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Excerpt from
The Blood of Isis:
Chapter 1
The enemy could be anywhere
and she’d never see them.
Streaming rays of red-gold
sun glinted across an ocean of dry sand, making it impossible to keep an
eagle-eye for enemy archers. Why the Guild-Master had directed them to pursue
this quest in the Deshret Desert of Kemet was beyond her. And to find an
ancient, buried wedjet, of all things.
Helen crested the top of a
sand dune, and using her helmet to shield the blinding sun, scanned the new
territory for Horde warriors. Not a one.
Breathing a travel-weary sigh
of relief, she clicked the water-pouch off her utility belt and dragged it to
her cracked lips. Regeneration filled her life-force. Good, she’d need it to
continue the quest.
The clash of metal against
armor drew her attention to the basin below where Nur-gul, the only other female
in her guild, battled a lone Orc. Nur-gul better finish him off quick,
otherwise they’d both be marked as babyshoes and kicked out of the guild. And
she’d worked hard to get accepted into this one.
Clamping down on her
impatient need to move forward, Helen eyed a green patch of stemmy Artemisia
nearby--a few golden buds remaining. She snipped a couple of twigs to stuff in
her backpack, smiling inwardly. Even in this world, the biologist in her always
resurfaced. Besides, the Artemisia was a powerful herb and might come in useful
for a potion later.
A shadow crossed her path and
she faced the sharp blue sky. Overhead, a dark raptor of some sort circled
lazily, held aloft on a surge of gusting air. A khamsin approached.
They’d need to take shelter before the wind-storm passed.
A scurry of movement nearby
drew her attention to a black scorpion, slinking out from under a rock. With a
shrill caw, the raptor swooped, a streak of black and white, a peregrine falcon,
and in a second snapped up the scorpion and flapped away. At the scorpion's
anguished moment of death, Helen’s own life-force dipped.
Returning the water bottle to
her backpack, she forced her gaze away. Such was the cycle of life, as any
biologist knew.
She’d wait no longer. She
must get on with the quest. Helen turned back to her friend, still far
downhill. "Nur-gul. I'm going on.”
Nur-gul waved a battle-ax
high overhead and continued the attack. Blood spurted from the Orc’s head.
She’d pwn him soon.
A restless, driving, sense of
hurry forced Helen ahead, alone. If she completed this quest successfully, the
G-M had promised to give her his Sword of Susanoo. With it she’d amass enough
power to form her own guild--a women’s only guild.
She put the sun at her back
and veered east toward Khmunu, where the Druid Night-Elf had foretold the wadjet
amulet was to be found. She'd only gone a few minutes when the ground sloped
upward. Raising her field of vision, Helen looked ahead. And there, rippling
in the distant heat, was a totally unexpected sight.
She moved forward, staring
intently.
A tower rose against the far
horizon, as if the desert floor had been molded into a massive mud-colored
pyramid and stretched to the sky. Round cylinders of stone pressed one on top
of the other, almost like a step-pyramid design, except in receding tiers of
ovals rather than triangles, with the highest section obscured by a low-lying
cloud.
What in the...
The Night-Elf had said the relic would be lifted unto heaven. That tower, tall
as it was, sure did seem to reach the stars.
Helen hurried toward the
structure, compelled to see, to explore, to know. To find the amulet and prove
her worth to her Guild.
She raced to the tower before
it disappeared as the mirage it appeared to be, praying not to encounter any
enemy Horde along the way. Reaching the base, a mud-brick structure, she found
steps niched into the side. Without questioning her actions, fueled with energy
from her trek and adrenaline from her excitement, Helen grabbed the finger and
toe-holds and climbed up and around, the steps spiraling higher and higher. She
became dizzy. Her life-force dipped, lessened by the dangerous climb and
exertion.
She focused above, refusing
to look down lest she lose her nerve. Time forgotten. Her muscles strained and
quivered with exhaustion; her dry throat screamed for regeneration. But she was
almost there, could almost reach the top. Just a few more feet.
Gasping, sweat stinging her
eyes, she finally pulled herself up the last toe-hold and gazed about the flat
ground at the apex of the tower. She'd not noticed as she'd climbed, but night
had descended. A full moon, large in the optical illusion of its rise in the
horizon, bored light through a fog which swirled between the legs and feet
of--she blinked, looked again--dozens of people amassed before her.
Helen stepped back in alarm,
totally unprepared for the sight of this many peeps here, when on this quest,
beside Nur-gul, she’d seen few other life-forms. Their lack of weapons and
armor told her they were not Horde. But who were they? And could anyone direct
her to the wedjet?
No one noticed her, their
attention riveted to their inner circle on something she could not see. From
deep within the ring, a drummer pounded a rhythmic beat, to which the crowd
swayed and shuffled, chanting in a language she did not recognize. Their
costumes were not medieval but foreign, ancient, the men in strips of white
linen tied snugly around their hips, their chests bare and gleaming in the
moonlight. The women floated in robes of red, blue, and a few green.
Who were these bizarre
people? Helen's breathing rasped eerily in her ears in pace with the increased
tempo of the drums and her own anxiety.
She inched backward,
intending to retreat, to climb down the way she'd arrived before anyone noticed
her presence, prepared to abandon the quest for the amulet rather than risk
being pwn’ed. A shout from the center of the circle caught her
attention, stopping her. High above their heads, a young girl was lifted on
shoulders and hands, passed hand over hand toward the center, the girl's eyes
wide with utter fear, her blond braids jerking with her movements to free
herself, her cries muffled by a tight gag.
Oh my God.
Helen froze, but blood surged through her veins. What were they doing to the
poor child? She couldn't be more than twelve. Her mind refused to accept...
It couldn't be...
She could not leave now. The
girl's terror called out to her, entwining around her body, pushing her legs to
move, her feet to run. She had to see, to find out for sure what was going on.
It all seemed so horrifically real. She must help.
Racing for the circle, she
shoved her way in, but the crowd shifted, pressing her backward, blocking her
view. She jumped to see above the crowd, then elbowed her way through, person
by frenzied person. Another shout bellowed from the center, and as one the
crowd lowered itself, bowing to the ground.
Helen stood alone, with a
clear view of a man, older, gray-haired, with a craggy face and a hawkish nose,
a black robe thrown across his shoulders. He hovered over the girl, now chained
to a stone table--God help her--an altar. Another child, a boy, much
younger than the twisting, fighting girl, lay beside her...completely still. A
line of blood oozed from a jagged cut across his naked chest.
Helen screamed, but it came
out a strangled gurgle.
The robed man turned in
Helen's direction, the only one left standing beside himself, and raised his
hands overhead, a long stick clutched in one hand, and in the other, a curved,
wicked-looking knife, dripping blood. He shouted again in that language she'd
never heard. She froze with horror.
The crowd swarmed upward, the
drum beat revived, and the people beside her stomped their feet in pulsating
rhythm, the beat picked up by those nearby and continuing in a wave around the
circle. Pounding, beating, swaying, Helen felt caught up in the hypnotic
movements.
Shaking her head to clear the
fog, she pressed deeper toward the center. Surely she was imagining things.
This couldn’t be--there were federal regulations...
The crowd parted, and she
caught another view of the center tableau. The robed man at the altar lifted a
golden chalice above the children and then to his lips.
Helen pressed her palms over
her eyes, pushing hard, trying to force herself awake from this nightmare. She
looked again. But the horrific image before her remained vividly real.
With dawning terror, she
accepted what she witnessed. Human sacrifice. Instinctively she whirled about,
self-preservation ordering her to flee, but outrage and compassion demanded she
save the girl. Adrenaline surging through her blood stream, she pivoted and
propelled herself forward.
The drumming and thumping
grew louder and stronger, pounding in time with her own throbbing heartbeat.
She raced to the center of the circle, shoving aside the crazed spectators,
their gazes sealed on the high priest at the center, looming over the child,
whose face whitened with absolute panic, stark against the blackened
blood-stained stone to which she was chained. Each cell of her body quivering
with the need for escape, Helen experienced the girl's abject torture.
"Stop! You can't do this."
Her wails went unheard, the
beat of their feet and drum increased in pace and tempo, the people working
themselves into a frenzied religious furor.
"Kill her. Kill her now,"
they chanted.
This time, somehow, Helen
understood the language.
"No! Stop." She
screamed from the bottom of her lungs, then kicked and shoved past two enormous
men. They gave way at her force. She was almost there, just a few more meters.
"All right there, lass?" a
husky voice called to her.
She ignored it and struggled
on, stretching her fingers toward the scimitar the high priest held overhead,
his hood now covering his demonic face as he chanted, beseeching his god in a
language Helen could not, would not, comprehend. She had to...she must...
Just a bit more. From the
far side of the altar, the high priest towered threateningly, his hand flung out
to hold-off Helen.
She couldn't stop now. She
wouldn't. With complete concentration fueled by her entire body's traumatic
response, she thrust out her arm, her fingers, reaching, stretching, she must
succeed...
"Come on then, just a wee bit
to the side." The same masculine voice called her out of the fog.
No.
She must press on...here...the lab...the answer was here somewhere. When
suddenly she felt herself being pulled back, as if a mighty rubber band had
wrapped around her waist, and reeled in by an unseen fisherman on a distant
shore.
"Nooooooooo."
With her last ounce of
energy, she reached to snatch the knife from the high priest--at the same time
he bent for the kill--and grabbed his hood instead. His head jerked up, and
determined, wild brown and green eyes stared back at her in a white face framed
by pale, almost silvery hair. Bright red blood trickled out of the corners of
his--her--mouth.
Helen's mouth widened in a
silent scream of horror as she stared beneath the high priest's hood...into her
own face.
The line around her waist
tightened painfully.
"Gate C-39 now ready for
boarding."
What?
How? Damn. She must be--
She went limp. The line
jerked, cutting off her air, pulling her away. She teetered on the edge of the
tower, then fell, falling into dark, empty space.
**^**
Strong arms wrapped firmly
around her shoulders; someone slapped her cheeks. Helen's eyelids flickered
open. A bright glare of light poured in from a large panoramic window nearby,
forcing her lids closed. Jet engines revved as an airplane taxied to port
twenty feet away.
"Are ye all right, lass?"
She opened her eyes again and
stared up into a rough male face, his sharp features drawn long in concern.
"Where...what...?"
"Something happened as ye
passed me, yer nose in that thing." He pointed to her hand-held console,
stylus, and ear-buds lying on the rubber flooring by her side. "You froze and
twitched a bit, then dropped it and looked as if you were about to be sick."
Damn.
The graphics had been so real--too real. Especially there at the end. The game
had sucked her in, again. It was almost like one of those--
"You looked as if ye might
pass out in the middle of the terminal." A tic spasmed in his cheek. "I pulled
ye to the side before you fell."
Dear Lord.
She'd never passed out before, in or out of a game. Nor from one of those eerie
dreams...
Heart pounding rapidly from
the rush of the vision and her fear of the dreams, she pushed herself up. He
reached to help. She ignored him, an embarrassed blush burning across her face,
and bent to retrieve her back-pack. Blasted Winter Srings Eternal.
Should have known better than to be playing it while walking through an airport.
"I appreciate your help, Mr....?"
She held out her hand to shake his, and then noticed what he wore, his long
saffron robe marking him as one of those weird Hare Krishnas.
She blinked. Was she still
dreaming?
He shook her hand, his clasp
firm and warm, assuring her he was real. "Actually I was looking for ye. I
have a message to deliver."
His husky voice released her
from the lingering vestiges of the game, or dream, whatever it had been. He
towered over her, piercing green eyes stabbing her with their intensity and dark
hair yanked back with a leather thong. (Didn’t they usually shave their
heads?) And of all the absurdities, he wore a black-suede cowboy hat.
“Come." He motioned. "I
must talk with you privately."
Oh, no.
She wasn't falling for that. She bent and grabbed up her game gear, then backed
away from the oddest-looking Hare Krishna she’d ever seen, flinging her Berkeley
bookbag stuffed with her biology notes across her shoulder.
“Look, I appreciate your
help,” she tightened her grip on her straps, "but I must hurry. Someone is
meeting me." She maneuvered around him.
He moved faster, and thrust a
paper in her face. “The people sent me for you. Ye must read the letter.”
Her gaze traveled from the
note clenched in one large hand up his bare arm. A shoulder, padded with
muscle, bulged from under his saffron robe. He looked stronger than the usual
religious zealot. And he had razor stubble-–the careless, not deliberate, type.
Her inner alarm, barely
quieted from the horrific vision, buzzed shrilly at the obvious disguise.
“Not interested.” She searched for the nearest escalator as she hurried away.
God, how she hated crowded airports. The noise, the commotion...the weird
people...
She peered back over her
shoulder. The Hare Krishna cowboy was following her. She riveted her face
forward and quickened her pace, pushing between a traveling couple in her haste.
“Hey! What the--”
“Ms. Leoda, you must listen
to me. We need yer help.” His deep voice, low but tinged with desperation,
carried across the beeping shuttle cart that passed between them.
How did he know her name?
Her heart lodged in her throat.
She’d be a fool to wait
around and find out, traveling alone as she was. Just because he'd prevented
her from being trampled by hurried travelers didn't mean she wanted to be caught
alone with him. She lunged toward the nearest escalator marked "baggage claim"
and sprinted down the descending steps, her bookbag bumping against her back.
At the bottom, she glanced up. The weirdo was nowhere to be seen.
Whew.
Breathing easier, she still took a circuitous route, ducked once into the
women's bathroom, before heading to the creaking, rounding conveyor belts to
retrieve her check-ins. She plopped her backpack down, then tightened the
butterfly clasp onto her unruly mess of hair as she waited.
“Ms. Leoda, you canna know
what I’ve gone through to find you. I’ll not be stopped now.”
With a sharp gasp of renewed
panic, Helen swung around. The pseudo Hare Krishna stood right behind her. But
how? She’d checked; she'd lost him. And come to think of it, how had he gotten
past security upstairs? That section was for ticketed passengers only. Her
hands trembled. Unfortunately she was never as brave outside a game.
Searching for someone, anyone
close by, she took a nervous step. "Stay away from me."
He watched her earnestly as
she crept backward, then stumbled over someone’s carry-on. He flung out a hand
toward her, but whether to help her or topple her, she was unsure.
Gaining her own footing, she
pushed his hand aside. “Stop. Why are you following me? Leave me alone or
I’ll call security.”
He pulled back, frowning,
then extended his hands, palms up. The two fingers of his left hand were
missing. She winced with sympathetic pain, but swung her gaze to his face. His
eyes narrowed, appearing more frustrated than conciliatory.
“I mean ye no harm. Indeed,
you are the only one who can help the people prevent an apocalyptic world
crusade.”
Her brain whirled, clogged,
then sputtered out. “Apoca-what? Crusade? What people?”
“The people. You know.” He
wagged one heavy eyebrow under the brim of his hat. “The people. Mother
Marge sent me to you.”
“I don’t know who or what you’re talking about. Again, I appreciate your
assistance earlier. But move on before I call for help,” she said distinctly and deliberately, surveying the few people who rushed by her, focused on their own business, paying her no attention—-except for one old man seated on a nearby bench. He caught her gaze, then snapped open a newspaper in front of his face.
Her whole body clenched, she searched frantically for anyone in a uniform.
Weren’t they supposed to be everywhere now-a-days—-especially at
Dulles--watching out for suspicious people? Who knew what this psycho was
capable of?
He raised an arm, and she noticed a peculiar-looking, sharp metal object tucked
in his sash. She edged away, her heart thumping against her ribs.
“You must let me explain.”
He stalked toward her, large and dangerous-looking, his face determined and
menacing. Contained physical energy emanated from him.
Summoning the nerve to do the
only thing that came to mind, she screamed.
| 
Susan
Sipal
