The Eleventh Plague cq-2

by Darren Craske

  Knuckling the dust from his eyes, Quaint noticed something.

  It was the sharp end of a sword, and as the conjuror's eyes followed the length of the blade up to the hilt, he met Aksak Faroud and his band of ferocious Clan Scarabs.

  'I thought we were dead,' spluttered Polly, wiping dust from her eyes.

  Quaint's heart sank. 'Hold that thought, Professor.'

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  The Death Downstream

  THE BAND OF Clan Scarabs dragged Quaint and Polly to a larger cavern within the vast cave system, and bound them together at the wrists either side of a massive column of rock that breached the ground. Wooden stakes were planted into the ground in a circle, and Aksak Faroud patrolled around the limestone column like a lion surveying its prey.

  'I should have killed you the moment you set foot in my camp, Cornelius Quaint,' he said, and he punched his fist into the conjuror's ribs. 'But then I would not have discovered who you are…and what you want!' Faroud paced and he punched, he paced and he punched repeatedly – each one sending a lance of pain through Quaint's body. 'You have disrupted what was to be a night of celebration,' he sneered, as the veins on his sinewy neck squirmed, 'and for that alone, I shall kill you and make your woman watch!'

  'For the last time…she's not my woman,' mumbled Quaint.

  'And you make such a lovely couple.'

  'Now you're just being unkind,' said Quaint. 'Just do whatever it is you plan on doing to us – and get it over with!'

  'After all the trouble you have caused me? Oh, no, Mr Quaint, the least I can offer you is a death more befitting such a thorn in my side!' He snatched Polly by her ponytail and teased a dagger along it like a bow across the strings of a violin. 'The Sioux Indian tribesmen roaming the American plains have a tradition. They remove the scalps of their enemies to adorn their clothing as a mark of triumph in battle. It is a macabre tradition, I admit, but I can see its appeal. Perhaps seeing the Professor begging for her life will wipe the smugness from your face, Mr Quaint!'

  'Don't mistake smugness for a considerable amount of pain,' said Quaint.

  'And I will enjoy adding to that pain.' The Scarab's dark face flashed a broad smile as he released Polly. 'You are an interesting man, Mr Quaint. You seem to be affiliated with the Professor here, and yet you know of the Hades Consortium. For obvious reasons, those two worlds do not mix well. Who are you? Why are you here in my country?'

  'I told you why! And I came to you hoping your Scarabs might know something…something that I could use against the Hades Consortium,' Quaint answered. 'Now…you can choose to do nothing and watch as your people slowly die around you, or you can help me put a stop to it!' He breathed awkwardly, the act obviously causing him discomfort. 'You say you don't believe me…but if there's a chance that I'm telling you the truth…even the slightest possibility that the Nile is going to be poisoned…can you really afford to risk ignoring it?'

  'You still cling to this ridiculous idea that the Hades Consortium is out to poison the Nile?' asked Faroud. This Englishman was becoming more intriguing by the second. Even facing death, he was possessed of such conviction. 'And suppose I give your words credence…what would you want of me?'

  'Our lives for one thing,' answered Quaint. 'Your help, for another.'

  Polly strained against her bonds – causing the conjuror to scream as she nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets. 'Quaint, are you some sort of idiot? You don't need his type of help! He's a Clan Scarab – nothing but a damn animal, you said so yourself. And you want to ally yourself with a bunch of scavenging vultures like them?'

  Faroud lifted his dagger and reflected torchlight into Polly's eyes, blinding her for a moment. 'Professor, need I remind you that you are still my prisoner? It would not be a wise idea to insult my men in such a fashion. And what of this plot, Mr Quaint? Why does it concern you – a foreigner to this land?'

  'Not just me, Aksak…it concerns you too. Or at least, it should…as well as each and every other Egyptian!' replied Quaint. 'As I said…I only need information…information that you can provide.'

  'Yes, but information about what, exactly?'

  'You tell me – you work for the Hades Consortium!' blazed Quaint. Irrespective of his peril, his ire did not back down for anyone or anything. 'They ordered you to kidnap the Professor for some reason, and I want to know…how does that fit in with what they're planning for the Nile?'

  'I was hoping you would tell me,' said the Aksak. 'I am sorry to say, Mr Quaint, but you are wrong.'

  'About what?' asked Quaint.

  'About who it was that ordered me to capture the Professor.' Faroud slapped his hands to his face, barely able to contain his glee. 'I am glad that I kept you alive, if only to see the smile wiped off your self-righteous face when you learn the truth!'

  'So…you do know the truth then?' Quaint said. 'Then it looks as if you might be able to help me out after all.'

  'And yet…you have not told me exactly why I should,' said Aksak Faroud. 'This plot you speak of…why should I get my clan involved in such a thing?'

  Quaint spoke. 'Once the Hades Consortium unleashes its poison, the Nile will become a river of death. This country cannot function without it – you know that. You cut off the river, and it'll be like cutting off Egypt's blood supply!'

  'But is such a thing within the Hades Consortium's grasp?' asked Faroud.

  'Absolutely! The Consortium is more than capable of such havoc and so is that damned poison. I should know – I've seen it in action.' Quaint remembered only too well the ravaging effect that the poison had on his body in London – in truth, it was not something he would ever forget. It was as if someone had reinvented the definition of 'suffering' just for the occasion. 'Its potency is magnified tenfold by contact with water, which is why they chose the Nile. Just one damn vial of that poison is enough to do the job, polluting your lands, your cattle and your people – just one!'

  'Vial?' Faroud asked numbly, as if he was talking in his sleep. 'This poison you speak of…it is held in a vial?'

  'That's right!' confirmed Quaint. 'I managed to stop some of them in London, but God knows how many of them slipped through my fingers.'

  'What does it look like?' asked Faroud.

  'About six inches long with ivy etched into the glass,' said Quaint. 'Why?'

  'That…was poison? I…I had no idea.'

  Quaint's hardened expression slipped. 'You've seen them! Where, Faroud? Where did you see those vials and when?'

  Faroud's eyes twitched left and right. He did not like being taken for a fool, for one thing, and he disliked even more being implicated in the plots and schemes of others. 'Godfrey Joyce instructed me to collect a delivery this morning that had come all the way from England…from an operative of the Hades Consortium in Al Fekesh. I saw those vials with my own eyes.'

  'So who's this Godfrey Joyce fellow? What's his involvement?'

  'He is the one who ordered me to apprehend the Professor. He is stationed at the British Embassy in Cairo as attache to Egypt, but he is also employed as a Hades Consortium spy,' said Faroud, being suddenly quite helpful.

  Polly's eyes went wide. She recognised the name Joyce. He had signed the papers admitting her expedition into the country. But if that were the case, why would he want her cleared out of Umkaza?

  'Someone in the British government is a Hades Consortium spy, what a surprise,' Quaint growled. 'And earlier at the tavern when I mentioned it, you asked if Joyce had sent me. So that intimates that you have contact with him, yes?'

  Faroud nodded. 'I have a bargain with him…of sorts. But my communication is solely with Joyce, not with his employers. I was a delivery man. That is all! Joyce told me to collect the package and ensure that it was delivered to him at the British Embassy.'

  'Is it still there?' Quaint asked.

  'I do not think so,' Faroud replied, as if in a trance. 'He was going to take it to his masters in Fantoma.'

  'And you were in on the deal?'

/>   'No! I knew nothing of what the Hades Consortium planned to do with it! If I had, I swear…I would never have delivered it into their hands!'

  'Now they have the weapon they needed,' said Quaint. 'Thanks to you.'

  Faroud's mind was fighting hard to accept what he had known all along, but had denied. As Aksak, he was used to riding roughshod over whomever and whatever he pleased, but he rarely looked over his shoulder to see the repercussions of his actions. Now the ripples threatened to consume him. He had delivered the vials of poison into the hands of those who wished to use them against Egypt.

  He was as guilty as they were.

  'I…I had no idea it was poison, I swear to you. How could I?' he mumbled, his eyes searching the ground at his feet for answers. 'All I was told was to collect the casket from Nadir in Al Fekesh – that is it! I did not need to know its contents. I did not want to know its contents!'

  'Nadir? Heinrich Nadir?' Quaint recalled the bothersome passenger aboard the Silver Swan. 'That stunted little worm was the Consortium's delivery man? But…that means the blasted stuff was right under my nose the whole way here! I knew I should have chucked him overboard. So this Godfrey Joyce – why would someone like him want Polly cleared out of Umkaza? What has that place got to do with this plot? Was that on orders from the British government, or the Hades Consortium? And how would kidnapping an archaeologist benefit them? Especially one like her!'

  Polly wrenched her wrists purposefully, yanking at Quaint's arm sockets.

  'What's that supposed to mean?' she squawked.

  'Polly, please…this is important,' said Quaint.

  'Umkaza is the key,' said Faroud. 'Joyce was most insistent that the Professor was not to be harmed…merely frightened enough to vacate Umkaza.'

  'Why?' Quaint demanded. 'Why is Umkaza important to the Hades Consortium?'

  'I cannot say,' said Faroud. 'I do not know.'

  Quaint nodded. 'So what's next, Aksak? For all your crimes, surely you aren't just going to stand idly by as thousands of your countrymen are needlessly slaughtered? Now that you know what is at stake – help me! Help me stop it.'

  Faroud's heavy eyes were bathed in shadow. 'But what can I do? What can any of us do? How can we stop what is already in motion?'

  'Leverage,' said Quaint. 'We need Joyce over a barrel, and the Professor's dig site is the key! That place is obviously of some importance to him – and by association, maybe to the Consortium as well.' The conjuror could feel his energy returning in leaps and bounds, like a caged beast fighting to be free. All he had to do was talk himself out of trouble, a feat he had accomplished many times in the past. 'So what is your next move to be, Aksak Faroud? Are you with me – or do you accept your part in Egypt's murder?'

  The Aksak paced again, stroking his beard in rhythmic tugs, in time with his footsteps. There was much to consider. Taking on the likes of the Hades Consortium was akin to suicide. Not just for him, but for his entire clan. He would be signing the death warrant of every man under his charge, and that was a decision he would not – could not – make lightly. Yet Quaint was right – he had given the enemy a weapon with which to strike out at his own people. At the least, he was a traitor…and at the most, an accessory to genocide.

  'You have given me much to think about, Cornelius Quaint,' he said. 'We must return to Bara Mephista. I will sleep on this dilemma and consult the Council of Elders first thing in the morning. They will guide my decision.'

  CHAPTER XXXV

  The Haunting Past

  DESTINE HAD BEEN asleep for several hours, yet Ahman had not closed his eyes once. Few travellers used the roads by nightfall, so they would be safe – and yet still he could not relax his guard. The strange episode that had bewitched the Frenchwoman only a few hours before occupied his thoughts mercilessly. He sat against the tree like Destine's guardian angel, his eyes snapping to any sound around him. The lapping of the lake nearby, the gentle rise and fall of the wind across the cold sand, the digging of small rodents against the trees – every noise seemed to trigger his nerves. Ahman glanced over at Destine's peaceful form, the embers of the fire illuminating her soft features in a golden glow, and pulled his blanket up to his chest. Eventually, he let sleep embrace him.

  As night took hold, Destine became restless. She rolled in her sleep, mumbling and whispering. Her eyes snapped open, searching for Ahman by her side – but he was not there. His blanket was lying crumpled and cast aside on the cold sand.

  A sudden scream pierced the silence. Destine's first thought was of Ahman, and steeling her nerves, she threw off her blanket and rose to her uncertain feet. Taking gingerly steps, she pushed through the ring of trees, their sharp branches pricking her exposed face and hands. Her eyes and ears were aflame. She was being pulled. Pulled through the trees, pulled through the edge of the clearing…but pulled where? And towards what?

  A cold rush enveloped her flesh as she stepped through the trees into an open space. It wrapped around her like a cocoon, restricting not just her physical body but her senses too. Her eyes were covered in a gossamer film and she was immobilised completely. As her breath hung in the air, she tried to blink sight back into her eyes and, gradually, her blurred vision dissipated. Destine knuckled the itching sensation from her eyes. But although her sight had returned, she was still not convinced that what she perceived was real.

  What she was looking at was a desert encampment of some kind, lit by huge torches, flaming from pillars buried deep in the sand. Madame Destine's mouth fell open as she pinpointed the origin of the scream.

  The encampment was besieged by a veritable army of men clad in pitch-black robes. Some were on foot, some were astride horses as black as their clothing. Tattered and torn, the material clung to the men's bones like the rags of hellish wraiths. Everywhere she looked Destine saw the flash of a blade as the demons attacked, scything at anyone in their path.

  A nearby row of tents seemed to be the safest place to hide, and she quickly rushed to them. Keeping to the cloak of darkness, she was just about to furl back one of the tents' entrance and dart inside, when a dirty hand clamped itself around her mouth.

  Destine could not scream even if she wanted to, the fear had paralysed her. She was viciously spun around – where she came face to face with a man. Not Ahman, or a face she recognised – it was smudged with dirt, had a few days' growth of beard, and a neatly waxed moustache was perched precariously above his mouth. His oiled hair sparkled in the moonlight – and all at once, his features softened.

  'Destine?' he hissed, releasing her, taking a step back. 'My God, woman, what the hell are you still doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed?'

  'But, I-' was all she managed before the man led her brusquely back into the cover of the trees.

  'I told you to get away! What good can you do here against them?' he said, gesturing towards the pack of demonic hyenas rending flesh from bone, spilling blood in their wake. 'The Clan Scarabs are killing everyone in the camp – you've got to leave, Destine…now!'

  A shaft of moonlight lighted the man's face and Destine gasped.

  'Aloysius?'

  'What?' asked Aloysius Bedford.

  'What…what are you doing here?' asked Destine, dumbstruck.

  'I could ask you the same thing!' snapped Aloysius. 'You're as stubborn as an ass, Dusty! I told you to get out of the camp as soon as Nastasi's men arrived, didn't I? Umkaza is no longer a safe place to be!'

  'Umkaza?' Destine asked.

  Umkaza was the excavation site named in Aloysius Bedford's journal – the very same Aloysius Bedford who now stood beside her, seemingly very angry, very much alive…and very real. It was as if Destine was caught between two places at once – the past and the present, colliding together within her mind. Her senses told her that she was still near the lake, in the clearing where she and Ahman had settled for the night, and yet everything that she saw and felt contradicted that. Were her senses betraying her somehow? If so, which reality was the truth? Her m
ind was being fed tantalising sensations, similar to the rush of pins and needles whenever she experienced a premonition – which partly explained her confusion. She had no clairvoyant abilities any longer. They were gone, stolen from her weeks ago. Whatever this was, it was no message from the future.

  'This place is Umkaza?' she asked, grasping Aloysius's forearms. 'But how…how can this be? How did I get here? Aloysius, what is happening here?'

  'It's a damn massacre, woman!' said Aloysius. 'It seems your premonitions were right on the money. Joyce, the no-good lying snake, has betrayed us all.'

  'Joyce,' mumbled Destine. 'The name from the journal? He stole the treasure?'

  'He was never in it for the damn treasure!' hissed Aloysius. 'Neither him nor my damned benefactor! They just wanted to use me…just like you said. Only I didn't listen, did I? I was so blinded by my obsession. But I'm not blind any more, Destine…and that is why Nastasi and his band of Scarabs are here. They won't take no for an answer. So now I must take matters into my own hands.'

  'But do what? What can you do?' asked Destine.

  'Anything!' yelled Aloysius. 'Don't you see, woman? Your vision was right! About what would happen…about what could happen. You told me not to trust him, so this is my fault, my penance to pay…and pay it I shall – but I will never let them get their hands on the Cradle.'

  'The Pharaoh's Cradle? So you did find it then, after all?' asked Destine, finally finding her footing in this remarkable dream; for that was what she had convinced herself it was – nothing but a dream. But how could that be? How could she be dreaming about past events with such clarity – and ones in which she was an active participant? Dreams stem from the subconscious, stray thoughts accumulated over time jumbled up into a semblance of reality. But Destine had no knowledge of her past time in Egypt. Was this real – or a subconscious distortion of reality? She was not sure, but she could feel the cold sand between her bare toes, the feel of the cold wind upon her cheeks, and the stench of blood on the air. And she could clearly see the look of fear within Aloysius Bedford's eyes. It was as real as real got and, gradually, Destine's mind became convinced of the most bizarre of all occurrences.