The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  Once that was done, he and Kate set out for the British Museum. It was late afternoon and darkness was already descending. A few lights shone in the windows of Montagu House, the Jacobean mansion where the bulk of the collection resided and where Thomas Clover had bade them come. Kate’s letter from the curator was sufficient for a watchman to unlock the door and go upstairs to fetch their host. Simon and Kate waited in the foyer amidst stuffed beasts.

  After a moment, Thomas appeared on the landing, smiling down at the pair. “Kate! Marvelous to see you. I have exciting news.” He padded down to meet them, sending the watchman back to his frigid rounds outside.

  Simon noted that the young curator hesitated before greeting him. He knew the curse was taking its toll, and no matter how much he might wish it wasn’t so, his appearance was beginning to show the ragged edges of constant pain.

  Thomas beckoned him and Kate down a corridor toward the rear of the house. “I finally recalled where I had seen those symbols.”

  Thomas led them into a back salon that was cramped with desks and tables. There were items of antiquity scattered about: vases, small statues, pottery, and piles of coins. Papers with careful sketches and descriptions littered the room too. He went to a small desk in a dark corner and lit a lamp with a sudden look of embarrassment.

  “This is my area. Not terribly large, I know, but I should improve with the new spaces. We’re abominably cramped here. Only a miniscule portion of the collection is capable of being displayed.”

  “Long overdue,” Kate placated while looking over pages of hieroglyphics. “So are our symbols here?”

  “Oh yes. Somewhere.” Thomas shuffled through large sheets of Egyptian script and drawings. He laughed at the disorganization. “Scholarship, eh? Ah! Here we are.” He laid a huge roll of drafting paper on top of the pile and spread it open to a length of five feet by three feet. There were ten lines of hand-copied hieroglyphics written across the sheet.

  “What is this?” Kate asked.

  Thomas said, “It’s a hymn to the god Ra. It … um … calls on him to come forth, to rise”—he pointed at the symbol he had identified earlier—“and protect his servants. The usual sort of things you ask a god in a hymn.”

  Kate and Simon saw that the symbols branded on the heart of Madeleine Hawley, and supposedly the other sacrifices as well, were at the beginning and the end of the long string of hieroglyphs.

  “Can you read this?” Simon asked Kate.

  “A bit of it, but it’s quite old. It’s Heliopolitan to be sure. It summons Ra, then beseeches him to trample his enemies.” She ran her finger along the symbols to the end of the long string. “And here it appears to be calling him to return, to set like the evening sun.” Kate looked confused. “Why would Pendragon inscribe English churches with a spell for summoning an Egyptian sun god?”

  “I don’t think he did exactly,” Simon replied. “I think he used the functional construct of this spell. The binding and summoning elements. It’s like taking a song written for violin and adapting it for pianoforte.”

  “I’m sorry,” Thomas laughed nervously, “are you two still talking to me?”

  Kate said, “Yes, Thomas, of course. From what did you transcribe this text?”

  “A linen. A mummy linen.”

  “This spell is written on a mummy?” Simon regarded the curator.

  “No, just a linen. Part of a consignment we received years ago, I believe it came to us from a private collection. Nothing terribly exciting. Just a box with a very long strip of linen. This text was written on it. That’s the reason we never displayed it; it’s just a length of cloth in a box. Not very dramatic.”

  Simon felt a surge of excitement going through him. He looked at Kate and her eyes were wide too. He smiled despite the fear that always accompanied the possibility that an artifact of unimaginable power was bubbling to the surface of the rational world. “Kate, are you thinking—”

  “I am.” She studied the hieroglyphs on the paper again. “The Skin of Ra.”

  Thomas looked between the two of them. “The Skin of Ra? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Simon joined Kate, staring at the symbols. “It’s a unique object, usually thought to be mythical. Like the Holy Grail or Excalibur.”

  “Ah. What is it?”

  “It is a linen used to wrap a mummy,” Kate said. “In ancient Heliopolis, where the priesthood of Ra was centered, it was used to re-create their god here on Earth, in a physical form. Once summoned, Ra would lead the armies of Heliopolis against enemy cities, destroying their god and leaving the city weak and helpless before the invading forces. In this way, the priesthood made Ra the dominant god in ancient Egypt, destroying or absorbing all rivals. The pharaohs were all subject to the will of the priests of Ra for their power on Earth. The Skin of Ra allowed the followers of the sun god to rule Egypt for thousands of years.”

  “What happened to it?” Thomas asked.

  “No one knows, of course. It was lost or stolen or destroyed, depending on the story one believes.”

  “But, of course, it’s just a story. Yes?”

  Kate and Simon exchanged knowing glances, and she said, “May we see it?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so.” Thomas looked confused and nervous.

  They followed Thomas and his oil lamp out of the common workroom and along the corridor. The curator stopped at a door and fumbled with a key ring. Finally, he unlocked the door.

  “Do be careful on the steps,” he said.

  They descended into the dark, cold cellar on stone steps. The musty smell of damp earth surrounded them. There were a few thin windows set deep in the stone walls near the ceiling, but they were black from the night. The oil lamp threw a faint yellow glow on the surrounding mob of stone faces and frozen, snarling, animal snouts and rows of pottery and towers of wooden crates. There was barely room to walk between the detritus of cultures. A faint thumping noise came from the darkness.

  “Rats,” Thomas suggested weakly. “They’ve eaten half of the world’s history down here.”

  The three came to a stone wall lined with shelves covered with pots and urns. Thomas studied labels on the shelves. The bumping noise came again to their right. He looked warily in that direction.

  “That way.” Thomas tried to urge lamplight into the distant black corner.

  The thumping continued in the dark. Thomas froze.

  “That’s a very insistent rat.” Simon saw Kate reaching into her bag to have a defensive elixir ready at hand. The sound was not rhythmic like a loose object swinging freely. It was an irregular scrabbling like fingers scraping rapidly with energy, then slowing as if tired. It resembled the sound of an animal testing the limits of a container.

  Simon clasped his hands behind his back. “You don’t keep living specimens down here, do you? A parrot or a jaguar?”

  “No.”

  “Well, carry on then. No doubt the rat will scurry at your approach.”

  “No doubt,” Thomas said timidly.

  They squeezed between crates and shelves, moving toward the sound. Simon followed close behind Thomas. The curator stopped short and he bumped into the man’s back.

  “There.” Thomas pointed. On a shelf at the edge of the lamp light was a wooden box. It was pitch-black, made of rich, ebony wood, perhaps a foot in width and length and height. Delicate gold highlights accentuated the corners. Around the sides were carved hieroglyphs.

  The thumping sound was coming from inside the box. Thomas gasped, watching the wooden container move. The corners lifted a few inches off the shelf, up and down as if something inside wanted to get out. Simon pushed past Thomas.

  “Simon, don’t be stupid,” Kate warned. “For once.”

  He stood in front of the jumping container. Slowly, his hand went toward the lid. The thumping sound stopped and the box dropped motionless to the shelf. He raised an amused eyebrow.

  Just as his fingers brushed the cool ebony, he heard a clicking noise. Regular
. Rhythmic. It came from the direction of the stairs. Footsteps. He looked at Kate. She turned around, listening as well.

  Thomas pressed against the wall, unnerved by another unexpected sound. He whispered, “I shouldn’t have brought you down here.”

  The steps continued to approach, stopping occasionally to avoid an obstacle in the path. A small figure could soon be seen against the grey background. It turned and moved slowly toward them along the same narrow path they had taken. The steady footsteps rang off the stone foundation. Finally the shape stopped a few feet from Kate.

  The figure was female, draped in a long gown, with her head completely veiled.

  “Mrs. Mansfield?” Thomas asked with surprise. “Did we have an appointment? I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you. I hope the watchman didn’t give you a problem getting inside.”

  “No.” Mrs. Mansfield whispered. Then she raised both hands and held them out in front of her in a peculiar pose. She spoke with a familiar voice that sounded like a rusting gate. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry?” Thomas inclined his head politely.

  Simon felt the box thump from the inside. His stomach twisted at the sound of Mrs. Mansfield’s voice. “Kate, you might wish to have Mr. Clover step back.”

  “You will all be dead soon,” Mrs. Mansfield croaked in a low voice. “I have been searching this city, waiting for his call. He can sense the rise of the new god and he longs for blood.” She moved one hand slowly toward her veil and lifted it up over her head. Her face was blue and her skin deeply wrinkled. Nephthys. The demon queen lowered her head and took a step back.

  Earth exploded and filled the air around Simon. Huge shapes rose up so close they slammed against him with their scaly bodies. Before he could speak, clawed hands slashed. He was pummeled one way and another, feeling battered as if he had fallen between two galloping horses. He crashed into the stone wall. The high columns of crates and boxes began to collapse and split open. White marble heads tumbled over him, cracking against his skull. Simon saw stars and felt nausea rising. His vision was lost under a collapse of antiquities and his ears rang with thundering vibrations.

  Simon gathered his wits and spoke his runic strength into life. He pushed himself up. The crushing weight on his back held him down. He took a deep breath and shoved again, slowly creaking up through crates and planks and marble. He felt the cool air wash over him and wreckage fell away from his shoulders.

  He struggled over the uneven landscape, slipping and falling, toward the corner where he had last seen Kate and Thomas. The shelves were still against the wall but crates and display cases leaned against them. Simon started pulling objects away, throwing them back into the center of the cellar. He seized what appeared to be a mummy case and lifted it.

  Kate’s face looked up from beneath it. She blinked against the dust that drifted down into her eyes and stared up at Simon holding the massive sarcophagus over his head.

  “Thank God.” He breathed and set the mummy case aside. “Are you badly injured? Anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so.” She turned her head slightly. “Thomas, you?”

  The curator’s dirty face appeared under her shoulder. “I think I’m alive. What about Mrs. Mansfield?”

  Blood dripped from jagged wounds across Simon’s body. He lifted Kate and set her on her feet. He then reached down and pulled Thomas up. He patted the curator on the shoulder, then glanced toward the shelf where the ebony box had been. It was clear of wreckage. Most of the objects that had been there were still present, except for the container.

  Kate reached into her satchel, scrabbling for vials, and kicking debris out of the way. She looked around the dark cellar, searching for attackers, and handed an elixir vitae to Simon.

  “She’s gone. She didn’t want to kill us this time. She just wanted the Skin. Mind where you step, the chnoubis have left a mess.” Simon stared down into one of the many large holes dug out of the cellar floor. “God help us. Nephthys has the Skin of Ra.”

  Thomas sat on the overturned marble head of a Roman emperor with his own head in his hands. “What do I tell my directors? I might lose my position.”

  “We might all lose our positions, Mr. Clover.” Simon drained the elixir and dropped to one knee.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Malcolm scratched in irritation at his hands. It wasn’t that they itched, but the thought of the magic under his flesh unnerved him. Things he had sworn he would never allow were now commonplace since he had joined Simon’s band of magic knights in shining armor. From letting a werewolf live to taking alchemical elixirs to allowing Simon to inscribe him. He swore he could feel the aether moving around under his skin. Simon had inscribed everyone’s hands with temporary marks that allowed a simple signal to be sent to the entire group warning them that the final event was about to occur at St. Mary Woolnoth and for everyone to converge on the church.

  Penny didn’t seem fazed by it. Her hands played nonchalantly with the elaborate equipment on her head as she crouched with him behind a hedge. They were inside the wall surrounding the mansion leased by Ambassador Mansfield. It was on a park-sized bit of land east of London proper. The spying pair was distant enough from the house not to be noticed among the foliage, but close enough to keep an eye on arrivals and departures. It wasn’t a particularly imposing manor, but there was an odd glass structure attached to the rear. It was a huge greenhouse as high as the mansion itself but constructed of darkened glass that reflected the fading sun.

  The petite engineer was dressed in pants and a worn leather jacket that covered a white linen shirt. Her hair was pulled back and braided. She wore a pair of goggles she had modified just like the telescopic sight on Malcolm’s now-defunct rifle. She scanned the windows of the sprawling home for movement, of which there hadn’t been any for hours. Bored, she absently reached for another sandwich only to find that they were gone. Shoving the goggles up on her brow, Penny glanced down and then up at Malcolm.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry,” she said.

  Malcolm brushed the last crumbs of the crusty bread from his dark lapels. “That was six hours ago. It’s hungry work watching for an Egyptian demon queen.”

  With a halfhearted huff, Penny dug into her satchel and produced two apples, tossing him one of them. “Here.”

  “How much stuff do you lug around in that bottomless bag of yours?” He crunched into the crisp fruit. “And how do you have fresh apples in winter?”

  “I have whatever I think I might need.”

  “Like Kate’s entire larder.”

  “Ha, that’s funny from the man who just wolfed down three sandwiches without even a single thank-you,” Penny scolded. “And stop scratching at your hands.”

  “I can’t stand this damned magic being under my skin. It’s like having Simon with me every second.”

  “Oh, you can’t even feel it. You just know it’s there.” She then said with her voice tinged in wonder, “It was very exciting that they managed to trigger the key. The fact that I can watch it work now means I can likely create more.”

  Malcolm bit a worm out of the apple and spit it away. “I suppose.”

  “You’re not impressed by the ability to travel across the globe in an instant?”

  “I can travel fast enough now, thank you. What good did it do for the men who built it? Simon’s father is dead. Sir Roland is gone, likely dead. All of us were almost killed by creatures searching for that key. I don’t see much evidence of good coming from it.”

  “Well, Simon was awfully excited about it.”

  “He was, true enough. I hope it took his mind off the pain he’s in for a moment. Maybe that’s value enough, but here he is with his magic key and he looked like hell. He could barely walk.” Malcolm tossed the apple core away. “And I’m sure he’s right now sitting in St. Mary Woolnoth watching for Barnes if he could get enough of Kate’s elixir to keep him upright.”

  “Kate loves him,” Penny said quietly.

&
nbsp; “Aye. And he’ll break her heart one day.”

  “Why?” She looked surprised. “You think Simon doesn’t love her?”

  “Oh no. He does. But that’s not enough. He doesn’t appreciate how lucky he is to have her. And I don’t think he knows just how far she’ll go for him. That’s the problem. She’s a remarkable woman.”

  Penny crunched the apple and chewed loudly in the silence. “So, you fancy Kate?”

  “No.” Malcolm looked into the distance, pretending he was studying the house. “I admire her. Her strength. The fight that’s in her, I’ve never seen the like. All she’s been through. First her sister. Then Charlotte. She had to fight like hell for those two, and she did. And she was right. If there’s ever a time when I could choose one person to walk into Hell with me, it would be Kate Anstruther.”

  “Oh.” Penny threw the half-eaten apple away with all her force. “I’d choose my brother, Charles, because he knows the way out.”

  Malcolm looked at her. Her usual jovial expression had fallen as she studied the Mansfield residence. The way she had said the last line tugged at him. He was silent, unsure of how to approach her because, for the first time, he was worried about Penny Carter. She hadn’t come out clean this venture. And while Penny seemed all right on the exterior, he knew that deep inside the damage could be festering. He knew because he was just like that. Penny was only a bit more polite about the matter.

  It couldn’t have been easy to face what she had faced. Malcolm wasn’t sure just how well he would have taken it if his own Da had come back. Though most likely his father would have tried to smack him around, and Malcolm would have retaliated.

  “I heard about your mother.” Malcolm gave her a questioning glance, as if that explained everything he was thinking. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

  Penny’s expression suddenly softened. “No, but I’m fine with it. I got to see my mother one more time. She wasn’t suffering anymore. She only wanted to see how Charles and I were getting on. And we got a chance to say good-bye. Proper-like.” There were no tears in her eyes, only a gentle memory.