Jack Baker asked, “Which way?”
Smith turned to meet the young man. His face remained impassive. “Same direction. Go on, straight ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Jack nodded and kept walking. Smith glanced behind. Hammersmith was still following, but slowly. If he had to guess, he figured the man wasn’t going to make it. Smith didn’t let the thought linger on his conscience. He no longer felt responsible for the safety of every member of his team. They’d all resigned that right when they joined this evil task. It was now up to each of them to dig deep and retrieve whatever strength they had left to survive.
Smith returned his gaze to the carry pack. The animal hide appeared worn. He’d never had to carry it before. It, along with his camel had traveled many miles over the past decade. After he and his party left the pyramid with the stolen relic, they had ridden their camels as hard as they dared. In the end, they had pushed their noble beasts to their deaths.
The creatures had proven their worth and given his party a significant gap ahead of their pursuers who were on foot. When the last camel went lame, they had to make the agonizing decision of what to keep. Their sleeping bags were the first to go, followed by additional bags of shot and powder and cooking equipment. Each of them had carried a large leather flask containing water, but only Smith was strong enough to labor through the grueling sand while carrying the camel’s pack. The contents of which were now negligible.
He quickly consumed the last of the water and then threw away the flask. The Lazarino Cominazzo wheel-lock rifle had cost him a fortune and he hated to part with it, but he could quickly see the weapon was no good to him if he died. Besides, it would do little to dissuade the army of savages if they caught up with him. He dropped it into the sand and next to it he discarded the final bag of rifle shot, but not his remaining bag of powder — that he would still need, if he ever reached the Atlantic.
He looked at the journal. A lifetime worth of work and exploration was documented inside. The thought of discarding it was impossible to accept. Besides, without it, the artifact would be useless. He would never locate the buyer again, and even if he could, the man would refuse to pay the exorbitant price he’d agreed on. And why should he? Its gold value alone would be all it was worth, without the journal.
No. The journal must stay. He would rather die than lose it after all these years. In fact, he’d rather bury it. Better no man should find the truth, if he couldn’t reach the place in time. Smith placed the journal inside the bag. It made him feel better to see it inside. A final reminder there was still hope. Albeit a very slim chance, but still, he hadn’t failed entirely. His eyes darted toward his knife. It was a gift from his father who’d been an explorer before him. An old weapon with an even older Damascus steel blade kept rigorously sharpened to maintain a perfect edge. It had been with him a long time and seen most of the known world. But there was nothing it could do to save him now.
He left it in the sand, with a slight pang of loss, and then tied the top of the carry pack together to create a seal. In one movement, Smith lifted the heavy bag, and slipped his arms through the straps. The weight of it nearly knocked him to the ground. It was a burden none of the other men could possibly hope to bear. He looked at the kamal and dropped it unceremoniously in the sand. There was no point carrying it. If he didn’t reach the coast by the end of the day, he never would.
There was one other item, concealed at the bottom. Of all the items, it was the heaviest. He knew he should have thrown the ancient relic away. The weight of the gold alone would kill him. That is, if its curse hadn’t already set in motion his death. He shook his head. It was impossible to discard such an item.
He pictured the hideous golden skull, with its sweet flavored scent, burning at the center of the pyramid. It was more valuable than anything he’d ever seen. More valuable than anything he’d ever heard of, or even imagined. The grotesque device harnessed a certain power he would never have believed existed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. It was because of the relic he’d taken such risks and was now suffering more than at any other time in his life. Smith had been an explorer all his life, but this was the pinnacle of his achievements. And only he knew the extent of what he’d done.
He recalled what the purple-eyed devil who’d given him the map to the damned temple had told him. They won’t hurt you. They will replenish your supplies and welcome you. It will be easy to steal from such trusting people. Smith had asked why the man was willing to pay such a high price for something that he could easily steal himself. Because they will recognize me on sight and kill me.
Thomas Hammersmith interrupted his thoughts. “When will we reach the Emerald Star?”
Smith said, “By nightfall.”
Hammersmith stared at the rolling sand dunes ahead. “Are you sure. All I see is desert.”
“I bet my life on it.”
Hammersmith’s mouth opened to object. They had already bet their lives on it. “I can’t go on.”
Smith said, “Not my problem.”
“No. My legs are weak, my throat is dry, and my tongue is swollen. I can’t go on any further.”
“Okay,” Smith said without looking back at the helpless man. It wasn’t his fault. Everyone had a breaking point. Hammersmith would be dead within a few hours, if he was lucky. If his body managed to hold on any longer than that, they would reach him. Smith shuddered at the thought. He couldn’t imagine what they would do to him — after what they had stolen.
Hammersmith screamed out. “Smith! You can’t just leave me here, you bastard!”
Smith ignored the cry.
Hammersmith begged, “What about my ration of water?”
Smith ignored him again.
“I had two more rations of water left!”
Smith continued. He alone had the physical and mental strength to carry the remaining party’s water. Every other person in the group would collapse under the weight of a single drop of water, and those who didn’t, would succumb to the desperate need for rehydration. Their thirst would have overpowered the strongest among them, and they would have drunk it all in one, pitiful, gulp.
Smith didn’t look back at Thomas Hammersmith. There was nothing he could say. The man was as good as dead, he just didn’t realize is yet. It would be pointless to waste any more water on him. That’s if there was any water left.
None of the lies mattered. He’d either got the navigation right this time and would see the dark blue of the Atlantic Ocean by dusk — or they would all perish. He breathed hard and pushed himself to keep going. There might just be a chance he would survive.
That’s if my brother’s still waiting.
Thomas Hammersmith was a lean, sinewy man with deep-set eyes the same dark brown as his hair. They spoke of a life filled with hardship and plenty of suffering. His face was hard, with a heavily defined jaw-line, hollow cheeks, and jutting chin. It would never have been considered very handsome. But it could have once been a pleasant face, too, warm and open.
He drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day. During his intermittent periods of wakefulness he called out for Smith. Begging him for just one more drop of water before he died. He called to the other members of the party. Not just to Jack Baker. He called out to those who’d already perished, too. In his delirious state, he struggled to recall who was alive and who was dead. At one point he thought he saw his wife, who had died three years earlier, during childbirth.