The Cursed Pharaoh (The Hank Boyd Origins Book 1)

by Matthew James

  Keeping my feet flat on the ground, I shove forward and quickly pick up speed. I apply some pressure to my toes and slow a bit, smiling at the ease of the move. I press my forearms to either side of the decline and drag them across its surface. Thankfully, it’s smooth and the wear on my skin shouldn’t be too bad.

  Clutching my flashlight in my uninjured right hand, I even get a good look at our path. Unfortunately, the illumination does less than bupkis as the ground falls out from under me and I land hard on my ass and back some feet later, getting the wind knocked out of me.

  The resulting fall wasn’t what caused the most pain either, it was the sudden appearance of my father over my head that did. With no breath to speak of, I can’t move in time and I take his entire 180lb frame in the chest and stomach.

  I gasp as he lands on me, crushing my head back against the hard ground. My eyes blur as my skull ricochets off the stone like a football player’s head does against the turf. Only, I’m not wearing a padded helmet. My brain is officially scrambled from the hit and I black out.

  * * *

  I awake with a scream as something grabs my shoulders. Lashing out with a balled fist, I punch whoever is attacking me and stand bolt upright in place. I look down at my wounded attacker ready to go another round if I have too.

  “Dad? What the hell, man?”

  He’s holding his cheek in the dim illumination of an upturned flashlight. Blinking his eyes, he checks for injuries and shakes his head as I help him up.

  “If that’s what I get for trying to help…”

  Seeing that he’s fine, I pick up my fallen flashlight and see that the wrist strap broke when I fell. “What happened?”

  He nods above us. “We fell—ten feet or so. I landed on you and you smacked the back of your head pretty good. I even heard the thump. You’ve been out for a couple of minutes. I found something and wanted to show you.”

  “Well,” I say, turning back to him, “you damn sure got my attention. Whatcha’ got?”

  He picks up his flashlight and ignites the ground in front of us. I add my light and curse at what I see. “Son of a…” I glance at Dad, “…witch.” Grinning sheepishly, I take my eyes off him and back down to his discovery.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t say what I found was a good thing.”

  “No kidding?”

  The chamber is larger than what either of our lights can show us. It’s not the largest underground room I’ve ever seen. In person, yes, but I know of a few around the world that are bigger. The biggest difference with this one is what’s taking up the entirety of its interior.

  “It’s a labyrinth!”

  Two dozen stairs steeply descend, ending directly in front of the maze’s entrance. And from what I can see, there’s no way around it or over it. The only way we’ll be able to navigate the bastard is by going through it.

  “Wonderful,” I say, taking off my hat and scratching my head, “just friggin wonderful.” I replace it and sigh.

  Dad starts down the stairs, not limping as bad as before, pausing when I don’t follow. “What?” he asks. “It’s not like we have a choice in the matter, Harrison.”

  Shaking my head, I catch up to him. “You know, after all these years, it would be nice to hear you call me Hank just once.”

  He smiles. “Not a chance.”

  Figuring as much, I turn back to the labyrinth. “Don’t be so eager to get your head chopped off, okay?”

  He chuckles. “This isn’t The Last Crusade, son.”

  I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “What are you talking about? This is exactly like it, Dad! We are Indy and Dr. Jones to a T.”

  His eyes crease in thought, squinting. He then smiles. “Well, at least you’re still alive.”

  On cue, I bend over and vomit all over the staircase, sending forth fluids I didn’t even know I had. I fall on my ass, stumbling on the stairs behind me. Dad half-catches me and keeps me from going down too hard. Sitting on the steps, I hold up my left hand and look at the wound in shock.

  “It’s happening…”

  “N-no…” Dad stammers, shaking his head. “It’s just a story. Curses aren’t real.”

  “It…it’s not a curse, Dad. It’s a virus, it feels like I have the flu.” I try to stand and barely do so. Dad steadies me as I explain. “I had the flu once during a game and felt the same after playing a few innings. The team doctor said I made things worse by trying to play through it.” I look back up to where we fell from. “I’m guessing that’s what’s happening now.”

  I look at Dad and see him staring at the labyrinth’s entrance, softly nodding the entire time. He stops and meets my eyes. “I guess we’ll have to take it slow and steady then.” His eyes leave mine. “Because Lord knows I’m not leaving without you.”

  The last part makes me smile which is hard to do considering my condition. I feel like a pile of horse shit but know Dad won’t survive without me. I’ve always had a knack for doing mazes when I was younger. Granted, those were on various kid’s menus, but nonetheless, I was really good at them, being able to memorize the way, just by glancing at it.

  He helps me up.

  “How are we doing this?” I ask, shrugging out of his arms. He’s concerned and I gently pat him on the shoulder, attempting to deflate some of his worry. I may be sick but I know I can push through it for now.

  For now…

  Dad sees my inner struggle. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I kind of have to be.”

  I lead the way but stop before entering. Drawing the dagger, our only weapon, I step forward and cross the threshold, biting my lip as I do. Dad is close behind me but is cut off by a quick rising slab of stone. It knocks him back and me forward.

  “No!” I shout, leaping to my feet.

  But it’s too late, Dad is blocked from following me.

  “It’s fine, I’m okay!” he shouts back. “I’ll try and guide you from here. I can almost see the entire thing from the top of the stairs. Hopefully, there’s a release somewhere at the end.”

  “Hopefully?” I ask, yelling over the twenty-foot tall wall.

  “Just get moving!”

  Turning around, I point my flashlight back into the veil of blackness, only being able to see about ten feet in front of me. “Right,” I say to myself, “no problem.”

  10

  Yasin led Aziz and Dr. Fehr forward. Like ducks in a row, whenever he stopped, they did. It went on for what seemed like an eternity, getting multiple retorts from the eldest of the group. While in decent enough shape, Dr. Fehr was far from Hank’s or even his father’s physicality.

  The man needs to get out more, Yasin thought, shaking his shaggy head. His shoulder-length, black hair kept falling in front of his face, causing him to lose sight of his destination… Nothing.

  “Just more darkness,” he announced, updating the others.

  For the most part, he stayed quiet, though, busy trying to process what he’d seen so far. The fact that there was a second chamber below what they thought was the real one, was enough for him to believe in the curse—or rather, whatever sickness was hidden below. It was a sickness that the Boyds had hopefully avoided.

  What could it be?

  His best guess was some type of ancient disease. Then again, it could be as simple as a cold. It didn’t take much to kill someone 5,000 years ago. A modest cut could lead to infection, killing the person without issue. The Egyptians were known to cure some nasty illnesses but not all were treatable back then.

  The stories of Menkaure are too awful to be only that…

  Whether the tales of Menkaure’s life were true or those of fiction, Yasin didn’t know. Regardless, if they were or weren’t, Hamza took them to heart. He believed everything he’d been told by his ancestors, including his murderous father, the most malicious of them all.

  Until Hamza took control that is.

  The love for his father and the hate he had for those responsible for his imprisonment up drove Hamza
over the edge. Now, he had two missions in life. The first was his duty to Zill Allah but he began sprinkling in his own propaganda, turning the once proud Magi into nothing more than a gang of bandits.

  It was another reason Yasin’s family stepped down from their responsibilities. They believed in the ancient ways to a degree—the importance their group played—but refused to go as far as the Abdul-Sharif clan. They were guardians, not assassins.

  Not Hamza, though.

  “Anything?” Fehr asked, his voice sounding tired and uncomfortable.

  “N-no…” Yasin replied, refocusing himself. “Just more black—” Something ahead caught his attention. “Wait a second. I think I see something.”

  The tunnel looked like it suddenly ended up ahead. The space beyond was large, he could see that from where he was. His flashlight’s beam disappeared into the blackness like he was pointing it straight into the night sky. Slowing, he spoke. “Stay back for a moment. Let me see where we’re going.”

  Aziz and Fehr replied with silence, their movements stopping and their voices quieted. They agreed to give the former Magi control over their search and neither was in the position to argue. Literally. Yasin was blocking the way.

  “Wow,” he said as he exited the tunnel. The floor dropped away but only for a few feet. It was covered in a bevy of square tiles, each holding a series of hieroglyphs.

  What is their significance?

  “Dr. Fehr,” Yasin said, calling into the tunnel, “you need to see this.”

  The bald historian emerged with a groan, quickly standing and stretching his back, closing his eyes as he did. It took him a couple of seconds to notice what laid ahead and when he saw it his mouth opened and stayed that way.

  After a long pause, he finally spoke. “It’s a breakaway trap system.” He knelt and gently rubbed a hand over the first tile. “Very few of these have ever been found. Most scholars believe they didn’t even really exist—popularized instead by the movie industry.”

  “How do we know if it still works or not?” Yasin asked.

  Aziz joined them at the edge of the long passage. It was about ten feet wide and another thirty or so long. “Should we throw something?”

  Fehr shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’ll do it. They are most likely calibrated by the body weight of an average male of the time,” he glanced at both men and then slapped his stomach, “and I believe we weigh more than that! And before you ask,” he held up a hand to Aziz, catching the younger man with his mouth open, “I have no idea how they made this.”

  “So, what then?” Yasin asked.

  “We have to assume it’s still active and just as deadly as it was designed to be.”

  “Even after all this time?” Aziz asked.

  “Yes,” Fehr replied, “it’s very unlikely that it’s still operational. But it would be foolish—and deadly—for us to take it lightly.”

  “Okay,” Yasin agreed, “but that still doesn’t help us cross it. What is the significance of the symbols? Don’t we need a key or commonality between them to assure our safety?”

  “You sure know a lot about these,” Aziz said with a skeptical look on his face.

  Yasin shrugged. “I’ve seen the movies, cousin.”

  “Right,” Fehr said, “then what’s the likeness of the symbols?”

  “Are you asking for betting odds?” Yasin asked.

  Ignoring him, Ben pointed his light at the tiles, examining them carefully. The Nassirs followed suit. Minutes went by before any of them spoke again and when Ben finally did, it was with a gasp of excitement…and fear.

  “That’s it!” Fehr shouted, standing.

  “What’s it?” Aziz asked, also standing. Yasin did as well.

  “Each row contains names belonging to the rulers of the past. The next row holds the name of their successor and so on. We need to name them in order as we move forward.”

  “I’m not sure how well you remember the exact order,” Aziz said, laughing, “but mine is pretty rusty.”

  He looked at his cousin. “Yasin?”

  The elder Nassir only shook his head. “I know of a few but I’m not an expert on the subject.”

  Fehr slapped both men on the back. “But I am! Just follow me. We know the path should end with Menkaure since he was the last king to rule during the construction.”

  “Says who?” Aziz asked. “How do we know that other kings didn’t know about this place and continued on after Menkaure died.”

  Fehr and Aziz looked at Yasin.

  “From what I know, my order is the only one outside of Menkaure himself that knows about this place—but like I said before, Hamza’s family was privileged with information the others weren’t. There may have very well been others afterward, for all I know.”

  “I guess we’ll have to cross to find out for sure,” Fehr said, stepping out onto the first tile. His steps were slow and deliberate, each one making Yasin and Aziz flinch.

  But it held.

  Fehr turned and smiled. “Narmer was the first true king of Egypt, uniting the upper and lower kingdoms… Step where I step and take your time.”

  They nodded and started off after the expert.

  “What of the lesser known kings?” Aziz asked.

  “Or the ones we’ve yet to discover?” Yasin added.

  Ben stopped and spun. “I’m taking that into account. If the surrounding names don’t correspond correctly, then it’s obviously the other. For instance,” he pointed to the one off to his left, “this one is about two-hundred years out of order.”

  Yasin glanced at his cousin and then back to Fehr. “Whatever you say, Dr. Fehr… You’re the boss.”

  Making it to the halfway point, Fehr stopped…and didn’t move. Yasin wasn’t sure what was happening and wanted nothing more than to continue.

  “Sir?” he asked softly. “Is there a problem?”

  Fehr knelt, just barely keeping his weight on the correct tile. “You could say that,” he replied, mumbling something to himself. “We may have found our first hiccup.”

  “Hiccup,” Aziz asked, his voice filled with fear.

  “Yes,” Fehr replied, standing and turning. Facing his compatriots, he explained. “There are two possibilities ahead. One of them is closer to the others and I’m sure each is correct.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Yasin asked.

  Fehr smiled but his eyes were worried. “I can’t remember which one came first.”

  “What?” Aziz exclaimed.

  “We can still cross, though,” Fehr said, pointing to a tile. “We might have to jump a good distance, however.”

  “What’s a good distance look like?” Aziz asked, third in line.

  “Six feet.”

  Both Yasin and Aziz’s shoulders dropped in unison.

  “It’s a doable distance.” Fehr tried to sound convincing but failed miserably but then turned and flexed his legs.

  “Stop!”

  The outburst startled Fehr and he had to swing his arms back and forth to regain his balance. Glancing back, he saw Yasin with a single hand outstretched.

  “Please, sir, let me go first. I can at least help you safely land.”

  Nodding his thanks, Fehr carefully traded spots with the younger man.

  “It’s that one there,” Fehr said, pointing out the next tile.

  Yasin eyed it and quickly leapt, landing solidly.

  It held.

  “Thank god,” Aziz said, blowing out a long breath.

  “Okay, Dr. Fehr,” Yasin said, smiling. “Which one is after this one?”

  The Israeli moved back to his original position and pointed to Yasin’s left. “Two tiles to your left and another one forward. I’m sure of it.”

  Nodding, Yasin turned and looked for the tile. Seeing it, he hopped across the four-foot distance with ease. Landing, he faced Fehr and immediately noticed a problem.

  “I’m too far away to help you.”

  Seeing the same thing, Fehr looked at Y
asin with a pain-filled expression.

  He knew, Yasin thought. He knew no one would be able to help him.

  Without voicing his concern, Fehr jumped.

  * * *

  If I had to guess, I’d say I’m about halfway through the maze. Dad confirms my estimation by yelling as much, telling me I’m getting closer with every correct turn I take. So far, with our combined effort, I’ve only gone the wrong way twice, and thankfully, neither detour took me that far out of the way.

  Which is good, I think, trying to control my gag reflex. Nope… I bend over and heave, feeling only the smallest amount of fluid accompany my latest upheaval. Having no idea what’s coursing itself through my system, I turn my focus to the path ahead which is becoming blurrier by the minute.

  Dammit.

  I shake my head like a wet dog and stumble, catching myself on the nearest wall. Now, instead of physically feeling sick, I also feel horrible above the shoulders. Wave after wave of unrelenting pain is now throbbing through my forehead.

  With a quivering hand, I rip off my hat, hoping the small change in pressure around my head helps. It doesn’t, though, and I grit my teeth as I softly lay it back in its proper place.

  “Take your next right!” Dad shouts, his voice echoing around me.

  “Yeah…” I say, speaking as loud as I can.

  Dragging my hand across the impossibly smooth stone, I try switching my attention from myself to the labyrinth. If I was in a better frame of mind, I would’ve stopped and taken it all in, marveling at where I was…but I’m not.

  What I do see is extraordinary.

  Each wall is decorated with the same type of carvings as Menkaure’s gilded burial chamber. “Walk like an Egyptian…” The song lyrics have been slowly making their way to my lips for a while, since first seeing the exquisite artistry. You don’t have to be guys like my dad or Ben to appreciate the intricately thought-out designs.

  How long did this take? I think to myself. Did they start building it before Menkaure’s time? I look up and picture the entire chamber. Had to have worked around the clock too.