CHAPTER SEVEN

The next valley over was empty, a mere cleft in the surrounding cliffs, but the one past that was larger and rounded, circular save for a bulge to the west. The path wound down into the valley, and Dietz was surprised to see sand below, pale sand that belonged in a desert or on a beach, not here in these grey mountains.

That wasn’t the only surprising sight.

Alaric ignored everything else, of course.

“Look there!” he shouted, pointing. “The way that side bulges then flattens in front. That must be the entrance! Look, those are columns on either side!” All Dietz saw were ridges in the cliff face, but he knew his young friend’s eyes were sharp and also trained to notice such details. Besides, he’d been distracted.

Instead of studying the rock walls, as Alaric had, Dietz had focused on the people.

He saw five of them. They were clustered in the valley centre, one of them kneeling while the others stood arrayed in a half-circle. From here Dietz thought they looked like flesh and blood rather than skeletons. Certainly their clothing and armour was more familiar than the antiques the undead warrior had worn.

That didn’t mean they were friendly though.

“Careful,” he cautioned as Alaric started down the path as fast as possible. “We don’t know them.”

“Hmm?” Typically the nobleman had been so fixated on finding the tomb he had barely noticed the strangers. “Oh, right.” He slowed his descent slightly and turned the rusty bronze sword so its blade was low and in front as he reached the valley floor. Dietz was right behind him. He’d taken a heavy mace from the remains. Its engraved brass was rusty but still good and solid in his grip, and he kept it at his side, ready to use it if necessary.

The people below had seen them approaching, of course—Dietz was sure they’d been nicely silhouetted against the sun as they’d topped the rise and started down—and clustered together, one man stepping forwards slightly. Dietz could see the man was around his own age, perhaps forty, with thinning hair fading from black to grey at the temples and a short beard covering a weak chin. The man wore leathers and carried a short sword and a hand axe, the sword in his hand but the axe still hanging at his belt. Behind him stood three other men, one of them big and burly, one slight and stooped, and the third of average height and wiry. A dwarf stood there as well, hefting an impressive pickaxe in his massive hands. The figure on its knees proved to be a woman, judging from the long red hair.

“State your name and business, friend,” the first man called out while still several paces away, raising his sword slightly to indicate they should stop where they were.

“Alaric von Jungfreud,” Alaric replied, sweeping into a bow, “and my associate, Dietz Froebel, and yourselves?”

“That’s yer names,” the dwarf rumbled, glaring at them under his heavy brows. “What o’yer business?”

“We seek knowledge and occasionally fortune,” Alaric replied easily. He glanced at the leader again, “And your names, good sir?”

The man hesitated, and then nodded, apparently swayed by Alaric’s friendly smile and good manners. “Aye, fair enough,” he said. “I am Woldred, Woldred Adelof. These are Goran, Ehrl and Johann.” He indicated the burly man, the stooped one, and the wiry one in turn. “That is—”

“Thorgrek Bellison,” the dwarf interrupted, “of the Thunderstone clan from beneath the Black Mountains.” He glowered as if daring them to contradict him. Alaric merely bowed again.

“And the lady?” he inquired politely.

“That is Therese,” Woldred replied with a smile. “She’d greet you herself but she’s busy.”

“So I see,” Alaric said. Dietz could hear the woman chanting something and noticed a small bundle of some sort spread out before her. Was she a priestess? Or a witch? It was hard to say from here, although her clothing seemed too normal and too patched for a religious figure. In the Empire, of course, only those trained by the Colleges were allowed to practise magic, but Dietz had heard stories that the Border Princes were less controlled and that random people practised hedge magic and other strangeness. Was this woman one of them?

“We were here first,” Thorgrek growled, raising his pickaxe so its long point caught the afternoon light. “Whatever lies within is ours!”

“Now, let us not be so hasty, good sir,” Alaric replied calmly. “We all stand here together, and there is nought to be lost by a little polite conversation.”

The big man, Goran, stepped forwards. He was Dietz’s height but considerably broader and his bulk looked to be all muscle. He moved easily despite the mail shirt and leather jack he wore, and carried a longsword in one hand and a shield upon the other arm, although the handle and pommel of a larger blade poked up from behind one shoulder. His blond hair was cut short and his features were not unpleasant, even though they were set in a fierce scowl.

“You want I should run ’em off?” he asked Woldred, raising his sword so they could not mistake his meaning.

Woldred, clearly the leader, considered for a moment. “We do have the prior claim,” he pointed out to Alaric casually.

“Perhaps,” Alaric agreed. “You certainly arrived first, but we have been seeking this tomb—if it is the one we seek—for months. Surely that counts for something.”

“Intent is not sufficient,” said the stooped man, Ehrl. He had narrow features and lank brown hair. “Possession alone is important.”

“Yet you have not entered,” Alaric replied. “So you do not possess it yet. No one does. We stand before the entrance, all together. Does that not make us all equal owners in whatever lies within?”

“You only stopped because you saw us here,” Oran said, his hand tightening on the sword grip.

“Not so,” Alaric replied. “We have been seeking this very place.” He pulled out his map and held it up long enough for them to notice a few details, and then tucked it away again. “So as you can see, we already possessed this valley and its contents because we held the map to guide us here.”

“A map is not a place,” Woldred replied, although he seemed almost amused by Alaric’s argument.

“It details the place and defines it,” Alaric argued. “By holding the map I hold the details, and what is a place but its details? Therefore I own the place as well.”

Dietz stood back and kept quiet, admiring yet again his employer’s quick mind. Alaric could be a scatter-brained young man at times, but when he wanted something he was as sharp as any merchant or trader Dietz had met, and his good manners hid a keen eye and a clever wit.

“A pretty argument,” Woldred admitted, “but it means little. We are already here and we outnumber you. We could kill you or run you off easily.” He was kind enough not to point out that he and his band were properly equipped and provisioned, while Alaric and Dietz had only their packs and their weapons. Dietz saw all that in the man’s look, however, and understood. If the situation had been reversed he would have considered them mere ruffians or wanderers, certainly not rivals.

“Perhaps,” Alaric admitted, “but what would that gain you?”

“Fewer hands to grab our gold,” Thorgrek said sharply.

“Why should we cut you in?” Woldred asked. Dietz took it as a good sign the man had not yet ordered his companions to attack. He was certainly right about the numbers, and Dietz didn’t doubt Goran alone could take both him and Alaric on, but so far Woldred seemed content to discuss the matter sensibly.

“Because we are experts,” Alaric answered. “My friend and I have searched many a tomb and catacomb. We have a great deal of experience that could help you.” He tilted his head to one side, “Unless you’re already an expert on Nehekharan tombs, of course.”

“Nehekharan?” Ehrl cut in, eyes wide. “How do you know?”

Alaric gestured towards the wall he had noticed from above. “Those are the front gates, are they not?” He didn’t bother to wait for confirmation before continuing. “A set of double doors, unless I’m mistaken. There should be five steps leading up to them.” Now Dietz could see a crack starting partway down the cliff face and running to its base. It was too smooth and too perfectly vertical to be anything but manmade. Running his eyes along it Dietz could just make out another crack at the top and one at the bottom, both running to the left. It was a door and it was partially open.

Alaric had moved on. He gestured towards the columns he had mentioned to Dietz before. From this close Dietz could see that the young nobleman had been right about them, although they were worn almost smooth by years of sand, wind, and rain. “The columns flanking them would have been covered by reliefs originally, showing scenes from the king’s life. There should be a cartouche over the door there, bearing his name and titles.”

“I see nothing,” Ehrl replied. The haughtiness in his tone told Dietz at once that Alaric had met a fellow scholar, and one thing he knew from their time together was that scholars hated to be proven wrong.

“Most of it has been worn away,” Alaric admitted. He stepped closer, holding up both hands to show he meant no harm, the bronze sword dangling blade-down from his waist. Woldred stepped away and the others followed suit, swivelling to keep both Alaric and Dietz in clear sight. Alaric ignored them and concentrated on the cliff face instead. “Ah, here,” he said after a moment. He used the long bronze sword to indicate a spot on the wall between the column’s curve and the crack that might be a door. Dietz could just make out a shape, roughly rectangular although the top and bottom were curved.

Ehrl stepped up beside Alaric and stared at the spot. “A cartouche!” he whispered, dropping to his knees for a better look.

“Yes, most tombs had one to the left and right of the door,” Alaric explained, clearly pleased with his discovery. “The one on the right tells of the curse anyone desecrating the tomb would suffer. This one simply warns that the tomb is not to be disturbed.”

“Can you read it?” Woldred asked his scholar, who nodded eagerly.

“Given a little time, yes,” Ehrl said, already tracing the worn hieroglyphs with a forefinger, brushing away sand and dirt to get a better look. “It says something about a scarab—”

“Not ‘a scarab’,” Alaric corrected gently. “That’s a definitive mark there, you see? It’s ‘the scarab’, a specific one rather than the generic item.”

“Yes, yes,” the stooped scholar agreed. “I see that now, and here, this mark, the dog or wolf?”

“Jackal,” Alaric supplied. “It’s a jackal head, for Djaf, their god of the dead.” Dietz repressed a shiver. Any talk of the gods made him nervous. “It says ‘the Death Scarab’.”

“The Death Scarab!” Ehrl exclaimed, his eyes like saucers, “Karitamen!”

“Of course!” Alaric was so excited he looked as if he would explode. “Karitamen, the Death Scarab! It fits!”

Woldred exchanged a look with his other men and even with Dietz, a puzzled and slightly annoyed look that Dietz knew he had made himself many times. It was the look of someone wondering what all the fuss was about, and why these two men were so excited about a simple name, even an odd one like that.

“Carrot-who?” Dietz asked, knowing he’d regret it but also knowing it probably wasn’t a good idea to walk around a tomb without at least knowing who was buried there.

“Karitamen. He was said to be a Nehekharan general under Amenemhetum the Great,” Alaric explained to Dietz. “Amenemhetum was both a king and a sea captain, and scholars believe his fleets conquered all these lands,” he added when Dietz still had no idea what he was talking about. “According to legend, Karitamen was one of his greatest generals and helped him defeat the natives. Amenemhetum gave him his own kingdom, as a reward.”

Alaric looked around, as if seeing the valley for the first time. “We’re near the western edge of the mountains,” he mentioned absently. “I’ve heard the Nehekharan kings often built their tombs and pyramids where they would still be able to look out upon their subjects and their lands, to symbolically protect them even after death. If Karitamen’s lands were the eastern half of the Border Princes, which is what we suspect from the few mentions we’ve found in scrolls and histories over the years, this location would let him see his entire domain.”

“Your grasp of Nehekharan is impressive,” Ehrl admitted to Alaric, standing and brushing the sand from his legs.

“I’ve always been good at languages and histories,” Alaric replied modestly. “Although I admit, I remember more than I had hoped.” Then he stopped and turned back to Woldred. “You didn’t know this was here, did you?” he asked.

“That cartouche? No.” But that wasn’t what Alaric meant and Woldred obviously knew it. After a minute of silence, with Alaric watching him pointedly, the other man shrugged and looked slightly embarrassed. “No, we did not know it was here. We suspected a tomb might lie somewhere in these mountains and felt it worth the risk to explore. We happened across this place by sheer chance.”

Alaric nodded. “Luck led you here; impressive, but now you need an expert to get you inside. I can do that.”

Woldred looked at Ehrl, who nodded reluctantly. “My knowledge of Nehekhara is sketchy at best,” the scholar admitted. “He would be an asset.”

“Well,” Woldred said, sheathing his sword and gesturing for the others to do the same. “That casts things in a different light, hey?” They all visibly relaxed and so did Dietz, although he kept an eye on the big fighter and the grumbling dwarf. Either could still be trouble. “A third of whatever we find,” he suggested to Alaric.

“Done.” Dietz wasn’t surprised at Alaric’s ready agreement. They weren’t looking for riches, exactly, just for whatever linked the runes on the map to this place. Besides, a third was fair, given their smaller numbers, and the others clearly thought so as well. Even the dwarf loosened the grip on his pickaxe.

“What is she doing?” Alaric asked as he moved back over towards Woldred, gesturing to where Therese still mumbled and chanted.

“Checking for magic,” the other man replied. “Some of these tombs are guarded by fierce spells.”

Alaric shook his head. “The Nehekharans apparently did not hold with that,” he said. “There will be traps aplenty inside, but they would not put spells on this tomb. It would be sacrilege.” Dietz was watching his friend and employer but a sound distracted him and he glanced around. He noticed Goran and Johann glancing around as well.

“They had mystical guardians,” Ehrl protested, “I’ve read of such.”

“Guardians, yes,” Alaric agreed, “and those may bear enchantments, but not the tomb as a whole.” He started to say more but Dietz cut him off.

“Company,” he said softly, his hand tightening on his mace. The sound had been footfalls, more than a few, and they were close by. The wiry man had noticed them as well and had tapped Woldred to whisper in his ear just as Dietz spoke.

“Friends of yours?” Woldred asked, drawing his sword again.

“No, we came alone,” Alaric replied honestly. “We’ve no more desire for company than you have.” He glanced at Dietz, one eyebrow raised slightly, and Dietz shook his head quickly. The sounds were boots on stone, not bone Whoever approached was alive or at least not skeletal.

They saw them a moment later, as a large group of men topped the rise and started down towards them. They came from further south than the path Alaric and Dietz had taken and were forced to pick their way down the cliff, but several men stayed up top with loaded crossbows while the first handful made the ascent, and then climbed down while their fellows provided defence Alaric counted twenty-two in all.

The men were clearly soldiers, all but one dressed in similar mail and all working as a single unit. As they reached the valley floor Dietz saw that they wore tabards over their armour, red with a stylised black “L”. He groaned and so did Alaric.

“You know them?” Woldred asked quietly, turning so he could see both Alaric and Dietz, and the newcomers. His sword tip wavered between the many targets before him.

“Unfortunately yes,” Alaric answered. “It looks as if we may have competition after all.”

“There is no competition,” one of the newcomers called out, striding forwards. He moved boldly, clearly in control, and his tabard was black with the “L” in red upon it. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a broken nose and sharp blue eyes, the man’s scarred face and hands told Dietz that he had seen many battles and survived them all. A longsword, a dagger and a pistol hung at his side, but he did not bother to draw them.

“I claim this tomb and its contents in the name of Prince Levrellian,” he announced in a gravelly voice. Behind him his men levelled their crossbows at Alaric, Dietz, and the others. “You will stand aside or you will die.”