Chapter 14

 

Omar had been an undertaker in his time, and he had lost his life doing it. Through time or whatever other tragedies, his left hand was the only piece of him that had survived. Guess you were around when the last attack on the gods and the undertakers happened. What can you tell me? She took a deep breath and touched the key to the stone door. It made a keyhole and slipped inside the door. Darria wrestled to turn it. Something didn’t want her to open the door. She placed her hand on the door and sensed a barrier. Darria struggled to twist the iron key until it seemed it would snap. Placing her hand on the door, she pushed with all her might.

Nothing would stop her from getting into Omar’s memories.

“Open up, damn you. You answer to me and not to whoever sealed you closed.” Darria calmed her mind and touched the part of her that was an undertaker. The energy crackled down her arm and around the poppies. It flashed across the door; the key seared her fingers, but she did not stop. Whatever magic held it in place was strong, but she was stronger. Sweat slid down her nose from the effort. It was like she was trying to push the stone uphill. She squeezed her eyes shut and put all of her magic behind it. Within her mind, she saw it cracking. Whoever had put the wall around this door of memories didn’t want anyone to enter into it. Had the uprising been so bad that the demigods didn’t want the knowledge shared with anyone else?

Something popped in her mind, and the wall cracked. Darria opened her eyes.

The key turned.

Stones ground against one another until the door swung open. The acrid scent of dry earth and stale air blasted over her. The massive gust forced sand into her eyes and mouth. Darria removed the key and placed it back on her arm. She couldn’t see anything. Torches popped to life. This might have been in her mind, but it all felt real. She took one of the torches and walked further into the stone chamber. Massive paintings of the god Anubis and other Egyptian deities were etched onto the walls and the pillars. In the center of the room was a stone sarcophagus. Darria couldn’t make out most of what it said until she came to a cartouche that had the name of the occupant in the coffin.

Khusebek. Priest and helper of Anubis.

“I thought your name was Omar,” Darria whispered as her fingers traced the carvings. It dawned on her that she was reading ancient Egyptian.

“Omar was always my nickname. I liked it better.”

Darria spun around. Omar leaned on one of the columns. “You’re back.” She rushed over and pulled him into a hug.

“Where have I gone, undertaker?” He pulled out of her embrace.

Darria eyed him. He was the same thin man she had seen before, although now, he was dressed in a white shenti wrapped around his waist that reminded her more of a kilt with a leopard-skin sash across his chest. He had a gold armband along his upper left bicep. Across his left pec was a tattoo of a blue scarab. His black hair was short around his ears, and yet, his eyes were the same ones she had looked into when she had seen him in the other world. “You’re not the Omar I know.”

His face twisted up into a smile. “Ahh ... you must be referring to a physical part of me. I am a reflection of that me. Do you need a guide through these recollections?”

It was clear now that he was the physical manifestation of the memories she was in. “I need to know about certain events. A rogue necromancer and the undertakers being killed?”

He stroked his chin. “These things are not for discussion.”

“You might be a shade of Omar, but you’re still bound to the undertaker line. Whoever sealed off these memories didn’t want me to break through them and know what’s been going on. Six undertakers were killed. I’m the only one who survived. I carry their relics on my arm.” She held out her left arm, so he could see it.

The specter came forward and studied her arm. Omar wavered in and out until he was solid once more. “You carry these when they should be on the arms of other undertakers.”

Her brows furrowed. This was not the man she knew. This was only another shade to keep her from moving on, another barrier for her to get past. She gathered her energy and flung it at the phantasm. It shrieked and faded away. The lid of the coffin banged down. She walked over and pushed the stone away. When she did, another vision of Omar popped up.

“Thanks. I never thought I’d get out of there. Wow, look at you, toots. Who sent you, and where I can get me some?” Omar whistled.

She giggled. This was the man she knew. “Have you always had a silver tongue?”

He stuck out his tongue. “Nope. Not silver. I could make it silver for you.” He hopped out of the coffin and glanced down at the contents of the box. “A fucking mummy! They mummified me. Damn it. I told them to burn me. Stupid priests never listen. Don’t they know I was a helper of Anubis? I’m an undertaker, for gods’ sake.” He straightened his kilt and turned back to Darria. “How can I be of service to such a lovely lady?”

“It says on your tomb that your name is Khusebek.”

Omar trembled at the sound of the name and spat on the sand. “I’ve always hated that name. Forgive me for being so vile.”

“You haven’t changed.” This wasn’t exactly her familiar but, still, a part of Omar.

“I see we’re acquainted beyond this tomb. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here seeking your advice about something happening in my time that I think relates to something in yours.”

“I’m at your service. What wonders can I reveal to you?”

“Two members of the gods’ council bade me to find the undertakers they went to. I’m doing that. I’m also a necromancer, and they said an uprising occurred once before with a powerful necromancer who tried to turn the world on its head. I suspect this is how you ended up in the coffin. I need to know what happened. Can you show me these things?”

“What you say troubles my heart, but yes, I can show you these events. Take my hand, and I will lead you through these memories to when it all began.” He held out his left hand. She noticed that he had a gold ring on his middle finger with an oval on the front of it and symbols etched into it. They blurred for a moment, and then, she could read it.

“Khusebek, Royal Undertaker and Servant of Anubis.”

“Pharaoh gave that to me. It’s one of my prized possessions.”

“It’s nice. I’ve never seen it before.”

“If we’re acquainted, then how is it you haven’t seen it before?”

“It must have gotten lost through time.”

Omar’s expression saddened. “Oh well, that can happen.”

Darria took his hand. Omar led her out of the tomb. The sunlight blinded her until her eyes adjusted. As Darria surveyed the landscape, she found she was surrounded by arid desert, sand, and stone. The sun was high overhead but yet, in the distance, was a hooded figure. She tried to go closer, but Omar stopped her.

“You can’t get closer; I could not. The necro came to the Valley of the Kings to the temple of Anubis. The priests in the temple felt death coming, but I sensed something else. It was darker. It was like rocks weighing on my soul, colder than even death. I went to investigate, but when I got to the mouth of the tomb, something awakened.” Omar pointed to the cloaked figure.

Bodies pushed through the sand until they encircled the dark figure. All were mummies reborn from the desert. The sands stirred into whirlwinds and reformed into bodies until there were thousands of them surrounding the necromancer. Even within the memory, Darria sensed the dark power of this other being. It was one to rival her own.

Beneath the sands was an army, and he was still calling forth more.

“My God. I didn’t think anyone could resurrect bodies from dirt and ash. I witnessed it in my kitchen, but seeing it on this scale is terrifying and amazing.”

“He’s a powerful one. How do you think I died?” Omar gave her a half-hearted chuckle.

The army of the dead bowed before the necromancer. Something moved behind her. More corpses shuffled from the crypts. They were lifeless corpses without their spirits attached to them. They didn’t seem to notice what was happening around them.

“What did you do after you saw the army rise?” Darria asked.

The world rushed by, and she found herself standing before another undertaker. “Master, you will never believe what I’ve seen. The dead have been raised in the Valley of the Kings. A powerful necromancer is advancing on the temple with a horde of corpses.” He pleaded with his superior. The other Darria didn’t appear to take him seriously.

“You were an assistant. You weren’t even the undertaker,” Darria commented.

“I was so. I didn’t say how long I lasted as an undertaker. Watch,” Omar replied.

“Another one of your lofty tales, Omar. How many times have I told you that those yarns won’t make it easy to become an undertaker? You have to take this job seriously for the gods to hear you. They barely answer our calls now, no matter how many bodies we process for Anubis to take the souls across. His helpers seem to not care about the undertakers they have instilled. We grow further apart as the years go by, each getting pulled in their own direction. What will happen in the future when we need to communicate with one another? I’ve been doing this job for....”

“Yes, I know. You’ve been doing this job for over five hundred years, and things have gone to crocodiles. Now is not the time. Don’t you feel it, Master? The charge in the air. The darkness.”

A shriek erupted from somewhere inside the temple. One of the priests rushed into its vestibule. “The gods send the dead back to life. Quickly, an army of cadavers is coming. The gods are angry with us. Only you can speak to them and beg for forgiveness. You must find refuge and take the sacred texts.” One of the priests grabbed the master undertaker’s hand and pulled at him to leave. “They are after you. Run and seek refuge.”

“Believe me now?”

“You don’t have to rub it in, Khusebek. Gather your things. We have but min—” The undertaker was sliced through the stomach and upward by a sword held by a walking corpse that used to be one of the temple guards. Darria jumped away from him when the guard looked over at her and withdrew its sword. Omar dashed out of the way and grabbed a bag in the corner. He stayed in the shadows, hiding from the guard and holding the pouch to his chest. The guard passed over the corner at first, but then, it stepped back and stared at him.

Even in the memories, Darria sensed the dark power of the necromancer oozing from the corpse’s pores. He could see through the guard’s eyes.

“What do we have here?” the graveled voice said from the guard, his gaze settling on Omar.

“N-nothing.” He cowered in the corner. His hands moved slowly over the temple walls, searching for something.

“Nothing? Do you know what you hold in that pack of yours in the left hand that you hold so dear? Give me the key, and I’ll let you live.”

Omar shook his head. “Not going to happen. I know you, necromancer. You can conjure up all the dead bodies you want, an army of them, but you won’t be able to replace what we have done. The gods will hear of this.”

The guard laughed. “Who do you think sent me?”

“They wouldn’t,” Omar whispered.

“True. Maybe they wouldn’t, but someone would. Now. Give. Me. The. Key.” The guard held out his hand and gestured for it.

Omar pressed something on the wall, and it swung open. He darted back into the tunnel to the screams of the sentry behind him. The image stopped when they came to the opening of the tunnel on the other side of the Valley of the Kings. He was now looking down from the valley, and all Darria saw were rising bodies. Omar stopped to catch his breath and glanced down at the key on his left arm. It glowed purple. She could feel the power that rushed through him as a result of being elevated to the undertaker position.

“See, I told you that I lived long enough to be the undertaker.”

Darria shook her head and stared at the corpses. None of it made any sense. She was running around in circles. The gods might have been wiped out, but once an undertaker was instilled again, the gods fed from their energy. They were resurrected, which she had seen with Hades. There had to be a bigger picture. Who had that kind of power to be over a council of gods?

“Omar, what was in the bag you had with you?” The scenery switched, and they stood inside the tomb where she had first started.

When Darria looked for him to answer, Omar had disappeared. The torches remained lit, but the cold of the tomb remained. The casket was closed. The paintings were vibrant as they had been before, but she didn’t feel a breeze and figured she was sealed in the crypt.

She rubbed her arms against a shiver of fear that marched over her soul. This is just a memory, but it feels real. Darria walked over to the sarcophagus and pushed on the lid. After a minute of her pushing, her added strength made her able to push it open enough to gaze down into the bowels of the coffin. She expected to find a mummified Omar, but instead, she found a large pottery jar sealed over with wax. Darria lifted it out of the sarcophagus and held it near a torch, so she could read the inscriptions on the jar. They were easier to read than before. When she looked at them, she saw the hieroglyphs, but the words translated easily into English in her mind.

“Breath of life that only death can control.”

That was all that it said.

Either the jar was cursed, or it was something else. She set the canopic jar back in the coffin and heard footsteps on the stone floor. She turned around and saw a young girl limping toward her, holding Omar up with his right arm across her shoulders as she half helped him and half dragged him to be near the stone coffin.

“I’m sorry, Illyria. I tried to save your mother.”

“It’s okay, Papa. I know you did.”

He was clutching his left hand to his chest. It was only a stump.

“Find my hand, and burn it along with the rest of me. I will go to the gods. Nothing can bring me back and force me to talk. Please do this for me.” He reached to stroke her face, but his hand fell away, and he lay limp in his daughter’s arms.

His daughter leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’ll find it. I swear. They won’t call you back.”

“But it’s easy to call him back. If it weren’t for you, then I wouldn’t have known where the temple was. I wouldn’t have known where to find the undertakers. Thank you for that.” A hooded figure stepped from the shadows.

Illyria spun around. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“I didn’t hurt him. He had a run-in with one of my servants.”

“Servants that you control,” she spat. “I thought you loved me.”

The necromancer drew his hood back from his face. A long scar ran from his temple over his right eye and across his nose. His mouth curled into a sneer. “You were a fool to think I could love a peasant. You were nothing but a means to an end.” He reached inside his cloak and thrust his hand quickly into the girl’s belly. She slumped down to the floor and clutched the wound.

“Tell me where he hid it, and I won’t bring you back. I won’t bind your spirit to rotting flesh and have it linger until you are but dust and bone. I can trap you within these walls. Do you want to suffer for an eternity? Tell me where it is.”

“Never. Go to the underworld, in the seven hells, where Anubis will tear you apart.”

“That’s what you think,” the necromancer said.

The girl reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled out the key. She held it in her palm. The necromancer tried to grab it, but the key vanished in a wink of light. “It went to its rightful owner. A little bit of magic I picked up from my father. I know all about the undertakers. No matter who weaves your strings, you’ll never get what you seek.” Life left her. Her spirit lingered a moment, then faded away.

He tried to open the coffin, but the lid wouldn’t budge. The top of his right arm was exposed. Similar objects to the ones she had on her arm were on it. The arrow was bigger. Instead of a bone was a skull and the comb, but she could tell that he was collecting the objects that were given to the undertakers. He was a necromancer. He could get the undertakers to release the objects to them if their spirits were attached to the flesh. She had all seven on her arm, and nothing had happened to her yet, but that didn’t mean anything.

Another piece was missing. The knowledge sat on the edge of her brain. Darria didn’t know what that last piece was. If she could find it, then the puzzle would be complete.

The necromancer tried again to open the sarcophagus but couldn’t.

“Don’t hold your breath. You won’t open it, and you’re not getting out of here.”

“You were the one who bade me to do this,” the necromancer sneered.

The other half waved a hand, and the necromancer was unable to move. “You were supposed to do this discreetly. You weren’t supposed to scare half the country with your antics. You were ordered to get the pieces the undertakers carry and bring them back. Now you’ve forced our hand.”

“I can overtake you,” the necromancer warned.

“You’re not that powerful. Besides, this is all going to be forgotten,” the figure sighed. The room rumbled. Dust fell around the tomb. Darria glanced up and saw a large crack in the ceiling. A large slab fell onto the necromancer and squished him. The figure went over to the coffin, pulled out the jar, and held it close. The rest of the tomb collapsed. Darria backed away to the nearest door and ducked out. She pushed through a large cobweb and found herself eye to eye with a gigantic, black spider. She batted it away, knowing it wasn’t real, and jumped through the door when the rest of the crypt came tumbling down.