The Eleventh Plague

by Darren Craske

  Dray turned, his eyes almost looking through the conjuror. When he spoke, his words were sharp enough to cut diamonds. ‘If you’re trying to appeal to my conscience, you’re wasting your breath. I’m detached from it, remember? But my vengeance, now that’s another thing entirely…that I am very much in concert with. I’m sick, Cornelius. Dying to be exact. I don’t know how much time I have left, but I promise you this…before I draw my last breath that bitch is going to pay!’

  ‘George, listen to me…all I want is an end to this!’ snapped Quaint. ‘It’s within your power, you know it is! If you’re dying, then go out with some dignity…go out with some humanity, for God’s sake, man!’

  Dray shuffled on the spot anxiously. ‘You could’ve let me squirm, twisted the knife in my guts even more. Lesser men certainly would have…I would have.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you, George,’ said Quaint.

  ‘Aye…I know that,’ muttered the old man. ‘Whatever it was that poisoned Oliver, you and he were still friends once. Let’s say I could even the score between us – and only this score, mind…we still have others to occupy ourselves with – what would you ask of me?’

  Cornelius Quaint did not ponder long. ‘Well, there is this one little thing…’

  CHAPTER LXI

  The Embrace of Death

  A THIN TRICKLE OF blood seeped from the corner of Aksak Faroud’s swollen mouth as he spat in the face of the brawny Hades Consortium jailer in front of him. The jailer cackled remorselessly and punched him in the gut. Faroud’s head snapped back, striking the base of his skull against the solid rock wall, and his eyes rolled listlessly in his head. Blood-soaked bile spewed from his mouth, dribbling down onto his bare chest.

  ‘You Clan Scarabs are not like us. You are filth, picking off any carrion weaker than you. Thieving…intimidating…killing. But no more,’ said Jailer Veriz, wiping his hand over his mouth as he savoured his attack. He leaned closer, his eyes scouring every inch of Faroud’s face in detail, as if he despised every speck of his being. ‘This is how the Hades Consortium treats animals like you.’

  ‘You…think yourself so different…to me?’ protested Faroud weakly, barely able to vocalise the words. ‘We do what we do…to survive. What is your excuse?’

  Faroud was silenced by a blow to the ribs and the breath was purged from his lungs. His Scarab brothers, Kulfar and Nehmet, had been the lucky ones. Death had claimed them quickly. Faroud knew that soon he would join them. He did not have the strength within him to fight any longer and falling into death’s embrace seemed more appealing by the second. As Jailer Veriz clenched his fists once again, Faroud closed his eyes tight, knowing this was the end. There was no one to save him now.

  Or so he believed.

  Faroud heard a sudden noise…a dull clang of metal striking against something solid. He opened his eyes slowly.

  Standing over the unconscious body of his jailer was an elderly woman clad in an elegant mud-splattered dress, with a pair of heavy iron manacles swaying in her hands. Faroud blinked hard to remove the delusion, but to his surprise, it did not dissipate.

  ‘Who…are you?’ asked Faroud dazedly.

  ‘Escape first, introductions later,’ replied Madame Destine. ‘We have to find Cornelius!’

  CHAPTER LXII

  The Turning of the Tide

  LADY JOCASTA ENTERED the audience chamber clutching a large, cylindrical roll of parchment under her arm. Sir George Dray sat alone at the chamber’s table with an expectant look on his wrinkled face.

  ‘Sir George, I have brought the map as you requested,’ Lady Jocasta beamed. Not waiting for an invitation, she delicately placed the parchment upon the table and rolled it out, placing small brass weights at each corner, smoothing the creases. ‘In but a few hours, Nastasi and his Scarabs will deposit the vials of poison in the positions marked. Egypt will soon be crippled, and by then…it will be far, far too late to turn the tide.’ She looked to Dray for approval.

  He offered Lady Jocasta a broad smile – in contrast, the cold glare in his green eyes told an altogether different story. Grasping his walking cane, he pulled himself to his feet. Without a word, he slid the four brass weights from each corner of the map. The parchment curled its edges up like a snail retreating into its shell. The Greek woman watched, pleasantly enthralled by Dray’s actions, but her expression faded as she saw Cornelius Quaint step from the shadows.

  Lady Jocasta looked at the two men’s faces, matching their nondescript expressions with one of her own. Dray held the parchment in his skeletal fingers and silently passed it into Quaint’s hands.

  There was no word of thanks during the exchange.

  That was not part of the deal.

  ‘Sir George?’ Lady Jocasta enquired, seeking an explanation.

  Dray ignored her. ‘Consider our debt repaid, Cornelius. Take it and leave this place whilst you still can. You’ve got ten minutes, no more.’ Quaint opened his mouth to speak. ‘Don’t bother thanking me…just pray our paths never cross again. This changes nothing between us.’

  With an accepting nod, Quaint retreated back into the shadows as if he had never been there at all.

  Lady Jocasta scowled incredulously as her whole world ground to a sudden halt.

  ‘That was the map!’ she said, unable to hide the ire in her voice.

  ‘I’m aware of that, lass,’ replied Dray.

  ‘Then…may I ask why you gave it to Quaint, sir?’ Lady Jocasta asked.

  Dray replied, ‘As I said…I was repaying a debt.’

  ‘To him? What debt can you possibly owe that it is worth risking everything I have worked to achieve?’ demanded Lady Jocasta. She had either forgotten her position, or was in full acknowledgement of it, it was difficult to judge. Whatever the answer, her rage was unrestrained. ‘Now he has the means to destroy us – surely you must know that?’

  ‘I know only that I have made this game a wee bit more interesting.’ Sir George grinned maliciously. ‘It’s midnight in only a few hours. Even if he knows where the poison is being deposited, he is still just one man…he cannot be in nine places at once. It would take a miracle to stop what’s in motion.’

  Lady Jocasta’s bile did not recede. ‘But why take that risk?’

  ‘Because if any man alive can do it, it’s him!’ Dray shuffled his form around the table to stand behind her. ‘You have disappointed me, Lady Jocasta…and you have brought shame upon Baron Remus’s tutelage. This will serve as a reminder of what happens when every eventuality is not catered for.’

  ‘You have risked the success of my plot merely to reprimand me?’ Lady Jocasta lowered her head upon her chest and closed her eyes. ‘So…failure is to be my punishment.’

  ‘No, Lady Jocasta.’ Dray took his walking cane within both hands and pulled swiftly at the handle – removing a slender sword from within. With surprising ferocity, he slashed the blade’s keen edge into Lady Jocasta’s exposed, olive neck. Her head was cleaved from her shoulders. It rolled around directionless on the table, spilling a fine fountain of rich red blood as it went, coming to rest in the centre of the table with her big brown dead eyes staring at the ceiling.

  ‘That was your punishment,’ said Sir George. He consulted his pocket watch.

  Cornelius Quaint had eight minutes.

  Not enough time for a miracle, but still plenty of time to die…

  CHAPTER LXIII

  The Fleeing Free

  CORNELIUS QUAINT COULDN’T believe his eyes as he pelted his bulk through the dusty labyrinthine corridors towards the Hades Consortium’s prison cells.

  Madame Destine walked slowly towards him, supporting Faroud. The Scarab winced in excruciating pain with each step, clutching at his tender ribs with his free hand.

  ‘You always did have an eye for a charity case, Madame,’ Quaint said.

  He ran as fast as he could towards her. Destine braced for impact as the locomotive of a man thundered into her. He lifted her into his arms and swung her aroun
d in circles like a carousel. They needed no words, these two. It was enough that they were in each other’s arms once again.

  Aksak Faroud cleared his throat, forcing apart their embrace.

  ‘Do not think me unfeeling…but can this wait? It is not exactly safe here!’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Quaint. ‘We’ve got about five minutes to get as far away from this place as we can.’ He slapped the map into his palm. ‘This is what we needed! The locations along the Nile where Nastasi’s men are going to deploy the poison. This is what we need to put an end to this plot!’

  ‘You did it!’ gasped Faroud. ‘But I do not understand…you were done for…only death waited for us…how did you get hold of such a thing?’

  ‘I gave the Devil his due,’ Quaint said.

  ‘You are truly a marvel, Cornelius Quaint,’ grinned Faroud.

  ‘I’m more than that, my friend,’ grinned Quaint right back at him. ‘I’m bloody spectacular. So, how about you, Aksak? You look terrible.’

  ‘I have had better days, it is true.’

  ‘Can you walk unaided?’

  ‘Slowly…but yes, I think so,’ replied Faroud.

  ‘Good, then let’s be going. Madame, you’re with me!’ trumpeted Quaint, as he snatched Destine’s wrist and ran off down the tunnel, with a limping Faroud trailing behind.

  Quaint was his usual self – thundering on until his bones snapped, until his muscles tore. But Aksak Faroud was not at all himself. The beating that he had suffered at the hands of his jailer had dislodged something inside him – a fact confirmed when he coughed a sticky wet clot of blood into the palm of his hand.

  Retracing his steps, Quaint led Faroud and Destine through the deserted main audience chamber. They froze as they saw the headless body of Lady Jocasta, still sat in the same position at the table.

  ‘I warned her not to stick her neck out,’ said Quaint.

  They continued through the chamber towards the main doors. Destine screamed as she stumbled over another lifeless corpse – that of Godfrey Joyce. His stumps still wept the last of his body’s blood, and his two severed limbs lay on the floor like discarded cigar butts. He had suffered until his last breath if the contorted expression on his face was anything to go by.

  Quaint grinned. ‘You know, Faroud, you said we couldn’t trust him, but deep down, I always knew Joyce was ar—’

  ‘Hush, Cornelius!’ reprimanded Destine, pushing her finger against his lips. ‘One glib comment is sufficient amusement; we have more important matters at hand!’

  Quaint nodded like an admonished pupil. ‘Quite right, Madame, come on!’

  With Faroud still bringing up the rear, they quickly reached the huge wooden beam that barred the two stone doors.

  ‘Faroud, help me with this!’ Quaint yelled.

  Groaning madly as the pain scorched his guts, Faroud aided Quaint and they parted the massive doors that reached from floor to ceiling.

  A thick curtain of dust dropped down before their eyes, and a gust of smoke evacuated the confined tunnel past them into the cavern. As it cleared, the sight before his eyes brought a lump to Cornelius Quaint’s throat. Just inside the tunnel, littering the ground everywhere, were the charred and scorched corpses of the brigade of Consortium guards. Huge chunks of rock from the stone ceiling were strewn amongst (and crushing) the bodies. Quaint looked down at them, remembering how they had come to lose their lives and his part in it.

  ‘You obviously came this way,’ said Destine.

  Quaint clamped his eyes shut. He prayed that she could not see the shame carved onto his face, but it was ever so difficult to hide anything from a woman who could sense his emotions as easily as if she shared half his heart.

  ‘Cornelius, listen!’ snapped Faroud, breaking the conjuror’s thoughts.

  It was the unmistakable sound of many footsteps mobilising in their direction, emanating from deep within the adjoining tunnels.

  Quaint checked his fob watch. ‘George was true to his word for once. The guards are on the move, people. We don’t have much time!’

  They set off as fast as they could, stepping over corpses and rocks, following the scarred crack in the tunnel roof towards the exit.

  However, as they rounded the final corner towards freedom, Quaint’s heart sank – the way out was completely barred by fallen rocks.

  ‘A trifle overzealous with the explosive perhaps?’ said Faroud sarcastically, as he brushed his hands over the rocks that blocked the entire tunnel. ‘Now what? We’re trapped!’

  Reinforcing his statement, the heavy footsteps grew louder. The guards were catching up. Quaint and company were facing a dead end – in more ways than one.

  A grinding, scraping sound came from the other side of the rocks behind them. Cracks in the boulders appeared as they shifted position and thin seams of bright white light appeared like incandescent veins.

  Sobek’s unmistakable voice reverberated through the rocks: ‘Put your backs into it, Scarabs! I want these rocks cleared!’

  ‘Sobek?’ Faroud’s face lit up. ‘At last – we are free! We are safe.’

  ‘Don’t count your chickens, Aksak,’ said Quaint, cupping a hand to his ear.

  Faroud heard the sounds of their pursuers growing ever louder too and wished that he had kept his mouth shut. ‘Sobek! It is me, Aksak!’ he shouted towards a thin crack in the rocks. ‘Hurry, we do not have much time!’

  Destine tugged on Quaint’s robes. ‘Who are these men?’

  ‘The cavalry, Madame!’ Quaint replied. ‘And for once their timing is impeccable!’

  At that moment, a contingent of Consortium guards burst onto the scene. Crammed into the confines of the catacombs, they halted twenty feet away from Quaint, Faroud and Destine, blocking the tunnel completely. Each one brandished a weapon, each face twisted into a malevolent sneer.

  Quaint considered his situation and the outlook was bleak. Just then, the huge boulders came tumbling down from the barred exit and great spears of illumination breached into the tunnel, flooding everywhere in a blast of raw sunlight. Quaint and his band were lucky, their backs were turned to the rocks, but it was the brigade of soldiers, who had all been glaring with wide, enraged eyes, that bore the full brunt of the explosion of brightness.

  They were blinded, but it would not last long.

  Sobek’s face peered through the gap in the rocks. Spotting Quaint and Faroud, he beamed a relieved smile at them as he thrust his huge, fat arm through the hole.

  ‘Come!’ he boomed.

  Quaint knew they had seconds to act before the guards would regain their sight.

  He looked at Destine. ‘You first, Madame!’

  As Quaint grabbed her corseted waist, Destine could tell that there was no room for discussion. She looked up with uncertain eyes as Sobek’s hairy arms grabbed her wrists and lifted her up into the light.

  Several of the Consortium guards’ sight had returned and they began to advance.

  Quaint and Faroud had precious seconds to act.

  ‘You’re next!’ Quaint yelled, grasping the Aksak by his hand.

  Faroud shook his head violently. ‘No, Cornelius, leave me! I can go no further.’ He coughed, spitting congealed blood into his hands, a dark, maroon red, almost black, dredged from the very depths of his stomach. He was bleeding internally, his lungs punctured by broken ribs. ‘I am done for, my friend…a gift from my jailer.’

  ‘Faroud, we’re getting out of here right now!’ Quaint yelled. ‘Together! Now hold on tight, I’m going to—’

  ‘No!’ snarled Faroud fiercely.

  ‘But we can make it!’ pleaded Quaint. ‘It’s right there! Just a stretch away!’

  ‘Leave me, I say!’ growled Faroud. ‘Someone…has to watch your back.’

  Quaint he knew he was right. Faroud was in no condition to go anywhere and the guards were inches away. The conjuror reached into the folds of his commandeered robes and pulled out a stick of explosive.

  ‘I held
one back…just in case,’ he said, pushing it into Faroud’s fingers. ‘Consider it a parting gift.’

  ‘Just what I always wanted,’ Faroud grinned. ‘Now go…whilst I still…have the strength to do any good.’

  Quaint grasped Faroud firmly around the back of his neck and bent him towards him, touching the Scarab’s forehead to his own. ‘I’m sorry I got you into this mess.’

  Faroud managed a weak grin. ‘For an Aksak…there are no easy choices, remember? Tell Sobek to take care of Rakmun…and make sure that my men make Nastasi pay.’

  With a firm nod, Faroud gripped the explosive in his shaking hands and bit the fuse off with his teeth. Once lit, the explosives would explode practically instantly. Quaint tore a torch from the wall and offered it to the Scarab.

  ‘Aksak Faroud, I have been proud to call you my friend,’ he said.

  ‘As have I…Cornelius Quaint.’

  With a last nod of respect, Quaint reached for Sobek’s grasp. Reaching solid ground, he fell to his knees as Destine rushed to support him.

  ‘Clear the entrance!’ he bellowed.

  Sobek looked at the breach in the rocks. ‘But, the Aksak…?’

  ‘It’s too late, Sobek. Everyone to cover!’

  The band of Scarabs scattered in every direction as a great explosion rocked the land. The deafening roar filled the ears of thieves, conjuror and fortune-teller alike. Ancient obelisks that had stood in Fantoma for thousands of years shook and toppled, crashing into each other, in turn striking others, pummelling the buildings at their feet. Thick walls of dust rose into the air as columns of ancient stone crumbled like chalk, collapsing onto the entrance to the lair of the Hades Consortium.

  In a moment, all was still.

  A fitting monument, thought Quaint, as he looked at the devastation around him. The area was cloaked in a wall of impenetrable dust. Surely all inside the sanctum sanctorum would have perished. If there was any justice in the world, not even Hell would take their souls.

  ‘I have been away from you too long, my sweet,’ Destine said by the conjuror’s side, brushing flecks of masonry from his curls like a doting mother. ‘I’d forgotten how much mess you can make.’