She could almost pity him, not knowing which of them suffered the worst fate.
Faintly through the stone she could hear the preternatural echo of the Horn as he blew endlessly, drawing air through his nose while he blew out through his mouth. That sound must not falter until the doors were shut and sealed. Forever. And he knew it.
Beyond, outward, there was all of Egypt, all of the world. Helpless before what lay within the chamber below.
They could not let what resided so restlessly within that chamber escape to lay waste over their beloved Egypt and all the world. She could not set what lay within that tomb on the peoples of this world, not with what they knew of them. Those below would devour it. They would turn the people of the Nile, the distant people from whom Irisi had come and those of all the lands where she’d served and fought as a mercenary, into chattel, something to feed upon…and their feeding…the torment of it…
Horror shook her.
If they were to be free, safe, then she must hold, even as her body bucked, fought for air…
And so she held. It seemed an eternity, yet it was only minutes.
She remembered…and clung to her memories, lost herself in them, held them against the fear and the pain, against the cold that seeped into her flesh. The cold and the darkness.
Alone in the dark she remembered the ones, the one, that she loved and would always love.
His hand upon the stone, Khai remembered his beloved Irisi with her swords flashing, her hair swirling around her as she did battle as she had that first day he’d seen her, and all the days thereafter. He smiled at the memory, despite his grief, his sorrow and pain. Priestess and warrior. So lovely, strong, so seemingly indomitable. It was her laughter though, that rang in his memory most. That beautiful hair, her glorious eyes…her laughter and her joy.
In grief and sorrow he touched the features carved into the stone of the stele, then laid his forehead against that graven forehead as he would have done with her in life.
His fingers traced the words engraved there, the chants for Coming Forth into the Day, for Going and Coming Out of the Realm of the Dead, and For Taking on Any Shape. She would need to know them.
He willed her strength and he willed her love. How did she fare within? Was her struggle over yet, had the Gods taken her, given her surcease? Were her ba and ka free of her body?
Tales were told of one’s life flashing before one’s eyes as one died. But Irisi was not dying…nor would an afterlife await her… For that she would have wept, but there were no tears left to her.
In the darkness of the cavern far below, the great iron doors slowly closed. The sound of it echoed through the chambers above it. Bands of gold and silver were hammered across it to secure it with the powers of the Gods Ra and Isis. The seal, carefully balanced, was placed in its niche to enclose that which lay within, hopefully forever.
The chanting didn’t end…it wasn’t done, not yet.
As one, the priests and priestesses left the Tomb and closed around the stele. Each lay their hand on the stone and willed strength to the one who stood within.
The Gods came, all of them but Set, each of them to render her a gift.
Sekhmet was the last.
In the chamber below the great iron doors were closed and sealed, and she set to stand guard over it, to ensure it remained sealed, forever.
Alone through the ages to come.
Chapter Two
In the time of the early dynasties
The old thief had searched for years for this particular tomb. It was legendary. Many had sought it, none had found it. He’d heard rumors over the years, rumors that it contained a cache of gold, jewels, and a ruby as big as a man’s fist.
Now, at last, Abdul believed he’d found it. He smiled and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.
They’d already found one treasure trove and looted it, minor though it was. An outer tomb, surprisingly. It had contained some jewels and some nice statuary, most particularly the one in his hands. Made of gold and inset with jewels, it was clearly a depiction of a priestess of some kind, with her hands on the heads of the lions to each side of her.
His tent set up, Abdul went to sit in the entrance out of the heat of the sun as one of his slaves hurried to bring him food and water.
He waved his men into the cleft in the rock.
“You know what to do,” he said. “Watch out for traps.”
There were always traps, the old ones had been wise to men like him. But men like him were wise to their ways, too. There were old thieves and bold thieves, but few bold, old thieves. Abdul was old. He let others be bold.
Hakim flapped a hand at him. “We know, old man.”
As his right hand man that one needed to show more respect.
Abdul smiled.
“If you know so much you take the lead, then,” he said to Hakim and settled on his rug to wait, folding his arms. “I’ll wait for you here.”
The other man’s face set only slightly but it was clear he was less than pleased.
As the one in the lead, he was the one most likely to find the traps. He was also the one most likely to miss one or trigger one but he dared not show his dismay in front of the men or he would lose face.
Now he would pay the price for his arrogance.
They’d already lost one man to the outer tomb, even that had been protected.
Just the presence of that tomb had been enough to fool some into thinking they’d found what they sought. Only to fall prey to the protections on it, as they’d seen by the skeletons and detritus around it.
To Abdul it was simply proof he’d been right and a greater tomb awaited if they could but find it.
He believed they had.
With a grim nod, torch held high, Hakim led the men into the cleft in the rock.
For long moments there was silence, just the sounds of the sand in the desert, the tick of warming rocks, the sound of the camels as they shifted and chewed while the sun beat down on those who waited.
Then thunder.
A massive rumble and clatter.
Dust spewed from the cleft and Abdul shook his head.
With a wave he sent more men into the rift.
“Clear it,” he said.
It was a dangerous business, raiding tombs. The old ones had been wise, setting traps for those who would raid their places of burial.
Hakim, despite his name, had not been.
A man came running, bowed respectfully and waited.
“Is it clear?”
The man nodded.
It was clear but the passage was not easy.
Abdul set more of his men to clearing the remainder of the stone as they picked their way over the rubble.
As he did so he saw Hakim, his eyes wide, dead beneath a massive stone.
Abdul shook his head.
Fool.
Abdul stepped out into the cavern, surprised at what he found there.
Still, he waved his men forward.
It was said this tomb had a curse on it but then they always said such things of tombs. If those who stole from tombs died more often than other men, it was because they risked more. There was no other reason.
Across the enormous bowl and against the soft silence of the great desert behind the wall came the sound of stone grating on stone.
Then a coughing, rumbling roar, the sound of a lion on the hunt.
Lions? There were no lions in this part of the desert, where then lions?
A tinge of alarm went through Abdul as a breath of wind moved past him in this vast windless place.
In the distance, he heard a cry. A short scream echoed from the stone that vaulted above them.
Another scream, this one longer, faded in a gurgle Abdul could hear clearly and then died on a sound that drew Abdul’s manhood tight against him.
A deep cry of pleasure, unnatural in this place.
“Rasul!” Abdul shouted.
There was no answer.
A ma
n shouted.
There was another roar and a man shrieked.
Abdul blanched and backed toward the entrance to the split in the rock. He didn’t know what was going on but he was wiser than Hakim, he knew when to give in, he knew when to flee.
From the shadows one of his men came running and Abdul froze in absolute shock at what stalked him.
That wasn’t nearly as frightening as what caught his man.
Fear was like lightning. His balls drew up tight. With a desperate effort he kept from screaming as he turned and fled, pushed past those clearing the cleft in the rock. Perhaps those lives might satisfy what lay within.
He could only pray so.
Racing for the light, he burst out into the open.
“My camel, quickly,” he said, desperate, clapping his hands for his slaves as he ran to his tent. “Hurry, hurry. Mustafa, Najib, with me.”
His people hastened to do his bidding, looking at him in shock and dismay.
Hastily he gathered his most precious booty, his fingers caressing the figurine of the priestess, praying to her for salvation. He leaped onto the saddled camel, set heel to it without a backward glance.
“We go,” Abdul hissed to the other two men.
The remaining men, puzzled and disturbed, turned to look back toward the great crack in the rock.
A sound like the wind in a storm whispered from the crack in the great wall of rock.
From within the rift came cries and shouts, the screams from those within it.
Those outside fell back. Some turned to run.
A great cloud of dust and stone erupted from within the stone to swallow up those outside. Voices cried out in horror, and in pleasure.
That sound followed Abdul across the desert, raising prickles over his skin.
After a time, silence fell as the desert swallowed the sounds up.
It was a shaken, terrified and desperate man who stumbled into the little temple to the shock of the priests and priestesses who served there. His face and hands were scoured and bloodied by the desert.
Abdul ignored them, prostrating himself before the figure of the Goddess. The priests and priestesses couldn’t help him, only a Goddess could.
They’d lost Mustafa in the desert that first night.
At first Abdul thought it safe to rest and so they’d stopped to set up what camp they could.
The wind had come up. All of them had looked up, knowing the signs in the clouds, in the haze in the sky behind them.
A sandstorm.
They found what shelter they could and hunkered down to weather it out.
Still something sent a shiver down Abdul’s back. He weighed his chances.
Something told him his chances were better in the sandstorm.
As the first rush of blowing sand reached them, he leaped for his camel.
Seeing him, Najib followed.
Mustafa had not.
Even over the sound of the storm they heard him scream in abject terror and then in delirious bliss, a dying gurgle of immense pleasure.
And yes, there was something about the sound of that ecstasy that drew their manhood tight and sent a chill through them. Even as it called to them.
Najib’s eyes had turned white at that cry.
It had been a race then, to see which camel could run or be goaded faster against the fury of the storm.
Once again, Abdul won, his fingers clenched around the figurine of the little priestess as he heard the cry out of the darkness.
Still he couldn’t shake the idea he was still hunted. He could feel it.
Desperate, he raced into the first temple he found and threw himself on mercy of she who ruled there.
All he had to offer was the golden figurine of the priestess.
“Take it,” he said to one of the priests, thrusting it into his hands. “Take it as my offering to her, to Sekhmet.”
The Goddess of War.
Instead the priest looked toward the open door of the temple and his face grew grim and set. As one, he and the others backed away, disappeared into the shadowed depths of the temple.
Nearly weeping with terror, Abdul slowly turned.
Sand swirled through the entrance. Something stepped out of it.
He looked from the figure in his hand to the terrible one who stood in the doorway.
The Guardian of the Tomb.
They were the same.
His cry was first of sheer terror and then of a deep and horrifying ecstasy.
When silence came once again to Sekhmet’s temple, the priests and priestesses emerged.
All that remained of the old thief was a dry and empty husk.
The wind gusted and swept the temple clean.
Chapter Three
Late 20th Century, Cairo, Egypt, the Egyptian Museum
The lights in the enormous room had been lowered to increase the drama of what they were about to see and hear. Darkness and gloom surrounded them. Around them, their faces lit by spotlights, were the towering statues of the Pharoahs, Viziers, Generals and their consorts, each lit so their painted kohl-rimmed eyes stared down at the visitors with it seemed as much curiosity as Ky stared up at them.
This trip was his present for his twelfth birthday. He’d been waiting, anticipating it for weeks, ever since they announced the find. He’d followed the progress of it since they first discovered it.
Into the darkness a deep, sonorous voice spoke, the sound thunderous, rumbling against a background of stirring music.
“Welcome to the Egyptian Museum and the unveiling of Narmer’s wall,” the voice boomed.
Silence. And then…
Light bloomed. A single sharp spotlight illuminated the tiny, precise hieroglyphics painted on the wall. It was beautiful, a work of art in itself, the characters surprisingly crisp in places, so perfect.
“Four thousand years ago the Gods set a prophecy upon Pharaoh…”
The light shifted, narrowed to illuminate the first section.
“A darkness rises, oh Pharaoh,” the voice intoned, “to be unleashed upon the world. It comes as a shadow across the desert to lay waste to all Egypt, scouring the earth as it passes. Death and destruction follow in its wake and the cries of the people of the world are terrible. From the north comes a warrior, a crowned and golden servant of the Gods with eyes like the sky, bearing swords in each hand to rise up and drive the darkness out of the world and to stand against it for all time.”
Darkness fell. There was a pause and then the voice filled it.
“So it came to pass that in the seventeenth year of our Lord Pharaoh’s reign a terrible darkness was summoned from the desert…”
In the empty chamber the voice softened and yet rang eerily. A shiver went over Ky at the words, at the sound.
One curtain rose as the other fell and a pocket spotlight illuminated a single spot on a wall, a series of hieroglyphs…
The light followed the characters of the hieroglyphs.
“In a time that would come to be called the time of the Djinn. And so the people of Egypt went to war with the evil Djinn, those spirits of fire. The Generals of Egypt set out to defeat them but could not. Each fell until only one remained, the Lord Khai. The Gods, though, had sent the one who had been prophesied, the foreigner who was called Nubiti, the Golden One, the High Priestess Irisi.”
Ky’s breath caught at the name of the general, so like his own.
“Together the General and the Priestess, Khai and his beloved Irisi, rode down the Djinn and imprisoned them forever in the place that would be called the Tomb of the Djinn, along with the one who had called that horror down on Egypt. He, who shall be forever nameless, was prisoned with them and with him the Horn he’d made to call them down on us.”
“So the Darkness was banished from the earth and the golden one set to guard them as the prophecy foretold, lest Darkness be loosed upon the earth once more.”
“Know this. Whosoever shall read these words the Guardian is the Lock and the Key, th
e Lightness and the Dark.”
The voice paused dramatically.
Darkness fell once again.
“So the Priestess guards the Tomb of the Djinn still…for Egypt…for all mankind. And the evil Djinn passed from this earth.”
In Ky’s mind’s eye he could almost see it…
The evil Djinn―what some people called genii―savage and terrible.
The beautiful priestess rode alongside him, her brilliant hair streaming in the breeze of their passage, their love ill-fated and tragic. Her eyes met his with love and yearning, knowing what was to come.
“It is said that while he had concubines he gave his heart to no other. He waits for her still…”
Darkness fell as the curtains rose to reveal the wall in its entirety.
Spotlights illuminated it behind its protective wall of glass.
Grand and beautiful, it stretched out before them, the Great Wall of Narmer, the first known Pharaoh of Egypt.
The voice told them the wall had been stolen by grave robbers but recovered by archaeologists. And that there was still more to find, much more, somewhere in the deep, dark reaches of the desert.
Ky hardly heard the words, looking up at the statue of General Khai.
Beside him an empty seat.
Somewhere the beautiful Priestess stood, guarding the Tomb of the Djinn, and the General waited for her.
Waiting to be free, at last…
Chapter Four
Early 21st Century Egypt
The boys were in rare form Ky noted, amused, joking around and shooting rubber bands at each other while he stood over the table looking down at the hieroglyphics etched on the carefully preserved fragment of papyrus in front of him. It was faded in places but much of the writing was still surprisingly legible considering the age of it. That would have been fine if he could read it better but it wasn’t quite as easy as the Internet made it seem especially as this was the hieratic form of hieroglyph and old. If he was right, it was far older than almost anything extant. Translation of ancient languages wasn’t something he’d done since his own graduate student days. He was far more involved in the nuts and bolts now, in the bigger picture. It was also more an anthropology thing.
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