Prologue 2

            A thud and then a scraping. Grinding stone on stone and then a crack of light as dust and sand trickle down. Fresh air breathes into the chamber for the first time in countless years. Triumphant shouts, a thunder of feet and then the crash of more tools being forced into the gap. They pry and shift, widening the crack until it yawns open. A wound torn fresh into the ground.

A flaming brand is tossed through and it blazes in the stale air, illuminating a hewn stone chamber. More shouts, and more tools, more grinding, and then more light and air. Slowly, after hours of grunting and straining and digging and levering, the entrance opens up. A ladder is lowered into the darkness, and then they wait.

Up in the sunlight, men wrapped in loose linen rush to a canvas tent. They bow and bob their heads owing respect, beckoning the occupants out. And so they came, paler and sweatier. They dab their faces with damp kerchiefs, in their confining and stifling khaki. They grab their lanterns and translation tomes and sketchbooks and rush to the hole. Warily, they descend into the darkness, lighting their flickering oil lanterns. They marvel. They tread on the floor, disturbing dust that has lain undisturbed since before the sands came.

            They use feather light brushes to sweep away the dust that has collected on the walls. They stare at the carvings that appear in the dim light. They exchange glances, and then one whispers, “This changes everything…”

            One turns to the other, “We’ll make front page in London for this,” he says.

            They hold their lanterns aloft, and the light spills down a long passage. The carvings continue down the walls—no letters or hieroglyphs, but panel after panel of carved pictorials. Two men. Brothers. Together they work. Until one kills the other. His blood spills across the ground. The sun goes dark. The killer falls to his knees. When he rises again, blood flows from his mouth, flooding the world.

            They reach an arch, and beyond, a chamber. Their lanterns reveal a pedestal, and on it, a rudimentary tool, preserved in the dry air.

            In the sun, the paid workers watch curiously as a train of carriages approaches. They call down into the darkness, but there is no response. The carriages part the crowd and come to a halt near the entrance, and the drivers dismount, lofting large black parasols.  The doors of the first two carriages swing open, and a man and a woman each descend. The third remains closed, black velvet curtains blocking the occupant from view. The man and woman both wear heavy, stifling, black clothes and cling to the shadows of their parasols. They move to the entrance and one after another, descend into the darkness, relaxing as they do.

            The men start as the two intruders enter the chamber. Their eyes gleam unnaturally n the darkness and dart, first to the three men, then to the object on the plinth. One of the three calls out, “This is our find! The British Natural History Museum claims this site in the name of her Royal Highness. Find your own tomb.”

            The man and the woman stare in silence, before darting forwards and each catching up one of the men, raising their bodies before them. They rip the men’s shirts, exposing bare necks, and then bite in deep.

            The third stumbles and shudders as he hears the sound of gushing blood. He flees down the hall, but something catches him. The woman. She spins him around and he sees her eyes up close, glowing with their own unholy light. She forces his head sideways and he sees before him one of the carved panels. Realization dawns on him like a sickening blow to the stomach. The blood doesn’t flow from the killers mouth, it’s flowing towards it. He feels the stone structure rumble, and then he blacks out.

            She stands stiffly as the man collapses and slips from her grasp. She looks to the ceiling as sand trickles down. The other joins her, standing side by side in the darkness, listening to the panic above. More rumbles and they imagine sand dunes sifting under explosions. The laborers have fled, screaming of demons and warding off spirits. Their minds are filled with an image of their drivers falling to their knees, grasping their throats as blood oozes from their mouths, eyes and ears. The driver of the third carriage cracks his whip and it takes off across the packed sand, rocking with speed. She steps forwards, reaching out her hand as if to call back the third carriage, when something falls through the entrance. It brings a darkness about it, so deep that not even their eyes and penetrate the shadows. It flutters like fabric, and then lands with the softest of thuds.

            She hears a sigh of metal as her companion unsheathes a slender blade from his hip. She reaches to her own thigh, into the folds of her dress and silently and her fingers brush the handles of bone throwing knives. She pulls three from their leg caches and holds her fist ready.

            They stand, still as statues. The darkness gathers itself together and rises up and she hurls her knives in blinding succession. They race towards their target, before igniting in mid-air, blazing momentarily, and then settling to the floor as a thin spread of ash.

            Her male companion runs forwards, feet dashing silently across the dusty floor. He leaps and swings his blade and then hangs in the air. She turns and runs as he is flung against the stone wall. She hears his body explode like a shattered funeral urn, adding to the collected dust.            She dashes through the arch, intent on reaching the pedestal. She reaches towards it, feeling something start to burn in her belly. He’s coming behind her, and she topples forwards, falling onto the plinth. But the stone column passes through the cavity burning through her torso and she shatters as she hits the ground.

            The darkness steps forwards and a gloved hand reaches out to sweep aside the dust of her corpse. His fingers hover over the object, dancing in the air tentatively, before he grasps it, raises it, and slips it inside his cloak.

            Passing back down the hall, he lifts the remaining man, still unconscious, by his collar, and drags him to the ladder. He flings him up like a rag doll, high into the air above the hole and then flings his hand out flat, fingers splayed. He hears the stone in the vaulted room explode, Like a wave of tiny rock chunks, the explosion rips down the corridor. He rises from the floor, shooting from the entrance and grabbing the man from the air. He lands softly in the sand at a safe distance and lays the man down. He turns his head from side to side, checking for punctures before standing once more. There is a final explosion and rumble as one of the closer sand dunes collapses and slips down its own sides, covering over the ruins of the underground chamber.