AEGIS Tales

by Todd Downing

  Out of the blackness to his left shot a club aimed for the back of his head. It made a hollow thump as it hit him squarely, then splintered in two as if impacting a cement post. John came around with a blind left that sent his attacker flying back through the open door to the third floor landing. The robed man landed in a crumpled heap in the hallway, knocked senseless by the almost casual slap.

  Before John could turn around, two more men came out of the shadows. One held a cudgel similar to the first assailant’s, while the other had decided a long-bladed knife would do better to persuade John to relent.

  The American was in no mood to relent. He came in low, his stance automatically setting up the for the next attack. The fighter parried the club with his huge left forearm. The wood slid down his massive limb without leaving a mark, his skin the texture of sandpaper and as hard as the tree the club had been carved from.

  The knife found its target though, and pushed deep into Mabry’s left side just below his ribs. The knife man smiled wickedly, twisting the blade as he pressed up close.

  Mabry should have felt something. He should have felt the knife pierce his skin and enter his guts as his blood spilled over the ancient hardwood floor and worn rug upon which he stood. He should have doubled over in pain and shock.

  He should have died.

  But he didn’t.

  He barely felt anything. The wound held the knife like a butcher’s block, his blood resisting the effort of physics and biology to drain from his body. He grabbed the knife man, picking him up by the back of his neck like he were a puppy in need of correction from a disappointed master. Both he and the knife man looked down at the blade as it remained stuck in the hulking boxer’s side.

  The fighter smiled.

  He threw the knife man out the door, landing him on top of the first assailant who was just getting up from the floor to rejoin the fray. They crashed together and lay motionless.

  The club man stepped back, mumbling something incoherent and arcane as he dropped the cudgel and fumbled through his robe for something. He pulled out a medallion, palm sized and made of gold. It glittered in the bright moonlight that poured in from the open balcony, illuminating the room in stark blacks and whites. John turned to the man, his green stained right fist cocked and ready to knock him into the hallway with the rest of the trash.

  “Serve!” The smaller man pushed the intricately carved circle into Mabry’s face.

  The boxer stopped dead in his tracks. He glanced down at the floor of his room. Faintly glowing symbols had been drawn on the worn wood. They began to pulse and surge with a green light as the robed man continued to chant his high pitched, strangely familiar words. This wasn’t the Arabic of modern Cairo. These were ancient words of power, uttered in the very tongue of the earliest pharaohs.

  He could feel his strength slip away like water draining from a punctured bota bag. He stumbled backward, his legs weakening, buckling under him. He felt like he had just gone fifteen rounds with Dempsey. His vision blurred as he stumbled toward the moonlit night outside.

  Mabry grabbed for the edge of the balcony doorway but he was too weak. He stumbled, then tumbled forward, over the iron railing, arms and legs flailing.

  He fell, and fell, and fell...

  # # #

  Falling.

  Ancient, desiccated sandstone slid past John at an angle too steep for him to arrest his descent. He tumbled down, down into the darkness, until, finally, he came to rest at the bottom of the chute. Voices, guttering torchlight and the smell of pitch and incense led him to the only exit. John crawled to the opening, and was immediately grabbed by multiple hands. Scraped and bruised, Mabry was pulled from his hole into the middle of a larger room. Men and women dressed in robes of white stood in a circle around a hulking form lying on a stone altar. Looming above them stood a colossal statue wrapped in ivory and gold, its green, jeweled eyes sparkling in the guttering torchlight.

  Too dazed to fight the multitude, his arms and legs were bound with coarse cloth wrappings. He cried out, but something was stuffed in his mouth—honeysuckle sweet and bitter at the back of his throat. He felt lightheaded as his muscles relaxed and he ceased struggling. The multitude of hands lifted him high into the stifling air for a few moments before he felt the cool flatness of stone beneath him.

  Only moments earlier he had been part of Professor Carter’s tour.

  Now, he lay helpless, bound and drugged.

  # # #

  John fell nearly three stories to the alley below. He’d lost consciousness for a few moments—long enough for his assailants to load him into the back of the canvas-covered bed of an old Peugeot delivery truck.

  The truck bounced and clattered through the back streets of Cairo, its horn blaring at a merchant’s cart which had the nerve to cross its path. They were driving fast, forcing the lazy, late night traffic to match pace.

  “He’s not bleeding. No broken bones. Marvelous! We must hurry before he comes around.” The small man’s voice nearly sang as he surveyed Mabry’s form in the poorly lit darkness of the truck bed. He had not meant for their quarry to fall, but it had saved them all the trouble of carrying the huge American out of the boarding house.

  “The High Priestess will be pleased. Very pleased.” The man smiled and pulled a cloth and a jar from a bag. He smeared some paste from the jar onto the rag and began to stuff it into John’s mouth. Once again, Mabry tasted the bitter sweetness as his muscles softened and his mind began to float away.

  Without notice, the truck’s worn out brakes screeched and clawed to bring it to a halt. Automatic gunfire erupted from the shadows, round after round piercing the truck’s hood before it walked up through the windshield, killing both driver and passenger. The battered truck rolled to stop just as two more machine guns opened up on the left. The guns were aiming high on purpose—wood splintered and canvas tore, causing the two men at the rear to duck low while the cultist dove for the front of the truck bed as he fumbled for his pistol.

  Before the suppressing fire came to its deafening end, the rear flap of canvas parted just enough to allow two matching Mauser C-96 automatics to do their work. The knife man and his partner died without firing a shot. The cultist raised his barely functioning Webley in time receive two matching bullet holes to the head from the Mauser twins.

  The man climbed into the back of the truck and looked down at Mabry. He was dressed in a black, tailored uniform complete with riding boots and cap adorned with a bright, four-pointed Star. He had already holstered one of the Mausers, the other carefully covering the huge man who lay on the floor. His pencil thin mustache twitched with disgust as he pushed aside the body of the knife man so that he could have the dead man’s seat and contemplate his prize.

  “So, this is the parcel I was to acquire. Excellent! Now, be a good chap and don’t resist. I would hate have to deliver you in less-than-living condition.”

  # # #

  John was an unwilling participant in his own demise. He felt lethargic, heavy and unable to lift himself off the stone alter he had been deposited on. At some point they had cut his wrists; small, shallow wounds meant to leak away his life’s essence, not drain him too quickly. Warm blood trickled slowly from him, pooled around his hands, then ran into bowls of jade carved with symbols unknown. Hands pried open his mouth and poured a strange, copper-tasting mixture down his throat. Fire and pain mixed in him as he swallowed. This went on for hours, then days―that was John’s perception, anyway. He hovered on the edge of death as unknown voices chanted in a language both known and unknown. More drugs, more blood, more pain and, always, the chant, pressing upon his mind like fists to the side of his head.

  “SERVE OR DIE.” The words slowly emerged from the dark, unceasing voices that smothered him without end. It was all he heard, all he could understand as his life ebbed toward nothingness.

  “SERVE OR DIE.”

  Slowly, like climbing a from the bottom of a long forgotten well, John began to become aware of h
imself and his surroundings. The walls were covered in hieroglyphs, carvings and images of the gods of Egypt. Slowly the story came to him like a dream; the death of a king at the hands of his own brother, his body dismembered and scattered, then, brought back together by his loving wife and queen. Finally, he saw the end—his end—as a warden, a guard that watched over the king as he ruled for all eternity.

  “SERVE OR DIE.”

  The priestess looked down at John as she raised a jade chalice to the great statue he’d barely noticed before now. The statue looked familiar. He has seen it at the Egyptian Antiquities Museum days earlier with Lord Stewart-Murray. “Osiris...” The name leaked out of his lungs in a horse whisper.

  “Yes, Osiris!” The priestess looked down on him and a smile spread across her shadowed face. She renewed her chanting, her speech remaining unknown to him but for the three words that now pressed on him like the weight of the Great Pyramid itself.

  “SERVE OR DIE.”

  John’s eyes focused for a moment, gaining clarity. The priestess noticed the change, and spoke to him in English.

  “Will you serve my god on this side of the river, protecting him against all who would attempt to breach the Underworld? Or will you die, and forever be bound to the West, the land of the dead. It is your choice…” The woman looked down at him, the chalice poised to punctuate his final answer.

  “SERVE OR DIE.”

  “Serve.” It was all he could say. He was tired of fighting the pain, the constant pressure in his head. This was the end, the end of him and the pain and constant pressure that pushed at his mind and body. He relaxed and let the momentary respite wash over him.

  The priestess smiled. With a final look to her god, she began to pour the liquid, first onto each of John’s hands, then into his mouth. John could feel his life, his will, slipping away. His skin began to dry out, taking on the coarseness of the very sandstone walls that trapped him. His hands and wrists soaked up the potion the priestess poured on them, taking on a pale green tint. Each drop of the liquid felt like a punch to the face. He felt like he was sinking into the stone altar, or rather the stone was being drawn up into him, eating away at his flesh until only stone remained. Like sinking in a pit of blood-black quicksand, John let the liquid wash over him as the pain was replaced with a mindless nothingness; the blackness of eternal servitude to a foreign god.

  NO

  NO

  NO

  I will NOT. I am John Mabry! I will not serve. I will not SERVE! No no NO!!!!

  With a flurry of motion unexpected by anyone in the crypt, John sat bolt upright. Sand-soaked wrappings layered with partially-dried tar cracked, and priests at his hands suddenly began to gasp and shake. John had each of them by their throats, his dripping hands spasming with mindless anger. He could feel the strength in his body spike as their necks snapped. With a dull thud, he dropped the two bodies on the floor, then swung his legs around as he jumped off the altar. A backhanded swing crushed the chest of one priest as he pushed another into the far wall with such violence the man’s head cracked like an egg. Over his shoulder, he heard the priestess scream and then pull out an amulet.

  Strange words searched for him and for a moment, they found him.

  “Take your place Guardian! SER―!” The last sound, the sound that would have completed that word, drowned in a deep, gurgling sigh as John’s hand found her mouth and ripped the lower jaw from her face. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she collapsed dead in his arms.

  John felt nothing. He stumbled blindly, unthinkingly through a maze of passageways, lost in an Egyptian underworld made for dead kings. He didn’t know what he’d become―had no clue as to the transformation he’d undergone. A transformation halted prematurely, but executed enough to have made him into something…not fully human. The Cult of Osiris had tried to transform him into an eternal guardian, a servitor for the God of the Dead. Yet he wasn’t fully under their sway. Not yet, anyway. He had to get away. Run. Voices followed him. Torches and flashlights searched for him. Echoes chased him from dead end to staircase to burial chamber until finally, he found a shaft the released the faintest of breezes. His animal brain smelled fresh air. He began to climb.

  Finally, John Mabry, pugilist, bodyguard, and most recently Guardian of Osiris, found a passageway back to the Land of the Living.

  # # #

  A multitude of hands hauled John out of the back of the truck as he slowly came to. The night air felt cool on his coarse skin, and the sudden change seemed to jar him out of his stupor. He tried to catch his balance and began to stumble, but resisted the direction of the multitude.

  “Effendi, he is coming around.” One of his captors tied a stout piece of rope around his right wrist, hauling on it as another man pulled his left arm behind him.

  “Hold him still. Nothing personal, old chap, but we can’t have you thrashing about—at least not yet.” The man in the black uniform tapped a large syringe with a gloved forefinger as he pressed the air out of the hypo. He jammed the needle into the side of John’s neck, but, rather than watching the needle pierce the man’s skin, the needle bent, then broke off.

  “Not a good idea, pal.” Mabry shook off his handlers with unnatural ease and stood on unsure legs. Multiple guns came to bear, bolts pulled back and bullets chambered, but no one fired. They circled him on all sides, a dozen or more men, locals mostly. Then the man with the needle dropped the broken implement to the ground and raised his hands in mock supplication.

  “Mr. Mabry. I apologize, where are my manners? Captain William Tallridge. I represent a very important person who very much wishes to meet you. No need to make this any more difficult than it already is….” The tall man pulled out a strangely-shaped pistol from a hidden pocket in his long coat. It was made of a shiny bluish material with translucent coils that encircled the back portion of the barrel.

  Without warning, a small contingent of armed men came marching noisily around the corner of the shadowed alley. Four of the uniformed men knelt while the remaining five stood behind, rifles raised.

  “Everyone, put down your weapons—you are all under arrest!” This voice rose above the sound of bolts being pulled back.

  The officer stepped into the moon-silvered light while the rifle squad’s guns were trained on the big American and his current minders. He was young, his British Army uniform worn and dusty, but his attitude was strong and cocksure. His men were locals, dressed in white suits and black fezzes, armed with the ubiquitous Enfield rifle. Lieutenant George Somerset pointed an old Webley service revolver at John and waved the rest away, as if the throng standing before him were a mere nuisance.

  “I have a warrant to detain and question Mr. John Quincy Mabry concerning the death of Duke James Stewart-Murray, Duke of Atholl. You will come with me, if you please….” Two of Lt. Somerset’s men stepped up, one holding a pair of bright silver handcuffs. John, for life of him, could not fathom what he had done to attract so much attention, but he certainly didn’t want to go along with either Tallridge or the young army officer.

  Tension filled the air between the two factions. Rifles and pistols, clubs and knives all began to level off in the hands of the opposing armies in miniature, as each sized up the other, waiting for the first shot to signal the start of the war. Rage and sweat soaked the street in tension, and John stood at the center of it all. He wasn’t much of a sweet talker, opting for a swift right hook rather than a cutting comment.

  Moving faster than a man his size had any right to, John shifted to his left and grabbed the rifle that been poking him in the small of his back. When the man decided to fight John for the weapon, the huge fighter simply lifted the man and his gun into the air and tossed him into the middle of his mates, like a kid tossing aside a bag of half-eaten peanuts. His momentum continued to the left, and he elbowed the soldier holding the handcuffs in the side of the head. The shocked militiaman crumpled to the ground, his head lolling atop his shoulders like an egg rolling on his mother’s kit
chen counter.

  “Don’t fire, we need him alive!” Captain Tallridge ordered his men, stopping most of their trigger fingers from closing. A few did fire, their nerves already thread-thin. No one was hit, but the starting bell had been rung. Saps and daggers were pulled from sheath and holster on one side, while on the other, well-drilled soldiers brought up their rifles to firing position, as their officer stood stock-straight with pistol raised.

  “Aim to wound, lads. Steady. Fire!” A fusillade issued from the hastily configured firing squad. A hive of angry metal bees skipped and stung through the throng, taking down a few of Tallridge’s men, which only enraged and encouraged the rest. Tallridge’s unruly mercenaries charged the line of fire, eyes wild, mouths frothing in zealous anger and bloodlust. Club and dagger met rifle and bayonet as the forces clashed. Somerset’s men were well-trained and stood their ground, but the ferocity of the charge broke their line and carnage ensued.

  The melee spread to encompass the entire street. Somerset put down one, then another foe with his Webley before he was overrun and taken to the ground by a trio of robed attackers.

  For a moment, John and Captain Tallridge were left standing, looking at each other in disbelief as the melee momentarily passed them by. Tallridge was the first react.

  “If you want something done…” Tallridge muttered to himself as he leveled his odd-looking pistol at Mabry and fired. Consecutive circles of force issued from the alien weapon. The energy of the blast hit John square in the chest. He felt sick to his stomach as nausea and blackness threatened to overwhelm him. The huge man went down to one knee, holding his head in both hands as if he were trying to keep it from falling off his shoulders. A moment later, the darkness subsided and he returned to his feet.

  John shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. He looked at Tallridge and smiled. “That all you got, pal?”

  The fighter stalked his opponent as if he were coming out of his corner after the bell. Pale green fists came up and feet squared as he circled the backpedaling Tallridge. The black-clad man fumbled at a knob at the top rear of the pistol, but he couldn’t seem to get the control to reset.