by Stuart Daly
The crocodiles momentarily distracted, Francesca wastes no time in ordering everyone over to the side of the river. Having removed her pack, talwar and repeating crossbow, she tosses them across to the other side. She then hands me her lantern and instructs me to toss it over to her once she has made the crossing. Leading by example, she takes a firm hold of the rope and slides into the water. Unable to touch the bottom, Francesca sinks past her head, but uses the rope to pull herself back to the surface. The current is so strong she is immediately almost swept away, but she holds on tight, the muscles in her forearms cording with the effort. Eventually, she manages to pull herself across to the other side. Having climbed out of the river, she checks that there are no caves in the cavern walls on this side in which crocodiles might be waiting in ambush, then beckons for Dietrich and I to cross over.
‘Toss over the lantern, your weapons and packs,’ she calls out over the roar of the distant waterfall. ‘And don’t forget your gunpowder flasks. Your pistols will be useless if the gunpowder gets wet.’
Following her advice, we throw over our weapons and equipment. Dietrich also carefully tosses over Francesca’s lantern, which she catches and reattaches to her belt. We then slide into the water. The current is incredibly strong, but we hold on to the rope for grim life. Assisting each other, we haul ourselves across the river and clamber out onto the opposite side of the cavern.
Von Konigsmarck and Blodklutt are next to attempt the crossing. Having thrown across their firearms, gunpowder and equipment, they jump into the river and pull themselves across. Blodklutt, however, struggles against the current, his wounded shoulder causing him great pain, and von Konigsmarck is forced to come to his assistance on several occasions, hooking an arm under his shoulder and hauling him through the water. At one stage, the Captain even loses his grip of the rope and vanishes underwater, and for several seconds I watch with bated breath, fearing that he has been lost. But then von Konigsmarck uses his free hand to grab hold of the Captain by the shirt and drags him back to the surface. Coughing and spluttering, the Captain regains his hold of the rope. Breathing a sigh of relief, I wait for them to cross the remaining four yards and drag themselves free of the current.
Finally, Armand, who has remained behind to guard our retreat, tosses over his equipment and makes his escape. Just as he enters the river, a crocodile, determined to catch its fleeing quarry, barges past the other fighting beasts, races to the river’s edge, and opens its massive jaws – which come crunching down on Armand’s head!
Armand must have seen the beast in the corner of his eye, because he reacts with incredible speed. Taking a firm hold of the rope with one hand, he whips out the Dagger of Gabriel – his sole remaining weapon – from his belt and severs the rope behind him. The next instant, he is whisked away by the current, and the crocodile’s jaws smash together where Armand’s head had been only a second earlier.
Holding onto the rope, Armand is swept downstream, but over towards our side of the river. Carried forward by the momentum of its attack, the crocodile falls into the water and thrashes about in frustration as it is carried swiftly downstream. Racing over to the rope, Dietrich, Francesca and I haul Armand out of the river. He lies on his back for a while, regaining his breath, before he climbs to his feet and winks at Francesca.
‘There’s no need to worry, love,’ he says. ‘No mere crocodile is going to take the life of Armand Breteuil.’
The tomb-robber rolls her eyes and mumbles something incoherent under her breath. She then gestures back across the river, where the crocodiles have amassed on the far bank, their yellow eyes locked hungrily on us. ‘We are fortunate that none of the crocodiles have tried coming after us. But the longer we stay here, the greater the possibility that more of them might try their luck against the river. It’s best if we keep moving.’ Wringing the water out of her hair, she casts a sideways glance at Armand. ‘And can someone please hand the Frenchman a mirror and put him out of his misery.’
Armand nudges me with an elbow and gives one of his trademark roguish grins. ‘She’s impressed,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘She’s just too proud to admit it.’
Shaking my head in return, I join my companions in collecting our equipment. Our clothes soaking wet, we follow Francesca up to the door, which she pushes open, leading us into the next section of the mausoleum and its underground complex.
The instant Francesca opens the door, the torches set along the wall in the corridor ignite, illuminating the area in a sooty orange glow. We proceed for some time before the corridor leads through an archway, giving access to a narrow platform that is elevated some ten feet above the floor of the large room that lies beyond. This room is rectangular in shape and has a high ceiling. Its floor is flooded with a clear liquid several feet deep. A platform, similar to the one in front of us, is located on the opposite side of the room, providing access to the only exit point – a heavy granite door.
‘It looks as though we’ll have to drop down into the water, wade across to the other side, and somehow find a way up to the other platform,’ von Konigsmarck observes, paying a cursory inspection of the room’s features.
But Francesca raises a hand, indicating that we are not to disturb her. She licks her lips in thought, and her eyes dart around the room. ‘To step into the liquid is certain death,’ she says, having completed her assessment of the chamber and leading us out onto the platform. ‘That’s not water but acid.’
‘Acid!’ von Konigsmarck remarks.
I lean forward to try to get a closer look. ‘How do you know that?’
Francesca points across to the opposite side of the chamber, where a length of rope – attached to a piton hammered in the wall and evidently used by someone to climb across to the other side – dangles down to the surface of the liquid, its end burnt by the acid. There are also bloody handprints smeared down the wall near the rope, indicating where somebody had fallen into the acid and tried to climb out.
‘Do you think it was Friedrich?’ I ask, searching the bottom of the pool for remains of the person, but finding none, the acid having evidently dissolved them.
‘I would like to think so, but I don’t think it was,’ Francesca says. ‘If it were, then we would have heard his screams. No – I imagine it was the remaining member of Hans’s team. He may have perished some time ago.’
Armand curls his lip in distaste. ‘It’s not exactly the nicest of ways to die.’
‘This is an old and yet very effective trap – flooding a chamber with acid, enticing intruders to wade across to the other side,’ Francesca explains. ‘Once you drop off the platform, there is no way for you to climb back out. And even if you could find a way out, there would be nothing left of you from the chest down. The acid would eat through you in a matter of seconds. You would literally see yourself being eaten alive.’
‘Charming,’ von Konigsmarck says, screwing up his nose, and taking a wary step back from the edge of the platform. ‘So how do we get across?’
‘We’re going to use the handle on the opposite door,’ Francesca says matter-of-factly.
Von Konigsmarck’s brow creases in confusion. ‘I’m not quite following you.’
‘Nor am I,’ I say, only now noticing the large iron ring that serves as a handle on the distant door, and wondering how Francesca intends to reach it and, once she has, how she intends to use it to our advantage.
‘Then watch and learn,’ Francesca says, untying the grappling hook and rope from the side of her pack.
Francesca ushers us back into the corridor. She starts to swing the rope in a circular motion, slowly at first, then she gradually gathers momentum, all the while her eyes locked on the iron ring. Having completed several revolutions, she aims the grappling hook at the door handle and releases her hold of the rope. There’s an anxious moment as we hold our breath, watching the grappling hook soar across the expanse, knowing
that if Francesca misses her mark both hook and rope will fall into the pool of acid and be destroyed within a matter of seconds. But Francesca’s aim is true, and one of the hook’s arms loop through the iron ring.
‘You did it,’ Armand says, impressed.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice at this sort of thing,’ Francesca says, suppressing a wry smile.
She pulls tight on the rope, checking that the grappling hook is securely fastened. Handing von Konigsmarck the rope, she then produces a six-inch-long iron spike and hammer from her pack. Francesca hammers in the piton just beneath the archway leading into the acid chamber, until only three finger-breadths of metal remain visible. She takes back the rope, pulls it tight and ties it around the piton.
‘Now all that remains is for us to climb across to the other side,’ she announces. Francesca moves to the edge of the platform and hangs from the rope by her hands and ankles.
In no time at all she pulls herself across the expanse, and we follow suit. Only Blodklutt finds the crossing difficult, cursing against the pain in his injured shoulder. But even he manages to climb across, and we assemble on the opposite platform. Francesca severs the rope and returns the grappling hook to her pack, then pushes open the door to reveal a narrow shaft. Its walls and floor are made of polished marble, and drop in a steep decline into complete darkness.
‘It’s just as well we didn’t rush through here,’ Dietrich remarks, staring at the shaft over Francesca’s shoulder.
Francesca nods in agreement. She unclips the lantern from her belt, places it on the ground, and lights it with a tinder and flint she produces from a pocket. ‘I suggest you do likewise,’ she says, looking up at Blodklutt and Armand and gesturing with a jerk of her chin at the lanterns hanging from their belts. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find any lit torches at the bottom of the shaft. We’re going to need all the light we can produce.’
She then produces a handkerchief, exposes it to the lit wick of her lantern, and drops it down the shaft. Some time passes before it reaches the bottom. Francesca looks back at us, her eyes narrowed in thought.
‘What is it?’ Blodklutt asks, glancing up from where he is kneeling on the platform, readying his lantern. ‘Can’t we get down?’
‘We can get down, but that’s not the issue,’ Francesca says, rummaging through her pack again. This time she produces another coil of rope. ‘What I am concerned about is the depth of the shaft, because it must be over fifty yards deep. There’s no telling where it will lead. I once came across a similar design beneath a tomb in Egypt. The tomb was small, but its inner chamber had a shaft leading down to an entire network of subterranean passages and chambers that took me well over an hour to explore.’
‘And you think this might be similar?’ I ask.
Francesca secures one end of the rope to the iron loop on the door, and tosses the rest down the shaft. She shrugs. ‘I hope not. I initially thought that we would only have to explore the mausoleum. But I have a bad feeling that the mausoleum may be a superficial structure, built atop a much larger underground network. If that’s the case, then this is going to take us a lot longer than we had initially thought. And to make matters worse, the person we believe to be Friedrich has already descended the shaft. You can see here –’ she pauses, pointing at a wet patch on the edge of the platform ‘– where it sat before sliding down.’
Blodklutt nods grimly as he rises to his feet, his lit lantern hanging from his belt. ‘In that case, I want Armand and von Konigsmarck to go down first. Friedrich might be waiting for us at the bottom, planning to pick us off one by one. And if he is, I want to make sure he gets a surprise.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ Armand says, as cavalier as a Gascon cadet eager to make his mark on the world. He kneels down to light his lantern. When he is done, he attaches the lantern to his belt, takes hold of the rope, and slides down into the shaft.
Von Konigsmarck follows closely behind the French duellist, and they lower themselves down the sloping passage. All the while we wait atop the platform, staring down into the shaft, monitoring their progress, fearful of what awaits them at the bottom. Finally they reach the end of the shaft, and the last we see of them is as they draw their blades and move off to investigate what lies beyond.
‘I hope they don’t wander too far,’ Francesca says. ‘I dread to think what traps await them.’
‘I’m sure they know better than to do that,’ Blodklutt says. ‘They’ll check that the immediate area is clear before signalling that it is safe for us to come down.’
Not long after the Captain finishes this sentence, Armand reappears at the base of the shaft and signals for us to make our way down.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ Armand announces when we arrive at the bottom of the shaft.
We peer into the corridor that stretches before us, and my stomach sinks in despair. We have wandered into a death-trap!
We are standing on a sandstone platform that gives access to a corridor stretching into unknown darkness, beyond the perimeter of our lanterns. This corridor is twenty yards wide, and its floor is comprised of sandstone pavers. We don’t need Francesca to point out that they are pressure-stones that, when trodden upon, will send something shooting out from the thousands of holes lining the walls and ceiling. We can also discern the sound of movement as someone makes their way along the corridor, up ahead in the darkness.
‘I’ll stake my life that it’s Friedrich,’ Captain Blodklutt says, staring ahead without blinking.
‘It sounds as if something like spears are being shot from the walls with incredible force.’ Dietrich looks ominously at the holes which riddle the corridor.
Armand twirls his moustache and clicks his tongue in nervous anticipation. ‘It also appears as if Friedrich has travelled some distance down the hallway. It must be huge. What’s more, he’s making his way through without the assistance of a light.’
‘Perhaps it’s some special power bestowed by the Watchers,’ I say, counting yet another factor that will run against us, and wishing that we were back in Germany, safe within the Hexenjäger barracks in Saxony. ‘Maybe the undead have the ability to see in the dark.’
Armand growls, suddenly conscious of the light cast by our lanterns. ‘Even if Friedrich can’t see in the dark, he’s certainly noticed us by now. We’re lit up like a bonfire by these lanterns.’
‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t have any firearms,’ Dietrich says. ‘Otherwise, we’ll be sitting ducks.’
But none of these comments dissuade Blodklutt, who steps resolutely to the edge of the platform. ‘If God wills that we recover the Tablet of Breaking, then it shall be so,’ he says. Staring into the darkness beyond our lanterns, he calls over his shoulder, ‘Francesca – how do we go about navigating our way through here?’
Francesca moves beside the Captain and kneels down to inspect the corridor floor. Only a short period of time passes before she rises to her feet and shakes her head gravely. ‘This isn’t good. I was hoping that we wouldn’t come across a chamber such as this. Look.’ She pauses as she holds up an arrow she collected from the floor. ‘These shoot out of the holes along the walls and ceiling. And they will be activated when we tread upon specific paving stones. But the pavers are not marked. There is no way of determining which ones will trigger one of the arrows. This is pure guess-work.’
‘Guess-work or not, Friedrich has managed to negotiate his way along the chamber. And if he can do it, so can we,’ Blodklutt says. ‘The sooner we get started the better. We need to narrow down his lead.’
Francesca rubs her chin in thought. ‘All we can do is eliminate the trapped pavers through a process of trial and error. One of us – and I recommend the person with the fastest reflexes – will have to lead. If a paver activates a trap, that person will have to dodge the arrow. But if the paver is safe, then they will mark it with this.�
�� She produces a piece of chalk from a pocket. ‘We will follow after the leader, treading only on the safe pavers. This will be a crude method, but I cannot think of any other way for us to get across.’
‘What’s stopping us from just running down there as fast as we can?’ von Konigsmarck asks. ‘Can’t we outrun the arrows?’
‘You could try doing that,’ Francesca says. ‘But I wouldn’t recommend it. It would work at first, but then you’d start to slow down. It would just be a matter of time until you got hit. Our best chance of surviving this is for one of us to mark a path for the rest of the team to follow.’
Blodklutt’s features gather in foreboding; a silent acknowledgement of the perilous task we are about to undertake. ‘If that’s what you recommend, then it’s best that we get started. Are there any volunteers to lead?’
There’s a tense moment before Armand steps forward and collects the piece of chalk.
‘Are you sure?’ the Captain asks.
‘Are all Lutherans destined to burn in Hell?’ Armand says. He grins roguishly. With a sabre held at the ready – possibly in the vain hope of trying to swat aside any triggered arrows – he moves forward to where the paving stones begin. ‘Wish me luck.’
I know Armand well enough to detect the uncertainty in his eyes, and that his bravado is feigned. Fearing that this will be the death of my friend, my eyes race around the corridor, searching for a means of avoiding the pavers. Just as Armand prepares to take his first step into the corridor I reach out, grabbing him by the sleeve.
‘No, wait,’ I say, pulling Armand back onto the platform. I then move over to the nearest wall and carefully analyse one of the arrow holes. ‘Don’t go just yet. I think I may have discovered another way.’
Noticing Francesca’s eyebrows arch sceptically, I rummage through my pack and produce two of my six-inch iron spikes. With the others watching my every move, I select two holes – one at knee-height, and the other near my head – and insert the pitons, leaving some three finger-widths of iron protruding from the holes. I then step up onto the bottom piton and, using it as a foothold, reach up to the second.