The Eleventh Plague

by Darren Craske

  Faroud smiled. ‘Two troublesome Englanders in my camp at the same time…and you expect me to believe that it is just a coincidence?’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is!’ snapped Quaint, pushing his intense disbelief in coincidences aside. ‘Do you honestly think that I would risk my life to save her?’

  Polly shot him a look of pure spite. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘No offence, Professor,’ Quaint said, with mock cheerfulness. ‘I’m just trying to keep things light and upbeat. It’s incredibly important in life-threatening situations to maintain a positive mental attitude. Would you not agree, Aksak?’

  Faroud found himself nodding in agreement – and stopped it immediately. ‘Mr Quaint, I am finding your frequent attempts at humour most tiresome,’ he growled.

  ‘For once we agree on something,’ chimed in Polly.

  ‘Enough of this!’ said Faroud, slicing his hand through the air. ‘Whether you admit it or not, it is of no consequence! I am Aksak here…I am in charge, and I will not permit this pointless discussion any longer. I was hired to procure you, Professor North, and that is exactly what I have done.’ He turned to Quaint. ‘But you, Mr Quaint, are an irritating distraction that I have no time for. I do not care why you came here. Whether you truly do seek information about this supposed plot or whether you have come in some vain attempt to save the Professor – I do not care! Your time here is at an end.’ He clicked his fingers, and the two broad-built Clan Scarab guards approached Quaint menacingly.

  The conjuror ached for the presence of Prometheus at his right arm. Not all the bravado in his arsenal could get him out of this one. ‘Listen to me, Faroud, this is important!’ he said, edging away from the advancing Scarabs. ‘I just need to know all I can about the Consortium’s plot before it’s too late!’

  Faroud raised an eyebrow. ‘And what then? Let us suppose that what you say is true…what could one man such as you possibly do to stop it?’

  ‘Anything within my power,’ replied the conjuror wilfully.

  ‘Then it is a shame that no one will witness your courage,’ said Faroud. ‘Nasbek! Arus! Kill this English dog.’

  Just then, Polly saw her chance and made her move.

  It all happened so quickly – far too quickly for Aksak Faroud or anyone else to stop her. With the Scarabs’ attention fixed firmly on Quaint, Polly slipped her slender wrists free from her ropes and, without a moment’s hesitation, she leapt through the open window.

  Faroud watched it happen, although he could not quite believe his eyes. It seemed to take an extraordinary amount of time for the sight to register before he turned slowly to Cornelius Quaint – who shrugged, innocently.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said.

  ‘Scarabs, assemble outside!’ Faroud yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘The female has escaped! Hunt her down. She will not go far on foot. Go!’ Hordes of heavy feet thundered from all directions at his command. ‘And you, Quaint – what is your next move to be? Thinking of fleeing after your friend perhaps?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Quaint said. ‘But considering that you’re not allowed to actually hurt her, what are you going to do to when you catch up with her? Give her a stern telling off?’

  ‘Perhaps that rule is no longer to be complied with,’ Faroud said bluntly. He clamped his long sinewy arms onto Quaint’s shoulders, squeezing so hard that the conjuror winced in pain. ‘If I were you, I would worry for my own neck! Clan brothers, ensure this prisoner is made uncomfortable. Do not kill him until I return…but beyond that, you are free to do as your whim takes you. Just make sure that the dog can still talk…I have a lot of questions to ask him.’

  With that, Faroud turned and exited the room, inflamed by the thrill of the hunt.

  Within moments, Quaint heard a loud cacophony of neighing horses outside, and he turned to see Aksak Faroud and a gathering of Scarabs on horseback speeding past the open window. If he were to give chase (which, of course, he was considering) he would need to move fast. He turned as he heard a snigger behind him, and his heart began pumping a familiar blaze of energy around his body. He had no time for subtlety – ferocity was his weapon of choice.

  ‘When diplomacy fails, it’s time to fight dirty,’ Prometheus had once told him.

  It was good advice.

  The biggest of the Scarabs, Arus, stepped towards Quaint, his fists raised. ‘We shall grind your bones and feast on your entrails, Englishman!’ he snarled.

  Quaint smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to say “Fee-fi-fo-fum”?’

  The hulking Scarab swung at him with his massive fists, surprisingly quickly for a man of his size. The showman was taken aback and the punch felled him. Sprawled on his back, Quaint kicked out like a mule and the Scarab wailed as his nose cracked.

  ‘That’s going to bruise in the morning,’ Quaint quipped.

  The other Scarab saw his chance and he leapt. The conjuror whipped the bottle of absinthe from his waistband and smashed it across Nasbek’s face. Like a shot partridge, the Scarab fell to the ground on top of Arus, who was still nursing his bloodied nose.

  Quaint wiped his mouth. The fight was done. Had it not been for most of the camp’s Scarabs pursuing Polly, it might have been too big for him to handle.

  ‘You are nothing but an old man,’ said Arus, spitting blood.

  ‘What did you just say?’ Quaint asked, taken aback.

  ‘He called you an old man!’ said Nasbek. ‘You cannot escape. Our clan brothers will kill you before you get twenty yards!’

  ‘Oh, I doubt it,’ Quaint said. ‘They’ll be far too busy putting out the fire.’

  ‘Fire?’ asked Nasbek.

  ‘What fire?’ asked Arus.

  Quaint reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver tinderbox. Opening it, he struck the flint and a spark hopped from the box into the puddle of anise-smelling liquid spread on the floor. The flames followed the trail of alcohol, snaking across the room towards Arus and Nasbek as if they were seeking them out consciously. Arus howled as the fire caught hold of his robes. Soon, Nasbek joined him in the twisting, twirling dance as they tried to pat out the flames. The fire skipped to the walls, setting the door alight. Within seconds, the room was engulfed and the doorway out was searing with flames.

  Quaint took the only exit available and followed the route used so successfully by the Professor. He leapt out of the window, landing uncomfortably on the veranda outside. He could hear yells and screams behind him as the tavern erupted in a crescendo of alarm, the fire spreading quickly to other parts of the building.

  Heading to the makeshift stables, Quaint yanked the long pole that the Scarabs’ horses were tethered to, and it fell free of its mooring. He clapped his hands and stomped his feet to frighten the horses, and they scattered in all directions, all except for a tan-coloured horse. Heaving himself onto the animal’s back, he looked at the trail of dust rising on the horizon. Faroud was right. The Professor would not get far on foot.

  Quaint recalled a word that seemed to induce a marvellous effect on horses, yelling ‘Az-Toray!’ into the beast’s ear.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  The Diversionary Tactic

  CORNELIUS QUAINT STREAKED through the Bara Mephista valley in hot pursuit of Aksak Faroud’s posse. Following the track that snaked its way between the towering, sand-covered mountains, he risked a glance over his shoulder. A gang of Scarabs tumbled out of the tavern, plumes of thick, dark smoke spewing from every window. One thing was for sure: he had blown any chance of getting information out of Faroud now. He followed the dust from the Scarabs’ horses up a gentle incline until his eyes lost sight of it. The sky was darkening, and visibility was already poor. He could see the tips of a large mountain range in the near distance, framed against the burning purple-orange sunset, and he urged his horse on further, trying to beat the curve of the hill’s rise. As the ground dipped sharply, Quaint saw something that made his stomach lurch.

  Only fifty yards ahead of him was
a herd of tethered horses, plus a group of four dismounted Scarabs standing on guard outside a large cave at the foot of the shadowy mountains. The incline of the hill had masked just how big the mountain range was and it fell deeply into the low-lying ground, spreading out across the landscape as far as the eye could see.

  Quaint dismounted and quickly retreated down the incline to find a better vantage point to observe the Scarabs’ movements. He would be of no use to the Professor if he got himself caught. Keeping as low to the cooling sand as his broad bulk would allow, he crawled along the ground on his elbows. Soon, he had circled around behind the men. It was then that he was faced with a conundrum – how was he to get past four armed Scarabs without being seen? He needed a diversionary tactic, something to thin out the odds, and as he noticed the gathering of horses tethered together nearby, a semblance of an idea struck him…

  The four Clan Scarabs froze stock still as the frantic neighing of panicked horses filled the air all around them. A maddened herd – tethered together at the neck with their tails aflame – charged across the desert trailing plumes of stench-ridden smoke. The Scarabs stood open-mouthed. Despite their best efforts to translate the sight, an answer was not immediately forthcoming.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Demons!’

  ‘Do not be stupid. It was not demons, Mukhtar!’

  ‘But, Temis, they were creatures aflame like beasts from hell!’

  ‘They were our horses, you fool!’ said the more sensible of the Scarab quartet. ‘If we do not get them back the Aksak will set our tails alight! You two stay here and keep your eyes keen.’ The Scarab nudged the arm of a slight younger man on his right. ‘Alifah, you can come with me!’ The two men sprinted into the desert wasteland, following the golden glow that lit up the dusk in the distance.

  From his position, Quaint grinned satisfactorily as he clipped shut the lid of his tinderbox. Now there were only two Scarabs left for him to deal with.

  Much better odds.

  He moved swiftly, rising from amongst the grasses, smashing his formidable mass into his foes. The dumbstruck Scarabs fell to the ground in a clumsy mess of sprawling limbs. As they dizzily tried to clamber to their feet, Quaint snatched up a discarded sword from the dust.

  ‘You chaps have two choices,’ he said, switching the sword from Mukhtar to Temis in time with his words. ‘Either you can take a leaf out of your friends’ books and run like mad…or you can stay here and tussle with me. But I warn you; I know how to use a sword, and whereas one of you might get lucky, the other one will surely taste the blade. Now, which one of you is going to be the lucky one?’

  Mukhtar and Temis swapped nervous glances.

  ‘Horses?’ asked Mukhtar.

  ‘Horses,’ confirmed Temis.

  They scrambled to their feet, and soon were just specks in the distance, their feet pummelling against the sand frenetically.

  Quaint looked thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘Not bad for an old man.’

  In the cave behind him, he could hear whooping and jeering, and he was returned roughly to the here and now. The Clan Scarabs were on a hunt for their quarry and the chase had started without him…

  CHAPTER XXXII

  The Intriguing Development

  AFEW MILES ALONG the road that followed the snaking bends of a lake, Ahman slowed his cart to a halt next to a small ring of trees. Helping Destine down, he laid a blanket onto the cool sand by the lapping waters of the lake. Along the banks, lush grasses and ferns flourished, reaching up to tease the breeze. The setting was an ideal stage upon which to discover the origins of the long-buried secret.

  Ahmad made a small fire that battled against the wind to stay alight, and he rushed around busily, finding kindling to keep it burning. It was only when he was finally seated that Destine laid the parcel onto the blanket. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in rough sacking, fastened with a thin strip of leather tied into a thick knot. Savouring every moment, Destine unfurled each flap of rough, worn material.

  Lying in the centre was a beaten, brown-leather book.

  Destine looked up at Ahman, who greeted her silent questions with his usual aplomb.

  ‘Well, my dear?’ he said. ‘Do not keep me on tenterhooks.’

  Opening the cover, Destine cleared her throat and read aloud: ‘Journal begun August 1833 – Aloysius Bedford, Archaeologist.’

  She looked at Ahman, wide-eyed. ‘From my letter! So he was an archaeologist!’

  ‘Evidently so, Destine…now read on,’ nudged Ahman.

  Destine complied, turning the yellowed pages of the old journal carefully, as if it were an ancient manuscript found in a dusty old library. She skipped past illustrations of what appeared to be ancient artefacts. Various pieces of jewellery, figurines of catlike deities and hawk-headed deities adorned every page. Once she had discovered the first entry in the journal, Destine began again:

  ‘Soon I shall set forth to the dig site in Umkaza, and this journal shall assist me in keeping track of all that occurs upon this excavation. My sponsor speaks well of Umkaza, a place that he proclaims to hide a veritable feast of artefacts beneath the sand – but I have heard that before. Although I do not leave until tomorrow, there is still much to prepare. The Museum of Antiquities in Cairo has agreed to loan me a crew of diggers – however, they neglected to mention that the men did not speak English! I have consulted some of my colleagues, and they have managed to procure the services of a Frenchwoman to assist me, who is reportedly fluent in most languages, including Arabic. Madame Destine Renard is scheduled to arrive within the month.’

  Destine looked up from the journal.

  ‘A translator?’ grinned Ahman. ‘I suppose this solves the riddle of how you were able to understand Feron Mouk back at Sekhet Simbel. Please do go on, Madame…this is fascinating, ah?’

  ‘This delay is a hard punch to my spirits!’ continued Destine, as keen as Ahman to reveal elements of her own past.

  ‘I only hope that once we begin digging I will have worthy results to show my benefactor. If he is right, Umkaza is one of three possible resting sites of the fabled Pharaoh’s Cradle. That prize is a treasure of such magnificence! The very crib used by Rameses the Great – it is astounding to think that it might soon be within my hands! Should my hard work unearth such a wonder, my life would be changed for ever…for the better, I might add. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.’

  ‘I know just how you feel,’ said Destine excitedly, stroking the inked words upon the page. ‘This “Pharaoh’s Cradle”, Ahman…whatever it was, Aloysius was obviously quite enthralled by it. “A treasure of such magnificence,” he says. Are you familiar with it?’

  Ahman shook his head. ‘Rameses the Great’s crib? The very soul immortalised within Sekhet Simbel? No wonder this journal was placed there…but I have never heard of it, Destine, and I think the answer to that may be obvious considering that this is not just a treasure hunt…it is a hunt for the truth of what happened to Aloysius. He obviously was destined never to find his great prize.’

  ‘You mean…because Aloysius never found the Pharaoh’s Cradle?’ asked Destine.

  ‘Yah…the poor soul,’ Ahman said. ‘You can almost feel the sorrow in his words.’

  ‘I can feel it, mon ami,’ admitted Destine. ‘Most clearly, in fact…from the page right into my head…almost as if this book were trying to speak to me. The more I read, the less distant the past feels somehow…as if this book is trying to repair my connection to my lost memories. Not all of them yet, and not with any clarity…but instead of a blank canvas, gradually I am beginning to see shape and form…and colour.’ She turned the page, and read on.

  ‘Madame Destine has arrived on the ship from England to begin her work as my translator and her first words to me were of her sleeping arrangements! No complaints about the long journey, or the banal conversation of my driver. Sleep was the foremost concern on her mind! If only all my employees were so easily pleased. Now my work can commence in earn
est. The Madame seems a most remarkable woman, fluent in several languages including French, Italian, English and Arabic. She has such knowledge in her eyes – almost as if she is at peace with everything. My crew have quite taken to her, and have nicknamed her “Madame Dusty” for she is always willing to crawl around in the sand alongside them. She is not one afraid to get her hands dirty, and that has ingratiated her much with the men – as it has done with me. She may just turn out to be the lucky rabbit’s foot that my crew need to find our prize.’

  A flourish of embarrassment painted Destine’s cheeks, and she was forced to pause for breath. ‘My!’ she whispered. ‘Aloysius speaks highly of me, and in great detail, yet I cannot recall him for a moment. How strange this is.’

  ‘Not strange at all, my dear,’ Ahman said, tugging at his beard, ‘for he obviously remembers you just as I do.’

  Destine turned the pages swiftly, eager to consume more. ‘Sucré bleu, Ahman – listen, just a few days later!

  ‘It is astounding! Proof without doubt that somewhere beneath Umkaza’s sands lays the Pharaoh’s Cradle, and soon I shall unearth it. Yet, with my triumph comes great concern – I cannot shake the feeling that I am merely the horse pulling the plough and someone else will be picking at the furrows long before I get a chance. My foreign sponsor has put me in touch with the port administrator, a chap named Godfrey Joyce. He has recommended a local guide who claims to know Umkaza well. I would prefer not to share our glory with anyone – especially an outsider – but I am beholden to circumstance.’

  Madame Destine’s voice faded, and Ahman looked over at her.

  ‘My dear, are you feeling all right?’ he enquired.

  But Destine ignored him. It was as if she were unable to hear him, or as if she had forgotten that he was even there. She rose to her feet, seemingly entranced. She began to pace around the sand, and Ahman experienced an emotion he thought never to feel in Destine’s presence – fear.