CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Western Desert
Vladimir crouched in a thicket of low-lying shrubs, thick, waxy leaves tickling his face. The gray plants, mixed with stands of ragweed and nightshade, covered a low hill south of the promontory holding the temple of Amun-Ra. From the rise, Vlad could peer down through drooping palms at the road descending into the village. Behind him, the vast expanse of a shallow lake gleaming silver in the moonlight stretched out into the desert. The red moon was nearly touching the western horizon and the Walach could smell dawn coming.
He was panting, exhausted from carrying the heavy bronze disc out through the long, narrow tunnel. At the end of the passage, a ladder leading up into the floor of a house on the outskirts of the abandoned town had nearly stymied him. The muscles in his back and legs cramped painfully, reminding him of the enormous effort required to hoist the metal contraption up through the trap-door.
Smoke billowed silently into the night sky, obscuring the forest of pillars and single round tower crowning the hill. Intermittently, flashes of reddish and orange light washed over the walls of the ancient buildings. Vladimir felt his throat tighten each time. Nicholas and Thyatis were inside, somewhere. They are probably dead, he thought mournfully. And I can't find Betia!
The little blond girl's trail had vanished in the town, lost among the stink of human habitation and rotting flesh. The exit house of the tunnel had been filled with corpses. The dead were well preserved in this dry, salt-tinged air, but the slow business of corruption was taking its inevitable hold. Vladimir grinned cheerlessly in the dark. I know why the stone houses are so silent. Soon the ants and beetles would find the drying flesh and reduce the corpses to a carpet of white hone.
Motion on the road caught his eye and he stiffened, wide dark eyes drinking in the faint moonlight. Three figures descended the sloping ramp in haste, flitting between the obelisks and sphinxes. A deep, angry growl rumbled in his throat. Persians. Even at this distance, the Walach recognized the striding gait of the curl-bearded horse rider. The other two shapes, dark on dark, sent a shiver down his spine and triangular nails dug sharply into the ground. Curse it! The corpse walkers survived.
Vladimir swallowed, distraught. These Persian creatures were not the surapa of his homeland-they did not go abroad in the guise of living men-they were something worse, something made, cobbled together from corpses and venom and old, dry-smelling evil. He had felt their tremendous strength, traded blows with their tireless arms, seen the snake-quickness of their movements. There was no way he could face all three of them and win-not this young, still green Walach! One of the old ones… they might know a chant to strike down this enemy, but he did not.
Despite a trembling urge to flee, to lope away across the desert, to run until he was in green forest and meadowed glade again, Vladimir remained crouched on the hill, watching, while the three Persians disappeared among the crumbling walls of the town. Some time later, while he watched and waited, he saw them emerge from the date palm orchards beside the lake. Then he flashed a white grin in the darkness, for they stooped over a trail he had laid himself. A little later, he saw them again, spread out to cover more ground, entering the desert east of the oasis.
"Now," he growled to himself, rising up, shaking sand and prickly leaves from his back and thighs. "There's a little time." Patting the telecast lying half-buried in the sand beside him, he crept down the hill, then ran swiftly through the streets of the town and began to climb the long ramp to the temple.
Hoarse coughing, like a bellows rasping at a forge, lent speed to Vladimir's sore legs and he jogged into the little courtyard at the top of the hill. Ahead, the great doorway into the sanctuary was limned with leaping flame. Dirty white smoke poured out of the temple from windows and doors, twisting away into the night. A hammerhead cloud of smoke and vapor built in the otherwise clear sky, lit from below by a sullen orange glare. Vladimir tore off his tunic, wrapping the grimy linen around his face, then-squinting-he plunged into the smoke, keeping low to the floor.
The great statue loomed ominously, red flame beating at sandstone legs, stern face staring down through coiling fumes. The pit at the god's feet hissed and roared, jetting fire. Vladimir crawled to the edge of the stone shaft, ears flat back against his head. Something moved on the stairs-a huddled shape, wracked with terrible, hollow coughing-wrapped desperately in a blood-stained cloak.
"Nicholas!" the Walach shouted, cry muffled by the cloth over his mouth. A stiff wind gusted out of the pit, feeding the fire roaring in the tunnel mouth. Heedless of the heat, Vladimir plunged down the stair. Nicholas grasped feebly at the step above him. The Walach snatched him up, batting at tiny flames leaping on the man's clothes, then staggered back up the steps.
The effort of dragging the telecast out into the desert came back, his calves and thighs trembling with the effort of each step. Barely able to breathe, Vladimir went down on both hands, Nicholas clinging to his back like a cub and scuttled for the door. Moments later, the Walach rolled on his back, gasping, sucking clean, cold air into his lungs. His eyes streamed with tears and the choking, bitter smell of smoke clogged his nostrils.
Beside him, Nicholas heaved weakly, barely able to move. His cloak and tunic smoldered, littered with glowing embers.
"There. They got out." Thyatis breathed a sigh of relief. She rose, biceps and back aching with fatigue. She could still feel the impact of the corpse-thing's blows vibrating in her forearms. Keeping her head low, Thyatis slid down the dune to where the others were waiting. Three of the women, shrouded from head to foot in long robes and heavy veils, turned away as they clucked at the pack camels. One of the beasts groaned in protest and drew a slap across the snout for his trouble. A bulky package was strapped to the creature's back, tied down with cords and wrapped in woolen blankets.
A smaller shape-Betia-watched Thyatis for a moment, a dim outline against the predawn sky, then she too turned away to slog down the long reverse face of the dune, sand slipping and sliding under her feet. The Roman woman swayed a little, feeling exhaustion cramping her legs, stealing their strength. The last figure, cloaked like the others, her breath a faint white puff in the deep cold of the desert night, stood watching Thyatis in silence. One camel remained, kneeling on the slope, reins clutched in the figure's hand.
Thyatis felt like a fool, at a loss for words after envisioning this moment for so long.
"You look wretched," the woman said at last, her voice tinged with a smoky rasp.
"I…" Thyatis stumbled into silence again, her thoughts a wild jumble. She felt dizzy again, fear churning in her stomach. Unable to stand, she squatted on the sand, one hand out to support herself. "I should go back… with them."
"To Rome?" Shirin settled beside her. Her voice was soft. "To the Emperor?"
"They are my men," Thyatis said, head down. She was having trouble breathing. "They'll think I've-"
"Betrayed them," the Khazar woman said, stretching her hand out, a black shadow creeping across faintly gleaming sand. "Penelope told me about the device. You've done your duty by the Order, keeping the telecast from those men. From your Emperor."