Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (22 page)

“Did Duncan teach you that word?”

She burst with a loud chuckle and covered her mouth. “Oops. People sleeping.” She examined the photo on his cell phone. “Is good photo.”

“Great photo.”

She rolled her lower lip inward, “Sorry but I must sleep now. Thank you for talk, Aaron. Masz ładny uśmiech. Good night.”

“My pleasure, Stefania. Have a good night.” Aaron backed out of the tent to the open night. He admired his latest digital photo for several seconds before changing the screen. The Polish translation read, ‘
You have a nice smile.’

=[]=

The unobstructed sunrise from the eastern flats cast an orange light through Aaron’s eyelids. He could not bring himself to rest aside a naked man he hardly knew, and chose to sleep on the ground outside of Duncan’s tent.
How did Duncan rest so sound with a deceased Mongol warlord in the next tent?
He could not decide if it were discomfort of the bumpy earth, the progress of the excavation, or revelling in the encounter with Stef that had hindered his rest. The Sword of Khan was just as much of a mystery as its bearer.
Could it really have unearthly powers?
Was it the Khan that brought about the legend of the Sword, or vice versa?
Duncan released an unconscious groan behind him.
If the Khan and his Sword were found, had Haguyu worked out the details? Stef would want to analyze the Sword. If it really granted power, Qashi would be interested. Who knows how many volunteers had their eyes on it . . . and then there’s Duncan.
As straightforward as the Australian seemed, his motives weren’t clear.

The soft thump of a sandaled foot startled Aaron. He met the wizened eyes of Haguyu. Empty wooden buckets in each hand, he offered one to Aaron and made for the lake.

Aaron rushed to Haguyu’s side. “Good morning.”

“Same. I give you my thanks for coming and helping.”

“I am honored to be here, Haguyu.”

The elder looked Aaron up and down. “Why have you travelled all this way? Why are you interested?”

“Discovering Genghis Khan would earn the attention of the world.”

The elder’s long silence made him nervous.

“Haguyu, what do you plan to do with the Sword of Khan?”

The old man glanced over his shoulder and sighed, impatience in his expression. “Tourism.”

“Tourism?”

“Build a museum. People visit Mongolia from everywhere to see the Sword.”

“What about his body? And Chagatai? And the rest of the funeral procession?”

“More displays for museum.” He smirked, more patronizing than innocent.

Aaron wanted to ask him if he believed all his help were on board with his vision, to inquire if he was concerned a nearly eight hundred-year-old corpse had only a tent and blanket protecting it from the elements, to ask why his brute of a son ran the volunteers like a tyrant. He knew Haguyu’s guard was up; his answers came across as rehearsed default. Aaron doubted his inquiry about the Sword first, and the Khan second, left a good impression with the elder archaeologist.

Haguyu spoke as if delivering lecture. “The soldiers pledged loyalty to the Khan and his Sword in life and beyond. There is an old saying, ‘As Sword commands, Golden Horde shall follow’. Both Khan and Sword belong in security of Mongol people.”

By the time they returned with full buckets, Qachi had roused the camp into action; his boisterous volume muted only when in close vicinity to Stef’s tent.

“I think your son is fond of Stef,” Aaron said.

“You are a keen observer. It is best you stay away from Stef, or Qachi may show his unfriendly side.”

You call his current personality
‘
friendly’?
Aaron wondered if the old man had translated his words correctly. He set down the bucket and queried Duncan from outside his tent if he could use assistance in the meal preparations
(
“
no slushy today,” whatever that means)
, before acquiring a spade and getting to work.

The intact skeleton of a horse had been freed from its grave
(Qachi must not have had a chance to pull it apart).
Stef undusted the bones with delicate strokes of a painter’s brush. She smiled warmly at Aaron. He waved in a subtle motion, to avoid the jealous wrath of Qachi.

Within the hour, the diggers discovered hints of two additional corpses. The pace of the spades livened with excitement. Haguyu issued a work stop, spread the team in a circle around the remains of the funeral procession, and stressed that their focus was the discovery of the Mongol leader rather than his subjects. The elder examined each laborer’s progress with a sharp eye. Aaron preferred the concentrated effort over responsibility for his own hole. On either side, Qachi and the pudgiest of the volunteers plowed earth twice as fast.

Aaron’s patience thinned as the morning advanced. Not only were the other workers making him look bad, but a groaning stomach nagged him for nourishment.
Will Duncan call meal time already?
Duncan fidgeted, periodically checking a pot on the grill for boiling water. The sun intensified over the fringe of the Gobi. Aaron hurled an excavated baseball-sized rock toward the lake in his best Bret Saberhagen imitation, his favorite all-time Royals pitcher. The pudgy laborer applauded Aaron’s form. Qachi glared until labor continued.

Shovels came to a synchronized halt with a clunk of iron meeting buried wood.

All but Duncan clamored to the pudgy worker’s hole. Qashi dove to his knees and displaced dirt by the handful in every direction. The corner of a box met sunshine and open air for the first time in ages. Stef disappeared to get a camera. Volunteers squeezed in on either side to dig the rectangular box to freedom. Aaron in the rear struggled to be helpful. Haguyu spoke Mongolian commands to the group.

Aaron’s cell phone translator, set back to Mongolian, displayed ‘
Take caution. Do not break it’.

The coffin was sturdy, with a featureless exterior.
Could this really be Genghis Khan?
Aaron expected a temple or lavish resting place laden with gold. Then again, his followers went to great lengths to keep the grave a secret.
Much of the known world deemed him a villian.
A shrine would have been a target of spite for years after his death.
Lieutenant Chagatai and the funeral procession did their parts in assuring the resting spot was, unlike the Khan, unassuming and peaceful.

Qachi forced grubby fingers around the base. Volunteers shimmied the coffin while he pulled with extreme force. The box jilted. Haguyu echoed his words of caution. Aaron stepped alongside Qachi; each grasped one corner. Shovels wedged into surrounding dirt, used as jacks. A clunk from within came as the team angled the coffin.

Could that have been the Sword?

They slid the coffin to level ground.
It looked more like a produce crate than a leader’s tomb,
Aaron thought.

Qachi motioned the volunteers away.

Haguyu watched over Qachi’s shoulder.

Aaron gazed in awe over the other shoulder.

Volunteers exchanged incredulous expressions.

Qachi pried the studs along the top of the coffin with his shovel.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Stef to take pictures or film this?” Aaron asked no one. No one replied.

With the creak of a stubborn plank, the lid freed. Decay rose with dust. Patches of aged silk and chain mail fell between a rib cage. The backbone was hardly more than powder. The tibia of the right leg displayed a clean break. The legend of Genghis’s taking an arrow to the leg was confirmed. The skull rested within a decayed helm, cheekbones stripped of tissue. The arms shifted under the ribcage with the motion of the coffin, releasing what was once held within them. All eyes roamed to the right of the skeleton. The pommel of gold fashioned as a dragon head; atop it, a blade of deep blue not akin to metal worked on earth. The tip of the scimitar arced toward the Khan’s cheekbone.

The laborers roared with applause. Haguyu glanced from Aaron’s cap to the Sword of Khan. Aaron muttered, “Royal blue.”

Qachi reached into the coffin, a threshold unsurpassed for centuries. He ran a finger along the pommel, staring into the empty eye sockets of the Mongol war hero.

“Qachi,” his father spoke.

“Don’t,” Aaron added.

The skull shifted to face Qachi. Aaron and the volunteers leapt back. Qachi stood motionless. He watched for several seconds before releasing an exhale, concluding the skull had detached from the movement. He pointed and cackled; others joined, laughing off their nerves.

Come on, Stef, where are you.

Enjoying the attention, Qachi stood over the skull and mocked a hollow stare. Laughter resurged through the volunteer onlookers. In close proximity to steadfast Haguyu, Aaron remained respectfully humble.

The jawbone moved. An air of sulfurous steam rose from the orifices of the Khan, streaming into the nostrils and mouth of Qachi. He bent forward; his cackling turned to a hacking weeze.

Haguyu approached his choking son. “Qachi—”

Fingers wrapped around the dragonhead pommel.

Haguyu clapped his palm on Qachi’s back in steady repitition. The gasping and coughing ceased. The elder aided his son upright and presented a hand for the Sword, a rewarding smirk of fruition across his wrinkled face.

With a vile glare, Qachi spun.

The blade soared without resistance. Greyed lengths of Fu Manchu floated softly downward, before settling on Haguyu’s decapitated body. The gushing head rolled into a ditch.

Aaron froze in terror. Two volunteers charged Qachi. The blade struck with murderous grace, as if in the possession of a master swordsman. One laborer fell, a diagonal slash across his torso, the second gushed from a stomach penetration . . .

Aaron shouted toward the camp, “
Stef! Duncan!
”

A piercing pain surged through Aaron’s right shoulder. In slow motion, cold, foreign friction slipped along his collarbone as Qachi pulled back the blade. Aaron’s fresh blood stained the blue point. He dropped to his knees, then fell face-first to the arid ground, which absorbed the red flow from his body. His cell phone tumbled beside his face.

Qachi leapt at the retreating volunteers, slicing them down one by one.

“Unngh.” Agony spiked throughout his neck. The corpse of the pudgy worker toppled onto Aaron’s back, pinning him down. The struggle to remain conscious faltered his senses. Tearing flesh, dying wails, and lifeless thuds came through intermittent hearing that Aaron prayed would fail.

A blurred image of Qachi stood amidst the dispatched laborers, admiring the carnage with menacing glee. He wiped the blade clean on a laborer’s scalp.

Aaron did not move. His hat rim cast shadow over his eyes. Qachi could easily kill him.
Does he think I’m dead?
The shoulder wound rendered his right arm unresponsive, but pressure on top of him slowed the bleeding. Qachi wiped red droplets from his goatee and surveyed the scene. Both his, and Aaron’s, eyes fell upon the large tent.

Oh God, no! Stef get out of there!

Her silhouette along the cloth wall got to its feet, camera ready in hand. The flap of the tent rustled with Qachi’s entrance. His shadow advanced on the woman.

Stef!
Aaron wheezed, unable to broadcast his voice. He raised his head. Dizziness lowered it.

She spoke scolding words in Mongol.

Qachi is not himself. Blind him and run!

Her body language instructed Qachi to pose with scimitar drawn. She raised a camcorder, giving an approving thumbs-up.

Qachi roared and lunged.

My God! Nooo!

A mortal slice ripped through the air; her silhouette replaced by splatter. Qachi hissed Mongolian words to the fallen woman.

Aaron’s cell phone displayed, ‘
Your people will not stop me again!’

Duncan emerged from his personal tent. Qachi reappeared, forty feet from where Duncan stood. Duncan raised an arm and cocked a pistol.

“G’day, mate. I’ll be taking that off yer hands.”

Yes! Shoot him!

Qachi did not advance, withdraw, or relieve the weapon. He raised the Sword, eyeing Duncan’s weapon with curiosity. Each held their ground in a glaring showdown.

“Lay it down or I’ll shoot.”

Qachi grinned.

Fleshless arms grappled Duncan from behind.

“What the hell!” Duncan dropped the gun to pry the hands of Lieutenant Chagatai from his neck. Decayed tendons dangled from the undead’s forearms like spaghetti. A jaw sank into Duncan’s shoulder. He squirmed, but bony palms clamped on his cheeks denied escape.

“Pig’s arse.”

The zombie jerked his arms. Duncan collapsed with a broken neck.

‘
As Sword commands, Golden Horde shall follow.’
Aaron bit his lower lip and silenced his breathing. Had Qachi saved him until the end on purpose?

Chagatai hobbled toward Aaron, favoring the foot without a coin-sized slit. Qachi motioned a halt command.

They’re not . . . going to kill me?

The zombie Lieutenant joined its master. Both faced the Gobi desert. Aaron craned his head to see what they were looking at.

A dust cloud grew, a black figure approached. A second figure came into clarity.

Galloping horses.

As Aaron identified them, the dust in their wake contorted. Transparent figures, riders, emerged into vision. Three per side became five, then ten, until the entire horizon skewed by hundreds of spirit-riders.

My God . . .

Two dark mares arrived beside Qachi and Chagatai. With fiery eye sockets, their skulls burned from within. Smoke flowed from nostrils while their owners mounted. A thousand hooves in muffled clatter and a chill of undeath surrounded Aaron; the swarm of corporeal horsemen awaited command. Qachi screamed a battle cry, mobilizing the army. He sneered in pure madness one final time at Aaron and spun his steed. The two solid horses led the spirit-riders northward, toward Karakorum.