Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Listen to this!' she called to Ahman.

'Godfrey Joyce appeared on site again this morning accompanied by his so-called "guide", a man named Nastasi – a scurrilous-looking fiend if ever I saw one. As hopeful as I am, I do not feel comfortable with this man taking such an interest in the site. He possesses no interest in archaeology, and seems to involve himself in many furtive conversations with Joyce. Whenever I approach, I am certain that they consciously change the subject. Whatever the content of their talks, I sense that it can only spell trouble.

'And this, Ahman, listen to this, just a few pages later. It is just as my apres-monition detailed…why Aloysius had to get me away from Umkaza. Listen:

'A large group of armed men have come from the desert in the night – led by this man Nastasi. They have positioned themselves around the site at Joyce's command. We are effectively prisoners. Joyce tells me not to be concerned, but how can I not be so? He tells me the men are for my crew's protection. But protection from whom? All the dangerous folk seem to be right here in Umkaza.

'I am writing this to leave word. I have a nasty feeling that once the tomb of the Pharaoh's Cradle is opened I will be superfluous to requirements. I cannot let this happen. Madame Destine warned me about dealing with Joyce. She said that no good would come of our association, and I am starting to believe her. She senses that Joyce wants the treasure for himself, and all others are dispensable – myself included.'

Destine ran her hands down her face despairingly. 'My word, Ahman…this journal is a painful read, is it not? It is as if we can see this betrayal happening in front of us…through a misted window separated by time…and yet it is becoming clearer with every page we read. I just wish that I could help Aloysius somehow.'

Ahman rested the reins in his lap and sighed. 'It is all in the past. You can do nothing to prevent it now, ah? I do not know what you hope to find in Umkaza, but I pray it will be of comfort.' He looked over his shoulder to see Destine rubbing at her tired eyes and then looking down at the journal in her lap. It was as if the book were dragging her down, pulling at her to commit its will.

'Listen, my dear, why not take a break from that book, ah? I fear that it is draining you to the point where it is all you can think of. Let me take care of it for the remainder of our journey and you try to get some rest. I promise that I will tell you once we have arrived in Umkaza. It is not far now. I hope that there we shall find an end to this torment of yours.'

'I pray that you are right, dear Ahman,' Madame Destine smeared the backs of her hands over her pale blue eyes. 'It feels as if the past is desperate not to be forgotten, and unless I resolve this matter, I shall never be free until my dying day.'

Not far behind the meandering cart rode Heinrich Nadir, and next to him, his two silent assassins. As they galloped ever closer to the cart, the dark riders focused upon their prey. Like emotionless automatons, they simultaneously removed curve-bladed swords from scabbards affixed to their backs. With the occupants of the cart ahead oblivious to their peril, the two assassins moved their horses into position…

Ahman vaguely noticed something in the corner of his eye. He looked around, spying a man on horseback keeping pace with his cart. Ahman frowned, thinking his old eyes deceived him, until an odd twinge made him look over his other shoulder, where he discovered another man. With his cart masking the rider's approach, Destine was thankfully unaware of the impending threat – unlike Ahman. His cart was penned in on both sides, and there was nothing he could do to evade his pursuers. The nearest rider to him craned over in his saddle and pulled down his hood, showing his face.

His dark skin was pockmarked with swirling black tattoos around his cheeks and eyes, but the most ghastly thing of all was his gaping wide mouth. His tongue had been removed, and his black throat screeched an inaudible scream.

Ahman leapt in fright, startling Destine.

'Hold onto something, Madame!' he yelled, as he wrenched the reins furiously to one side, just as the rider slashed at him with his sword. 'We have company.'

'Who are they?' gasped Destine in horror.

'I do not know, but whoever they are, they are not friendly!' said Ahman, desperately whipping the reins harder. 'Go, Moses, go!'

Even if the carpet trader's horse was capable of picking up speed at the drop of a hat – which it was most assuredly not – there was no way it could attain the kind of velocity needed to escape its pursuers' muscular steeds.

As Ahman whipped harder on the reins with an enthusiastic 'Hyah!' that bordered on the terrified, something flashed brightly. It was the glint of sunlight against metal as the other rider to his right swung at him with his sword.

Luckily, the potholed road was on Ahman's side, and the assassin's horse stumbled in a ditch. The blade missed its target – but only just. Standing upright in his saddle, the assassin attempted another pass – and this time his blade made contact.

Ahman wailed in pain as it sliced a deep gash into his right shoulder.

Destine screamed too, consumed by her panic.

Ahman clutched the reins as the buffeting craft leapt along the road, careering left and right wildly. Searing pain scorched his shoulder as blood seeped relentlessly.

'Give them to me!' Destine shouted, as she snatched the reins from Ahman's loose grip. 'We must stop!'

'No! Must…keep going,' Ahman replied, his eyes rolling.

He was losing concentration as well as blood, and both were retreating from him with haste. The cart struck something in the road and it lurched into the air. Destine watched helplessly as Ahman was lifted from his seat. She tried to reach him but it was too late. Ahman toppled over the side of the cart and struck the dusty track hard, tumbling in circles over and over, arms flailing, coming to a stop in a crumpled mess by the side of the road.

Ahman did not get up.

Ahman did not even move.

Soon, he was masked by a cloud of dust – and Destine's mind was a muddle. Still the men pursued her, drawing level with her on both sides. She wept, her flooded eyes no longer able to visualise anything clearly. In a final act of desperate surrender, she yanked hard on the horse's reins. With nowhere to go, and no hope of survival, she succumbed to her fate. She lowered her head, waiting to die…

The Discarded Debris

QUAINT, NORTH AND Faroud travelled the road leading east away from Umkaza. Their plan to infiltrate the British Embassy and question Godfrey Joyce firsthand was certainly one fraught with risk, but Quaint was blissfully optimistic of its success. But as is always the way with best laid plans, they seldom run their course without incident – especially plans laid by Cornelius Quaint.

A mile outside the limits of Umkaza, his keen eyes spotted something by the side of the road that made his heart lurch in his chest.

It was the motionless body of an old man.

He was caked in dust and grit, with a nasty wound on his arm that spewed a puddle of blood onto the sand. He was quite still, just another piece of discarded debris on the road. Quaint and Polly were off their horses in a second. Polly lifted the fallen man's head and cradled it in her lap, as Quaint pulled his canteen from the pannier on his horse and splashed water over the man's face. The liquid washed away a fine layer of grime from his spectacles, and cleared specks of dirt from his thick moustache and beard. The old man coughed and spluttered as the water shook him back into consciousness.

'Sir? Can you hear me?' asked Polly. 'What is your name?'

'Ahman…but where am I?' he spluttered.