King and Alexander slowly made their way through the circles, panning their lights around the room. Closer to the sarcophagus, King could see that the lid had been slid away. It sat shattered on the floor on the far side. Their flashlights revealed a body within.
The body was wrapped in tight linens from head to toe. Gathered around it were gold objects and sealed vessels. Its face, partially exposed by time’s rot still held remnants of a white beard.
King shook his head. “It looks—”
“Egyptian,” Alexander finished.
“Is that possible?”
“Anything is possible. It’s likely this man fled Egypt with knowledge of the mother tongue. Seeking to start his own empire, he used golems to create this monument, just as the people he left behind in Eygpt were doing to create the pyramids.”
King looked closely at the man’s face, the bone structure and hair. “He doesn’t look Egyptian. Or Arabian for that matter.”
“That’s because he’s not.”
King looked at Alexander, who looked extremely unhappy.
“He’s Jewish.”
“You don’t think this is…”
“Moses? No. But possibly a member of the exodus. Someone close enough to Moses to pick up some of the mother tongue. And someone who would have heard about the pyramids, but never saw them.”
“Why’s that?” King asked.
“The original generation that fled into the desert is said to have all died out during their forty-year migration. Even Moses didn’t enter the Promised Land. He only saw it from a distance before dying. Whoever this man was, he knew about the great monuments constructed by the golems, but knew nothing of their architecture.” Alexander took the man’s hands, which were bent open, as though in prayer, and turned them inward. They moved with ease until one overlapped the other.
“And though I cannot tell you who this man was, I can tell you who he likely became.”
King came to the same conclusion before Alexander could voice it. “Merlin.”
“Which is a shame,” Alexander said. He saw King’s confusion and explained. “There will be no way to hide this discovery. Within hours, the site will be swarming with British authorities. Within months, everything that can be carted away will be. And the body of this man, buried in peace for thousands of years, will be carted off to a museum. He will be tested, dissected, and eventually put on display. Millions will flock to see the body of the great Merlin, whose dying wish had been to be buried in the tomb he created, with his most cherished possessions … including the one that was stolen.”
“Stolen?” King said. “Something is missing.”
Alexander removed his hands from the body’s hands. They hovered in the air, clutching an invisible object. “His hands were pried open. Whatever he was holding is gone. And the thieves with it.”
“Damnit,” King said. Ridley seemed to be one step ahead of them at all times, like he knew where they were. King’s eyes widened at the revelation. “He knows we’re here.”
A series of rumbles from above shook the chamber. Dust fell through the cracks of the bluestone ceiling. If it collapsed they would be crushed to paste. But it wasn’t the ceiling of the chamber that collapsed. It was the tunnel. King turned toward the tunnel, aiming his flashlight down its throat. In the distance he saw a wave of debris falling from the roof and filling the void beneath. The tunnel was being packed tight from above.
Tons of bluestone, bedrock, and soil filled the tunnel and spilled into the burial chamber, stopping at their feet as though held at bay by the ancient powers of Merlin. King scanned the tunnel entrance. It was packed tight. He turned around the room, searching the walls for some sign of an exit. He found none.
They were trapped. Buried alive one hundred feet beneath Stonehenge.
FIFTY-ONE
El Mirador, Guatemala
A CRUSHING WEIGHT fell on top of Queen, knocking her to her knees. But there were no pinpricks of pain that she’d expected to feel from the shower of trap-triggered needles falling from the ceiling. She rolled away and stood. When she turned around she saw Bishop, hunched over in pain. Close to a hundred needles stuck out of his back like porcupine quills.
Bishop grunted and fell to one knee. “Poison,” he said through gritted teeth. With the number they were doing to Bishop’s body, Queen had no doubt she’d already be dead on the floor. He’d saved her life.
Quickly and carefully, Knight and Queen plucked the darts from Bishop’s back. As the last dart came out, Bishop stood tall and shook his head; other than a poncho full of pencil eraser–sized holes, he was no worse for wear.
“I don’t understand why this trap hadn’t been marked,” Knight said, looking over one of the poison-tipped needles that now held a thin coat of Bishop’s blood on its black tip. “Hudson doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to wait on exploring a find like this.”
Queen saw the answer lying on the floor in an alcove obscured by loose stones—a bright orange “danger” sign featuring a decal of a man bending forward, arms up, and a shower of needles falling from above. She pointed to it. “I think someone down here was covering their back.”
She knelt down by the stone that triggered the trap and turned on a small pocket flashlight. A faint yellow residue, invisible to anyone wearing night vision goggles rimmed the stone. “A chalk outline was wiped away. We’re going to have to be more careful.”
“Or I can go first,” Bishop said, stepping over the marked stone.
“Or that,” Queen said, extinguishing her flashlight and following a few steps behind.
They successfully passed another trap without incident, descending the downward spiraling tunnel for another two minutes. Bishop stopped when his view of the tunnel brightened. There was an artificial light source ahead.
After removing their goggles, the team inched forward silently. The tunnel exit ahead was bright with light. They would be exposed if they got too close. Being the stealthiest, Knight went first, sliding forward on his stomach. With his eyes scouring the floor for signs of wiped away chalk it took him a few minutes to cover the distance in silence, but when he reached the tunnel exit his patience and gentle movements were rewarded.
The tunnel exited to a large circular chamber, fifty feet in diameter. The space was lit by a bright electric lantern, which rested atop a flat, stone altar top. Vertical stripes of black char rose up along the walls above a circle of small holes that would have held torches. A stone staircase decorated with the carved faces of the damned descended to a stone platform that encircled a pit at the center of the chamber. Four sections of the light gray stone surrounding the pit were stained dark brown with ancient blood. Funnels carved into the stone would have directed the flow into the pit, which looked like an ancient throat.
Here, like the tunnels above, the walls were covered in carvings, but between several murals was what looked like writing. In some ways it was similar to Sumerian cuneiform, but more stylized.
Seeing nobody present in the chamber, Knight waved the others to join him. When they arrived he pointed to the one thing that revealed where their quarry had gone—a rope. Tied to the five-foot-tall altar that held the lantern, a rope hung over the edge of the pit. Glowing from deep within the pit was a second light source, and a voice.
The words were hard to make out, but the deep, bass-filled voice was unmistakable. Ridley was at the bottom of the pit.
Queen grinned. He was right where they wanted him. Trapped, helpless, and at their mercy. One cut of the rope would leave him stranded for an eternity, like the Hydra from whom he stole his regenerative abilities.
They descended the steps and peeked over the edge. Were it lit solely from above it would have appeared bottomless, but Ridley’s light below revealed the bottom some two hundred feet down. Despite the distance, the sea of bones at the bottom was easy to make out. Ridley stood nearly waist deep in them, searching through them like a kid with an overfull toybox. In one hand he held a small digital reco
rder.
They watched as he picked up a small chunk of tablet and read off the words, which sounded strangely foreign, but felt familiar. When he was done he smashed the tablet against the stone wall.
Knight remembered that along with human and animal victims sacrificed to the gods, the Mayan also sacrificed their prized possessions including gold, silver, jewels, and codices. He’s collecting the ancient language written on the codices and then destroying them, Knight thought. He drew his knife, held it against the rope, and nodded to the others.
“Ridley!” Queen shouted, standing in clear view.
The man’s head snapped up in surprise. Then a smile crept onto his face. “The Chess Team arrives. I must admit I’m surprised to see you here. How did you find me?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to tell us where Fiona is before we cut the line and leave you to rot,” Queen said.
“You seem to be missing a member,” Ridley said. “I know King was in Rome, but where is Rook? Did something go wrong?” His smile grew wider.
Queen’s UMP came up fast. She took aim and fired a three-round burst. Two of the rounds missed, shattering ancient bones, but one struck Ridley square in the forehead. He flinched as it struck, turning his head down. When he looked back up there was no injury, just his perpetually smiling face and gleaming bald head. There wasn’t even a splotch of blood.
“Afraid I’m not intimidated,” he said.
“He’s not going to talk,” Bishop whispered.
Queen looked at Knight. “Do it. He might be immortal, but we’ll see how cooperative he is after starving for a few weeks.”
Knight cut through the rope and let it fall.
Expecting some sort of protest or angry retort, the team flinched when Ridley began laughing. They looked down at him.
“All you’ve done is leave me with an army,” Ridley said, and then began speaking in hushed tones. The sea of bones around him began to rattle and shake.
Knight realized what was happening and said, “He’s about to go Ray Harryhausen on our asses.”
“What?” Queen asked.
Knight pointed down at the shifting bones. “Golems are the inanimate made animate. And he’s got a whole lot of inanimate buddies down there. An army of skeletons.”
“But they’re at the bottom of a—” Queen’s words were cut short by a deep rumbling from below. The pit floor was rising as a horde of living Mayan skeletons fused together and turned their empty eye sockets up at the stunned team.
FIFTY-TWO
Wiltshire, England
DUST CHOKED THE air, making it hard to breathe and nearly impossible to see. And with tons of earth between them and the surface, a rescue would not soon be coming.
King couldn’t see Alexander through the soupy brown air, but he saw his light move to the far wall of the chamber. He moved the light up and down on the wall, slowly making his way around the space. “What are you looking for?” After speaking, King took a breath and coughed hard. If the air didn’t clear soon he might lose consciousness.
Alexander didn’t pause his search as he replied. “The man in that tomb might not have had knowledge of pyramid architecture, but he was certainly familiar with the burial rites of the Pharaohs, which he must have fancied himself as. He’s mummified his body, been buried with sacred possessions, and encased in an elaborately grand tomb. Maybe his father aided in the construction of the Cheops tomb itself, I don’t know.”
“You’re looking for a hidden exit,” King said, making his way to the wall opposite Alexander so he could start his own search.
“It was a common practice by ancient Egyptian tomb builders, who sealed the tombs from the inside, and then exited via a secret shaft. It was also convenient for builders turned grave robbers.”
They quickly finished searching the tomb walls and found nothing. The ceiling came next, but its massive stones looked immovable. In fact, there was nothing in the room that looked small enough to move but big enough to hide a tunnel.
Then King’s attention locked on the sarcophagus. That would work, he thought. Coughing as he moved, King rushed through the maze of bluestone pillars and crouched by the sarcophagus. It stood on a raised circular platform, which was covered in dust. King blew the dust away, further fouling the air. He covered his mouth with one arm and wiped the surface of the floor with the other.
Alexander joined him. “What are you looking for?”
King stopped wiping. “That.” He pointed to the corner of the sarcophagus where an ancient scratch still marred the floor. “The sarcophagus swivels.”
Alexander immediately moved to the other side of the sarcophagus and pushed. It didn’t budge. King joined him and they pushed together. But it was no use. The stone wouldn’t move.
“Can we destroy it?” King asked.
Alexander grew angry. “We will not desecrate this tomb any further. I would sooner die.”
“Says the guy who can’t die.” King shook his head in frustration. It might be an offense to history, but if any other member of the Chess Team had been by his side, rather than Alexander, they would find a way to tear down the sarcophagus and escape. Of course, brains often achieved the same results as brawn. King smiled as an idea came to him. He stood and climbed atop one of the nearby pillars. When nothing happened he moved to the next.
“What are you doing?” Alexander asked, his voice still tinged with annoyance.
“Just be ready to push,” King said, continuing his circuit around the room, hopping on one pillar after another. His hope was that one of the pillars would trigger some kind of release for the sarcophagus. His fear was that it was one of the pillars buried beneath the stone and dirt that filled half the room.
He hopped up on the last of the large pillars and felt it give a little beneath his weight. A loud clunk sounded beneath the stone floor. “Push!”
Alexander pushed hard. Stone scraped against stone. A hiss of escaping air filled the chamber. The ancient seal was broken. The sarcophagus slid open revealing a smooth tunnel that spiraled out of view. But it wasn’t tall enough for a man to walk or even crawl into—it had to be slid into.
When the sarcophagus had shifted ninety degrees, it could no longer move. A second clunk sounded immediately and Alexander grunted. “It’s moving back! It may not reopen!”
King hoped off the pillar and rushed to his side. He looked at the small, downward sloped tunnel and shook his head. Time to find out if I’m claustrophobic, he thought.
“Hurry!” Alexander urged. “It’s going to move faster when I let go.”
King put his flashlight in his mouth and dove into the tunnel headfirst. Contrary to how it looked, he didn’t slide down. The rough stone clung to his body like Velcro. Dragging himself forward, he moved down and around into the tunnel. A moment later, he felt Alexander’s hands on his feet, pushing him forward. He scrambled as fast as he could, feeling his elbows and knees already becoming raw.
“Despite being able to grow back limbs,” Alexander shouted as the sarcophagus began squeezing his feet, “I don’t enjoy the experience of losing them.”
King felt Alexander lunge forward, bringing his body up on top of King’s legs, pinning them to the floor.
With a thud, the sarcophagus sealed over them. They were in a downward spiraling tunnel barely tall enough for King to raise his head. And with Alexander’s weight crushing his legs to the sharply rough floor, he could no longer move forward.
King took a deep breath, steadying himself before claustrophobic panic could set in. He pictured the situation behind him and quickly came up with the solution. “Exhale as much as you can and press yourself against the ceiling.”
The pressure on King’s legs lessened as Alexander complied, but not by much. They were packed tighter than he thought. Gritting his teeth against the flashlight, King reached out and pulled as hard as he could. Pain stabbed his knees as the rough floor tore into them. He grunted and stopped. “One more time.”
As the pr
essure lessened again, King gave a mighty pull. He slid forward, but his knees were torn apart. He shouted in pain. The flashlight fell from his mouth and rolled free, following the spiral around and down. King watched the light fade.
But then it stopped with a thunk.
That’s either good news, or bad news, King thought. His torn-up knees ached with every slide forward, but with more room to move, he was able to position his legs so his wounds were off the floor. He moved steadily downward, following the spiral. As he descended, the light from his lost flashlight grew brighter.
“You’re bleeding,” Alexander said. He couldn’t see King’s wounds, but the smell of blood was filling the tight tunnel.
“I’ll be fine,” King replied. “We’re almost at the bottom.”
“What do you see?”
King stopped as he saw the flashlight ahead. The tunnel leveled out and continued in a straight line. He pushed forward, not knowing how far the tunnel stretched. When it grew smaller he could no longer lift his head up. Still he pushed forward, not knowing what lay ahead. It could be an exit, a trap, or a squeeze too tight to fit through. As it was he could feel his back scraping against the ceiling with each pull forward. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his toes, he continued forward for ten minutes. Then his flashlight, aimed toward the side wall, showed an open space. He picked up his head and found a small chamber. He quickly pulled himself free of the small tunnel and checked out the space, which was about the size of an economy car interior. While the extra space was nice, the light gray wall blocking his path crushed his hopes. Crouching, King moved to the wall. As Alexander exited the tunnel behind him he placed his hand on the smooth surfaced wall. Modern concrete.
They were trapped.
Again.
FIFTY-THREE
Threshold Page 23
