Scream of the Baboon King

by Dan Hunter

  With thanks to Adrian Bott

  First published in the UK in 2013 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com

  Text copyright © Hothouse Fiction, 2013

  Illustrations copyright © Usborne Publishing Ltd., 2013

  Cover illustration by Jerry Paris. Inside illustrations by David Shephard. Map by Ian McNee.

  With thanks to Anne Millard for historical consultancy.

  The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN 9781409568469

  Batch no 02928-02

  British Museum endorsement

  Copyright

  The Sacred Coffin Text of Pharaoh Akori

  Map of Akori’s journey through the Underworld

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Collect all of Akori’s quests

  Quest of the Gods website info

  Collect the cards and play the games

  The demon-boy, Oba, stood on top of the highest tower of his palace, gazing out over the Underworld. An endless plain of bones and debris lay before him, lit by huge fires. Animal-headed beings herded dead souls into pens, taunting them cruelly before throwing them into pits.

  Oba liked to watch the suffering. The wonderful thing about tormenting the dead was that it could never end. And besides, it would teach them to respect him as their new lord and master. He had been watching the fire and agony for hours, and would never grow tired of it.

  Back when he had been ruler of Egypt, his sleep had either been deep and peaceful, or filled with glorious dreams of taking more and more power. He remembered how he would awake, still clutching his fingers around the arms of some golden throne that only existed in his fantasies, and go raging through his palace in a wild fury because he was only Pharaoh of Egypt and not of the whole world.

  Occasionally the face of his father would torment him, giving him nightmares – the father he had murdered with cobra venom, so that he could steal the Egyptian throne for himself. Then Oba would wake screaming, not because he regretted murdering his father, but because he feared the old man had come back to reclaim what was rightfully his.

  Those nightmares never happened now, because Oba was no longer mortal and no longer needed to sleep. Thanks to Set’s magic, the blood that ran in his veins was now laced with fire. It filled him with endless energy, making his eyes shine in the half-light like a predator’s, giving him the power to work dark magic of his own.

  Sleep was for the weak, he thought to himself. Only pathetic human fools like his arch-enemy Akori needed sleep.

  “You!” he said to a passing shabti, a grotesque Underworld servant made from blue wax. “What time is it in the living world?”

  “Mighty One, it is midnight,” the shabti replied, his waxen face melting slightly in the heat from the fire.

  Oba smiled. Almost all of Egypt would be asleep now – those that could sleep, at any rate. He and his master Set had been amassing their army of the undead now for many days and already they had begun to rise from their tombs.

  Let Egypt try to sleep through the sound of graves bursting open from within! Let the people try to sleep while ragged fingernails went scratch, scratch, scratch on the doors of their houses.

  “Oh, Egypt,” Oba gloated, “your poor farm boy Akori cannot help you now. Soon you will beg for the days when I was your Pharaoh. And those prayers will be answered. Soon I will return to rule you again…but I will make you suffer for your betrayal!”

  “Will that be all, Master?” the shabti grovelled.

  “No,” Oba said. “Prepare the flame. I wish to view the world of the living.”

  “At once!” the shabti said. It marched off into the inner chambers of the palace. Oba followed behind, past galleries that echoed with screams and over bridges that spanned nightmarishly deep pits.

  The flame lay at the heart of Oba’s sanctuary, a room that bore the darkest of images on the walls. It burned in a broad copper dish encrusted with black stones. Ordinarily, it shone with a feeble bluish light, but the right spells could kindle it into a raging inferno of magical power.

  The shabti knew what to do. It threw fistfuls of purple dust into the flame, making it roar up, no longer feeble but a towering pillar of fire. The shabti staggered back from the fire, obviously terrified.

  “Leave me,” Oba told it, his voice thick with contempt. Oba’s hands moved in strange, sinuous gestures. He mouthed the words of power that Set had taught him.

  “Powers of evil!” Oba called, raising his hands. “Powers of eternal night, you who serve my ally Set, God of Darkness! Show me Akori!”

  The image of Akori asleep in a sumptuous bed appeared in a flame-framed window. The room where he slept was aglow with golden fittings and tables nearby were heaped with fruit and flowers. A window stood unshuttered, letting in a gentle night breeze that stirred the silken hangings.

  Oba scowled, feeling the force of his hatred rise. When he had been Pharaoh, that room had been a stifling, dark chamber where all the servants were afraid to go. He barely recognized it now.

  Oba’s hate burned even more strongly when he saw Akori had set up little shrines to the Gods of Egypt who were loyal to Horus, along the wall of his bedchamber. Those Gods had been Oba’s downfall. They would all suffer, every one.

  For Oba had Gods of his own to call upon now. At the far end of the hall something huge stood in the shadows. The dancing light revealed little of its shape, but whatever it was, it was hunched over and covered with coarse fur. Two red pinpricks of fire gleamed from its eyes.

  “Do you see?” Oba demanded of it, pointing to Akori. “How he sleeps so soundly, as if nothing was wrong?”

  The creature’s answer was a low growl, like the rattle of a chain being dragged from a deep well.

  “He is your prey!” Oba said. “He is the one I want you to kill!”

  The creature reared up in the darkness and gave a roar of excitement that shook the whole hall like an earthquake. The fire flared up – and just for a second Oba saw the face of the thing he was about to unleash on Akori. For that one second, he was afraid of it. Then he remembered who was in control.

  Suddenly the flames roared upwards with fresh fury, interrupting Oba’s gloating. The image of Akori vanished. In its place was a titanic figure, with the head of a beast like a monstrous boar. It roared in anger.

  “Set!” Oba stammered, stepping back. “My Dark Lord.”

  “Spare me your pleasantries,” Set raged. “Twice now you have let Akori escape death! How?”

  “My Lord,” Oba whined, “
Baal was stupid, and Sokar’s nerve failed us!”

  “You blame your allies?” Set boomed. “Perhaps the blame lies…with you. I preserved your life when Akori’s blade split your chest open. Maybe I should undo my work?”

  “No!” Oba protested. “We will not fail again, I swear it!”

  “Make sure you do not,” Set warned him fiercely. “Remember, I can crush you like a gnat.”

  “Believe me, My Lord,” Oba panted, “Akori will not survive. When my new friend is finished with him, he will be torn to shreds. There will be nothing left.”

  “Nothing?” Set rumbled.

  “Not even a fingernail!”

  The creature in the shadows gave a murderous screech…

  Akori groaned in his sleep. He rolled over in sheets soaked with sweat. Usually the dreams he had were of green fields, rivers running and bringing fertility to the land. But tonight’s dream was very different. He stood in a field of wheat, but the sun in the sky was a blood-red orb and there was a nasty smell in the air. He knew, with the deep horrible certainty that nightmares bring, that something was in his chamber with him, a lurking presence behind him waiting to pounce.

  He knew he had a job to do. Was he supposed to reap the wheat? Uncle Shenti would be angry with him if he didn’t do his work. He looked down at the sickle he held. It was ancient and looked as if it had been neglected for years.

  “I can’t do any good with this!” he said to himself in his dream. His words seemed to echo back at him, mocking him.

  Now the sickle changed, becoming his golden khopesh, the gift of Horus – but in his dream it was nothing but a wooden toy. The gold was only paint.

  “No!” he moaned in his sleep. “Not…real…”

  His dream enfolded him like a shroud. There was no escaping it. He stood in the wheatfield, armed with the useless wooden sword, and now the earth began to cave in around him. Holes were appearing all over the place. Grey, skinny arms emerged writhing from the holes, giving Akori the same sickening feeling of watching a maggot emerging from a rotten fig.

  The dead were clawing their way up to the surface from the Underworld! All at once, he remembered what had happened, what the threat to Egypt was. Oba and Set had launched their attack on the living world and he had failed in his duty to protect his people. The undead army was rising!

  He threw the useless toy sword away. Hadn’t Horus given him some armour to wear? He looked down and saw nothing but a farmer’s smock, threadbare and useless.

  The dead were pulling themselves up from the crumbling earth, reaching for Akori with clutching hands. A chorus of moans rang out all around him, the cry of the dead hungry for revenge on the living. He turned to run, but the earth seemed to suck at his feet, dragging him down.

  The thing that was waiting and watching was much closer now, he knew. As he ran, Akori could sense it behind him, but he couldn’t turn around. If he did, it would all be over.

  The thing was gaining on him. He heard it give a screech of triumph, the unmistakable sound of a beast about to seize and tear at its prey. He screamed and fell as the weight of the thing came crashing down on his back. Clammy hands grabbed his arm. He knew the thing would tear it right out of its socket.

  With a yell and a gasp, Akori was suddenly awake. For a second he had no idea where he was, then the familiar features of the room struck him, along with a horrible realization.

  The thing was still clutching his arm. He could feel its tight grip.

  The nightmare had followed him into the waking world. He grabbed the arm that was holding his, rolled out of bed with a yell and heaved the thing’s body right over him, sending it sprawling across the floor.

  “Aaagh!” Manu yelled as he flailed about. “Akori, it’s me! What are you doing?”

  Akori shook his head, desperately trying to clear it of the sleep that still clung. “Oh, by the Gods! I didn’t mean to – oh Manu, I’m so sorry!”

  Akori held a hand out. Manu took it and let Akori help him to his feet. “What happened?” he asked. “I thought you’d been bewitched.”

  “I was having a nightmare,” Akori said. “It seemed so real. The dead were rising from the Underworld, and there was something else, something trying to kill me. Something I couldn’t see…”

  “Akori,” Manu said, his eyes wide with concern. “There’s a real-life nightmare going on right now.”

  Akori hurriedly pulled on his clothes. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re under attack!” Manu replied.

  Akori stared at Manu. “Under attack? From who?” He pulled his golden armoured tunic over his head. Two of the Pharaoh Stones, the jewels of Courage and Speed, glowed in the breastplate. Had his dream been a prophecy of what was to come? If so, was the unseen, growling thing here too?

  “I was up in the tower checking the positions of the stars, to make sure we picked the luckiest time to go on our next quest,” Manu said, “and I saw an army marching towards the palace. I didn’t get a proper look at them,” he admitted. “I came straight to tell you.”

  Ebe the cat bounded in through the door and stood there with her fur bristling. A thin blue mist was following her down the corridor, rolling over the flagstones like a rug. Ebe gave a long mournful mew.

  Akori grabbed his khopesh from the stand by his bed. “If we’re under attack, then where are all the guards? Why didn’t you go to the captain?”

  Manu shook his head. “The guards are all asleep.”

  “Asleep?” Akori yelled, aghast. “Why didn’t you wake them up?”

  “I tried!” Manu wailed. “I couldn’t even get them to open their eyes!”

  “What about the High Priest?” asked Akori, panicked.

  “Him too!” replied Manu.

  Ebe dabbed her paw into the crawling mist, scurried back quickly and mewed again. Akori ran to the door. All the way up the torchlit passage, he saw guards sitting slumped in their seats.

  “It must be a spell,” Akori said. “Oba’s behind this, I’m sure of it! He’s sent this mist to put my guards to sleep.”

  “So his servants can attack us without anyone coming to help!” Manu agreed. “But that means…”

  “We’re going to have to fight them on our own,” said Akori. “Come on, quickly!”

  Together they raced to the front door of the palace. The mist around their feet was freezing cold. Akori had to wonder if they, too, would succumb to its effects.

  “Why doesn’t the mist send us to sleep?” he asked Manu as they ran.

  “The nice possibility,” Manu gasped, “is that the Good Gods are protecting us. The nasty possibility is that whoever’s doing this wants us to suffer through every minute!”

  Akori shoved open the great double doors that led outside. The moon was bright overhead, shining down into the open courtyard and clearly revealing an army of pale blue figures. They stood in a perfect square formation, as if someone had arranged them carefully.

  The moonlight glistened on their waxy, expressionless faces. Then they all took one stiff step forwards and stamped down hard on the ground – boom.

  “What are they?” he asked Manu.

  “They’re shabtis,” Manu said, a tremor of fear in his voice. “Mindless servants sworn to obey. Wealthy people are buried with them. They’re just wax figures in the living world, but when you’re buried and your soul crosses over, they go with you and come to life. Then they’re your servants for ever.”

  The shabti army took another relentless step forward.

  Akori’s heart sank. If these things only came to life in the Underworld, then they must have entered Egypt from the Underworld. That meant Oba was behind this – and if his servants were breaking through already, his evil plan must be taking shape.

  “I’ll send them back to the Underworld in bits!” he snarled.

  As the army advanced again, taking another jerky step, Akori leaped forward and swung his khopesh at the nearest shabti. The blade bit deep into the thing’s waxy body, slicin
g all the way through and out the other side. It was like hacking through soft fat.

  But to Akori’s horror he saw the sword cut was healing shut! He hadn’t damaged the shabti at all. The wax it was made of was simply flowing back together.

  He sliced again, hacking the thing’s arm off.

  The shabti calmly picked the arm back up with its remaining hand and held it to its shoulder, like a servant picking up a dropped broom. The arm instantly fused back to the body.

  “I can’t hurt it!” Akori told Manu desperately. “How do you kill something that’s never even been alive?”

  Before Manu could answer, one shabti, bigger than the others, raised its arm in the midst of the throng. It pointed to Akori. “TAKE HIM,” it croaked.

  “Back to the palace!” Akori shouted.

  Ebe darted through the doors, and Akori and Manu heaved them shut just as the shabtis charged forwards. Akori drew the bolt across the doors. The entire hall felt like it was shaking as two dozen waxen blue fists pounded on them.

  “Akori, we need to think,” Manu said. “How do you fight wax?”

  Akori looked back down the hall, to where the sleeping guards were slumped under the torches. The dancing flames gave him an idea. “Manu, grab a torch. Let’s see if they can shrug fire off!”

  He and Manu stood side by side, torches in their hands. Ebe skulked behind them, looking like she was ready to pounce. Akori took a deep breath and slid the bolt back on the doors.

  The shabtis marched in with a rhythmic stomp. There was something unnerving and horrible about the way their mask-like faces never changed expression, even when they reached up for Akori and Manu, trying to clutch them around the neck and choke the life out of them.

  Akori shoved his torch deep into a shabti’s body. Its waxy form collapsed as the hot brand slid into it, caving in and liquefying. The shabti waggled its hands jerkily like a man having a fit. Next moment, the whole thing burst into flames.

  The other shabtis lurched back from it, as if they knew it was dangerous. Akori kicked the burning creature into the courtyard and it exploded into flaming chunks that scattered through the other shabtis like missiles. A few more caught fire as the flaming debris landed on them and they tottered drunkenly back through their comrades.