24 Bones

by Stewart, Michael F.

  “Where is the spine? Tell me before you are the last Shemsu Hor.” Sam addressed Askari. Askari’s eyes flicked through the gate and to the desert beyond.

  “I have the spine,” David gasped. Sam swung her dagger toward David and lunged to where he lay. His chin lifted with the ankh’s tip. Swollen flesh closed one eye. She stared into his ruined face.

  “You will regret this, David. We are all connected,” Askari said, but his tone lacked conviction.

  “I am connected,” David mocked. “I understand perfectly.”

  “You don’t use the Fullness, David. You draw from chaos, from Void,” Askari explained.

  “Enough. Where?” Sam pushed.

  David swallowed, the knifepoint cut into his adam’s apple as it rose and then fell. From out of the neck of his robe, he pulled a golden rod. Its diameter varied from an inch to three inches to hold curved vertebrae. Along its surface, raised hieroglyphs caught the setting moon’s light. Notches above and below indicated where the other pieces of the Osiris would fit.

  “I present it to you. I wish to be accepted as a member,” David said and passed the rod to Sam’s proffered hand.

  “We have a special membership initiation for traitors,” Sam replied. She grasped the rod and stood. She turned away and then whirled, kicking him in the stomach so that he curled in pain. A Shemsu Seth touched Sam’s wrist as she readied for a second strike.

  “He has proven himself.” The Shemsu Seth pointed to the companion still hanging from the wall by David’s arrow.

  David raised his arm and stared at the protective Shemsu Seth. “I know more. I can translate the tablet.” He crawled to Sam’s feet.

  “The man. Where is the watcher who can touch Void?” Sam demanded of him.

  “I will show you, just don’t kill me,” David replied. “I will.”

  Askari hissed as if punched in the gut.

  Faris opened his eyes. A mantle of energy hung about his shoulders and at the centre of his forehead. He swiped at it with the back of his hand. The desert was still. No sand abraded the rock with its stinging whispers. The wind did not yet blow.

  He leaned out from under the rim of rock where he sheltered. Dawn broke with brilliant promise. His thirst told him that more than a night had passed, but his mind was clear.

  He pictured himself standing before Askari. Today, he would explain what he had learned of the Fullness. He would defend his accessing the Void in order to save the members of the deir and claim his place as a dark companion. He exhaled a shuddering breath. It would not be so easy to confront Askari, but if the Shemsu Seth valued control of Void, then surely the companions should too. If not, he would have to consider other options.

  Sand dribbled on the nape of his neck. He turned.

  Sandaled feet ranked along the ridge. A gun clicked. Faris understood: the safety was removed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Nasser had traveled with Faysal to the outskirts of Luxor before breaking company: Faysal to the Nile’s east bank and Nasser to the west. They traveled by burro and cart; Nasser kept the cart because he still had far to go, too far to hike, especially with the sun on the horizon. Wiry and dark skinned, Nasser’s mother was Nubian; father, Arabic. His habit of bobbing his head with its large hooked nose when in heated discussion earned him the nickname “the bird.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he would peck before beginning any counterargument to preempt agreement.

  By the time they reached Luxor, they had decided that, between Faysal’s supercilious smile and Nasser’s affirmations, they should have entered into business together.

  “Next life, yes?” Nasser confirmed at Faysal’s ridiculous grin. The laughter had been good and cleansing for both.

  The burro trotted on the side of the road where the shoulder’s constant slope tilted the cart. Nasser rubbed his back.

  The Colossi of Memnon, the last vestiges of Amenhotep III’s funerary temple, stood eroded and unmasked. Wind had once given voice to the stone giants as it passed through cracks in their masonry. That morning, the titans guarded a silent field of dry grass.

  The rubbled ruins of the Ramesseum were dark and shadowy, as were the entries to the Tombs of the Nobles that dotted the fractured hills. Nasser’s burrow led him deep into the canyon, where desert scrub disappeared and only death prevailed—the furnace of the Valley of the Kings.

  The first tour bus roared by and powdered his pale blue galabayya and his beast with fine dust. Nasser coughed. He continued to ride for another hour before he hauled on the reins and eased the cart between two parked buses. The burro munched at a feedbag Nasser looped under its nose. Tour guides buying tickets for their fares talked and chatted with their colleagues. Nasser made for the ticket wicket.

  The summer months, when the temperatures regularly topped one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, were not busy for Egypt. The tombs, far from offering a break from the heat, held a humidity that bathed their explorers in sweat. Still, hundreds of tourists milled at the valley’s entry. Perspiration beaded Nasser’s brow, but he was used to heat and his galabayya billowed refreshingly even as the cliff faces flooded with sunlight.

  With ticket in hand, Nasser marched past the guards, through the crowds, and to the rest house where he checked the map for his targeted tomb. The notation for tomb KV 55 read: KV 55—Tomb of—Tiye, Akhenaten? Other? NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.

  The tomb was nearby, in full view of tourist and guard alike. Opposite KV 55, the tomb of Ramesses IX cut deeply into the rocky hill, the entry framed by modern retaining walls. KV 55 was a pit surrounded by a short concrete bulkhead. Nasser walked past. Below the lip of the wall, the ground dropped several feet and then stairs descended sharply. Entry meant clearing the side without detection.

  Nasser lounged on the wall, using it as a bench. A nearby guard answered a tourist’s question, and Nasser pretended to drop something and then swung his legs over and disappeared. He listened for exclamations from above, and when none came, he bobbed his head.

  He massaged his lower back, still sore from the long ride in the cart, and clambered down the steps to the entry cut into the cliff face. A gate barred his path. The lock was freshly cut, and he leaned against the rock wall in disappointment. He sighed and pushed the metal bars open. He had come this far; he would confirm the vertebra’s loss. The gate creaked obstinately and rattled when it knocked against the stone.

  KV 55 held little of interest to tourists. The beam of Nasser’s flashlight illuminated an unadorned passage that narrowed as it sloped. Nasser’s breathing echoed against the walls, and the ever-tapering path increased the rate of his breathing. He disliked being underground. The stairs ended, and another corridor tunneled downward. He leaned back and supported his lumbar from the steep pitch as he shuffled to the burial chamber.

  Light bounced from the plastered walls and ceiling of the main room. He paused at its arched entry, also undecorated. The glow laid bare the ugly cube; only mason’s marks embellished the wall in front of him. Plaster had broken away from the far left wall. Nasser’s target was a side room, shrouded in shadow.

  His breaths, quick and shallow, came in pants. He placed a hand to his chest and tried to slow his breathing. Missing a step, he stumbled and landed hard on his knees. The stair down into the room was three feet to the floor, and his flashlight hit the ground and went out, rolling to clank against stone. He crawled, sweeping his hand back and forth. He held his breath, but heavy pants still came quick and sharp. He stopped. The echo faded into silence.

  His hand fell on the cold steel of the flashlight and he twisted the cap so that it flickered. He tensed as he scanned the room with the beam, but the side chamber was as plain and empty as the burial. He stood, drew a breath, and moved inside. Here broken rock spilled from the wall.

  Nasser hung his head. The tomb of Akhenaten wa
s breached. His light leapt through the hole and reflected from tarnished silver, copper, and dusty teak. Gilded furniture, toys, desiccated bread, statues, and sparkles from the eyes of pharaonic carven armies reflected back at him. He stood for a moment in awe. At the rear of the chamber, Akhenaten, his hatchet head with its alien eyes, rose like an adder prepared to strike.

  The hole was narrow, even for him. Halfway through, he set the flashlight to the floor and pulled himself forward. A low growl rumbled in the enclosed room. He turned his head to meet the gaze of a hound.

  It began to pant.

  Full Moon

  ‘I am the crocodile which dwelleth in terror,

  I am the sacred crocodile and I cause destruction.’

  -Egyptian Book of the Dead

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Only one thing was certain. Seth would have his sacrifice.

  David hung above the pit and gradually came to consciousness. The chains that manacled his wrists were attached to the statues of the crocodile-headed god of Sobek, each effigy fused to a larger column. The snouts pointed to the black hole below his feet and left little doubt as to what roamed in the darkness.

  Pharaoh entered with a black ankh in his fist and strode over to the star-shaped altar. David squinted at the weapon. A black, hooded robe was pulled down over Pharaoh’s head, but he was unmasked, unlike the others on the chamber floor. A woman was draped across the altar, fettered hand and foot to the slab. The altar’s grooves traced off to spouts thirsty for sacrificial blood. A scraping sound issued from the pit, and David shuddered.

  Near one crocodile statue, Faris struggled against the leash that heeled him to a dwarf’s thigh. At the height of the steps, beside Pharaoh’s throne, Zahara cradled her hand.

  When David saw her, he jerked at his chains, which clanked but held firm.

  She rested like a pet dog at the chair’s foot, a steel collar around her neck. Her chain fell in a braid behind her naked back. She stared at David.

  He lingered over her nudity and then over the golden spine and tablet that sat on the throne in place of Pharaoh.

  Above Zahara, balconies rose in gradually smaller tiers filled with Shemsu Seth and dwarfs. Hoots and shouts were showered upon a black-robed, jackal-masked figure who knelt several feet before the altar. The chamber magnified the sound. David missed most of the Arabic words and those of some other tongue, but the tone was plain. The person bowed before Pharaoh was on trial.

  “Sam,” Pharaoh boomed, and David smiled. “You had the opportunity to rid the Shemsu Seth of the last of its scourge. Why didn’t you?”

  The snout of the jackal lifted, its wooden teeth perpetually snarling. “I laid claim to the tablet, the spine, and for Trand, in satisfaction of his wound, that man.” A long finger struck out toward Faris. “I have done as you asked.” Sam’s voice rang out, echoes fading into quiet.

  “You denied blood sacrifice to Seth.”

  “Seth has been well satiated by the blood of the Shemsu Hor and the two killed at their deir. The balance favors Seth strongly, perhaps too—”

  “You dare determine the blood allowance of our god?” Pharaoh pointed a thick talon. “As for the tablet and spine, you did no such thing.” Pharaoh’s arm swung to David, and blood flushed his face, skin darkening in the glow shed by the jarlight. “I understand that we have Doctor Nidaal to thank for these items and for the deaths of the Shemsu Hor.” Pharaoh’s hand waved toward the nearly completed backbone of Osiris and the tablet, but he glared at Sam. “The ones you couldn’t save.”

  “I would have found—”

  “You did not!” Pharaoh snapped and when the temple fell silent he continued. “No matter. You will have a final opportunity to prove your loyalty to the Shemsu Seth.” Pharaoh strode to stand at the rim of the pit. “Doctor Nidaal,” he said. “You started what my warrior failed to finish. Cut this man down,” Pharaoh ordered Trand.

  “Pharaoh, the man is a companion, one of the progeny, a potential prophet,” Sam protested. Pharaoh raised his palm, and Trand halted.

  David cried out. “I was born a companion but rejected them. Until recently, I did not know to whom I belonged. All my life I have battled false religions.” He paused. “I wish to join you in your battle and renounce the companions. I choose Void.”

  “He understands nothing of our battle,” Sam addressed her leader. “He wishes only to save himself.”

  “No …” David’s stare did not leave Pharaoh. He pulled at the shackles that cut into his flesh. “Yes … I do fear death. It would be difficult not to.” He kicked a chained foot in the direction of the pit. The dwarfs and Shemsu Seth laughed. “But I wish to join. So much so that I killed. I gave myself to the Void and killed.”

  Pharaoh’s gaze shifted thoughtfully from Sam to David and back.

  “Your prophecy foretells a second coming of Horus. The Wedjat,” David probed. Pharaoh’s face was implacable. “With the age of the fish, Pisces, Jesus came, and the Shemsu Seth were forced to bury themselves under rock, never rising to power for fear of the balance. Now the Wedjat is to come and you must defeat him in order that the myth of Osiris and Seth is not repeated, once again relegating Seth to the backwaters of faith, the evil, the lesser.”

  Pharaoh cracked a smile. David smiled, too.

  “The Shemsu Seth were not forced. We chose,” Pharaoh explained in an acidic tone that eroded David’s smirk, “We choose to retain our religion in its purity. By the age of Pisces, the Egyptian religion had grown fat. It worshipped Seth as it worshipped cats and bulls. One must die in order to be reborn, so we died. We have lain in our crypt longer than any had supposed. However, the Age of Pisces is over, Doctor Nidaal. The new fish has yet to be revealed. Sam is correct. You are a companion, born within the new age, and yet, you still live.” Pharaoh waved a hand at Trand. “Let Sobek feed.”

  “Wait, I’m not the Wedjat, or some prophet’s vessel!”

  Trand unlatched David’s lower ankle, and he swung out over the pit. Hungry shouts pummeled.

  “You said you would spare me, spare Zahara.” Trand worked at David’s second anklet. “You need me.”

  Pharaoh regarded him, eyebrow raised. “I need no one.”

  “You do, or you will fail,” David yelled over the din.

  Pharaoh raised the black ankh high into the air and strode back to where David hung.

  “The tablet, I have the translation,” David finished.

  Pharaoh’s eyes sparked like the Out, the Void. Chaos and madness danced in them.

  “And what of the tablet,” Pharaoh whispered.

  “It tells the location of the final portion of the Osiris, the spinal cord.” David lowered his voice, and the ceiling erupted like bats suddenly disturbed by light.

  Pharaoh lifted his ankh again and the screeches fled. “Where?” he asked.

  David sensed the Shemsu Seth straining to hear. “I need the spine, but I can show you.” Behind David, Faris groaned.

  “You too will have one chance.” Pharaoh squinted and the slits of the iridescent eyes brightened. “If what you say is true, you will live.”

  David didn’t dare bargain to save Zahara as well.

  Pharaoh shifted his gaze to Sam, who still knelt before the altar, where the female sacrifice pulled against her bonds. “Sam, your chance.” Pharaoh nodded toward the woman.

  “If I found the tablet before the full moon, you said my mother would live,” Sam replied.

  “Everyone is receiving a lesson today.” Pharaoh chuckled; the sound rose and multiplied. “I indulge only those whose loyalty is not suspect. If you are truly Shemsu Seth, you know we cannot release her.”

  “We can keep her in Krokodilopolis until I have proven myself, until after Akhet.” Sam spoke in a monotone.

  “She will die well, as a sacrifice.” P
haraoh handed Sam the black ankh. “We will bury her as an Osiris. She will go beyond to add to the power of Void. Show us your leadership. Show us and fulfill your destiny.”

  Sam stood and walked to her mother.

  “No, Pharaoh. I will show you my loyalty. But that I cannot do.” Pharaoh’s face darkened. “My mother does not deserve rebirth. She will take the place of this man.”

  David lifted his face to the jackal mask’s stare. Rabid anger filled the hollow eyes. Sam unscrewed each of the manacles that tied her mother to the slab. Pharaoh nodded agreement, and the dwarfs and Shemsu Seth began to chant.

  “Sobek, Sobek, Sobek.”

  David, drawn like a medieval torture victim, his hands blackened and shoulders pulled from their sockets, swung on his chains as he strained to see. His focus was on the knife in Sam’s white-knuckled grip.

  “Sobek, Sobek, Sobek,” the chant pounded.

  Her mother unshackled, Sam signaled with her hands near Tara’s face. Then Sam bent. Her mother did not resist and allowed herself to be gathered into Sam’s arms.

  David’s brow pinched. “Stop her. She’s not going to kill her!” But David’s voice was consumed by the noise of the Shemsu Seth, and all eyes attended Sam. David twisted in his shackles, looking left and right. Only Faris caught his eye.

  Sam easily stood, her veins and eyes luminescent with Void. Her glare remained on David as she neared. At the pit’s edge, Sam’s mother slid from her arms. Tara’s only sound was a sharp intake of breath as she fell. Cheers for Sobek and Sam crashed. Tara slipped through the hole and into Sobek’s lair.