by Dana Fredsti
A powerfully built figure, with a fur wrap around his waist and carrying a spiked club over his shoulder, strode into sight on a moonlit precipice high above them. Unless it was a trick of the moonlight, his skin was as blue as the Antarctic ice, and a pair of long intimidating horns protruded from his shaggy black mane. The hulking shape roared his mocking challenge upward toward the moon.
Just like that, spun and disappeared back into the trees.
They waited a long while. When he didn’t return, they went back to the lean-to. It was a long time before either woman managed to fall asleep.
* * *
Nellie awoke with a start, nearly upsetting the embers of the fire.
“Shhhh… it’s alright,” Hypatia said soothingly, putting an arm over her and spooning.
“I dreamt we saw it—that laughing, howling… monster.” Nellie’s voice shook.
Hypatia rubbed her shoulder. “Rest assured, it was no dream. I saw it, as well.”
“Where are we?” Nellie burst out. “Is this some dark fairy tale? I’m beginning to suppose this has all been a dream, and I’m going to wake up back in New York city with a great big bump on my head.”
“Perhaps we’re just learning about something new we didn’t suspect before. It is a big world, after all.”
Nellie nestled back against Hypatia’s parka-clad body, taking comfort in the closeness. Her stomach growled. “My whole body aches, but I don’t know if it’s nerves or hunger.”
“Both, I would expect. We need to go back down and try again to find some food, and check for the portal, but first we should find fresh water.”
* * *
Though reluctant to leave the limited security and warmth of the lean-to, thirst and hunger won out. Hypatia took a few experimental steps, declaring herself steady enough to continue. Burying the embers, they left the lean-to.
As they left, Nellie retrieved the arrow. “We might need it,” she said.
They headed west, parallel to the snowline, hoping for a water source that hadn’t frozen over. Less than an hour later, they came across a mossy creek bed with a slender trickle of mountain runoff. Though it chilled their fingers and teeth, they gulped down handful after handful, the cold water delicious as fine wine.
Hypatia stopped in mid-scoop, and then pointed to something above the treetops, higher up the mountain. Instantly frightened, Nellie followed her gaze. A column of soft gray smoke lazily rose into the sky.
“A chimney,” Nellie exclaimed. “A house!”
Caution trumped their excitement, and the women carefully, quietly crept through the trees as they moved toward the source of the smoke. To their surprise, when they came to the break in the trees, there was no house at all—only a flat rocky spot housing a wide pool of water. What they took for smoke was steam rising off a natural hot spring, gathering in the clearing like a wispy fog.
Nellie gazed at it longingly.
“It looks warm as anything, doesn’t it?”
“Do you want to—?”
“Let’s!” Nellie was already stripping out of her parka and traveling clothes, the cold pinching her skin. Hypatia gave a wary look around, then quickly joined in. Kicking the last of her underthings onto the pile of her clothing, Nellie stepped in with a joyful whoop, plunging below the water. Hypatia watched anxiously, still clutching her tribon cloak like a security blanket. After a moment, Nellie’s head broke through the surface.
“Oh! It’s so lovely!”
Relieved, Hypatia discarded her clothes, as well, and carefully lowered herself into the water. The mix of frigid air and warm water made her gasp. Nellie pulled her wet hair from her face and tried not to stare as Hypatia descended into the pool.
“Yes, this is wonderful!” the older woman sighed. “My bones and muscles are singing.” Nellie stretched out her hands and the two locked fingers. Hypatia shut her eyes and let herself be pulled luxuriously through the warm water. The feeling was heavenly, and for a few happy, quiet moments, they lost themselves and shook off the crushing weight of their dilemma.
As she relaxed for the first time in what seemed like forever, Nellie began to feel strangely out of sorts, unable to make sense of a bubbling jumble of conflicting emotions within her.
“I keep meaning to tell you how sorry I was for what happened to your friend Calix,” she said out of the blue, focusing on words instead of feelings. Opening her eyes, Hypatia looked away for a moment.
“Without your warning, it could have been far worse. I’m grateful to you.”
“Were you two—?”
“He was my dear friend and partner of many years. I will miss him.”
“Partner?”
“Not that. I should have said my colleague. I am not wed.”
“I’m sorry, I’m being rude.”
“No, it’s alright. I’ve never taken a husband. I never wanted to.”
Nellie nodded, avoiding eye contact. “I think I could be persuaded to marry an elderly millionaire with health issues,” she joked to hide her nervousness, “but I’ve never given marriage much thought, either. Too busy, I suppose.”
Hypatia laughed. “I certainly have had no time for marriage—but I made my choice most deliberately.”
“Oh. Oh! So you’ve never… or, did you—was there anyone else you… In your day, did ladies—I mean, was it acceptable to have… or did you—I mean, could you… if you wanted to… Do you know what I mean to say?”
Hypatia looked at her blankly.
I’m babbling like a madwoman, she scolded herself. Shut up, Nellie.
“I’ve had no man, if that’s what you mean,” Hypatia said gently.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean—I don’t know what I meant.”
“Nellie…”
Nellie willed herself to cease the tortured mental gymnastics, and simply let herself face Hypatia. The older woman’s eyes held so many things—kindness, intelligence, wisdom, concern, sisterly affection, and… perhaps beyond that?
“Nellie? Are you… trying to ask me something?”
“Yes,” Nellie said quietly, releasing Hypatia’s hands. Then she leaned in, took ahold of Hypatia’s face and kissed her. For one beautiful instant no one and nothing else existed in the whole wide world but the two of them in a kiss.
Hypatia suddenly broke away from Nellie, covering her mouth with one hand and her breasts with the other. Nellie screamed inside, caught up in a torrential burst of shame, fear, and self-loathing.
“Hypatia, I’m sorry!” she cried. “Oh please, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me!”
Speechless, Hypatia clambered out of the pool. Nellie followed, desperately miserable. The air tore at their bare skin, and only then did she realize they had no towels or fire.
“Please, Hypatia.” Her voice quavered like her shivering body. “Please forgive me—I’ll die if you don’t. I’ll just die! You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” Hypatia stood like a pale ghostly revenant, frozen and silent, staring, but nothing escaped her lips except the cold gray wisps of her ragged breath.
“Please say something,” Nellie begged.
A loud crack suddenly broke through the frosty air.
34
Three figures appeared, looking down over the lip of the cistern. All three carried firearms casually pointed their way. The one doing the talking came right out of an Old West wanted poster, Harcourt thought—a mountain man, bearded, big as an ox, with a face like a mastiff. A shaggy mane, black with iron streaks, hung down past his shoulders, and steel blue eyes that stood out, a pit bull’s eyes. They twinkled, as if he was making a private joke.
A horse-faced, pockmarked man stood to his left, dirty blonde hair tied in a lank ponytail beneath a battered black tricorn hat. He wore a British redcoat uniform that had seen better days. The third man looked to be an Indian warrior in buckskins, an iron tomahawk tucked in his belt. Beneath his unbuttoned U.S. Cavalry jacket and bearclaw necklace he wore only tattoos—black handprints and red and wh
ite striped patterns across his chest. His head was shaved, with a flare of crimson scalp lock.
Harcourt looked anxiously at his companions, but neither moved. Any chance of a fortuitous rescue seemed to be gone. If Blake was intimidated, however, it didn’t show.
“Seems like an introduction is in order before we all get too chummy, don’t you think?” he said. Both of the white men smiled back at that—though their faces were not made for smiling. The Indian didn’t bother, his weathered, seamed face as unreadable as a stone. The leader spoke up again.
“Oh, by all means, a man should know who he’s dealing with.” He jerked his chin to the Redcoat. “This here’s Private Samuel Shanks.”
Shanks doffed his hat. “Late of the King’s army, 45th foot,” he said in a thick Cockney accent. In Harcourt’s estimation, the scruffy fellow appeared to be a veteran—or a deserter—of King George’s forces from the Seven Years’ War, over a century before his time. The mountain man turned a thumb to the other.
“And I can’t pronounce this Lamanite’s heathen name, but according to him, it means ‘Feeds-the-Crows,’ or some such. He was a scout for the army, back in the day. Killed himself a goodly number of redskins in the Comanche campaign, didn’t you, Crows?” The Indian nodded. “But that was after my time.”
* * *
“And who might you be?” Blake asked, keeping his voice nonchalant.
“Me?” The man lowered his voice, gaze fixed on Blake. “Don’t you know? I’m a saint. I’m the Sampson of the last days. I’m the Destroying Angel.” His icy eyes gleamed. “But you can call me Porter Rockwell.” He paused, as if looking for a reaction to his name. None was forthcoming, but if he was disappointed, Rockwell hid it admirably. “So now you know who we are. And you?”
“I’m Blake. Sergeant Blake, Special Air Service. This is Cam”—the Celt said nothing, giving a curt nod—“and this is Professor Harcourt.”
The professor tipped his hat nervously. “Pleased, I’m sure.”
Rockwell and his cohorts kept their guns where they were.
“That’s right neighborly,” Rockwell said. “Now that we’re all such fast friends, why don’t we see the color of your weapons?”
“Nothing to see. We’re unarmed,” Blake replied easily. Shanks chuckled. Rockwell only raised an eyebrow and whistled.
“Mind yourselves now, boys! These three must be just about the toughest iron-jawed passel of wildcats you ever seen, a-saunterin’ across savage territory with no more than harsh language and their bare knuckles!”
Shanks laughed louder, an unpleasant braying sound.
“I have a knife on my belt,” Blake admitted. Rockwell wagged a finger at him.
“Yep, so you do. How ’bout you unclip that sheath and toss it up here for safekeeping—and see that it flies up gentle as a dove, now.”
Blake obliged, and the man caught it.
“That’s a fine blade,” Rockwell said before slipping it into his belt. “You lose everything else?”
“Nothing else to lose.”
“That right?” Rockwell shook his head. “Unarmed. I declare, most impressive showing for yourselves. See now, from the sound of the hullabaloo in there, we were afraid for you boys ever coming out again. Mind tellin’ us what transpired? Grizzly? T-Rex?”
“Oh, back there?” Blake raised an eyebrow in exaggerated innocence, and Harcourt was impressed. He jerked his thumb back up the shaft. “Snake.”
“A ruddy snake made all that fuss?” Shanks snorted.
“Big snake.”
“I reckon it’d have to be powerful big,” Rockwell drawled.
“Right,” Blake said. “So we can stay here all day going on about our snakes, but is there any chance we can continue the conversation after you get us out of this bloody cistern?”
“Hold up now, gents. There’s just one thing I need to know first.” Rockwell cradled his rifle and crouched down closer. “See, nobody comes so far out this side of the river unless they’re on the run from someone.”
“Or if they’re chasing someone else,” Shanks chipped in with an unsettling smile.
“Point granted,” Rockwell said. “So what brings you splendid British-type gentlemen all the way here?”
“We’re looking for our friends,” Cam said.
Rockwell leaned in. “Friends, you say?”
“Two Egyptians,” Harcourt supplied. “A Nubian and a girl from Cairo.”
“From Cairo, Illinois? All the way down in Little Egypt? That’s a fair ways south.”
Cam frowned. “I don’t know what an Illinois is, but they are from Egypt, on the Nile. Cairo and Thebes.”
“Cam, shut it,” Blake urged under his breath. “This isn’t helping.”
“Hey now, let the young gentleman speak,” Rockwell chided. “There a bounty on their heads? The black feller kidnap somebody’s daughter?”
“It’s nothing like that,” Blake cut in before Cam could reply. “They’re simply traveling through here with us. We—” He paused for the briefest of instants, trying not to say too much. “We became separated about an hour ago.”
“From your wagon train, I reckon,” Rockwell said. Blake hesitated, trying to head off any wrong answer that might get them killed.
“Something like that.”
The big man’s unsavory sidekicks were growing quietly restless, as though eager to get going. Not Rockwell, however. His steely eyes never stopped cross-examining them. Like some frontier trial lawyer, he seemed to be weighing every word out of their mouths.
“Something like that, huh?” Nodding thoughtfully, he idly picked at the barrel of his rifle as though busy cleaning it of some piece of grit. “So if I comprehend you rightly, you’re sayin’ your traveling companions are a nigger and some little gal from Egypt proper, a-wanderin’ around these here parts. No more than an hour ago, you say?”
He brought his rifle up again, bringing it slowly to bear on some target in the pumphouse, somewhere out of their line of vision. Nonchalantly inspecting the sights, he continued.
“Well sirs, you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, but I reckon you can forget about those two. More than likely they’re already taken up residence in some beast’s belly—and if not, I wager they’ve already been found and gotten themselves a one-way ticket to somewhere’s else every bit just as nice and cozy. I might even hazard a guess where.”
Pleased with himself, he glanced back at his cronies. Something had caught the Indian scout’s attention, and the Redcoat had noticed the distraction, sucking his teeth anxiously and changing up the grip on his firearm. Rockwell stood up again, seeming ready to wrap things up at last.
Blake stood very still, working out a new course of action. We dive back into the shaft, scramble back up, and take our chances with the snake. Far from a foolproof plan, but at the moment, he could think of none better. Rockwell turned his attention back to them.
“Don’t reckon three Englishmen’d care to tell us where you lit out from, or where your—wagon train, was it?—where your little caravan is bound for?”
“The details are a bit dodgy to explain,” Blake admitted.
“I imagine so. Well, don’t trouble yourself none to explain to us—but here’s how it’s going to be. We came here looking for a bounty, and from what you say, I reckon he’s likely in your snake’s gullet. So you three are coming with us back to the Landing, and then we’ll see if there’s a bounty on you fellows. If there is, you’re our consolation prize. If not, well then, I promise, honor bright, supper’s on us for your troubles and you gentlemen can be on your way. Sound fair?”
When they didn’t answer, he raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Well, don’t worry yourselves too much if it is or ain’t, since that’s how it’s going to be. Now then, let’s not tarry any longer. There are worse things in this place than giant cottonmouths. Even Feeds-the-Crows is getting antsy—and he’s Pawnee.” At the snap of Rockwell’s fingers, Shanks produced twin pairs of manacles, dropping t
he iron chains at their feet with a loud clank.
“You two big fellows put these hobbles on, and then we’ll throw down the rope.”
Harcourt brightened, relieved there were no chains for him. “I must say, I appreciate you recognizing that as a gentleman of quality, my word of honor will suffice in place of iron fetters. Very decent of you.” Shanks nodded absently.
“Mmm, indeed yes, as you say, sir. Oh, that and this,” he said, fishing out some modest lengths of boot lacing. “I should think this is more than sufficient to secure your twiggy little wrists, don’t you, Your Highness?”
Blake saw the cold fire burning in Cam’s eyes and could guess what plan the Celt had brewing. He was running the cold math himself.
He’ll let them bring him up, at the top pull the big one face first into the pit, slam the second into the third before they can fire their guns, kill the Redcoat quick and fight the Indian.
He didn’t like the odds, not for him, not for Cam.
“Not yet,” he said under his breath to Cam. “Let’s see if they know more than they’re telling us about Kha-Hotep and Leila.” After a moment’s consideration, Cam nodded.
He and Blake shackled themselves in the irons, and the flimsy bits of lacing proved more than capable of securing Harcourt’s hands together. Their captors lowered ropes and hauled them up like fish. Each prisoner’s wrists were lashed to a long leather strap, and they were marched from the pumphouse. Rockwell pulled them along on their tether, walking with a noticeable limp as they left the ruins.
Behind them, smoke rose from the roof of the palace, but the massive building seemed in little danger of burning down. Blake was more concerned with the bloody snake emerging and chasing after them. Their captors would sacrifice them in a heartbeat while they made their escape.
The snake did not reappear, however. A few minutes of walking brought them to the abrupt edge of the shard, and a stand of trees where Rockwell and his men had secured their mounts—a trio of ostrich-like dinosaurs, two-legged lizards with pathetic little clawed arms and stiff straight tails. Sleek coats of downy feathers, as smooth as the head of a mallard duck, covered their skin, each beast a different color—green-gold, russet, and dark olive.
