CHAPTER 27
Before Dane had time to contemplate being cut off from his friends, shouts and footsteps reverberated down the corridor to his right. Not waiting to see who was coming, he turned and sprinted back the way he had come. How was he going to get out of here?
He reached the corner and the stairs they had just descended. More voices came from his left. Cut off from either avenue on the first floor, he dashed back up the stairs. As he climbed, he considered his options. They were few. He supposed he could try to work his way back up the river, but the current was so strong, he would likely be swept away. It might be worth a try. He could always try going down one of the sacrificial wells. He had not seen any handholds or tunnels coming off them when he had examined them before, but he could have easily missed them in his haste.
He reached the top of the stairs to hear even more voices and footsteps that seemed to come from all around. Whoever these men were, they were converging on his position. His luck had run out. Taking a chance, he dashed to the north room, the one with the angel on the sarcophagus. Just as he ducked through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of several brown and white clad men rounding the corner. Their attention was on a black clad man whom they held at gunpoint.
Dane hurried to the edge of the well. Knowing that he did not have much time, he scanned the interior for handholds. Seeing none, he took one long look at the faint glimmer of the water far below. It was much too far to jump.
The voices were closer now. He turned and looked at the giant stone coffin. He had no other choice. Giving the lid a hard shove, he slid the end to the side, creating just enough room to squeeze through. He clambered in headfirst. Flipping over onto his back, awkward with the sword still strapped over his shoulder, he reached up and scooted the lid back into place.
The voices drew near. Dane realized, to his chagrin, that the men were coming into the room where he was hiding. He strained to hear what they were saying. Someone was speaking in Arabic.
“I don’t speak your language, primitive,” a deep voice, brimming with arrogance, replied.
“Very well,” a strange, almost musical voice said. “Tell us, please, who you are and why you come armed into the temple.”
“I won’t answer any of your questions.” A heavy grunt told Dane that the man had been punched in the stomach.
“Answer my questions truthfully, and you will be released.” The odd voice spoke again. “I caution you: God will tell me if you lie, and it will go badly with you.”
“We are the agents of God,” the deep voice snapped, “the Order of the Blades has been sent to stamp out the heresy of the sword.”
“The sword has been gone from this place for many years. In any case, there is no heresy in this place, only a celebration of God’s creation.”
The prisoner laughed, a sharp, nasal sound. “Don’t you know? Someone has brought the sword into this very place. That is why we are here: to stop them and take the sword.”
“Are you certain?” The speaker did not try to hide his surprise. “How do you know this thing?”
“A man confessed to his priest that he had found the key to finding the sword.”
Maxwell, Dane thought.
”Knowing the damage it could do if the sword came to light, the church neutralized the man, but he had passed the clues along to his daughter. We tracked her to this place.”
“You have done an evil thing.”
“Protecting the faith from this alien relic is not evil,” the man said. “Rienzi spouted his heresies about God being a spaceman, and alien creatures populating the earth. Had he been able to support his claims, the church might have been destroyed.”
The man with the lilting voice laughed long and hard. “The sword is not an alien relic. True, its origins are not of this earth, but neither are they detrimental to the truth of God.”
“The church believes that they are,” the man hissed.
“Where does your loyalty lie: To your God, or to your church? They are not necessarily one and the same.”
“Heretic!” the man shouted. Dane heard sounds of a struggle. “What are you doing? You said you’d release me!” the man cried, his voice strident.
“The well will be your release, my son. You will be released from the bondage in which your church holds you. Make your peace with God, whatever the name by which you know him.”
The prisoner’s angry cries were suddenly squelched by a gurgling sound. Dane had heard that sound before: a knife across the throat. They had killed the man and dropped him into the well. He had to get away.
He waited, listening, as the men conversed in Arabic. A few forceful words from the man with the strange voice, and then footsteps running from the room. He waited. What if they were not all gone? What if they came back? He started to count backward from three hundred, struggling to count slowly. A new thought came to him. How much air was in this coffin? He had noticed cracks around the edge of the lid, and hoped that some of them were allowing air inside.
He completed his countdown, five minutes, as close as he could guess, and took a deep breath. He had not heard a sound since the men left the room. He could not remain here forever. He had to take a chance. Pushing the lid aside as gently as possible, he squeezed out. As his feet hit the ground, he heard a voice behind him.
“Welcome.”
Dane whirled about, rifle at the ready. The man who stood before him was old-very old. He wore a loose-fitting brown robe, cinched around the waist with a thick length of rope, over off-white, homespun pants and shirt. Short, snowy hair peeked out from under a brown head cloth. He had a closely-cropped white beard and mustache. Shining against his leathery face, heavily lined with age, his alert, gray eyes looked past Dane, his gaze settling on the hilt of the sword.
“You did return the sword,” he said in amazement. Dane recognized the musical voice instantly. This was the apparent leader of the group-the one who had ordered a man sacrificed. “It seemed too much to hope.”
“Who are you?” Dane barked. The man was not physically imposing, but Dane kept the rifle trained on him.
“I am Atiq Yomin. In your language, the “Ancient of Days.”
“You’re God?” Dane asked, trying to convey in his voice all of the scorn that he felt.
“No,” the man laughed, “it is but a title. You may call me Atiq.”
“All right, Atiq,” Dane said. “Are you planning on calling your cronies back?”
“Very rude. You have not yet identified yourself,” the strange man said. “In any case, as you are an intruder in my domain, you should permit me to ask the questions. But to answer your question, no, I do not expect my men to return to this place anytime soon. They are scouring the temple.”
Dane knew that he had few cards to play, and Atiq was likely his only way out of here. “The name’s Dane Maddock.”
“Do you plan to shoot me, Mr. Maddock?”
Dane was caught off guard, not only by the directness of the question, but also by the calm way in which the question was asked. “I guess that depends on how things go,” he said.
“You are an honest man. May I know why you are returning the sword, Mr. Maddock?”
Dane wanted to lie to the man, but something about Atiq compelled him to tell the truth. The man had a hypnotic air about him, almost holy. “An old friend of mine learned that the sword had been found and then lost almost two hundred years ago by a man named Rienzi. My friend was killed for what he knew. We found the sword, which led us here.” Even as he spoke, he could not believe that he was telling this man his story.