The Golden Key (Book 3) (15 page)

6

In one fluid motion, Giorge’s mother spun on the slick floor
to face the sarcophagus, lifted her poniard up in front of her, and drew a
second poniard from her belt. She shifted her feet until she was able to see
both Giorge and the thumping sarcophagi at the same time.

Giorge turned his head reluctantly away from her as he
listened to the heavy thumps. They sounded almost like discordant heartbeats,
impatient and in need of attention—or someone pounding on a door to rouse an
innkeeper late at night.
If Momma was alive, then
—

He shook his head and rubbed at the tears in his eyes—and
winced as the crud on his hands stung his eyes. He grabbed for the inside of
his tunic and pawed at his eyes to clear them. As he did so, he yelled, “Help
them get out!” But when he had his eyes halfway cleared, his mother was still
standing there, guardedly watching both him and the thumping sarcophagi.

Giorge grabbed his sword and scrambled unsteadily to his
feet. “They’re locked in,” he said, moving rapidly toward the next sarcophagus.
“Like you were!” He slid into the sarcophagus and used it to keep from falling.
Then he wedged his short sword into the lid’s seal, but as he pried at it, his
mother stepped lightly in beside him.

She suddenly gasped and grabbed his wrist before he could
lever the lid open. “Leave him!” Her voice was vicious, angry, full of hate.
“Let him rot in there!”

Giorge paused. “Why?” he asked.

His mother pulled her hand away from his wrist, and her
voice was strangely soft as she said, “Please. Don’t let him out.”

Giorge looked at the sarcophagus and frowned. The image on
the lid looked a lot like him but there were differences. The way the man wore
his hair long, the moustache full, and the eyes had an angry cast to them. He
didn’t recognize the man, but it was clear from her reaction that his mother
had. He hesitated. All it would take was a sharp twist of the blade to pop the
lid free from the bolt. If he didn’t do it, the man inside would die. Who was
he? Why did his mother want to leave him in there?
My great uncle?
he suddenly
wondered.
Everyone said I looked like him
.

The thumping was more insistent now, and accompanied by
incoherent grumblings that barely made it through the thick wood. The man
inside knew someone had tried to open the lid and had stopped.

“Why not?” Giorge asked again. He was not at all squeamish
about letting a man suffocate if he deserved it, but what if he didn’t deserve
it? His mother seemed to think he did, and that was
almost
enough, but
he needed to know why, especially if the man inside was his great uncle.

Instead of answering him, his mother turned her pained eyes
away and walked to the next sarcophagus. She didn’t hesitate when she reached
it and forced her poniards into the seam to pry it open. As soon as it gave
way, she leapt back, slid to a stop, and held her poniards at the ready.

A hairy forearm draped in silver bracelets pushed the lid
open, and a tall, roguish-looking man with long blonde hair and an artfully
trimmed beard stepped out. A gold earring with a large opal cradled in it
dangled from his ear, and he wore a handful of rings studded with smaller
stones, mainly garnets, agates, and fragments of diamonds or rubies. He wore an
iron breastplate and had a long sword at his side.

“Archibald?” his mother asked in astonishment.

The man squinted down at her and asked, “Do I know you? It
is difficult to tell with your loveliness so heavily masked.”

“No,” his mother said. “But I have heard stories about you.”

He grinned and said, “They are all true, no doubt. Perhaps
you and I could make a few more?” He took a step forward, saw Giorge—who had
his sword at the ready—and his smile froze into place.

“It will have to wait,” Giorge’s mother said. “We have
others to let out.” She moved easily around him, and he followed her with his
eyes as she went to the next sarcophagus. When she began working on the seam,
Archibald moved quickly up behind her, drawing his long sword as he went.

Giorge shouted a strangled, wordless warning and lunged
after him—but it was too late; the sword was already plunging forward, into the
crack above his mother’s head. A moment later, the sarcophagus’s lid flew open
as Archibald jerked his sword free and whirled around to face Giorge’s attack.

Giorge’s mother stepped quickly around Archibald and
shouted, “Stop!”

Their swords rang against each other once, and then Giorge
backed away.

“Giorgie—” his mother began.

“I thought—”

Archibald laughed and shook his head. “No harm done,” he
said, waving his sword. “It is a good reminder.” He looked around for the first
time and added, “We seem to be in a dangerous place. But have no fear, young
man, I bear only gratitude toward those who have released me from that hideous
prison. I will reserve my ill will for that wretched beast who trapped me here.
If I should find him, his head shall be mine.”

“Symptata’s been dead a long time,” Giorge said, his heart
pounding in his chest as he half-lowered his sword. He couldn’t bring himself
to apologize for his attack, and he doubted Archibald would care anyway. “This
is his tomb, and we—”

“Excuse me.” It was a woman’s voice that sounded almost
grandmotherly in its polite tone. “Did you say this is Symptata’s tomb?”

Archibald snapped around. “By Onus’s Bloody Eye!” he cried,
“You’re dead!”

“So were you,” Giorge’s mother told him.

And you,
Giorge thought as he struggled to understand
what was happening.
And me?
He wondered. He had been attacked by a frost
elemental and hadn’t survived the assault—had he?

The pounding on the sarcophagus behind him, the one holding
his great uncle, was becoming intolerably insistent. He turned and went back to
it. His mother didn’t want him to open it, but she hadn’t told him why. He
looked at her, and she abruptly turned away, moving quickly to the next
sarcophagus in line.

“Archibald,” she said as she stepped quickly past him. “We
could use your help.”

Reluctantly, Giorge slid his sword back into the seam. He
felt guilty as he popped the lid loose—he had always felt guilty when he
displeased his mother—but Archibald was right. They were in a dangerous place,
and a little more help to get them out of it couldn’t hurt. Besides, he was
curious: why did his mother hate his great uncle so? And why did they look so
much alike? He had an idea, one that would explain his mother’s reaction, but
it was a difficult thought to contemplate. She had
said
his father had
died, but….

7

Darby had told the soldier to fetch Lieutenant Jarhad
forthwith
,
which was one of Embril’s favorite words. It had a lovely etymology, one that
was as elegant as its consonance. She was still ruminating about the word when
the tent flap snapped open and Lieutenant Jarhad entered the tent. Or should
that be rumin
ant
ing about it? She whinnied playfully at her own little
pun, even though horses weren’t really ruminants, and Lieutenant Jarhad
stopped, stared for a long moment, and then turned on his heels and stomped
out. He nearly pulled the tent down as he jerked the flap closed behind him.
She stepped quickly forward, intending to talk with him, but Darby was entering
the tent and blocked her way.

“Let him deal with it,” he said. “He didn’t quite believe
what I told him until he saw you for himself.” He applied pressure to her chest
until she stepped back into the tent.

“Will he be back?” she asked.

“Doubtful,” Darby said, his tone dry.

She sighed, which sounded a lot like a long wheezy snort,
and they stood in silence for almost five minutes before the soldier who had
watched her riding—Tobar?—stepped into the tent. He was carrying a halter and
lead rope and had a blanket thrown over his shoulder that made him look even
skinnier than he was. He paused and stared at her, his feet shifting uneasily
from one foot to another.

“Well?” she demanded, bristling at the sight of the rope.

He cleared his throat and looked at Darby for help, but
Darby ignored him. “The Lieutenant sent me in here—” he paused and gulped “—to muzzle
you.”

To
muzzle
me!
She thought with surprise.
Of
all the nerve!
She stomped her foot, lowered her head, and snorted at him.

Tobar gulped and lifted the rope again, but he didn’t step
forward. “Please?” he asked. “He says it would look suspicious to have a horse
with neither rider nor burden when all the other pack animals are so heavily
laden.”

She stared at him, her nostrils flaring and her eyes
intense. Lieutenant Jarhad was right, and that only made her paw the ground
more fiercely. “No one will ride me!”

Tobar shook his head. “No, no,” he quickly clarified. “The
Lieutenant said,” he paused and tried to look away. His voice was firm when he
continued, but he didn’t look at her while he spoke. “The Lieutenant said, ‘She
can carry her own damned box of books. If she refuses, toss the blasted things
off the mountain.’”

“How
dare
he!” Embril
almost
charged Tobar,
but Darby stepped in front of her, leaned forward, and whispered in her ear. “It
is not an idle threat, Embril,” he said. “Lieutenant Jarhad will do exactly
what he says. If you value what is in that box…” He stepped back from her and
added, his voice loud, “What harm can there be from it, anyway? Horses carry
heavier burdens than those books all the time.”

She ground her teeth and wondered how ghoulish it would look
on a horse, and then, all at once, she let her anger go. It was pointless.
There was no way that she would risk losing those books—or what was below them.
Darby was right, anyway; it wouldn’t hurt her to carry them. “Fine,” she said,
her voice calm, almost serene. “I will carry my own gear. But I refuse to be
muzzled.”

The man looked from Embril to Darby a few times before he
said, “It would look strange to have a pack animal without one.”

Embril violently shook her head in protest. “The lead rope
and no more than that,” she said. “I need no muzzle.”

Darby nodded to him and said, “I will persuade the
Lieutenant that it is a reasonable compromise.”

She was compliant as Tobar put on the halter and attached
the lead rope, but as soon as his hands were out of the way, she snapped at it
with her teeth. It was like wearing an ugly necklace that didn’t fit right.
Then he draped the padded blanket over her back and stepped away. He hurried
out of the tent, and came back in carrying a heavy wooden rack. She shied away
from the ungainly thing as he approached.

“You don’t want the chest on your back,” Tobar said. “The
pack frame will distribute the weight and make it much easier for you to carry
your chest.”

She pawed the ground and grudgingly stepped forward to let
him strap it on her back. Darby bent down to help him with the frame, but when
they put it on her back, she ducked under it and squirted forward. Something
sharp had jabbed into her back when the weight of the pack frame was put on the
blanket. The pack frame almost slid to the ground before they caught it.

“Hold still,” Darby said.

“No,” Embril said, turning her head to look at the spot that
had been jabbed. “There’s something in the blanket in that spot,” she said,
trying to bite at it. “It’s sharp.”

Darby frowned and they set the pack frame down on the ground.
Then he stepped up next to Embril and ran his fingers along the top of the
blanket until she nodded, and then he slid his fingers under the blanket. After
rummaging around for a few seconds, he sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his
fingers out. A little bubble of blood had formed on the end of one of them, and
he stared at it. “She’s right,” he told Tobar.

When he folded the blanket up to find out what was
underneath it, he pursed his lips and shook his head. A few seconds later, he pried
a piece of metal out of its folds. The thing looked like a little ball with
spikes on it. “What’s a caltrop doing in here?” he wondered. “It couldn’t have
gotten in there by accident.
Someone
had to put it between the folds of
the blanket.” His eyes dilated as he turned to Tobar. “Do you know how it got
there?” he demanded.

“No sir,” Tobar replied.

“Where did you get the blanket?”

“It was an extra one packed away with the gear,” he said.

Darby frowned. “Was it stored near the caltrops?”

Tobar nodded, “Yes sir. There was a bag of them hanging next
to it.”

Darby digested this before saying, “I suppose one could have
fallen out of the bag and worked its way into the blanket. Packs do shift a
lot.”

“Yes sir,” Tobar said.

The tent flap opened and a soldier she didn’t recognize
stepped inside. He was carrying a bucket full of mud. “I was told you needed
this, Sir?” he said as he stared at the strange horse in the Lieutenant’s tent.

Darby looked at him and nodded. “Set it down by the flap,”
he said. “Be mindful not to spill any of it.”

The soldier did as instructed and asked, “Will there be
anything else, Sir? Lieutenant Jarhad is impatient to leave.”

Darby shook his head, but when the soldier turned to walk
out of the entrance, he reconsidered and said, “Yes, there is.”

The soldier turned and waited.

“I want you to check the saddle blanket of the horse Elmer
rode yesterday. See if there is anything embedded in its folds that shouldn’t
be there. Do a thorough job of it and report to me what you find when you’re
finished.”

“Yes, Sir,” the soldier said as he hurried outside.

Darby let the blanket fall back into place. “If there was a
caltrop in the blanket you used yesterday, it would explain your horse’s
behavior.” He turned to Tobar and asked, “Was the saddle blanket you used for
her horse taken from the same pack?”

Tobar nodded, “Yes, Sir.”

“We will need to check that pack horse after we finish
here,” Darby said. “There may be a hole in the caltrop container.” They secured
the blanket, and this time when they put the pack frame on her back there was
no pain, only the light pressure of its weight. They added the chest to her
burden and tied it down. Then Darby picked up the bucket and they started plastering
her mane with the mud, running their fingers through it to cover as many hairs
as possible as they caked it to her neck. By the time they had finished, the
other soldier had returned.

He was holding another spiked metal ball in his hand.