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Good tools oft go astray, especially when lent to careless servants. That much, even gods have in common with mortals. Nyarlathotep needed some very specific, very high-quality tools to bring his plans to fruition. There was also a minor artifact or two that might be useful, and a veritable scrap-heap of cheap, low-quality tools that could be put into action and expended.
With a gesture, Nyarlathotep transformed a stylized world map on the wall of his sanctum into a vista of a sleeping Egyptian village under the full moon. With a thought, he sent a dream to the sorceror-priest who dwelt there and served him: “Retrieve the sacred Dagger of Thoth and return it to my altar.”
Nyarlathotep's secret priests were the descendents of a very long line of priests back to the lost ages when Nyarlathotep had ruled as a god-king and been worshipped with all the bloody fervor of any Aztec diety. They refused to forget or lay aside their ancient faith. He still taught them dark sorcery, for they were useful tools.
This particular tool, Khalid abd al-Azi, was a violent, cunning psychopath with some skill in sorcery who loved killing but didn’t care to be hanged for it. He kept up a facade of respectability in public, and indulged his bloodlust in secret, imagining that it pleased his sorcerous patron. Some of Nyarlathotep's tools could use a few safety interlocks.
Khalid would see that the dagger was retrieved. It was far too dangerous a tool to be left laying about on a museum shelf, or in the hands of some random psychotic who just wanted to cut out hearts with it. Including Khalid.
* * *
Boston, Masschusetts
Few were out and about during the full moon when the thing stood atop Bellevue Hill and howled at the moon. No one could describe it, save for an overwhelming fear of seeing it clearly; as Andy Kemp said, "I dasn't look at it, not even for a second! I ran until I was below the ridge and couldn't see the moon no more." Police were too busy pursuing a trio of inmates who broke out of the State Hospital, and assisting firefighters with a warehouse fire that night to worry about terrified drunks. One elderly man died of a heart attack.
That unfortunate ‘elderly man’ was one Dr. Karl von Petersdorf, current possessor of the Ibis Dagger, aka The Dagger of Thoth, a scholar of ancient Egyptian religion, and author of a never-to-be published book on the darker aspects of ancient Egyptian mysticism. Unfortunately for his final work, the publisher's warehouse full of printed copies of his book (and many others) burned down the same night. At least one of his fellow contributors to the book was miffed that their effort came to naught, and attended the estate auction some weeks later in the hopes of salvaging something from the debacle.
* * *
“Remind me why we’re here, Evie?” Rick O’Connell, a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily tanned man with intense blue eyes and sun-bleached brown hair, looked around at the mass of furniture, would-be bidders, and other items at the Von Petersdorf estate auction in the main hall. A closed door, guarded by one of the auction house representatives, barred entry to the library where the ancient artifacts and manuscripts were held.
Dr. Evelyn O’Connell, a lovely dark-haired woman. gave her husband an affectionate, exasperated look. “Because Dr. von Petersdorf died just as his book—the one I contributed an article on Hamunaptra to—was to be published. I never saw the finished work, and the publisher went bankrupt after the fire, and now it will never be published. There should be at least a proof copy up for auction, and,” she smiled coyly, “who knows what else? He collected quite a few odd items.” She spoke with a soft British accent.
Jonathan Carnahan, her older brother, likewise dark-haired, slender and tanned, rolled his eyes. “Please tell me we’re not getting any mummies.” They were the tired eyes of someone who had seen far too much, too young; his aristocratic British accent was more pronounced.
“Relax, Jonathan,” Rick said. In contrast to the others, his accent was solidly American Mid-West. “There aren’t any mummies in the auction catalogue. Just manuscripts and papyruses for Evie to drool over, and a few art objects.”
Jonathan was not mollified. “They're still ancient Egyptian artifacts, probably stolen. With our luck, we’ll get something with a mummy’s curse on it.”
“Jonathan!” Rick held out the auction catalogue. “Look for yourself—there are no mummies, mummy cases, canopic jars, ushabtis, death masks or any other funerary gear.”
Jonathan stabbed at an open page with a long index finger. “Look, there’s a scarab up for bid! It might be a heart scarab! See!”
This time Rick rolled his eyes. “Jonathan!”
“Well, it could be.”
Evie tapped a page of the catalogue. “I’m more interested in this ancient dagger—oh, and the Book of the Dead papyrus with marginal notes!”
Jonathan raised his eyes to the heavens in mute appeal. "No funerary gear, he said."
Rick looked skeptical. “Doesn’t the museum have something like a hundred copies of the Book of the Dead? They’re all identical.”
“Not quite, most of the Books of the Dead were customized by the scribes for the deceased from a stock set of prayers and recitations, but this one is different. The marginalia make this one unusual. It was annotated by someone long after the original burial, based on the language, but well before it was supposedly discovered,” Evie replied, thoughtful.
“Excuse me,” said a sandy-haired, middle-aged gentleman, pale with a faded tan. He wore a brown tweed jacket with navy blue trousers, a combination that caused Jonathan to raise an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help overhearing you mention contributing an article to Dr. von Petersdorf’s book.” He held out a hand. “William Fredericks, amateur Egyptologist.”
Evie nodded politely and shook his hand. “Dr. Evelyn O’Connell, Egyptology at Bambridge.”
Fredericks’s eyes lit up. “I read your article about Amun-Ra’s Book of Life! Absolutely incredible! A shame it was lost in the Hamunaptra earthquake. Have you ever thought about having an expedition funded to go back there and dig it all up?”
“Yes, we have. We decided not to,” Rick interjected, his expression dour. What had happened at Hamunaptra hadn't exactly been an earthquake, but cover stories are important when explaining to the Egyptian Director of Antiquities that you were not actually smuggling looted artifacts. (They absolutely were, but that was Beni's fault.)
Evie put a hand on Rick's arm. “What Rick means is that I have a lifetime’s worth of artifacts to be catalogued in the British Museum’s collection. Unfortunately the architectural marvels of Hamunaptra were all destroyed in the earthquake and aftershocks made the area quite unsafe.”
The auctioneer stepped out of the library. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now permitting bidders to examine the items from section C of the catalogue. Right this way, please.”
Only a small handful of bidders were interested in the antiquities collection; it was a bit too specialized and too rich for those who had showed up hoping to collect some antique furniture. The O’Connell party, Fredericks, a pale, dark-haired man that someone had referred to as Jorgenson, a burly man wearing a pin-striped suit, and a swarthy man with a full black beard, wearing a tarboosh, joined the auctioneer in the library.
To Rick's experienced eyes and ears, the swarthy man's dress, manner and accent marked him as Egyptian, and possibly a Copt. An odd character for a estate auction in Masschusetts, but not impossible given the items up for bid. As for the other guy...
Rick’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly; the burly man was almost certainly wearing a concealed gun under his suit jacket. So was Rick, but Rick at least had his suits tailored properly to keep from showing a revealing bulge. Rick not unreasonably suspected the motives of anyone besides him who brought a gun to an auction, and decided to keep an eye on the burly man.
* * *
Rick didn’t remember too much about the actual auction, except that Evie and Fredericks got in a bidding war over the annotated Book of the Dead, and that the pale guy and the swarthy Egyptian guy in the tarboosh got in a bidding war over the Ibis Dagger, which the Egyptian guy decisively lost, because the pale guy, Jorgenson, was rich. Very rich. Rick bought the scarab for Evie.
Most of the auction was completely forgotten when the guy who looked like a gangster turned out to be a gangster--he just took the dagger, slipped it in his pocket, and turned as if to walk out like nothing was wrong.
“Hey! You in the suit! That’s not yours,” Rick yelled, charging across the room towards the gangster.
The gangster jumped as if startled, drew a gun from under his jacket and fired two shots into the ceiling almost as quickly as Rick drew his revolver. People screamed and milled about, terrified of both gunmen; Rick was nearly knocked flat by the Egyptian bidder running into him from behind. By the time Rick recovered his bearings and holstered his revolver, the gangster was out the door.
“I am so sorry, effendi. He must be stopped; the dagger must not fall into the wrong hands!” the Egyptian said as he ran towards to door. Rick weaved between panicky bidders and kept up with him. By the time they made it to the front door, all they saw was a black Ford speeding away. Rick looked around quickly for a car to commandeer--
And was accosted by the police guards. “Where do ye think you’re going, lad?”
“I was chasing the man who just stole one of the auction items,” Rick replied, exasperated. “You know, the ones you’re here to guard?”
That was not the right thing to say, and Rick found himself pushed up against the wall, being handcuffed when Evie and Jonathan caught up to him.
“Officer, why are you arresting my husband?” the eminently respectable-looking lady with the British accent--Evie--asked.
“I say, I think you’ve got the wrong fellow,” Jonathan added. “The thief was that heavy-set fellow who looked like a gangster. This is my brother-in-law, who I can assure you is not a gangster.”
“Is that so?” the Irish cop replied. “We had a bit of misunderstanding, didn’t we, Mr--?”
“O’Connell,” Rick growled as he was released from the cuffs.
“Are ye? Any relation to the great Daniel O’Connell?” said the policeman, in a much friendlier tone.
“No idea,” Rick said as he rubbed his wrists. “My father never told me much about his family before he abandoned us and my mother died when I was young. He was definitely Irish, though.”
“Och, that’s a shame. Sorry I got rough with you, Mr. O’Connell—I thought you might be one of that fellow’s henchmen.” The policeman tipped his hat to Mrs. O’Connell.
“Mick,” interrupted one of the other cops, “didn’t you recognize George DiVita? He’s Italian Mafia, they’d sooner shoot an Irishman than work with him.”
“Is that so? I know some of the rogue's hideouts. Mr O'Connell, you and the other gentlemen let Officer Hanes here know where you are staying, and we'll call you when we've recovered the stolen property. Frank, Sean, let's go.”
“We're coming, too,” Rick said. “Jonathan, get the car.” Jonathan nodded and ran to get the car, while Evie gave their hotel and room number to Hanes.
Officer Mick Flannigan opened his mouth to object, but closed it upon seeing the determined look on Rick's face. An extra hand wouldn't hurt, and the fellow could identify the gangster as the wanted thief. “Very well, but on your own head be it if you get hurt.”
* * *
Deep in the warehouse district, enroute to that 'known hideout', the chase came to a halt--the getaway car sat empty, parked neatly against the curb. “They’ve gone to ground,” Officer Flannigan announced. “DiVita won't have gotten far on foot, and his old hideout is just a block away. Frank, Sean, fan out and start searching in case he went somewhere else. Mr. O'Connell, you come with me and we'll corner the rat in his lair.”
Jonathan, who had also climbed out of the O'Connell's cream-colored Cadillac, said “What about me?”
Officer Flannigan tipped his hat and said, “I'd appreciate it if you stayed with Mrs O'Connell and kept her safe.” His tone of voice suggested that he'd appreciate if the rich British tourists would all go back to their hotel room and wait there, out of danger, but they weren't going to be so helpful.
Jonathan pouted and got back in the car. “Fine!” Evie rolled her eyes, but continued to sit demurely in the front seat.
A few minutes later, Evie said, “That’s interesting.” She had flipped down the sunshade and was powdering her face.
Jonathan looked at his sister. “What is?”
She nodded toward the mirror on the back of the sunshade. “Someone just got into that ‘empty’ getaway car, and I do believe he’s warming the engine up. Rick keeps a spare revolver under the seat.”
Jonathan grinned. “Evie, old girl, the game is afoot!”
* * *
Meanwhile, Rick covered Flannigan while he kicked in the door of the old warehouse thought to be DiVita’s hideout. “DiVita’s one of Messina’s boys, and they used to store rum here, before we caught on. DiVita’d live in the offices, at the back of the warehouse, keep an eye on things.”
The door gave way under Flannigan’s shoulder, and the two men hurried inside, guns drawn.
Rick groaned. “Ugh, what a smell!” His eyes watered, and he gagged on the stench that filled the warehouse.
Flannigan’s eyes watered, too, and he drew out his handkerchief and tied it around his nose and mouth. “Och, it smells like half the chickens in Quincy Market laid bad eggs and died!”
“And then someone had a barbecue,” Rick added, tieing his own handkerchief around his face like a bandit’s bandana. “Your lead,” he said, gesturing with his revolver.
What they found made Rick regret his words. His stomach turned over at the sight of the charred corpse on the floor; Officer Flannigan stepped out quickly to vomit in the hall.
“So, um, is that…?” Rick indicated the seared corpse, which was still wearing pinstriped pants and the charred remnants of a suit. Fifty and hundred dollar bills lay scattered across the floor.
Flannigan wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “Well, the build is right, and it looks like the clothing he was wearing…” He shook his head. “Looks like one of his enemies caught up with him, and used a blowtorch.”
Rick looked puzzled. “When did anyone have time to work this guy over with a blowtorch? We were right on their heels!”
A shout from outside interrupted them, followed by two gunshots. Rick rushed to the window; it was already open, and accessed a fire escape. Down on the street, another policeman--Sean or Frank, Rick couldn’t remember which—called out, “One o’ them dagoes ran down the fire escape! I’m going after him!” and ran down a narrow alley.
By the time Rick and Flannigan got down to the street and headed down the alley, there was no one in sight—that is, until Rick nearly tripped over the huddled form at the base of a wall.
“Aw, no,” Flannigan said. He knelt, turning over the body. Officer Sean Kennedy was stone-cold dead, with not a mark on him. “Poor man. Looks like his heart finally gave out.”
* * *
A third shot rang out! By the time Officer Flannigan and Rick O’Connell made it around the corner, the formerly empty getaway car had taken off down the street, jumped the curb and smashed into a utility pole. Inside the crumpled vehicle, a corpse slumped over the steering wheel column impaling its chest.
Jonathan sat nearby on the hood of the O’Connell’s car, looking concerned, as did Eve, who was still seated in the passenger seat of the car. To Rick’s familiar eye, Eve looked slightly smug.
“One of them got away, old chap. Left the driver behind and ran off down the alley,” Jonathan told the policeman as he pointed down yet another alley.
Flannigan looked over the mess and crossed himself. “God rest him. Three dead already! Frank! Mr. O’Connell! With me!” They ran down the alley in pursuit.
As Rick and the police ran around the corner and out of sight, Evie looked at her brother. “Jonathan, they didn't search the car.”
“Evie, there's a dead body in there.” Jonathan pointed out.
“Excuse me, who are you and what did you do with the brother who used to climb into sarcophagi when drunk and pose with the mummies?” Evie asked, with one eyebrow raised.
“I was drunk and melancholy... and ever since Imhotep, I don't really like hanging out with mummies,” Jonathan replied.
“It's a good thing this one is still fresh,” Evie pointed out. She kindly refrained from pointing out how many cocktails he'd had at the auction. “I'll help. Don't get blood on your good clothes.”
Jonathan sighed and got off the car to hold Evie's door open for her.
It didn't take very long to confirm that the car was suspiciously clean of luggage or the ordinary debris of everyday use that might help identify the owner.
“There's only one place we haven't searched,” Evie said, pointing at the dashboard in front of the dead driver. “It looks like there's a glove box right there, under his arm.”
“Oh, you mean that bent panel covered in blood, that his dead arm is holding shut?” Jonathan replied drily.
Evie gave her brother a Look, returned to their car, opened the trunk, and got out a handful of greasy rags and a tire iron. “Get over to the driver-side door and pull the corpse off the glove box while I open it.”
Jonathan looked very unhappy. “Evie...”
“Just do it, Jonathan!” She marched over to the wrecked Ford and reached across the bench seat.
Jonathan still looked unhappy, but he did as Evie ordered, and tugged at the corpse just enough. Evie wrapped a rag around her hand and pulled at the glove box handle. It was warped and didn't budge.
“Well, looks like that's a waste of time,” Jonathan said.
“Jonathan, if you drop that corpse on me, I will be very upset with you,” Evie replied. “Fortunately, we also have a tyre iron.” She picked up the iron and used it to pry open the buckled cover of the glove box.
“Well, what do you know?” she said softly, and pulled out the Ibis Dagger.
* * *
Khalid fumed angrily, pacing from one wall to the other in his tiny flophouse room. He'd gotten out of Boston just ahead of the police, after losing half his working funds and the sacred dagger. So close! He'd taken the dagger from that fool DiVita's corpse, and his driver had nearly gotten them out there--before catching a bullet in the head. He'd no choice but to escape on foot, and catch the first train out of town. Khalid shed no tears for DiVita--the greedy idiot had stolen the dagger instead of spending the money for it that Khalid had given him for the job. DiVita had had the temerity to think he could cheat and threaten Khalid--the fire elemental at Khalid's call had corrected that notion rather harshly. The driver, alas, had been a distant cousin--not fully initiated, but trustworthy--and his loss would be mourned.
He could not return to Egypt without the sacred dagger, or at least a guarantee it would follow him there. The Dark Pharoah did not accept excuses when He commanded sacrifice. He could not stay in America, either. The Boston police would not let lie the trail of corpses Khalid had left them, not when it included their own.
Still, all was not lost. Khalid opened the grimy window and held up the ancient gold sheath that had once held the Ibis Dagger to the rays of the setting sun. He recited an ancient Egyptian curse, to turn the power of the sacred dagger against the one who had slain his driver and stolen that which did not belong to him. Either his enemy would die the death, and Khalid would find a way to recover the dagger in the confusion, or the Coptic priest would advise the Accursed One to return the sacred dagger to Egypt, to lift the curse.
With luck, Khalid just might recover the dagger along the way. It was a long sea voyage to Alexandria; much could happen.
* * *
When the O’Connells got back to the auction, they found out that Clifford Jorgenson and the police, between them, had persuaded the other interested parties to move to the same hotel Jorgenson was staying in, “that we might all get word of whatever was found at once.” Rick, Evie and Jonathan agreed that they might as well join the rest; it was a fine enough hotel.
Jorgenson was overjoyed to get his dagger back, and magnanimously allowed the Egyptologists present to examine his prize. The gentleman in the tarboosh turned out to be a Coptic priest, Father Shamuda, who wished the dagger ensconsed in his abbey for safe-keeping.
"Please, be careful handling it," he begged Jorgenson and the assembled Egyptologists. "It has a dark past, and is said to be cursed. It must not fall into the wrong hands!"
"Why is that?" ask Rick, raising an eyebrow at mention of dark curses.
"It belonged to an ancient cult that worshipped the Evil One," Father Shamuda said. "By sacrificing lives with that dagger, it is said that they summoned the devil and were granted favors. If it is safe in our abbey, any foolish people who wish to take up murder and diablerie will be thwarted in this."
Rick shrugged. "In my experience, people who want to commit murder for fun and profit don't need a special antique dagger to do it."
“What do you think of the inscription, Mrs. O’Connell?” asked Fredericks, the amateur Egyptologist, providing a thankful distraction from Father Shamuda’s... well, not quite raving, he was too quiet and polite for that. Still, Shamuda's diatribe made the others uncomfortable, though Jonathan just rolled his eyes as if to say "Oh no, not again."
Evie held the dagger and examined it. “Hmm… it could be either Old or Middle Egyptian—there’s no plurals to give it away. ‘Not through the--’ Jonathan, can you get me my copy of Gardiner?”
“Oh I can translate that, mum,” Jonathan said, taking the dagger from Evie’s hands. “That’s ‘gateway’, or possibly ‘place of judgement’, followed by ‘rest’, negated.”
Fredericks looked surprised. “Are you sure that’s not ‘doors’?”
Jonathan froze for a long moment, shaking. Was that chanting he heard ever so faintly?
“Are you all right?” Evie asked, concerned.
Jonathan blinked. “I’m… all right. Just a touch of the old malaria. And yes, it’s definitely not ‘doors’.”
* * *
The next day, and the day after, Jonathan fell into a trance, muttering about being "back in Egypt, again."
Evie worried. "Jonathan, what's going on?"
"I see... the Nile, flowing through Egypt. Farms and villages," he said absently. He shook himself and said, "Not to worry, old mum. It's that malaria again."
Evie reached out and felt her brother's forehead. "You're not running a fever, and since when does malaria cause hallucinations? It was never that way for you before, or for Father. Rest up and see if it gets better."
That night, at a dinner for the Egyptologists hosted by Jorgenson, Fredericks asked after Jonathan. After being told by Evie that he was down with "a bad bout of malaria", he nodded sympathetically and politely dropped the matter.
Father Shamuda noticed Evie's worried frown, and, less adept with American dinner conversation etiquette, asked, "Is this the young man's first bout of malaria?"
Evie sighed. "No, and I'm worried. I've never known malaria to cause hallucinations before."
Father Shamuda paled. "What manner of hallucinations?"
"Sir!" Fredericks exclaimed. "That's a rather personal question, don't you think?"
Father Shamuda held up his hand. "I have my reasons for asking. The Ibis Dagger is a vile relic, and greatly cursed."
Fredericks started to laugh, and stopped when he noticed that both Rick and Evie weren't laughing, and, indeed, looking a bit pale.
Evie replied, "He sees Egypt, as if crossing the Nile via boat, a little more each day."
Father Shamuda bowed his head. "It isn't malaria. Someone has invoked the Curse of the Dagger."
Rick leaned forward, planting both elbows on the table. Fredericks looked affronted by this breach of etiquette; Jorgenson leaned forward, his interest piqued. "What does this curse do?" Rick asked.
Father Shamuda looked at him sadly. "It forces the victim to relive the last sacrificial use of the dagger, moment by moment each day, until the ritual is complete and he dies. I'm sorry, but unless the dagger is destroyed on the very altar it was used to make sacrifices upon, your friend is doomed."
Fredericks frowned. "Balderdash! I saw how desperate you were to purchase the dagger--you're just making up this story to scare us into giving you the dagger!"
Rick turned toward Fredericks, who gulped and sat back at the look on Rick's face. "It wouldn't be the first time I've seen ancient Egyptian curses in action. They can be worse than deadly."
Fredericks looked around. Father Shamuda stared coldly at him, and even Jorgenson shook his head slightly. "I can see I'm not wanted here, and since it's not my dagger to lose, I'll bid you all good night!"
Jorgenson watched him leave before drawing out a cigarette from a golden case engraved with hieroglyphs. "Does anyone mind if I smoke?"
Evie grimaced. "Must you? It ruins the taste of dessert."
"Ah, of course. My apologies." He replaced the unlit cigarette. "It sounds like a trip to Egypt is in order, then."
Rick looked surprised. "You'll help us, even if it might cost you your dagger?"
Jorgenson nodded. "I was interested in the dagger for its... occult reputation, but I'm not all that desirious of being targetted by actual ancient curses that kill people."
Father Shamuda narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "You knew of the dagger's reputation?"
"Of course. I collect such things, but most occult reputations are greatly exaggerated. The scimitar of Tamerlane, for example, is a very impressive-looking relic, but it hasn't inspired me to conquer Central Asia and stack up mountains of skulls," the pale man replied. "In any case, there are other artifacts I might more easily find in the Middle East than in my house in the Adirondacks."
"Right, then." Evie looked at the three men remaining at the table. "Father Shamuda, do you know how to break the curse on my brother in a bit more detail than 'it must be destroyed on some altar somewhere'?"
Father Shamuda nodded gravely. "Yes, ma'am, I do. Your brother and I must journey to El Ashmunayn, in Egypt."
Rick waited for the waiter to remove the last of the main course before answering. "So me, Jonathan, Evie, Father Shamuda, and you?" He looked at Clifford Jorgenson.
Jorgenson nodded. "Of course." He looked at Father Shamuda. "How fast does the curse progress?"
"One lunar month," said the Copt.
Rick winced. "I should have thought to ask that. Fast steamer from New York, as soon as we can catch a train. Father Shamuda, we're more than wealthy enough, so I'm paying for your cabin. Last time I was in Egypt, the Coptic Church wasn't known for its wealth."
Father Shamuda flushed slightly, and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. O'Connell."
Each day, Jonathan fell into a trance, reliving the ancient ritual as it advanced a little each day toward some horrific doom. Aboard ship, Father Shamuda revealed more details: he knew a ritual that would destroy the dagger and end its curse--but only in the lost Temple of Thoth, in El Ashmunayn, Egypt--ancient Hermopolis--could it be carried out.
The fast steamer they booked for Lisbon took only six days to cross the Atlantic and ten more days to reach Alexandria, though not wholly without incident. An unseasonable storm lashed the ship as it crossed the eastern Mediterranean; lightning struck the ship's funnel, leaving gouges in the metal that looked almost like giant claw marks. Father Shamuda sat up all that night, praying aloud and chanting in Coptic, and there were strange cries from the lower decks.
"I have struggled with the Evil One this night," he told Rick and Evie the next morning, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes. "His demons did not prevail. The one who sent them shall not trouble us again, for I turned one of his own demons back on him."
* * *
Almost a month later, the well-known and respected village silversmith Khalid abd al-Azi stumbled out of the desert near Cairo babbling incoherently of demons, summoning old gods, and meddling Coptic priests. By some miracle, he'd avoided asps and hyenas and wandered almost into the arms of a well-meaning doctor of the Muslim Brotherhood. The good doctor took the delirious silversmith back to his clinic and saw that Khalid was cared for until he recovered his wits, many months later.
* * *
As if summoned by some omen, Ardeth Bey met them in Alexandria, but all he could say was that Allah willed it so. Father Shamuda initially tensed, but relaxed noticeably as his gaze lighted on the sacred tattoos marking Bey's forehead. Between the two Egyptians, they quickly sorted out transportation and lodging for the O'Connells, Jorgenson, and themselves.
Clifford Jorgenson promptly fell ill with his first bout of malaria; shivering and feverish, he was too weak to travel with the rest of the group. He gave Rick the dagger. "Go on without me, and tell me what happened when you get back." He added, half-joking, "I'll expect a share of any treasure you find, of course. That dagger did cost me."
By the time the group reached Ashmunayn, Jonathan was sleeping or sleep-walking through most of the day and night. Rick guided Jonathan carefully as they debarked from the train, while Evie arranged hotel rooms and hired a boy to carry their luggage to their rooms. Sparing no time, waiting for no guide but Father Shamuda, they walked to the tumbled ruins on the edge of town.
As soon as Jonathan set foot on the silt-covered paving stones, he shook his head and blinked. "Bloody hell! That's never happened before! Um, sorry Evie… bad language."
"Jonathan!" Evie hurried to her brother's side. "You're awake? What happened?"
"I'm awake, yes." He shook his head again, as if to clear it. "The vision--it stopped early, right here." Jonathan gestured at the field of ruins. "I mean, I set foot in this place in the past, when it was still built up, and the temple gardens were still there, and--" he snapped his fingers-- "like that, I woke up, setting foot in the same spot in the here and now."
Father Shamuda stroked his beard. "Do you think you could find the underground temple of your visions in the here and now?"
Jonathan looked around at the silt and sand covered ruins. "Yes, if it's not covered in sand or buried under rubble. It would be off in that direction," he pointed, "where that largish temple still stands. Secret underground passage and all."
"Okay," Rick said, double-checking that his revolvers were securely holstered before setting out down a path that wove through the rubble in that general direction. Evie, walking beside her husband, looked back at Jonathan, who shrugged and followed, as did Father Shamuda and Ardeth Bey.
A short while later, the hairs on the back of Jonathan’s neck prickled; someone was watching him! He glanced back, momentarily meeting the gaze of a lean peasant carrying a load of reeds on his shoulders. There was something familiar about his face.
“O’Connell?” The larger man turned at the mention of his name. “That fellow back there…”
“What fellow?” Rick O’Connell gave him a puzzled look. Ardeth Bey also turned to look, frowning.
In the eyeblink that Jonathan’s attention had shifted to Rick, the peasant had vanished. “Oh, never mind. It’s probably just the curse, making me see things again.”
“Jonathan. What did we say about not keeping doubts to yourself, after someone got himself cursed and dismissed it as ‘a touch of malaria’ for three days?” replied Rick, in the tone of a father remonstrating an erring child. “What did you imagine you saw?”
“Oh, well, if you put it that way…” Jonathan gestured back down the path. “I thought I saw a peasant staring at me, like I reminded him of someone. He looked like that statue from our old days at the Cairo Museum—you know, the unpleasant fellow with the leopards and the same nasty smirk our friend Imhotep had.”
Rick glanced significantly at Evie. “Oh, that statue. I didn’t like his smirk, either.”
Evie snorted in an unladylike way. “That statue wasn’t Imhotep. I spent enough time being dragged around by him, I remember very well what he looked like. You’re right, though, he had the same smarmy smirk.”
The Coptic priest stroked his long, full beard, frowning, his heart filled with forboding. “What statue is this?”
Ardeth Bey, the Medjai, also frowned, and sighed in resignation. “It is a statue of the Dark Pharoah whose name we do not speak, Abba.” He used the formal term for a senior priest of the Coptic Church.
Father Shamuda nodded sternly. “We are being watched. If we are lucky, it is only a sending. Hurry.”
“Yes, yes. It’s this way,” Jonathan told them, setting off toward yet another sand-buried hillock.
* * *
Rick opened the kerosene lamp Evie was carrying long enough to light another torch from the flame. It was the third torch he’d used up so far. Something furry scurried out of the light.
“This place is a maze. Jonathan, are you sure you know where you’re going?”
Evie’s brother shuddered. “O’Connell, we’re following my memories of a cursed nightmare I’ve been having for most of the last month! No, I’m not sure!” He shook, trying not to look at the niches full of moldy mummies lining the walls. “Are you sure we can’t burn them all?”
Evie huffed and looked offended. “We do not burn the archaeological discoveries! They’re dead, Jonathan, and staying that way.”
“We don’t have the time, anyway,” Rick said as he forged ahead. He carried a revolver in the hand not occupied with a torch, another was holstered at his belt, and there was a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder, in position for quickly swinging up and firing. He had not neglected his ammo supply, either. “Those crocodiles slowed us down, and you don’t want to have one of your fits in these tunnels.”
Ardeth Bey nodded very slightly in agreement. His yataghan was unsheathed, and black with dried cobra blood.
Jonathan swallowed. “No, I don’t think so.” He was also armed, with a holstered revolver at his side. So was Evie. Father Shamuda carried only the ancient Dagger of Thoth.
Father Shamuda sighed. “There is a solution. The dwellers in the vaults will know every inch of these catacombs, and it is possible to treat with them.”
“The ‘Dwellers in the Vaults’?” Rick asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh dear,” Evie said. “You wouldn’t be referring to the Children of Anubis, would you?”
Ardeth Bey looked up from where he was studying tracks in the mud, scowling. “Abominations...”
“Yes, I am,” replied the priest. “I am surprised you have heard of them.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Before I got my doctorate in Egyptology, I was an assistant librarian at the Cairo Museum. I am very well read in ancient Egyptian literature of all types. Do you think they might be helpful? I’d be interested in seeing another mythic creature in the flesh.”
It was Father Shamuda’s turn to look surprised. “Forgive me, madam. I made some foolish assumptions. Yes, the spell I know ensures initially friendly contact.”
Jonathan looked hastily from the priest (now muttering some kind of invocation to Anubis in Coptic) to Evie to Rick and back. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
Rick looked at Jonathan. “Probably not. So, what are we expecting? If they’re friendly, I’d rather not make them unfriendly by shooting them.”
Evie spoke first. “The Children of Anubis… in Arabic, they’re al-ghûl--”
“Ghouls?” Rick and Jonathan exclaimed simultaneously. Ardeth Bey nodded, and shifted his yataghan to a firmer grip.
“Are you sure it’s not just malaria and my nerves?” Jonathan said, backing against the wall, shaking again. “We could turn back, see another doctor...”
Rick glanced at his brother-in-law with concern. Jonathan’s violent shivering often presaged an oncoming seizure and cursed vision. “Jonathan, please calm down,” he said softly, and then turned to the Copic priest.
“Father, how do we know the ghouls won’t decide we’re a tasty snack?” Rick asked as Father Shamuda finished his invocation.
“<How we know you not shoot us?>” called a hoarse voice from the dark, in gutter Arabic. Multiple shadowy shapes could be glimpsed in the torchlight.
“<Peace be upon you>,” replied Father Shamuda, in much better, educated Egyptian Arabic. “<We mean you no harm.>”
“<As long as you mean us no harm,>” Rick added in street Arabic, cradling his shotgun in his arms. He had a Cairo accent.
“<What he said,>” Jonathan added. Like Shamuda, his Arabic was that of an educated scholar.
Weird meeping and glibbering sounds came from the shadowy figures.
“I don’t think they like the light,” Evie noted.
“<What you scary people with too many guns want?>” finally came a reply out of the darkness.
“<A guide, to the underground temple of Thoth here,>” replied Rick.
“<And safe passage, to the temple and back to the surface, when our business is done,”> added Father Shamuda quickly.
More meeping and glibbering ensued; if any of them had understood the language of ghouls, they would have heard something like this:
“The Father of Lies said to harry and scare them. I don’t think--”
“I don’t pay you to think. The Father of Lies wanted us to see that they get to the temple, see? So we’re gonna get them to the temple, and this is as good a way as any.”
“You don’t pay me at all!”
“Does youse guys not know about ‘figures of speech’?” The sound of someone being slapped in the back of the head could be heard echoing down the tunnel.
“Father of Lies didn’t say nuthin’ about giving them safe passage either.”
“He said NOT to kill. That’s safe passage. Besides, these guys don’t just have that old dagger He mentioned, they got guns. Lots of guns. Big guy--”
“Lots of meat on him!”
“The big guy looks like he knows how to use them. Think the little guy does, too.” Another slap. “And the guy wit’ the sword is ready to carve you into giblets. Think! Youse ain’t gonna care about how much meat anyone gots on him if they blow your brains all over the tunnels and chop up what’s left.”
At last an answer echoed down the tunnel. “<Agreed. One of us guide, the rest guard your front and back, yes? That way you no have to shoot snakes, no make loud bang, no bring down ceiling, no richochet bullet kill someone maybe...>”
“<Agreed. Show yourself slowly,”> replied Rick. “<I startle easily.”>
“<I do not trust such creatures,”> Bey muttered, stepping back with his sword at guard.
The largest of the shadowy figures moved forward slowly, one bare, clawed foot at a time. It was shorter than Rick, and stooped, man-like with furred shoulders and a long blunt muzzle like a hamadryas baboon or a large dog. Fangs to rival a baboons gleamed behind half-closed lips. Though bipedal, its feet were digitigrade, unlike a human. Most of the rest of its body was hairless and glistening with moisture. It was naked, and most definitely male.
The ghoul beckoned slowly. “<Follow>,” he said, as he turned and headed down the tunnel. The other shadows scattered back into the darkness, silent but for the occasional click of claws on stone. Even that faded away when they moved into one of the tunnel’s many muddy stretches.
“Well,” Rick said, “you heard the… fellow. Let’s go!” Holding the torch high, he followed the ghoul. “Oh, and Jonathan? If anything seems wrong about the route they are taking, please mention it!”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly will.” Jonathan followed close behind Rick; Evie and the Coptic priest followed a bit further behind, and Ardeth Bey brought up the rear.
Ahead of them, shadowy figures ran, sometimes pausing to pounce on something, followed by the sounds of small bones being crushed by strong teeth. No more scorpions or cobras slithered out of the shadows to plague them, and they moved quickly through the catacombs.
“Jonathan?” Rick asked after some time. “Are we--?”
“Yes! Yes, we’re on the right path.” Jonathan’s voice was strained.
Without warning, the twisty, sewer-like tunnel debouched into a columned antechamber, with smooth, plastered walls unlike the rough-hewn, flood-damaged tunnels outside. Rick raised his torch high; the ceiling was dark, and glittered with stars.
“<I done here. Not my temple. I wait outside. If you die, not my problem. If you live, don’t take long. We get hungry, we leave without you.>” the ghoul said in his gutter Arabic dialect. He stared directly at Ardeth Bey, who scowled. “<Thank you, Medjai-with-fast-sword, for much cobra meat.>” He turned and slipped past the five of them, back into the dark tunnel. The shadowy figures that had preceded them were nowhere to be seen.
Ardeth Bey stared at the dark tunnel for a long minute after the ghoul had vanished. “I did not expect al-gh û l to have courtesy.” He shook his head. “Always I experience new things with you, O’Connell.”
“Gentlemen.” Jonathan still sounded strained, and in the flickering light had the look of a man who sees death coming. He gestured with one of the torches. “This way.”
They proceeded through a small doorway at the back of the columned hall, and down long corridors, brightly painted with many figures. Jonathan did not stop to look at them.
“I wish we had time to stop and study these,” Evie said.
Jonathan glanced back at her. “No, you really don’t,” he said.
The long processional corridor finally ended in another archway, which opened into a larger, collonaded hall. At the far end of the hall was a large archway opening into a nook, where sat a basalt statue of a sphinx with no face—just a blank, black oval. Braziers in the corners of the hall suddenly sprang to life, filling the room with flickering firelight.
“That’s not ominous at all,” Evie started to say...
The man stepping in front of the statue had all their attention. He was tall, dark as ebony, and dressed in the regalia of an Old Kingdom pharoah. He regarded them with that same sardonic smile Evie instantly remembered from the statue in the Cairo Museum.
“Welcome to my temple, and I thank you for coming so far to return my property,” the dark pharoah said in English, with an Oxford collegiate accent. “Now, if you would be so kind as to give me my dagger, I’ll see that you return safely to the surface…” A sharp glance at Ardeth Bey, who had half-drawn his yataghan. “Hilt first, please.”
Father Shamuda, the Coptic priest, paled and shrank back, shaking. “It is the Evil One himself!”
Rick laid a hand on his arm. “Easy there. He seems willing to talk.” He raised his voice. “Let me guess, you’re Nyarlathotep, Dark Pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, overthrown by Senusret and all that. How about you lift the curse on my brother-in-law here, and then we’ll talk about your dagger.”
"Your history is a bit confused, but.. yes, I am." The Dark Pharoah smirked. “As for your brother-in-law, his soul belongs to me. Forget him, and give me the dagger. I am not patient; I will not ask again.”
“Hey! No one asked me about this!” Jonathan protested. “I did not make any bargains with anyone, you don’t get to do that!”
Nyarlathotep pursed his lips in a tiny frown, and seemed about to say something--
“He is THE EVIL ONE!” Father Shamuda shouted, drawing the Dagger of Thoth. "The Dagger has the power to DESTROY HIM!" So saying, he leaped toward Nyarlathotep, swinging wildly.
The Dark Pharoah stepped forward, evading Shamuda’s wild swing; his body began to glow and swell, light pouring from his mouth and eyes. The air rippled, and two balls of ropy tentacles appeared beside the glowing figure.
“Oh, shit! I hate it when that happens,” Rick said, unlimbering his shotgun and firing off a blast at the nearest tentacle-thing. A tentacle from the other Thing reached out and hurled Father Shamuda against a column; the Dagger of Thoth, knocked out of his hand by the force of the blow, skittered across the polished temple floor towards the entrance. Ardeth Bey slashed at the tentacle-thing, his hallowed blade severing several of its tentacles.
Evie scrambled out of the way of the sudden melee, while Jonathan drew his revolver and shot at the glowing figure of Nyarlathotep, which was swelling up into something decidedly not-human. With the torch in his other hand he flailed at any tentacles that got too close. His shots didn’t appear to have any effect.
Evie managed to grab the dagger, and leaned against a pillar, taking in the situation for a moment. Something was not quite right about the whole thing—the big, glowing, attention-grabbing figure at the back not really doing anything, and the tentacle-things mostly just flailing about, indifferent to severed tentacles—which vanished in a sizzle of acrid smoke when they hit the floor. It looked… staged. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, Evie thought to herself. But where's the curtain?
If I were staging a show to get everyone’s attention, where would I stand to supervise the play? Not behind the altar—the view was too limited. Not up front, where the action was, too close, too hard to figure out what was going on. Evie glanced around, and then studied the back of the temple, near the entrance, near her. There! Among the forest of columns, each with its own unique engravings, stood one column that was an exact copy of the one next to it. Found the curtain! Now for the wizard...
Evie circled around the columns and slipped up behind the copycat; she reached around it from behind, and pressed the Dagger of Thoth against a very human-feeling neck.
“They say this dagger can kill you,” Evie said, holding it against someone's throat. “Stop hiding, you wouldn’t want me to make a mistake and stab you in the eye or worse.”
The image of a carved stone column faded away, revealing the man in pharoanic regalia she had seen earlier. “Be careful with that. I shall be annoyed if you banish me with it, and your brother will likely die.”
“The real Nyarlathotep, I presume? Close the show and we can talk,” Evie replied.
Nyarlathotep grimaced, then glanced at the ongoing fight. Suddenly, the monstrous figures all vanished, leaving only the five humans and Nyarlathotep in the room. Rick, Jonathan, and Ardeth Bey looked around in momentary bewilderment—then Rick spotted Evie holding the Dark Pharaoh. Within a second, multiple firearms were pointed at Nyarlathotep. Father Shamuda remained where he had fallen, unconscious or dead.
“Step away from the evil demigod, Evie,” Rick said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“That would be a very bad idea right now,” Evie said.
Nyarlathotep raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think that pointing firearms at me is a good idea? The young lady behind me would make a splendid backstop for all those bullets, but I doubt she would appreciate it.”
“I’m a very good shot,” Rick replied.
“So am I,” said Jonathan, standing defiantly beside him, revolver aimed at the Dark Pharoah’s head.
Nyarlathotep’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Rick, and then widened, dark eyes turning to irises of flame surrounding a cat-like slit pupil. Rick felt his gaze like a blow, but gritted his teeth and glared his defiance back. Jonathan cried out, and let his revolver slip from suddenly nerveless hands; he could not look Nyarlathotep in the eye, as the memories of another place and time flooded his mind.
The Dark Pharoah smirked triumphantly for a very long moment, and then raised one hand ever so slightly--
“All right, that’s enough!” Rick snarled. “Evie, that dagger can kill him, take him out!”
“You fool.” Nyarlathotep’s eyes narrowed again, the fire fading from their depths. “I am immortal; the dagger will only banish me, and then I shall be very annoyed, and her brother will die.”
Ardeth Bey, yataghan held at the ready, said, “There is a ritual…”
“Do you know it?” Nyarlathotep asked. Bey’s involuntary glance at Shamuda’s body betrayed the answer.
“I thought not. I do. If the fool survives to tell you, you will learn that the ritual is complex, arduous, and time-consuming. You’ll only have one chance to get it right—and, since the ritual requires banishing me and destroying the dagger, I’ll be more than annoyed with you. Believe me when I say that you truly do not want me for an enemy. I, on the other hand, can lift the curse with a word. It’s my dagger and my curse.”
Rick looked thoughtful, then spoke, chosing his words carefully. “If you lift the curse on Jonathan, and promise to leave us alone, we could give you the dagger.”
“I already offered you safe passage out of here in exchange for the dagger. Twice. Your brother-in-law was not included in that offer,” Nyarlathotep replied.
"Whoa! You've got no claim on my soul, I didn't make any bargains with you!" Jonathan snapped again, having recovered from the short flashback to Ypres.
Nyarlathotep glanced Jonathan. "Technically, you are correct--but the curse will still kill you and fling your soul into the outer voids. Pray that your God cares enough to retrieve your soul from that fate."
“Or Evie could stab you and we could take our chances with the ritual. You’d be out that dagger you want so much, and I’ve had creepy supernatural assholes as enemies before,” Rick replied, still holding his gun rock-steady.
“I can make another,” Nyarlathotep replied. “..if you really want to annoy me that much. The dagger is not the bargaining chip you think it is. Nor is it going to hurt your world in the slightest if I get it back. Rather, it will take a somewhat dangerous artifact out of circulation.”
“So what do you want? Leaving Jonathan cursed is a deal-breaker. Not going to budge on that, one way or another, he gets uncursed,” Rick replied, intense blue eyes glaring over the sights of his revolver.
“I get my dagger back--and not through my throat, Mistress Evelyn,” Nyarlathotep sounded almost petulant.
“I’m sorry, but it’s tiring holding a taller person like you at knife point. My hand tends to slip,” Evie said cheerfully.
“Then we’d best come to an agreement. As I said, you return my dagger, I grant you safe passage out of here.” He frowned thoughtfully for a moment. “You give me certain information I desire, and I lift the curse on Jonathan,” Nyarlathotep said.
“What information?” Rick asked, suspicious.
“Who is Imhotep? Why is a devout Muslim Tuareg wearing the sigils of a 3000-year-dead pharoah’s guard?” Nyarlathotep asked.
“You don’t know?” Rick lowered his gun and gaped at the Dark Pharaoh in surprise. Ardeth Bey also looked surprised, and Jonathan just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Nyarlathotep lifted one eyebrow again.
“I don’t think he would have asked if he knew,” Evie commented.
“Ah, good. I am not the only one here with a modicum of intelligence,” the Dark Pharoah said.
Rick came to a decision and put his gun away. “Agreed. Evie, give him the dagger… carefully. You, the tall, dark and sinister evil god, lift the curse from my brother-in-law, and we’ll tell you the story. It’ll take a while. Ardeth, how is Father Shamuda?”
Ardeth Bey inspected the fallen priest. “He is alive, but he should be taken to a doctor.”
Evie carefully lifted her arm from around the Dark Pharoah’s neck, and stepped back, turning to one side as she did so, moving the dagger point away. She then reversed the dagger and offered the hilt to Nyarlathotep.
With the cool, serene smile of an ancient statue, he took it from her and held it up. “ G û lumta krimpatma!” Nyarlathotep sheathed the knife at his side. “Done. Now, explain him,” Nyarlathotep gestured at Ardeth Bey.
“In a minute,” Rick said, taking Evie’s hand as she crossed the hall to him. “Jonathan?”
“I won’t know for sure until tomorrow, but I don’t feel like I’m about to have another seizure,” Jonathan replied.
“I lifted the curse, and did not even impose some other curse. Any further nightmares are your own,” Nyarlathotep replied. “I keep my promises to the letter.”
Jonathan regarded the Dark Pharoah shrewdly. “Can I read the fine print?”
“The fine print,” Nyarlathotep replied, “was written at Somme, Ypres and Arras, as you know. Not my doing.”
Jonathan shuddered at the sound of those names. “Bad form, making a chap remember.”
Ardeth Bey spoke up. “ Bismillah Hir Rahman Nir Rahim , we shall keep our promises. The story of the Medjai order and Imhotep begins in the reign of Menmaatre Seti, the first of that name….”
By the time the telling of the tale concluded, Nyarlathotep was sitting indolently on an ancient Egyptian throne he’d conjured up, along with stools for the others. “What fool came up with the idea of using the hom-dai ritual as a curse ? The Medjai would not need to exist if some fool had not created the undead g û l in the first place.” He steepled his hands, five fingers on his right hand meeting four fingers on his left. “If the soul of Imhotep still clings, unfulfilled, to his old purposes, you will be troubled by him again; this I foresee. Again, not my doing.”
He rose from his throne, beautiful and regal. “You have kept your promises, I keep mine. Go, and pray we do not meet again!”
* * *
The ghouls of the Khemennu catacombs kept their bargain as well, and guided O’Connell party out of the stinking, dark tunnels as quickly as they could, while Jonathan and Ardeth Bey carried the unconscious Father Shamuda. Their farewells were less fond and more “please go away and don’t bother us again”.
It was touch and go, but Father Shamuda survived his fractured skull, though he would be many months healing. He never did find out the full story of what happened in the temple, but everyone had survived, the Dagger of Thoth was gone, and the Englishman’s curse had been lifted, so all must have been well. No doubt the courageous American had slain the avatar of Nyarlathotep with the Dagger, and then destroyed it in such a way as to free the Englishman from its curse.
No one had the heart to tell Father Shamuda otherwise; the doctors forbade any news which might upset or excite him while his brain recovered from its traumatic injury.
Clifford Jorgenson was still recovering under a doctor's care in an elegant stateroom at the Windsor Palace Hotel in Alexandria. He was delighted to see the O'Connell's again, though slightly disappointed that they had not recovered any treasure. "You owe me, O'Connell. Still... Nyarlathotep? Frankly, I'm glad I sat that one out."
* * *
“Did we win, or did the bad guy win this one?” Evelyn O’Connell asked her husband. Rick was stretched out on the other bed of the sleeper cabin aboard the Simplon Orient Express, somewhere between Belgrade and Venice, on their way back to England, and home.
He yawned. “Well, we’re all alive, and Jonathan isn’t cursed, so we at least broke even. Your mysterious ancient Egyptian god hasn’t conquered or destroyed the world yet—not even so much as a minor dark omen, or creepy prophetic dream—that you’ve mentioned--so either we won, or maybe he wasn’t a bad guy?”
Evie frowned. “He certainly wasn’t a good person—I don’t think he was either. Good, or a person. Not a person like you, or me, or even Imhotep—for all his evil powers and ruthlessness, Imhotep was once human, and understandable. Nyarlathotep… isn’t that human.” She shivered, suddenly cold.
Rick glanced admiringly at his wife’s form, scantily clad in her nightdress. “So he’s unlikely to destroy the world trying to resurrect his old girlfriend?”
Evie smiled, noticing Rick’s gaze. “I don’t think we have to worry about that!”