Amulet Keepers

by Michael Northrop

  “Thanks, Pai!” Ren called as the friends rushed out of the room, a wave of gratitude briefly washing away her fear. “You rock!”

  Hands still tied, amulets bouncing at their necks, they barreled down the tunnel.

  They ducked around the next corner. Alex turned around so Ren could fish a small Swiss Army knife out of his backpack. Then she opened it with her teeth and sawed away Alex’s ropes. Once free, he returned the favor.

  If there was ever a time for action, this was it, but for a long moment Alex just stood there, gawping down at the dirt. He couldn’t believe The Order didn’t have his mother. All this time … Every decision he’d made … Were they playing with him? Or was it true?

  “Alex!” said Ren, drawing it out so that it sounded like two names: Al, Lex.

  He shook it off — literally — shaking his head hard and forcing himself to focus. “Okay,” he said. “Which way? Use the amulet.”

  “Nuh-uh,” she said. “That thing almost got us killed. It led us right into that trap.”

  Alex gaped at her. He was focused now. “That’s not its fault!”

  “What is it, mine?”

  “No, but …”

  “Whatever, I never would’ve been that dumb without it. Just standing there. I’m done with seeing things — that’s what crazy people do, Alex.”

  Alex stared at her. He was sure anything he said now would just make her more determined. He knew how rational she was.

  “Anyway,” she said, “unless we want to go back, there’s only one way left.”

  Alex definitely didn’t want to go back. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  As they hustled forward, Alex reached into his backpack and unzipped a little compartment built to hold books. He touched the edge of the folder inside, just to confirm that the spell was still there. It was time to cut the head off the snake.

  They turned another corner and a brightly lit doorway came into view. “I think that’s it,” said Ren. “The center of the tomb.”

  “The tomb chapel,” said Alex.

  “Sure,” said Ren. “That, too.”

  Alex wrapped his hand around his amulet and his internal radar lit up with a signal so strong it could only be one thing: Captain Willoughby.

  They crept closer, Ren’s hands balled into fists at her sides, far from her ibis amulet. They moved carefully, even though so far this tomb had none of the scorpions, pits, and blades they’d encountered in New York.

  But there were other perils.

  A single word greeted them as they crossed the threshold. The sounds were stretched and torn but clear enough: “Welcome.”

  Willoughby was standing near the back wall, and there was a young boy tied to a stone slab in front of him.

  The boy turned his tear-streaked face toward them. He screamed for help, but a filthy rag tied over his mouth muffled the words. All around him, the walls of the inner sanctum were decorated with the Crown Jewels of Willoughby’s native land. The gold and gems reflected the powerful glow of a massive crystal chandelier, lit by something other than electricity.

  “It’s that boy,” said Ren. The hair, the eyes, the slightly lopsided eyebrows … “It’s Robbie.”

  Willoughby said something, but the sentence ran together in a thick jangle of internal damage. All Alex caught was the word escape and the gravelly chuckle that punctuated it. The boy tried to escape, he realized. And failed.

  Losing interest in the one-sided conversation, the Death Walker turned back to the boy. He was ignoring the friends, unconcerned, and the dismissal angered Alex. Willoughby reached down with one huge hand and picked up a long bronze hook.

  Everyone understood that.

  The boy screamed through the rag, and Alex went to work.

  His left hand on his scarab, his right hand shot forward, fingers pressed tightly together. The lance of wind struck Willoughby’s hand, knocking the hook free and sending it flying into the back wall, where it stuck like an arrow.

  Willoughby roared his disapproval.

  “Do it now,” said Ren. “Before he opens his mouth again.”

  Alex knew it wasn’t his ravaged, repulsive words that bothered her. It was the possibility of facing that soul-sucking black abyss again. There’d be no place to hide down here. He swung the pack off his back and reached in for the folder. Before he could pull it free, a powerful force struck him on the shoulder and spun him to the floor.

  The backpack went flying. Alex heard it land — the clinks and clunks of loose flashlights — and tried to stand. His shoulder throbbed as he put his hand down for balance.

  Across the room, Willoughby stepped out from behind the stone slab. His hand was still pointed in Alex’s direction, beefy fingers pressed tightly together.

  Alex got to his feet. “I have your attention now, don’t I?” he said.

  “Wait,” called Ren. “Think!”

  But Alex’s hand had already shot forward again, and Willoughby’s hand rose to match him.

  Alex’s lance of wind met Willoughby’s bolt of force, and an invisible battle of wills began in the center of the room. The crystal chandelier tinkled and swayed above them, but Alex could barely hear it over his pounding pulse. He stared into Willoughby’s black eyes and clenched his teeth.

  Alex’s pulse raced dangerously and his head pounded, but he was gratified to hear the Walker’s raspy breathing deepen with the effort, like an old man clearing his throat of sand.

  He saw some movement in his peripheral vision — a flash of blue, the color of Ren’s shirt — but didn’t dare break his concentration to see what she was up to.

  But the Walker was more powerful and the tide began to turn. Wind began whipping back into Alex’s face. His hair blew back as if he were sticking his head out a car window. He tried harder, clenched his fingers tighter, grimaced with effort.

  It didn’t matter.

  A small, wicked smile appeared on the Walker’s face, and a moment later his force overwhelmed Alex’s wind spear. Alex was spun around and landed heavily on the floor. He added a knee and the other arm to his list of injuries, and threw in his throbbing head as a bonus. But it was Willoughby who got the biggest surprise.

  “What’d you do?” he rasped.

  Alex looked up. Ren had taken advantage of the standoff to untie the boy. Now they were both rushing toward him, Ren with the backpack in her hands, and the boy reaching up to untie the cloth around his mouth. His first words: “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “We can’t,” said Ren, dropping the pack in front of Alex. “There’s something we have to do first.”

  Alex reached in and retrieved the folder. He glanced up at Willoughby, fearing another crushing bolt of force. But the Walker was staring over Alex’s shoulder, that same vaguely playful grin on his time-torn face.

  Heavy thumps in the hallway. Alex turned in time to see a massive figure thunder into view: 275 pounds and stronger in death than it had been in life. The creature was tightly wrapped and vaguely familiar. Liam’s mortal remains filled the entryway and kept coming.

  The mummy rushed toward Alex and Ren, but Robbie got in the way. “Hey, mummy! You big dummy!” he called.

  “Careful!” hissed Ren, but the mummy had already turned toward the boy. He paused for a second. Did he recognize the small, nimble hands that had helped create him? If so, it wasn’t a pleasant memory. A harsh, hoarse roar rose from the back of his throat.

  The mummy chased Robbie along the wall toward the back of the room as the Death Walker advanced toward Alex and Ren. He used short words and drew them out. He wanted them to understand their fate: “One will die,” he said. “One will be my new” — and though the last word was longer and the S’s could just as easily have come from a python, it was understandable, too — “asssiissstannt.”

  Ren’s reply was directed not at him, but at Alex. “Now!” she called.

  Alex shook the tattered spell free and let the folder fall to the ground.

  Willoug
hby stopped in his tracks. Even a bad archaeologist can recognize the Book of the Dead.

  But there was no fear in the Walker’s expression, only cold appraisal. Meanwhile, Alex’s hands trembled as he lifted the ancient text, threatening to tear the dry, fragile fabric.

  “He’s too close,” said Ren.

  Alex knew she was right. Willoughby was barely ten feet away now, and capable of striking from a distance. Alex wouldn’t be able to read three lines before the Walker knocked him flat or drained his soul.

  “Heads up!” called Robbie.

  He’d led the mummy around the stone slab and taken a sharp turn back toward the front of the room. He was heading right toward Willoughby. A few lumbering steps behind him, so was Liam.

  “Genius,” murmured Alex.

  Ren reached over and took the spell. “Do it,” she said.

  All at once:

  Willoughby turned toward the onrushing commotion.

  Robbie, just a few feet from his former boss, executed a nifty soccer-field fake. He cut left and then darted off to the right.

  The mummy barreled on straight ahead, as mummies do.

  Alex grasped his amulet, raised his hand, and released the most powerful lance of wind yet — not at the Walker’s body, but at the mummy’s feet.

  The mummy toppled forward at full speed and wiped Willoughby out like all ten bowling pins. It landed on top of its master, their long limbs tangled in the dirt.

  Meanwhile, Alex had already begun the recitation. The letters on the tattered text began to glow as he clutched his amulet. This was the scarab’s most formidable power: activating the Book of the Dead. The question now: Did he have the right spell? “For Protection Against Grave Robbers and Outland Thieves …” There would be no protection for them if he was wrong.

  Still, the amulet gave him focus and steadied his hands as he began to recite the opening. The words were familiar, though the sounds were ancient: “O thief! O usurper! Get back! Return, for you should know justice …” He heard a loud thump as Willoughby pushed himself free. Alex pressed on: halfway done. He heard slurred, ragged speech, unknowable profanities as Willoughby struggled to climb to his feet. Three quarters.

  “It’s working!” said Ren. “He can barely move.”

  The light above them faded and the symbols on the scroll glowed all the brighter. Alex read the final words.

  Done.

  He looked up, expecting to find the Walker turned to a dried-out corpse, the way the Stung Man had been. Instead, he saw Willoughby down on the floor, one knee up and one knee down. The Death Walker shook his head, as if to clear some cobwebs. Then he looked up and rose to his feet. The mummy rose to join him. The chandelier glowed brighter overhead.

  “Oh no,” said Ren, her voice soft with defeat.

  “But I …” said Alex. He had the wrong spell after all. He’d been so sure, and that sureness, that certainty had doomed them all.

  “That wasn’t good, was it?” said Robbie.

  It was Willoughby who answered. Not with words, which had never been his strength, but with brute force. He pulled his hand back and punched the air.

  “Ooomph!” went Alex, doubling over from a fierce shot to the gut.

  The spell fluttered to the ground nearby. By the time it landed, Willoughby had already used his powers to strike Alex again. He walked forward slowly, taking his time, not even bothering to look at the others. He had decided who to kill first.

  Ren felt helpless. Willoughby was going to beat Alex to death, and there was nothing she could do about it. In her desperation, she turned to the only option she had left. She reached up and wrapped her left hand around her amulet. A simple hope took shape. Magic had never made sense to her, but maybe, just maybe, this amulet — her own amulet — could help her make sense of magic. She needed it now.

  What she got was another cryptic image: an empty courtroom, oil lamps unlit on the polished wooden tables … For a split second she began to puzzle it out: Didn’t Alex say something about Willoughby skipping out on his trial?

  No, no, no, she thought. She needed something more direct than pictures. She raised her right hand, as she’d seen Alex do so many times. She pointed it at Willoughby and jabbed at the air.

  Nothing.

  The Walker was having more luck. He punched his hand forward again, and Alex’s body convulsed hard on the floor. Ren knew he couldn’t take much more. She jabbed at the air again.

  Useless.

  What good are you? she thought. As if in answer, her eyes flashed silver again. Another image. A man’s arm, a block of wood …

  Robbie shouted something at her and then ducked off to the side, but none of that registered. She was too far inside her own head now. She didn’t even notice as the mummy lumbered past her and took up its position.

  Another image: an ax. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. Alex had definitely said something about that. “Still gross,” she whispered.

  She scanned the room and did a quick inventory:

  Alex barely alive, a hulking mummy blocking the doorway, and Robbie crouched down along the far wall —

  “I need your help!” she called.

  Alex rolled over onto his back and coughed, sending a searing pain through his battered ribs. He reached up and wiped his mouth, painting a red smear across the back of his hand. He looked up to see Willoughby’s cruel, carved features staring down at him. Along the far wall, he saw Ren whispering something to Robbie.

  He reached for his amulet, pawing at his chest a few times before finding it. He was barely able to close his hand around it, and when he raised the other one, all he could manage was a gentle puff of wind. The scarab slid free to the sound of Willoughby’s grisly laughter.

  He would die here. He would die without ever finding his mom. Above him, Willoughby pulled back his hand. One more phantom punch, one more wave of force … They both knew that would do it.

  So did Ren. “Stop it!” she screamed. She threw herself down to the floor in front of Alex and turned to face Willoughby. “If you kill us both, you won’t have a new servant!”

  “I can be your servant,” came a voice. “I was dumb. I won’t try to escape again.”

  “Robbie!” screamed Ren. “You snake!”

  “Sorry, but I don’t even know you,” he said with a shrug. “And I want to live.”

  Ren glared at him. Alex would have, too, but he could barely lift his head.

  “I can help with these two,” said Robbie. He raised a large pair of razor-sharp metal shears.

  Peering over Ren’s shoulder, Alex thought they looked like the nastiest pair of hedge clippers he’d ever seen.

  Willoughby smiled down at his once and future assistant, the way one might upon finding a lost five-dollar bill in a coat pocket.

  Meanwhile, Alex and Ren were having an exchange of their own.

  “Watch out,” she whispered to him over her shoulder. “This could get messy.”

  “What?” said Alex, barely able to form the word.

  “I think I know why the spell didn’t work. It’s because he’s a thief and needs to be punished here in this world before he can be judged in the next one.”

  Alex didn’t ask her how she knew. He didn’t have the breath for it. But based on what he knew of ancient Egyptian justice, it made immediate sense. “Of course,” he managed. “But the punishment for stealing …”

  Ren nodded and turned back toward the Death Walker. Willoughby drew his fist back farther this time, preparing to unleash a force wave strong enough to crush both friends. He pulled his hand all the way behind his back.

  “The punishment …” Ren began.

  SSNNNIIPPP!

  The metal shears snapped shut, making a grotesque sound as they cut through muscle and old bone. Robbie squeezed with every muscle in his small body — and all the anger in there, too — leaning his chest and all his weight down on the handles.

  “The punishment,” Ren finished, “is cutting off the thief�
�s hand.”

  Willoughby’s hand dropped to the dirt floor with a dull thud.

  Losing his hand proved entirely disarming for Willoughby.

  He fell to his knees and let out a low groan. In the few moments it took him to look from his betrayer to the doorway, where the massive mummy had just collapsed in a heap, his face had already aged visibly. His unnatural vigor draining from him like the last air from a balloon, his big frame slumped. His ravaged windpipe released one last ragged gasp of protest before falling mercifully silent.

  “You read the right spell,” said Ren, a smile blossoming on her face as she turned back toward Alex. “Cutting off the hand was the only thing left.”

  A grisly tableau of life and death played out in fast-forward in front of them. Willoughby’s blank eyes slipped closed and his wrinkled skin grew tight and leathery and dry. His big frame tightened and pitched forward. Muscle collapsed in on itself until all that was left was skin and bone, facedown on the floor in an old explorer’s outfit. The friends watched in fascination and horror — and no small amount of satisfaction — until a clang drew their eyes away.

  Robbie had dropped the shears and now ran over to join the others.

  “You did it!” chirped Ren.

  “That was disgusting!” said Robbie. “And I’ve seen disgusting down here.”

  Alex finally realized what the two had been whispering about along the far wall. “Nice acting,” he managed.

  He turned toward Ren and really looked at her for the first time in days: a little girl in a blue shirt and jeans with dirt on her face. While all he could think to do was attack, she’d done what she did best — and saved him. He gathered up as much air as his bruised lungs would hold.

  “You make the best plans,” he managed.

  She flashed him a quick smile. “I know,” she said, and then her smile turned mischievous. “You should try it sometime.”

  Alex nodded, glad he’d get the chance. Then they heard a ripple of noise from Willoughby’s crumpled corpse and turned to look. The body was motionless, except for the stump where its hand had been, which had begun pumping a steady stream of red liquid into the room. No one had to wonder what it was this time. The chandelier began to fade to black as the floor near the body began to turn red.