Daughter of the God-King(105)

Groping carefully with one foot tentatively in front of her, then the other, she made her way forward until she came to the wall. She then used her free hand on the roughened brick to find her way to the doorway and as soon as she passed through, she could feel the air stirring slightly and imagined the darkness was not quite as absolute. I have no idea what I am doing, she admitted—I only know I cannot remain in here. Unfortunately there was nowhere to go other than out the entry; she could no more hide in the weapons chamber than she could stay in the sarcophagus—she would go mad.

Sword in hand, she carefully advanced up the slanted floor of the entry hall until she could hear voices before her, and soon thereafter could make out a square that was a lighter shade of darkness representing the tomb’s entrance. She sidled along the rough stone wall, straining her ears.

“…revealed themselves?” It was the associate, sounding harried.

“No, monsieur; they stay hidden.” Dimitry, she thought, at his most servile.

“Mere troublemakers, perhaps. Keep watch, and everyone fire at will.” He paused. “Where is du Pays? We must secure the girl.”

Dimitry offered, “Shall I fetch him here, monsieur?”

In an impatient tone, the other man replied, “I will fetch him instead; he’d better not be offering her insult, back there.”

Oh-oh, thought Hattie, in a panic—I cannot let him find me here—I will tangle up Dimitry’s plans if the stupid associate seizes me again. For a moment, she considered returning back to the hated burial room but figured she could easily be discovered and so instead, she gripped the sword between her teeth and dropped to her hands and knees to scramble through the rubble-smoot as quickly as she was able. Biting down against the pain of crawling over the rubble, she emerged out the opening on the side of the sloping hill, panting, and then carefully skittered down the cascade of discarded rocks and debris feet first, scraping her hands and the backs of her legs in the process.

After she landed in an ignominious heap at the bottom of the rubble pile, Hattie examined her cut and bleeding hands for a moment whilst she caught her breath, then rose to her feet. By the light of the half moon, she began to circle around the narrow valley in front of the tomb to where the entrance road was, careful to stay out of the sight-line of the men above who defended the tomb and holding the sword by her skirts. She formed a vague idea of escaping to a safe place—perhaps the Osiris Inn—to wait for Dimitry; above all, she could not allow the associate to seize her so that Dimitry was stymied again.

Because she was keeping a sharp eye on the tomb’s entrance, above and to her right, she nearly ran into Smithson, who was carrying a large clay water jug. “Why, Mrs. Berry,” he whispered, bowing. “How very nice to see you again.”





Chapter 43





Hattie could not have been more astonished. “Why, what is toward?” she whispered.

In response, the vicar placed the jug on the ground and drew her beside him as they walked away from the tomb, at a right angle from the entrance. “Miss Bing and I are creating a diversion, along with the two British guards,” he explained in a low voice.

“I see,” said Hattie, who didn’t see at all. “Am I to be rescued?”

“Mr. Tremaine has ridden to fetch the British soldiers at the consul’s Office and our task is to keep those in the tomb pinned down until reinforcements arrive to surround them. We are trying to confuse the enemy and convey the impression there are more than four of us.”

And I imagine this is why the guards are British, Hattie thought as Smithson directed her behind a large boulder and instructed her to stay down; in the event they would be needed for a skirmish such as this one.

“That is a fine sword you have there.”

For the first time, Hattie examined it by the moonlight. It was rather shorter than other swords she had seen, with a strangely-shaped hilt that was hooked at a right angle; a fearsome object. “It is the Shefrh Lelmelwek.”

It was clear her companion was not up to speed. “That is nice,” he observed kindly. “Now, cover your ears.” Smithson aimed his pistol carefully and fired on the clay pot, which exploded with a loud crash.

Exclamations could be heard from the tomb as fire was returned in the direction of the smashed pot, and Hattie was all admiration. “Joshua’s strategy at Jericho.”

“Gideon against the Midianites,” he corrected her with a small smile, referencing the Bible story of the outnumbered Israelites. “And it continues to be a useful ploy.”

“I have escaped,” Hattie pointed out modestly. It seemed the good vicar was unaware such heroics were no longer necessary.