Dark Terrors 6 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  Terrified that he couldn’t see its companion, he spun away on his unwounded leg before the creature hit the ground, to see Phoebe Hardy fencing with the other, using her sadly battered parasol and cursing with impressive fluency. Her handkerchief had slipped down around her neck.

  ‘Get it, Captain,’ she panted, and he went for the creature, thoroughly enraged now. Pick on women and old men, will you, he thought. It gave way at first, wary of the blade, but quickly pressed back. It was more skilful than the other one, or maybe just not confused by a left-handed opponent. The curved blade slashed out in a lightning cut, narrowly missing his belly as he knocked it aside, and he felt his gut clench. He knew to watch for the razor-clawed feet, now, and dodged a kick deftly, but landed on his wounded leg and staggered as it nearly give way under him.

  The thing darted inside his guard, scimitar raised, and he yelled and punched it in the face with his right fist. It skittered back with a surprised-sounding bleat, and he followed it up with a knife-thrust that ought to have gutted the creature, but thanks to its wrong-jointed legs merely dealt it a flesh-wound. He muttered an imprecation, and then had to parry another fierce jab from its blade.

  I’d better finish this bloody thing off, he thought. Now, preferably. He was panting heavily, sweat was running into his eye, his leg was a long agony, and he knew he was tiring. On the other hand his adversary seemed indefatigable. Then the flailing scimitar tip caught him on the upper arm, slicing open a shallow stinging cut. He swore again and backed off rapidly, swinging his knife at arm’s length as the music filled the air with its weird chords once more.

  Screeching, the creature followed him, and then Phoebe Hardy flung its dead companion’s scimitar at its legs, tripping it. Da Silva ducked under a sword-swipe gone awry and severed the thing’s hand, which thumped to the ground, the curved blade flying out of its grip. The creature squealed like a stuck pig, turning to a dying gurgle as Da Silva cut its throat open with a blow that nearly took its head off. It slumped at his feet and he had to jump back to avoid it.

  There was silence, sudden and abrupt. The two dead creatures seeped into the ground, liquefying as he watched. In a moment, the sand had absorbed them, not even leaving a stain. And the foul smell was also gone. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, harsh and ragged. He wiped his eye with his shirtsleeve, the knife suddenly weighing a ton, and looked at the shallow cut on his arm. It was already inflamed.

  ‘And those, I presume,’ he said when he had got his breath back, ‘were afrits’

  He pushed the blade into the sand to clean it, and looked up to see Phoebe Hardy, very white in the face, kneeling beside Ruivo, who seemed to have fainted. She was rubbing her right hand on her thigh.

  ‘C-captain, I—-’ Her voice sounded strained.

  Da Silva limped over to them, his torn trouser-leg flapping against his bleeding shin. ‘What’s the matter?’ Don’t tell me the other brother’s keeled over as well, he thought disgustedly.

  She looked at her palm, grimacing. ‘That sword, it felt repulsive. I could hardly bear to touch it. Now my hand—’ she turned it to show him. The palm was swollen and red, like a bad rash. Miss Hardy bit her lip. ‘It hurts,’ she said. She was shaking, he saw.

  What a good thing I came prepared, he thought, and took a hip-flask out of his pocket. Sweat ran down his face, and his leg was throbbing fiercely, but first things first. ‘May I borrow your handkerchief?’

  ‘Surely.’ As she unknotted it, he lowered himself to sit beside her. She handed him the cloth and he soaked it with holy water from the flask and tied it around her hand. Her skin was very soft and smooth.

  ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she said, surprised. ‘That can’t be plain water; what is it?’

  ‘Holy water,’ he told her with a smile, and wet his own handkerchief to clean the inflamed cut on his arm. The swelling vanished as she watched. ‘These … things always get infected. I don’t think our flesh can endure the touch. But this always seems to do the trick.’

  He hitched up his torn trouser-leg to look at the gash on his shin and winced. It had begun to suppurate, and the skin around was hot and shiny. Blood still welled out from the wound. His sock was red and sodden. The pain came in waves, making him lightheaded, and he wondered if he would pass out.

  ‘Let me do it,’ said Miss Hardy suddenly, unwrapping her hand and holding out the handkerchief to him for fresh water.

  As she sponged the long slash, Ruivo opened his eyes. They were still shadowed with horror. ‘Is that what killed my brother?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  Miss Hardy didn’t even look up. Da Silva rubbed a hand over his face. ‘We’ll never know,’ he said tightly. The holy water was beginning to take effect, but the wound was bad enough in itself to hurt like hell.

  ‘Blessed Virgin,’ said Ruivo, and crossed himself. A fat lot of good that does now, thought Da Silva, not that he had ever, himself, found prayer to be particularly effective.

  ‘This is going to need stitching,’ said Miss Hardy. ‘But I can cover it up for now, so it won’t get too dirty. Can you walk back to the camp?’

  Da Silva exchanged a glance with Ruivo, but the archaeologist still seemed unwilling to speak. Damn the man! Exasperated, Da Silva scowled at him, and said to Miss Hardy, ‘First I’d like to see where you found the papyrus.’

  ‘We can do that any time,’ she said.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. We should go now. There might be more of those … things around.’ He found a cheroot - he was nearly out of them - and lit up, drawing in the smoke gratefully. There were plenty more in his pack, anyway. I’m glad I’m still able to worry about things like that, he thought, and the memory of the afrits made him suddenly cold. He laughed at himself. Getting old, Da Silva.

  Ruivo shuddered, and struggled into a sitting position. ‘Dear God, do you suppose there are?’ He looked around wildly, as if expecting another attack.

  ‘I think we’d smell them, don’t you?’ Da Silva said, and stood up, wincing, trying to ignore the throbbing from his leg. Miss Hardy took his offered hand and he pulled her to her feet. ‘“Can you stand, Senhor Ruivo?’

  Trying to smile, the archaeologist nodded, and got up slowly. His face was grey, and for a moment Da Silva was afraid the older man was going to have a heart attack. Miss Hardy appeared to have had the same idea.

  ‘I think you’d better stay here and rest, Mister Ruivo,’ she told him, briskly, not unkindly. ‘I can take the captain inside.’ Ruivo looked as if he wanted to object, but felt too ill to do so. He leant against the wall of the gully, mopping his face. ‘Come along, Captain,’ she went on. ‘This won’t take long.’

  The entrance to the shaft was shored up with timber, and piled rubble in the vicinity had evidently been excavated from it. A pair of lanterns stood just outside and Miss Hardy picked one up and shook it. It sloshed reassuringly and she pulled a cigarette-lighter from her pocket and lit it. I feel superfluous, Da Silva thought, amused, and scratched his shoulder, just above the shallow cut on his arm.

  Eyeing the dark entrance, he asked, ‘Shall I bring the other lantern?’

  ‘No, it’s not far,’ she replied, obviously too polite to suggest that he might need both hands free. ‘Steep slope to start with, and low - don’t bang your head.’ She bent down, and disappeared into the opening. With a grimace, he threw away the butt of his cheroot and followed her. The lantern threw odd shadows, but he could see that the shaft led steeply downwards. Someone had made a makeshift handrail from a piece of rope, and wooden slats nailed to the floor at intervals prevented the headlong slither threatened by the loose stones and sand covering it. He caught hold of the rope gratefully, and began to descend.

  Bent almost double and hanging onto the rope in Miss Hardy’s shadow, he still felt his feet wanting to slip. The shaft was claustrophobically stuffy, the sense of rock all around quite oppressive. Its choking airlessness made it hot as the antechamber of Hell. Da Silva had cooled down a little, but now the
sweat was running off him worse than ever.

  ‘How far?’ he asked, and his voice boomed and echoed. He had the irrational feeling that the air was going to run out.

  ‘Just here,’ said Miss Hardy, reassuringly, indicating a dark opening to the left. This passage was just as low as the first, but at least ran level. After about twelve feet it opened into a square chamber, and Da Silva straightened with a sigh of relief. Both his legs were protesting, not just the injured one. He wiped sweat from his face with one hand, and wiped the hand on his trousers. I never knew I was claustrophobic, he thought.

  Miss Hardy put the lantern down on the stone sarcophagus, which was the only thing in the chamber, and turned to him with a smile made grotesque by shadows. Da Silva looked around, struck by how perfectly square the chamber was. The walls were quite unadorned, which disappointed him obscurely.

  ‘No paintings,’ he said, constrained to whisper, as though that would conserve the air.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘But still—!’ And he realised that she was just as excited about the find as Ruivo. For himself, he would be glad to get out of this dry, suffocating, dusty, underground place of the dead. The sooner the better.

  First, though, there was something he had to do. It had better be there, he thought, and wondered what the hell he would do if it wasn’t. That would destroy his credibility, all right. He reached into the sarcophagus, which reminded him of nothing so much as a great stone bath, and picked up the scroll which lay in there, hidden by shadows.

  ‘All right, Miss Hardy,’ he said, ‘we can go now.’

  She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Omigod,’ she exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise, ‘how did you know that would be in there?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’

  Back in Ruivo’s camp, people were stirring. The worst of the noon heat was over now, and the wind was actually managing to bring a little relief. Phoebe Hardy, who turned out to be resident medic as well as the dig’s artist, stitched up Da Silva’s leg and dusted the wound with sulphur. Ruivo provided clothes of his son’s, which proved a reasonable fit, to replace his ruined shirt and trousers. He even managed to have a sort of a wash, though he had to miss out on shaving. There was not enough water for luxuries.

  Now he sat under the canopy, leg propped on a stool, smoking and feeling reasonably comfortable for the first time that day, and watching El-Aqman cooing over the papyrus like a mother with a new baby. Beside him, Ruivo hovered like the anxious father, while Miss Hardy showed the captain some of her sketches. There were views of the camp and of people working, as well as detailed drawings of statues, jars and pots. Da Silva looked at her at least as much as he looked at her pictures. From time to time, he noticed, she rubbed her right palm gently. He didn’t think she knew she was doing it.

  Finishing his cheroot, he tossed the butt out to join the others in the sand. ‘I don’t think I thanked you for what you did back there,’ he said quietly. ‘That was very brave of you.’ We might not have made it out of there otherwise, he thought.

  ‘It was pathetic,’ she said. ‘I wanted to pick that sword up and stab that thing, and all I could manage to do was throw it like a silly girl.’

  Da Silva took her hand. He was reassuring her, so that was all right. ‘You picked it up,’ he said. ‘Not everyone could have done that. I certainly wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Listen, Miss Hardy. These things are … inimical. We can’t endure their touch. You saw what it did to your hand. Just picking it up was a remarkable thing.’

  She let her hand lie in his. ‘I think you could call me Phoebe, you know. Since we both—’ Saved each other’s life, she didn’t say. ‘Or am I being too forward for you? American women are notorious for that, I’m told.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, gravely. ‘All Americanas are forward, and all sailors are superstitious. Phoebe,’ he added at her quizzical expression. I need to stop this, now, he thought, uncomfortably, and scratched the scar on his cheekbone.

  ‘And?’ she prompted, raising her dark eyebrows. ‘Your name is?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s Luís.’

  ‘Luís, were those things guarding the papyrus, do you suppose?’ He shook his head, frowning thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t think so. Otherwise they would have tried to stop you digging in the first place. I think your workmen were exactly right. That place was their home.’ But you don’t believe in coincidences, his mind insisted.

  ‘Do you know what they were?’ she asked.

  ‘Just what we were told, I suppose,’ he replied, grinning without much humour. ‘You don’t need to know their names to kill them. You know their nature. That’s enough. You only have to know a name if you want power over something.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Too strongly tempted to kiss her, and knowing she wouldn’t object, he looked away. ‘I’ve met this sort of thing before.’ He touched his eyepatch. ‘That’s how this happened.’

  Ruivo interrupted them. ‘Come and see the scroll, Captain Da Silva.’

  He raised an eyebrow at Phoebe and pushed himself to his feet. His leg throbbed angrily, but two steps took him to the table.

  Looking over El-Aqman’s shoulder, he was struck by the brilliant colours of the papyrus. He had only the sketchiest knowledge of Egyptology. But, like most people, he had seen representations of tomb paintings. To that extent, they were familiar: the stylised stance of the figures, their leaf-shaped eyes. The men with heads of hounds, vultures, snakes, the odd little pictures that were hieroglyphic writing.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘The Book of the Dead,’ Ruivo said. ‘Or perhaps not.’

  ‘Perhaps more than that,’ El-Aqman supplemented, his deep voice almost preposterous coming from his slight frame. ‘Do you know anything at all about ancient Egyptian burial practices, Captain?’

  ‘Only what most people do, I suppose,’ Da Silva said, trying to put all his weight on one leg without overbalancing. ‘Mummies and so on. Preparing the body for the afterlife.’ He remembered something else. ‘Pots and food and stuff they thought the dead person would need.’ He stuck a finger under his eyepatch and tackled an itch since no one was looking at him. The Egyptian was nodding, but still had his attention fixed on the papyrus.

  ‘Well, Captain, apart from all those grave-goods, every mummy was entombed with a copy of part of the Book of the Dead,’ he explained, adding with a scholar’s pedantic precision, ‘That’s a misnomer, by the way. Its proper title, pert em rhu, means ‘coming forth by day’ or ‘manifested in the light’. It’s a guide to the afterlife, spells to help the dead person on his way to paradise. He would have to pass many trials and be judged first.’

  A kind of Baedeker Guide for the dead. Da Silva looked down at the papyrus again, as if by staring at it he could decipher the contents. He did not entirely understand the others’ fierce fascination with the scroll. ‘And that’s what this is?’

  ‘That’s what we thought it was,’ said Ruivo. ‘But apart from the content, there’s something extremely odd about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ El-Aqman agreed, and lifted his head, his dark eyes glinting. ‘Despite its very beautiful state of preservation, gentlemen and lady, it is about a thousand years older than the statue in which it was found.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Phoebe Hardy, getting to her feet and coming to join them. ‘That’s impossible. Isn’t it?’

  ‘In that it ought to have fallen to pieces as soon as Valentim tried to unroll it, yes,’ said Ruivo. ‘As to what it is, we’ll have to wait for Dr El-Aqman to translate it for us.’

  ‘Well, not all of it,’ said the Egyptian with a smile. ‘That will take weeks. But I should be able to give you some idea of the content by the morning.’

  Da Silva slept uneasily in Juliao Ruivo’s tent, disturbed by dreams of a vaguely crocodilian thing gnawing at his leg, which was not particularl
y surprising, considering the way the damned thing felt when he woke up. I forget it always feels worse the second day, he thought, fingering the neat bandage gingerly. There was no trace of heat from the wound. He decided this was a good sign. It still took him a while to get himself up from the camp-bed. Getting too old to be gallivanting about in the desert.

  Still, the service was better than some pensãos he had stayed in. There was a jug of hot water, enough to shave. Someone had mended his shirt. There was even something that passed for coffee. He drank it sitting outside in the tent’s shade.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  He didn’t see how it began because he had ducked back inside to finish dressing. But suddenly there was pandemonium in the camp, people rushing to and fro and shouting at the tops of their voices. If that had happened two minutes ago, he thought, buttoning his shirt, I’d have cut myself. As it was, he hadn’t even spilt his coffee.

  Ruivo, clad in a robe, emerged from his tent like a turtle’s head from its shell, blinking, his white tonsure disordered, and grabbed at a passing arm. They were too far away for Da Silva to hear what was said, but at the man’s reply, Ruivo swiftly crossed himself. The captain’s eyebrows rose. A moment later Phoebe Hardy ran out into the still-cool morning and conferred briefly with the archaeologist. Then both of them turned to look at Da Silva.

  I suppose I’d better go and see what’s up, he thought, and began to limp towards them. Phoebe met him halfway. ‘Dr El-Aqman’s dead!’ she blurted out.

  ‘Dead?’ he repeated stupidly. Get a grip on yourself, he told himself. ‘How?’

  ‘We don’t know…Luís, the papyrus—?’ He didn’t know whether she was asking him whether it was safe, or whether it was responsible. She turned towards El-Aqman’s tent. Ruivo was staring at it, apparently rooted to the spot.

  As they watched, an Egyptian whom Da Silva recognised as the doctor’s manservant emerged from it and halted abruptly when he came level with the three of them.

  ‘What happened?’ Da Silva asked him, in Arabic. The man rolled his eyes.