The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3 Read online

  He left it in the sand, with a slight pang of loss, and then tied the top of the carry pack together to create a seal. In one movement, Smith lifted the heavy bag, and slipped his arms through the straps. The weight of it nearly knocked him to the ground. It was a burden none of the other men could possibly hope to bear. He looked at the kamal and dropped it unceremoniously in the sand. There was no point carrying it. If he didn’t reach the coast by the end of the day, he never would.

  There was one other item, concealed at the bottom. Of all the items, it was the heaviest. He knew he should have thrown the ancient relic away. The weight of the gold alone would kill him. That is, if its curse hadn’t already set in motion his death. He shook his head. It was impossible to discard such an item.

  He pictured the hideous golden skull, with its sweet flavored scent, burning at the center of the pyramid. It was more valuable than anything he’d ever seen. More valuable than anything he’d ever heard of, or even imagined. The grotesque device harnessed a certain power he would never have believed existed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. It was because of the relic he’d taken such risks and was now suffering more than at any other time in his life. Smith had been an explorer all his life, but this was the pinnacle of his achievements. And only he knew the extent of what he’d done.

  He recalled what the purple-eyed devil who’d given him the map to the damned temple had told him. They won’t hurt you. They will replenish your supplies and welcome you. It will be easy to steal from such trusting people. Smith had asked why the man was willing to pay such a high price for something that he could easily steal himself. Because they will recognize me on sight and kill me.

  Thomas Hammersmith interrupted his thoughts. “When will we reach the Emerald Star?”

  Smith said, “By nightfall.”

  Hammersmith stared at the rolling sand dunes ahead. “Are you sure. All I see is desert.”

  “I bet my life on it.”

  Hammersmith’s mouth opened to object. They had already bet their lives on it. “I can’t go on.”

  Smith said, “Not my problem.”

  “No. My legs are weak, my throat is dry, and my tongue is swollen. I can’t go on any further.”

  “Okay,” Smith said without looking back at the helpless man. It wasn’t his fault. Everyone had a breaking point. Hammersmith would be dead within a few hours, if he was lucky. If his body managed to hold on any longer than that, they would reach him. Smith shuddered at the thought. He couldn’t imagine what they would do to him – after what they had stolen.

  Hammersmith screamed out. “Smith! You can’t just leave me here, you bastard!”

  Smith ignored the cry.

  Hammersmith begged, “What about my ration of water?”

  Smith ignored him again.

  “I had two more rations of water left!”

  Smith continued. He alone had the physical and mental strength to carry the remaining party’s water. Every other person in the group would collapse under the weight of a single drop of water, and those who didn’t, would succumb to the desperate need for rehydration. Their thirst would have overpowered the strongest among them, and they would have drunk it all in one, pitiful, gulp.

  Smith didn’t look back at Thomas Hammersmith. There was nothing he could say. The man was as good as dead, he just didn’t realize is yet. It would be pointless to waste any more water on him. That’s if there was any water left.

  None of the lies mattered. He’d either got the navigation right this time and would see the dark blue of the Atlantic Ocean by dusk – or they would all perish. He breathed hard and pushed himself to keep going. There might just be a chance he would survive.

  That’s if my brother’s still waiting.

  *

  Thomas Hammersmith was a lean, sinewy man with deep-set eyes the same dark brown as his hair. They spoke of a life filled with hardship and plenty of suffering. His face was hard, with a heavily defined jaw-line, hollow cheeks, and jutting chin. It would never have been considered very handsome. But it could have once been a pleasant face, too, warm and open.

  He drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day. During his intermittent periods of wakefulness he called out for Smith. Begging him for just one more drop of water before he died. He called to the other members of the party. Not just to Jack Baker. He called out to those who’d already perished, too. In his delirious state, he struggled to recall who was alive and who was dead. At one point he thought he saw his wife, who had died three years earlier, during childbirth.

  She looked at him with pity. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Please,” he begged.

  She smiled at him, silently. In her hand she held a flask out in front of her, but just out of his reach. He tried to grab it, but his arm wasn’t long enough. He crawled through the burning sand, his face dragging through it. His mouth opened and he tried to reach it again, but her hands were still out of his grasp.

  “Miriam, please, I need you to come closer!” he begged. “I don’t have the strength to move.”

  She stared at him, her hardened face full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Thomas, I can only help you so much. You’ll need to take the final step yourself.”

  Thomas stared at his wife. How could she be so harsh to him at a time like this? Her hair was light brown, and her plump face was coated with the reddish blush of a woman who’d struggled through the cold hardship of the Northern Ireland winters all her life. No one would have ever considered her pretty, but she had loved him, and he had loved her. He had strengthened her resolve, and she had softened his anger. Together they had made a surprisingly good partnership – until God had taken her and his unborn child from him.

  “Open your mouth and drink,” she coaxed him.

  Hammersmith tried to drink from the flask, but found it tasted like poison. He spat it out and stared at his dead wife. “Why would you give this to me?”

  She shrieked with laughter. “Because they’re coming for you – and you don’t want to be alive when they get here.”

  Hammersmith opened his eyes in terror. He opened his mouth to scream. Instead he coughed. His mouth was full of hot sand, which burned the back of his throat, and he wondered how much he’d consumed. He’d heard stories of shipwrecked sailors becoming so desperate they drank seawater, only the salty water would inevitably speed up their deaths – would sand have the same effect?

  He heard the war-cry from his pursuers. It was faint and melodic, as though they were repeating the same series of words over and over again. They were still far away, but it wouldn’t take long for them to close the gap. He considered consuming more sand if it would bring about his more immediate demise.

  The war-cry forced his mind to return to the temple he’d tried so hard to forget. Back to the kind people who worshiped there, and to those who his party had betrayed so much. The temple was a pyramid and it almost appeared as though it had been constructed by removing all the sand around it instead of building it up by piling layer upon layer of stone on top of one another. Hammersmith recalled the first time he saw it. The place looked like the largest stone quarry he’d ever seen. Like a giant had scooped out a massive hole in the earth’s sandy crust. But instead of removing everything, the giant had left a pyramid of sandstone at its center.

  Hammersmith had seen drawings of some of the pyramids found throughout the dry African continent, but he’d never imagined just how large they could be. He had no way of knowing that this was the largest pyramid ever built, or that great armies from around the world would gladly go to war to steal what it mined.

  Inside was the most valuable thing anyone had ever seen. The local worshipers had been quick to show them. It was a skull made of gold, fashioned so that its teeth appeared to be stuck in some sort of grotesque grin, as though it knew just how much each of them had wanted to steal it. Like the damned thing was encouraging them to take it. Out of its mouth the strange religious relic burned with a darkened smoke. Eac
h of them was allowed, even encouraged, to breathe the potent black smoke.

  It sent them into a dream-like state. Everything somehow appeared clear to all of them simultaneously, as though every last one of them shared the same common goal – they needed to steal the relic and take it away, to where it wanted to go.

  Hammersmith recalled the kind people who had found them nearly starving to death, dehydrated, and unprepared for the sheer intensity of the heat of the Namibian desert. The dark skinned men and women were kinder and more generous than any other people he’d ever encountered. They took them in and healed them with good food, water and shelter. These were the good people who they’d come to betray because of man’s most cruel master – greed. And it was that greed which had convinced them to steal their most sacred possession.

  Despite the generosity of the native people, Hammersmith and the rest of the men who followed Smith were steadfast in their original goal. To steal a golden relic, so valuable, they had at first doubted its existence. They had come to the desert in search of it, with eighteen men and numerous weapons to take it by force. Only, instead of finding it, they had become run down and lost in the desert.

  The golden skull had been laid out at the center of their beautiful temple on a pedestal. The inside of the skull was hollowed, and one of the native men, a religious man by the looks of it, reverently poured a blackened powder inside. He lit it and a darkened smoke, with a sweet scent, enveloped the temple. It had made him relax, like strong liquor. Only, unlike alcohol, which mellowed him to the point of drowsiness, whatever was inside the skull, made him feel good. It made him feel strong, powerful, and like the world was in perfect order.

  It had a similar effect on the rest of the men in the party. All eighteen of them. They labored for the local people, moving large amounts of sand in giant human chains. They could work all day without rest and then wake up feeling energized and fully recovered by the morning. Hammersmith shook his head. It was the contents of that skull that had made them all so reckless. Something inside the darkened powder drove them with desire.

  On the eighth day, their party had re-provisioned the camels and Smith, the best navigator among them, had determined it would be less than three days ride to reach the Atlantic. So, as humans do – they betrayed the very people who’d saved them. At one a.m. they stole the sacred artifact that meant so much to the people who had saved their lives. They carefully made their way out of the temple and climbed the giant sand dunes to escape the pyramid.

  While being healed to good health, they had watched the hundreds, if not thousands of men, women and even children work every day to stem the tide of sand, which forever fought to drown their temple from existence. They were happy people and said they were privileged to have such a purpose, for their God had been very kind to them.

  Hammersmith climbed the steep crest of sand until they were out of the temple’s sandpit. He watched Smith take a quick compass bearing and they set off at a hurried pace, riding their camels through most of the night. If they were lucky, they would have a five hour head start on their pursuers. Their carry bags were full of water and supplies, so they could maintain a good pace. There was little reason to ration anything. They’d reach the west coast of Africa days before running out of supplies.

  They might have made it, too, if their beasts hadn’t become lame.

  *

  The sound was excruciatingly loud and appeared to approach from every direction. Through the sandy haze he tried to concentrate on the dune where the angry hoard approached. It looked like a black wave in a storm, rising up high only to soon crash down again, and take him with it to the next life. Like a mirage it moved slowly, and then it was upon him. Hammersmith knew Death had finally caught up. A broad smile crossed his cracked and bleeding lips. He’d made a final prayer to his God, and now had been granted his deliverance from this world.

  At least a thousand men, women and children cried out. They wailed like possessed fiends – demons of the dark underworld. Their cries tormenting him as they charged past. He felt their tough feet and legs brush up against his body as they ran by. With each touch he felt the sting of Death upon his skin, but somehow that blessed relief never came.

  Was this his final torment?

  Would they simply let him die of thirst?

  He was no longer frightened of Death. No fire in hell could punish him any more than his perpetual thirst. The army disappeared and he was left almost entirely on his own once more. He watched as one man stopped. The fiend sat down next to him, lifting the back of his head. The face, which had showed so much kindness only days earlier, now glowered at him with its whitened teeth and pure vehemence.

  The monster held him down with his left hand and gripped a large knife in his right. He ran the knife over Hammersmith’s face, as though he was choosing a memento before killing him – an ear, a nose, his scalp, or his dried tongue perhaps? He moved slowly, as though he was enjoying this final act. Hammersmith was too weak to resist, and let the man move his head freely. He no longer had the strength to care if he was to lose any part of his face. After all, what use did he have for any of his body parts? But what should the monster decide to take?

  An ear. It turned out to be an ear. His left one. Hammersmith noticed with a numb and morbid curiosity, as the monster showed it to him. He felt no pain. No discomfort. Not even the loss of a body part he had once found so useful. He was about to die. It no longer mattered. Instead, he felt relief. There was no doubt now, the pain of his past few days was about to end permanently. He watched as the fiend lifted his right arm in preparation for the final stroke. The sharp blade, made of fragmented obsidian looked like it would perform its task with enviable ease. The fiend’s arm came down with tremendous speed. Hammersmith didn’t flinch. His eyes remained glued on the weapon that would take his life – but the blade never reached its target.

  Instead, the wretched man’s face exploded in a gush of broken bone fragments, skin, tissues and blood. Hammersmith heard the rapport of the rifle a split second later. He looked up and saw its owner approach. His skin wasn’t dark like the rest of the local people. Instead it was deathly pale, like that of a ghost. The man’s eyes were wide, and glowed purple as though he was able to see into his soul. Hammersmith had never seen anyone with purple eyes.

  The ghost handed him a flask of water. “Here, drink this.”

  He slowly reached out and took it. The liquid sloshed inside. He stared at it for a moment. The water looked clear and there was no toxic smell coming from inside. He took a small, furtive taste. It was cool, sweet, and divine. A moment later he gulped the water down until he felt euphoric.

  “Careful,” the stranger advised him. “Your body’s been profoundly dehydrated. You’ll make yourself sick if you drink too much, too fast, now.”

  Hammersmith took another gulp of water. What did he care if he made himself sick now? He had water!

  The ghost handed him another flask of water and a compass. “Keep the bearing due south. There’s a Portuguese settlement no more than a day’s walk from here. You should make it easily. Good luck.”

  Hammersmith stopped drinking and looked up. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the man trying to retrieve what you stole from my temple.” The man’s words were spoken calmly, without any trace of vehemence or reprimand. Somehow, that made them sound even more frightening.

  “I’m sorry,” Hammersmith mumbled.

  The ghost started to move again. He was following the army, who were following the last two remaining members of their original party.

  “Why did you let me live?” Hammersmith shouted.

  The man stopped. His voice was steady, clear, and held a certain undertone of the danger to come. “Because I want you to go back to my brother and give him a message – tell him he’ll never get his greedy hands on it. I’d rather destroy it before I let him succeed.”

  “I’ve never met you, or your brother!”

  “No?” The ghost didn
’t look surprised, and he definitely didn’t look like he cared. “He knows you. And someone from your party knows him. Why else did you think you were sent to the temple?”

  “We didn’t know about the temple. We were sent to explore the land to the east of the desert!”

  The ghost ignored his lies. “Just give him the message.”

  “But how will I find him?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”

  Hammersmith said, “But it might take years to find a ship back to civilization, and even longer still for your brother to find me!”

  “That’s okay. This is a family dispute. It’s been going for centuries now. It can wait.”

  Hammersmith glanced at the man, his pale blue eyes weak and pitiful. “Am I dead, and are you a God?”

  “Some might see me as that. Others might call me that. My brother would have you believe that.” The ghost stared at him, his intensely purple eyes piercing at his soul. “The world is approaching the horns of a dilemma – my name is Death and I am here to set it on the right path.”

  *

  Smith stared out from the crest of the sand dune, and the dark blue water of the Atlantic stared straight back at him. Baker followed him over and screamed in excitement. There were a series of sand dunes ahead progressively decreasing in height until the final one became swallowed by the Atlantic.

  He opened his telescope and looked out toward the Atlantic. He scanned the area starting from where the sand dune entered the water, all the way out past the breakers. The water looked like a terrible mixture of white, frothy and turbid waves. Behind them, no more than three or four miles from where he currently stood, the Emerald Star rested at anchor.

  They would reach it within the hour.

  He felt his heart race in anticipation. His brother had waited for him. He’d played the most dangerous of gambles, and it was about to pay off. Smith grinned. He’d stolen what he’d set out to steal. He was going to be rich. The gold alone was worth a fortune, but the man with the purple eyes had offered at least ten times its weight in gold. Now that he’d seen what the relic could do, he didn’t doubt for an instant such a tremendous price was achievable. He even had wondered whether he wanted to sell it for that price. It didn’t matter. He had plenty of time to make a decision. Smith’s delirious sense of happiness, disappeared as quickly as it had arrived – with the crack of a rifle shot.