konigsmarck says, his voice void of hope. He gestures with the point of his rapier at the other caves, where, in the darkness, we hear other crocodiles stir.
‘We need a way out of here – right now!’ Captain Blodklutt barks at Francesca and me, before indicating for von Konigsmarck and Dietrich to join him in moving forward to form a line of steel alongside Armand.
‘The current is too strong for us to swim across,’ Francesca says to me, quickly assessing the situation, her eyes darting around the cavern. ‘And it’s certainly too far to the other side for us to attempt jumping over.’
‘Then we are trapped!’ I cry, staring at the crocodiles that have emerged from the caves – all nine of them!
‘Don’t give in so easily,’ Francesca says, her eyes locking on a series of stalagmites rising from the cavern floor on the opposite side of the river. ‘There is hope yet.’
Producing a grappling hook with an attached length of rope from the side of her pack, she wastes no time in swinging it
around her head, before taking aim and sending it sailing across to land amongst the stalagmites. Tugging back on the rope, she locks one of the arms of the grappling hook around the base of one of the rock formations. She pulls tight on the rope before securing the other end around the broken base of a stalagmite near her feet.
‘We have a way over,’ she calls over her shoulder, catching Blodklutt’s attention. ‘If we hang on to the rope, we will be able to pull ourselves across to the other side of the river.’
Before the Captain has a chance to respond, one of the crocodiles charges forward and launches itself off its rear legs, its gaping jaws directed at Armand’s torso.
I cry out in warning, just at the same instant Armand becomes a blur of motion, darting to his left, narrowly avoiding the tremendous crunch of the crocodile’s closing jaws. Then, in the same fluid motion, one of the Frenchman’s sabres lashes out, slashing across the soft underside of the beast’s throat, leaving a gaping wound. Thrashing about in pain, the crocodile withdraws, leaving a slick trail of gore in its wake.
But two more tear forward, one of them launching itself at Armand’s legs, its maw wide open, revealing its formidable arsenal of teeth and a gullet capable of swallowing a man whole. Leaping in the air, Armand deftly avoids the attack, the creature’s jaws slamming shut with bone-crunching force only an inch beneath the soles of his boots. Springing off the crocodile’s snout, Armand leaps back to safety. Von Konigsmarck and Blodklutt cover his retreat, discharging their pistols into the open jaws of the second attacking crocodile, forcing it to abandon its attack and twist its head violently in pain, slamming hard into the side of the other crocodile. Enraged, this beast then lashes out, locking its jaws around the neck of the other crocodile, and within a matter of seconds both creatures are locked in a twisting mass of snapping jaws and thrashing tails.