Bride of Osiris

by Otis Adelbert Kline

  “Pull your cowl over your head,” admonished Alcibar. “We will have to pass many guards now, and the way is better lighted farther on.”

  They encountered two guards at the foot of the next stairway and passed them unchallenged. More guards and several priests were met and passed on the next level with the same result.

  At the second basement level, the fifth above the dungeon from which they had come, Rafferty’s companion led him away from a stairway and through a gigantic storeroom piled with boxes, bales and casks.

  “Our progress from now on,” he said, “will be through a secret way known only to Mezzar Hashin, Sethral and myself. It is intended solely for the use of the Osiris and the High Priest of Re.”

  Walking behind a pile of boxes he stepped before a blank wall, apparently of solid masonry, reached upward to a chink above his head, inserted his finger and pushed. To the astonishment of Rafferty, a cunningly concealed door, made of metal and faced with stone that exactly matched the stone around it, swung open. Behind it was a spiral, metal stairway.

  The two men entered the aperture. Then Alcibar pulled the door shut after him and led the way up the steps.

  AFTER climbing for some distance they arrived at a square landing, from which two narrow passageways branched in opposite directions. Hearing footsteps above him, Dan judged that they were just beneath one of the floors of the temple. They took the passageway which led to the right and, following it for some distance, arrived at the foot of a short, straight stairway.

  Turning, the ex-priest placed his hand on Dan’s arm.

  “From now on,” he said, “we must preserve absolute quiet. The slightest sound may mean sudden death for both of us.”

  He mounted the steps with catlike tread and Dan followed, scarcely permitting himself to breathe. At the top, Alcibar cautiously raised a trap-door and peered through the orifice. Then he pushed it up silently and stepped to the floor above, beckoning Rafferty to follow. They were in a narrow, dimly lighted space between a paneled wall and a thick, yellow curtain.

  Alcibar lowered the trap-door once more, tiptoed to the end of the curtain, and peered around it.

  “All is well so far,” he whispered.

  He next applied his single eye to a tiny hole in the paneled wall. “Come,” he said. “I will show you one of your friends.”

  Dan looked through the hole. A semicircle of yellow-robed priests knelt before the altar, which was slightly to the left of his line of vision, while Sethral walked back and forth before it, muttering incantations and throwing incense in the flames. At his right he saw the huge image of Isis, the lighting switches of which he had twice repaired. A priest of Re was operating them. In the hall beyond he saw a vast crowd of people, and quite near him a beautiful girl in a blue-canopied litter, surrounded by blue-garbed virgins, priestesses and giant Amazonian guards.

  “Don’t see anybody I know,” he said.

  “The girl beneath the blue canopy. Do you not know her? She is the fiancée of your friend, Alan Buell.”

  “Begorry, is that Doris Lee? Sure and the bye picked himself a peach! If I’d nivver seen Mary Mooney I’d call her the prettiest girl I ivver clapped eyes on.”

  As Dan turned away from the opening a hollow, rhythmic booming sounded above their heads.

  “Your friend has arrived at the temple gates,” said Alcibar. “The great drum beats the welcome of Re to the Osiris N.”

  While Alcibar talked he lifted the lid of a huge, gilded chest that stood in one comer, searched among its contents for a moment, and then drew forth a gaudy yellow robe similar to that worn by the High Priest. Removing his plain robe, he donned it. From another section of the chest he took two weapons that made Dan Rafferty dance with delight, They were short clubs, each weighted at one end with a ball of iron the size of a lemon and ringed with a leather wrist-loop at the other end.

  “Faith, that’s a pretty pair of shillalahs,” said Dan.

  Alcibar flung his old robe into the chest and closed the lid. Then he handed one of the clubs to Dan.

  The beating of the great drum was suddenly stilled, and the plaintive strains of Oriental music burst forth from somewhere behind them.

  “The dance begins,” said Alcibar. “If you will look out the spy-hole you may be able to see Delra.”

  Dan looked.

  “The dirty divvils!” he exclaimed. “Oh, the dirty, cowardly divvils! Would yez look at that poor little white back all covered with bloody welts. If I ivver get me two hands on that High Priest I’ll——”

  “Stop!” The single eye of the former High Priest regarded him sternly. “Remember, when the time comes, the life of Sethral belongs to me. It is I who have suffered most at his hands.”

  “In that case,” replied Dan, “here’s wishin’ yez luck, and I hope yez break ivvery bone in his body.”

  “If things work out as planned I can at least guarantee that he will never see the light of another day. Better let me at the spy-hole now. It will soon be time for our part in the ceremony.”

  Chafing with impatience, Dan leaned against the paneled wall while his companion kept watch. Presently the music changed.

  “Is Mary—I mane Delra, out there yet?”

  “No, she has gone with the rest of the dancers, but have no fear. I will know where to find her when the time comes.”

  Rafferty fidgeted uneasily as he stood listening to the sounds from without. This waiting jarred on his nerves. Here he was, a fighting, two-fisted Irishman with a perfectly good club in his hands, and only a few feet from him were a score of polls he would dearly love to crack. He took a turn up and down the narrow space, hefting the weapon, testing its balance, and swinging, now and then, at an imaginary enemy. Tiring of this amusement at length, he stopped and peered around the heavy yellow curtain. Beyond it he saw a small, empty room, across the opposite side of which was stretched another similar curtain. A door in the wall at his right was closed.

  Presently an odd, clattering noise came from the direction of the altar. Alcibar bounded noiselessly past him and crouched beside the door, his club gripped in his right hand.

  “Get behind the curtain,” he said, “and make not the slightest sound or movement until I call to you. The time for action has come.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE BRIDE OF OSIRIS

  WHEN Doris Lee saw the unearthly thing that fluttered upward from the room which Buell had entered, she did not, of course, give credence to the statement of the fat priestess that it was the soul of Alan Buell. She believed that the vaunted magic of the Egyptian priests was legerdemain, pure and simple, even though they sometimes appeared to work miracles. What she really feared was that the harpylike creature symbolized the flight of his soul—in short, that he had really been slain. Her hand stole to the keen dagger beneath her girdle and rested there uncertainly for a moment. No. She would wait. She must make sure that all hope was lost before plunging alone into the great, dark beyond.

  With fear-filled eyes she watched the preparations for the next part of the ceremony. A group of soldiers in suits and helmets of crocodile leather rushed in through a side door in disorderly array, shouting hoarsely and waving their simitars aloft. Her instructress had taught her to know the various masks, uniforms and insignia, and she recognized them as followers of Set, the crocodile god, mortal enemy of Osiris. Ten of their number carried a crucible of molten lead with charcoal blazing beneath it. Six more bore a huge gilded chest of strange design. On each side were four planes, slanting upward toward the front. A small propeller and rudder were attached to the rear.

  The crucible was placed before the altar. The chest was laid directly in front of it. Still shouting and brandishing their weapons, the leather-clad soldiers danced about it.

  A flash of yellow at the right of the altar caught her eye. It was the High Priest, still wearing the crocodile mask and gnashing the teeth as he moved the hideous muzzle from side to side. Behind him he dragged a limp, white-clad form.

>   At sight of the priest the soldiers redoubled their cries and several of their number rushed up the steps to meet him. They picked up the white-clad body and carried it toward the chest while two of their comrades removed the massive lid.

  Was it the body of Buell? The features were still covered with the black mask, but she strove for a view of the disk that fronted the head-piece. As four men raised the body, preparatory to placing it in the chest, the head fell back and she saw a black “N” standing out boldly on the disk. The dancing figures swam mistily before her eyes. She tried to pluck the dagger from her girdle, but, weakened and half fainting as she was, she was scarcely able to move her hand. She must wait—wait until strength returned.

  When her vision cleared once more the followers of Set were fastening the lid and sealing it with the molten lead. This task completed, they swung the chest to their shoulders and, led by the High Priest, carried it out of the room, still shouting and brandishing their weapons. A group of temple slaves removed the sizzling crucible.

  Thansor, her fat instructress, looked up with a gloating expression on her moonlike face.

  “The chest will now be shot into the lake,” she said, “symbolizing the hurling of the chest containing the body of Osiris into the Nile after Set and his followers had betrayed him.”

  Too numb with horror to reply, Doris leaned back in her palanquin with half-closed eyes and prayed for strength.

  When the last leather-clad figure had disappeared through the doorway, the followers of Osiris set up an unearthly wailing that was joined in by her own women. The moon-faced priestess again addressed Doris.

  “Weep,” she said. “Weep for the departed Osiris N. It is in the ritual that Isis should so weep.”

  Doris looked down at her dully.

  “I can not,” she replied, and turned her head away.

  The cries of the mourners were interrupted by a shout from behind her palanquin. Then, hurtling past her she saw the hawk-masked Horus. At his heels a horde of men in jackets that bristled with hawk feathers followed, shouting: “Where is Set? Where is the cowardly assassin of our lord, Osiris?”

  “Who seeks Set?” The High Priest, still wearing the crocodile mask, appeared in the doorway and advanced threateningly, followed by the leather-clad soldiers.

  “Horus, son of Osiris. Horus, the avenger, seeks the slayer of his father.”

  There followed a realistic sham battle between the followers of Set and those of Horus. Presently the leather-clad men were put to flight and the High Priest was brought, manacled, before the palanquin of Isis.

  It was here that Doris’ part in the ritual commenced, but she sat, gazing dully at the prisoner until the fat priestess prompted her. Then she repeated the lines automatically, like one in a dream.

  “Unlock the fetters,” whispered the priestess, handing her a key.

  Like a person in a trance, she rose, stepped down from the palanquin, and released the High Priest. Things took the semblance of a vivid, terrifying dream. She saw Homs, shouting—gnashing his great hawk bill as if enraged by her action. Then he rushed up to her, tore the diadem from her head, and hurled it to the floor.

  From behind her now came Thoth of the ibis mask. In his hands he carried a mask shaped like a eow’s head—the mask of the cow goddess, Athor. Doris’ knees were trembling weakly as he slipped the thing over her head.

  Through the slits in the stuffy mask she saw the High Priest run up the steps to the right of the altar and disappear., The thunderous voice of the great temple drum resounded through the place, and again the lights flashed on the giant image of Osiris. A deafening shout went up from the multitude.

  “Welcome, O son of Re! Thrice welcome, mighty Osiris, Lord of Karneter!”

  All about her, people were prostrating themselves, their faces toward the altar. Then she saw a figure, clad in the white garments of Osiris, descending the steps. Instead of a black mask and diadem, the shoulders were crowned with the homed mask of the bull, Apis.

  The figure advanced toward her, reached for a hand and clasped hers. Came a shout from the kneeling multitude.

  “Hail to Isis, Bride of Osiris and co-ruler of Karneter?”

  At the shock of these words she awakened as from a dream. Strength came to her—the strength of desperation. Wrenching her hand free, she tore the keen dagger from her girdle and plunged it into her bosom.

  CHAPTER 17

  IN THE MOST HOLY PLACE

  THROUGH Buell appeared passive to the onlookers as he went through his part of the ritual, observing every detail with the utmost nicety, his nerves were taut as bowstrings, his every faculty alert. At some point in the ceremonies lurked death, waiting to leap out at him—carry him into the black void of eternity. For Doris’ sake as well as for his own, he must be ready to avoid the hand of the grim reaper until he had accomplished his purpose—the death of Mezzar Hashin.

  As he stood before the altar, mirroring the motions of Hashin in accordance with the teachings of Odd, he tried to devise a way to end the life of his enemy. He thought of the crook, but no. It was too light. It might stun yet not kill. He would leap forward and throttle him. But again, no. It took time to throttle a man, and the guards would be upon him in an instant.

  They mounted the steps at the right of the altar and entered a room across two ends of which were stretched heavy yellow curtains. The High Priest, still wearing the crocodile mask, awaited them. This was better. Here there would be but two men to fight. Outside there were thousands. The High Priest, spoke.

  “The Osiris and the Osiris N will kneel with their backs to the blazing disk that they may receive the Sa, the divine blessing of Re.”

  Both men knelt with their backs to the priest. As he bent forward, Buell twisted his black mask slightly to the right, that he might watch the movements of the priest, for he had seen his hand steal beneath his robe. Perhaps it concealed a deadly weapon.

  As he watched from the comer of his eye his suspicions were confirmed, for the High Priest, while mumbling some incoherent incantations, drew an iron-headed mace from beneath his yellow robe and raised it to strike. When the blow fell he threw himself to one side, then leaped to his feet and swung for where he judged the priest’s jaw to be beneath the crocodile mask.

  To his intense surprize a powerful hand reached out from behind the curtain and caught his arm, checking the blow and whirling him about. The owner of the hand spoke softly.

  “Not so fast, me bye. Not so fast. Would yez punch a friend in the face?”

  “Dan Rafferty!” he exclaimed. “How in blazes did you get here?”

  “Shush. Not so loud. Yez’ll have the army down on us like a swarm av bees. Now that Hashin’s dead——”

  “What?”

  He turned and saw, for the first time, that the blow had fallen on the head of Mezzar Hashin, who was sprawled on the floor with a tiny stream of blood trickling from the back of his head. The priest had dragged something from beyond the farther curtain. It was a cage in which a great horned owl sat, blinking in the unaccustomed glare of light.

  Opening the door of the cage, the priest removed the bird, avoided a vicious peck from its sharp, curved beak, and quickly slipped a mask over its head, fastening it with tough strands of thin, barely visible thread, which he wound about the body just beneath the wings. With a start of surprize, Buell saw that the mask was a hideously contorted likeness of his own face.

  The mask in place, the priest pulled a cord that opened a panel in the ceiling of the small room, and tossed the bird up through it.

  Rafferty caught at his sleeve and took the arm of Alan.

  “Buell,” he said, “I want you to meet up wid me friend, Alcibar. Alcie, shake hands wid Mr. Buell. Take off yer masks so yez’ll know what each other looks like.”

  The former High Priest removed his mask, and Buell his. They shook hands gravely. Buell scanned the hideous, mutilated features.

  “I should rather meet you any day than Sethral,” he said.
r />   “Sethral will never slay another Osiris N,” replied Alcibar. “Behold.”

  He lifted the yellow curtain. The body of the High Priest of Re was huddled on the floor behind it. A bloody dent in the right temple showed how he had died.

  “Alcie croaked him as soon as he stuck his head in the door,” said Dan.

  “It was wan peach of a wallop.”

  The ex-priest dropped the curtain.

  “We must go on with the ceremony,” he said. “If there is a break, someone may suspect that all is not well. Here, help me with this carcass.”

  From a pocket of his gown he took tape and gauze, with which he bound the bleeding wound in the head of Hashin, while Rafferty held it up. Then, taking Buell’s mask and headdress, he placed them on the head of the corpse, donned his own mask, and dragged the body from the room.

  “A slick bye, Alcie,” said Dan when he was gone. “Used to be High Priest himself. Knows all the ropes.”

  “He isn’t much for looks,” replied Buell, “but he seems to be a square shooter.”

  “It was Hashin spoiled his looks and Sethral put him up to it,” explained Dan. “That’s how it happens that he’s on our side. They did him dirt and they’ve paid the penalty, but he ain’t through yet. He told me there’s several more lubbers he wants to get before he checks out. Says he’s livin’ only for revenge, but he’ll help us get out of this place before he settles wid the other bozos.”

  “That’s generous of him,” answered Buell.

  “It ain’t so much generosity. He made a bargain wid me, and he’s a man of his word. I got him out of the dungeon. Now he’s going to try to get us out of Karneter.”

  He drew back the yellow curtain and stepped behind it. Presently he called softly to Buell.

  “Come here, lad,” he said, “and take a peek at the grand funeral they’re givin’ for yez.”