Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

Ahman's eyes lit up. 'What did you just say?'

'This triangular marking here,' said Destine. 'Perhaps my younger self means for us to seek a pyramid of some kind?'

'Symbol,' Ahman muttered, as though talking in his sleep. 'I wonder…'

'You wonder what?' asked Destine, vexed by Ahman's response as he buried his head in his hands, chuckling merrily to a silent joke. 'What is it? Do you know what this symbol means?'

'Can it be that easy?' mumbled Ahman. 'You thought that this pictogram might be a clue of some kind…and if I am right…I tend to agree with you. You see, if I recall it correctly from teachings in my youth, it is an ancient Nubian text. The triangle with the circle inside was the hieroglyph for "temple"…but if I am correct, it means a whole lot more than that.'

'You are speaking gibberish, Ahman,' said Destine.

'Bear with me, Destine…but what if we took the symbol literally? Using the clues from your letter…what if we translate "symbol" into "Simbel"?' asked Ahman.

Destine shrugged. 'I do not know…enlighten me.'

'Now this is merely a guess, you understand. There is a place I know…an old temple on the outskirts of the Wilderlands a little way south of here. Sekhet Simbel is its name! It was consumed by the desert, lost for all time until it was rediscovered. "Once lost, but has since been found." Sekhet Simbel would seem to match that description. Do you see? If the word "symbol" becomes Simbel…it all fits!'

'But this temple…if it is indeed the place mentioned in my letter – what about the sun? How can its rays only strike this temple twice a year?' asked Destine. 'These clues…they are so cryptic!'

Ahman laughed heavily. 'Destine, is that not the point? "The truth is hidden within the third marker" – remember your own words? And it is up to us to seek it out. This is it, I am certain of it, my dear! We can be in Sekhet Simbel in a matter of hours. Well? Are you coming?'

'I have little choice, my newfound old friend,' said Destine. 'To Sekhet Simbel we will go…and may we finally discover the truth when we get there.'

The Scarab's Nest

DECIDING THAT HE would make better headway on foot, Cornelius Quaint discarded his mule and walked the rest of the way to Bara Mephista. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his recently reacquired fob watch. It was late afternoon, day one in Egypt. At the rate he was going, he would be lucky to get to the Clan Scarab settlement by sundown, and if there was one thing that he knew would be suicidal, it was wandering around that camp after dark.

It was dangerous enough doing it in daylight.

Several stone buildings were peppered about in two split semicircles around a central, rectangular building. Bleached sugar-white by the wind-whipped sandblasting over the years, it was remarkable that it was still standing. There were no 'locals' as such to Bara Mephista. If the remote location this far out in the desert failed to put people off, then rumours that it was Scarab territory almost certainly would.

Arriving at the main building, Quaint noticed a row of horses, donkeys, and even a young camel, tied to a long wooden post outside. This was the place, he assumed – an assumption given weight by the hubbub of cheers, jeers and catcalls that filled the air.

By the time he reached the door of the building, the noise from inside was loud and raucous; an atmosphere that would no doubt be shattered the moment he entered the place. If Bara Mephista was to be likened to an uncivilised town on the frontiers of the Wild West of America, then Cornelius Quaint was about to set foot in the equivalent of a saloon bar at high noon.

He pulled the rope handle and opened the door to the smoke-filled building, sending streams of stilted daylight into the place. Momentarily blinded, his eyes were unable to adapt to the contrasting light, and he stood exposed.

One by one, the occupants inside the place quietened their row as every one of them stopped and gawped at the stranger in their midst. As Quaint entered the tavern, the only noise that he could hear was his boots striding across the uneven, creaking wooden floor like the ominous ticking of a grandfather clock. This place obviously served as the Scarabs' resident drinking establishment, with rows of benches and tables scattered about against the walls, each one populated by hunched, shadowed figures scowling in his direction. Feeling many sets of eyes follow his approach, Quaint walked confidently towards the long, wooden bar.

'Good afternoon, my good man!' he said in fluent Arabic, smiling broadly.

'What do you want?' asked the bartender in his native tongue.

'Wine, please. Red, if you have any. I don't know about you, but I simply can't stomach white wine. It's far too watery for my tastes. Give me a nice, earthy red any day of the week,' Quaint rambled.

The bartender glared back at him. 'You misunderstand me, stranger – I meant what do you want in here?' he sneered, his greasy brow glinting with sweat.

Removing his hat, Quaint placed it upon the bar next to him and scanned the dusty array of label-less bottles lined up on the shelves, searching for a clue as to their contents. 'No wine, eh? Goes without saying, I suppose. What do you recommend?' Quaint asked, ignoring the distemper in the bartender's eyes.

'I recommend that you turn around and get out whilst you still can,' said the bartender.

'Hmm. One before I go then?' said a disgruntled Quaint.

'Forget the drink,' shouted a voice from behind him. 'This is what you will get!'

The blade of a large knife thudded into the solid wood of the bar just shy of Quaint's hand, spearing the brim of his hat. He turned slowly, searching for the knife's owner.

It did not take long to find him.

A mean-looking one-eyed Scarab sat at a table in the corner, his one good eye staring fixedly at the conjuror.

'You have a good aim, sir,' complimented Quaint.

'Hardly…I was aiming for your back!' sneered the one-eyed man.

'Well, in that case I suppose that I'm rather fortunate you seem to be deficient in the ocular department by fifty per cent,' Quaint chirped.

Ignoring the attention that he had gained from the one-eyed man, Quaint reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his fob watch. Time was ticking on. He had not expected to win the big prize on his first day in Egypt, but he was at least hopeful that he would pick up on a nugget of information regarding the Hades Consortium. It was surely not too much to ask. His only hope was that these desert scavengers held the key that would set him on the right road. That, and surviving long enough to make good use of the information.

Angered at being ignored, the one-eyed man slammed a bottle of murky liquid onto his table and sidled up to the bar. He spied the watch in the conjuror's hand and washed his tongue across what few remaining teeth he possessed. He prodded his finger into Quaint's shoulder.

'I want that,' he sneered.

Quaint popped the watch back into his pocket, and turned his head to look at the one-eyed man. 'Just coming up to a quarter to four.'

'Not the time, fool – I want the watch!' growled the one-eyed man. 'Give it to me.'

Quaint laughed. 'I'd rather not, if it's all the same.'

'It was not a request.'

'Even so…my answer remains,' said Quaint.

The portly bartender swiftly removed all the glasses and bottles from the bar and waved his hands to gather attention. 'Now, Sebul – I do not want any trouble, not whilst the Aksak is gone! Take a fresh bottle and sit down!'

But Sebul had no intention of doing either.

Again, he prodded Quaint's shoulder with his grubby finger.

'In Bara Mephista, we have a tradition…if a Scarab wants something, a Scarab takes it.' The one-eyed man grabbed hold of his knife, still embedded in the bar, and wrenched it from the wood. Looking Quaint up and down, he brandished the blade inches from the conjuror's face. To his credit, Quaint did not even flinch. 'So I will ask only one more time, stranger…give me that watch or I will gut you where you stand and take it from you! Understand?'