The guard fell to his knees, pulling frantically at the mask, but he was unable to move it. Transfixed, Ebbin watched as the cloaked figure disappeared in a great swirling cloud of dust and the dark cloak fell empty to the floor.
The captain and remaining guard now beat at some sort of invisible barrier beneath the intersecting arches. They screamed unheard commands at Ebbin, who could only shake his head in mute appalled terror while behind the two men the corpse of their fellow climbed to his feet. The gold mask shimmered brightly in the lantern light, its mysterious graven smile now horrifying in its promise. Ebbin pointed, his other hand covering his mouth.
The two men turned. It seemed to Ebbin they both leapt in shock, dismay and terror as they realized what awaited each in turn. The captain swung a huge two-handed blow at his ex-guard’s neck but the corpse took it on an arm. Though the strike slashed along the bone, flensing that arm, no blood flowed, and the revenant was not slowed.
The captain danced away out of reach. The remaining guard punched at whatever barrier it was that held him captive. Falling to his knees he held out his arms to Ebbin, pleading, begging, as if this were somehow all the scholar’s doing. From behind, his dead companion wrapped an arm round his neck, and tearing the mask from his head — in the process pulling away the flesh, which brought up Ebbin’s gorge in a gasping heave of vomit — clamped the mask over the other’s face.
When Ebbin looked up, wiping his mouth, coughing, only two figures remained within the arches. The captain and his last guard. Drin was retreating round and round the onyx plinth, always giving ground before the slow relentless advance of the masked fiend.
Ebbin could only sit and watch, fascinated, helpless. As time passed he decided that there must have been good reasons why this man Drin was a captain. How long had he held out? How many hours caught there in the confines of his inescapable prison, avoiding his unkillable foe? He himself would not have lasted more than the first minute. Yet for what seemed half a day this man had ducked and flinched aside, postponing his end. Occasionally he would dash in to aim a blow at his enemy’s neck, perhaps in the hope that decapitation would end the curse. But Drin faced something extraordinary — blades damaged it, but it seemed that none could bring it down. No blow could dismember it, or slow it.
Finally, after hours of that macabre dance around the raised plinth, Captain Drin turned his strained, sweat-sheathed face to Ebbin. He mouthed something, perhaps ‘Remember me’. Ebbin wasn’t sure. And though no soldier, he roused himself to salute the man.
The captain nodded in bleak acknowledgement and then, throwing aside his sword, launched himself upon the creature. Legs clamped around the revenant’s waist, he clasped both hands on the mask and worked to yank it free. Ebbin’s heart leapt in admiration: Yes! If he can dislodge the mask before it is set upon his face! Perhaps then this curse will somehow be broken …
Though a bear of a man, Drin was no match for the fiend. One by one, his fingers were prised from their grip on the gold, and the fiend took hold of the mask himself.
Ebbin looked away. Gods! Was there no escape for anyone? Was this to be his end as well?
After waiting a time, his limbs twitching in dread, he could not help but glance up.
All was as it had been before under the arches. A figure lay upon the black stone plinth, dark cloak wrapped tight, gold mask covering its face. But Ebbin knew that Captain Drin, or at least his body, now bore that mask. As for the others, all the countless others who preceded him, well, there was plenty of dust on the floor of the chamber.
The scholar staggered to his feet, gathered up his shoulder bag. There was nothing here. This whole tomb was just one gruesome trap. A trap for those foolish enough to come digging up the past. Everything he had ever hoped for was now shattered. He stumbled for the exit. On the way he froze and his gorge rose again in a wrenching dry heave.
Set in the stone floor of the chamber lay three fresh skulls. The bare bone of two still gleamed wet with gore.
*
After the guards descended, Scorch and Leff peered down into the darkness of the well for a time before wandering over to the shade of a lean-to to return to teaching the two Gadrobi youths how to play troughs. The boys didn’t seem able to grasp the basic arithmetic; or perhaps the problem was their own disagreements over the rules. Humble’s two guards sat down to lean against the stone lip of the well.
Leff tucked an arm under his head, sighed, ‘If only we were still with Her Ladyship, hey? Too bad …’
Scorch threw the carved knuckle dice so hard they bounced from the board to disappear into the dirt. The two youths hunted for them. ‘What was that?’ he answered, his voice low.
‘What was what?’
‘Was that an impercation? ’Cause it sounded like maybe you was makin’ an impercation!’
Leff pushed himself up on his elbows, rolled his eyes. ‘Gettin’ all huffy won’t change the facts, Scorch.’
‘Facts? And just what facts might those be?’
‘That it was you that lost us the job with Lady Varada.’
‘I did not-’ Scorch threw up his arms. ‘Tor explained it. The lady didn’t want so many guards no more. So who gets the axe? Why, us outside guards, right? Plain and simple. That hierarchy thing, right?’
Leff waved that aside. ‘Didn’t you see through all that bullcrap? I did. Tor was just coverin’ up the truth. Sparin’ our feelings.’
His shoulders falling, Scorch frowned, uncertain. ‘Really? Then … what was he really sayin’?’
‘That it was you lost us the job.’
Scorch threw himself aside to sit facing the opposite direction.
Towards noon the old hag came limping up to the lean-to. She shooed the youths away, gabbling in Gadrobi, then turned on Scorch and Leff. ‘You two, get out!’ she spat. ‘You go! Bad things come. I see in the sands. In smoke!’
Scorch and Leff shared a knowing look. ‘Better stay off that fermented goat’s milk,’ Leff said. ‘That kefir can sneak up on ya.’
The old woman waved an angry dismissal. ‘Die then … Daru dogs!’ And she scuttled off.
Leff stretched out, yawning. ‘Keep a watch, Scorch,’ he said, and closed his eyes.
Around mid-afternoon Leff awoke to the screeching of the winch. The guards were raising it. He and Scorch wandered over. It was the scholar, Ebbin. Scorch leaned over to help him out, then lurched as the man seemed to fall into his arms. Leff helped to yank him over the lip of the well and set him down in the dirt where he lay panting, his face gleaming pale as milk.
‘Where’s the captain?’ one of the guards asked.
‘Water,’ Ebbin gasped, and Leff helped him to sit up while Scorch went to fetch a skin. The scholar took a long drink, then splashed his face and pulled out a cloth to wipe it dry. ‘Down below,’ he breathed, hoarse. ‘A trap. They were taken.’
‘Taken?’ the guard echoed.
Ebbin nodded. He appeared on the verge of tears.
‘Show us,’ the guard said.
Ebbin gaped up at him. ‘What?’
The guard stepped back and drew his longsword. Scorch and Leff eyed one another, set their hands on the grips of their shortswords. Ebbin struggled to his feet. ‘Show you?’ He laughed. Rather unnervingly, Leff thought. ‘You have no idea-’
The second guard raised a cocked crossbow. ‘You show us, old man. Or die now.’
Ebbin looked from one to the other, pressed his hands to his face and moaned from behind his fingers: ‘Gods forgive me …’ Then he brushed Scorch’s hand from his weapon. ‘You wish to see?’ he asked the guard. ‘Truly see?’
The man gestured to the well with his longsword. ‘You first.’