Lara Croft and the Blade of Gwynnever

  Florence was a hard taskmaster, but she paid fairly when her men did their jobs. They had no hesitation opening fire on the Wolf-Heads as they entered Tutankhamen’s tomb.

  It was a nightmarish environment. The pall of mist had settled low around their feet, and the air was full of swarming locusts. The Wolf-Heads were better combatants, but Florence’s men were local, and they were less bothered by the insects.

  The replica sarcophagus and shrine offered cover, and visibility was poor.

  Dibra gave the word and, under cover of fire, got Vata clear into the next chamber. There was no turning back.

  “We have to get the canister and its contents safely out of here,” said Vata. “That is all. Nothing else matters.”

  The treasury room was remarkably still and silent. A soft yellow glow permeated the chamber. It was ethereal and quite unlike the harsh blue-white light thrown by the halogen bulbs that threaded the rest of the tomb complex.

  Florence Race, tall and elegant, stood serene, almost radiant, in the flattering light.

  She held the sword horizontally before her in both hands and spoke the last words of the ritual invocation. All that remained was the utterance of the ceremony itself. She had made all the preparations. It was time to slip the sword into the groove and deliver the final prayer of investiture.

  She would be a queen. The queen. The world matriarch.

  Florence adjusted her position at the end of the altar, took hold of the sword’s grip in her right hand, and closed her left hand around it. She raised the sword vertically in front of her face. Then she lowered the tip and began to slide it into the groove that stretched out in front of her.

  The tip danced and juddered in the “V”of the groove, as if it wanted to jump free. Florence tightened her grasp and steadied the blade, stopping for a moment and breathing slowly to calm herself. She looked down the length of the sword. It had appeared to be true, and so did the groove, but she could not line them up.

  She slid the tip of the sword back into the groove more firmly, dropping the angle as she went. The sword jerked and slipped, and the tip jumped out of the stone slot. It jumped as if it was alive, as if it had been electrified, and the jolt unbalanced Florence, throwing her against the altar. A flurry of sparks flew from the blade’s edge as it knocked against the altar’s lip.

  The yellow light dimmed slightly, and grey smoke rose from the altar.

  Florence murmured a curse of frustration. She straightened up and took the sword in both hands. She moved to the side of the altar so that the groove lay horizontally in front of her. She held the sword out parallel to the groove, fifteen centimetres above the altar. It cast a shadow.

  She lowered the sword towards the altar to make a closer comparison. More grey smoke rose from the altar, turning blue-black as the shadow began to smoulder. A strong smell of incense drifted up.

  Pain flared into her fingers.

  Florence dropped the sword. It bounced off the altar and onto the floor. When she picked it up, she did so gingerly and found that it was still hot. Hot, as if it had come fresh from the forge. She left it on the floor to cool and retrieved the copy that she’d had made.

  Florence slid the copy sword into the groove on the altar. She did it without ceremony, without thought. It fit neatly. It had been made to fit.

  But it was utterly inert.

  Then Florence laid the copy sword over the scorch mark on the altar, the shadow made by Gwynnever’s sword.

  The two swords were not the same.

  The differences were slight, but there were differences nonetheless. The length of the point differed by a millimetre or so, the angle of the blade’s taper by a degree or two.

  Florence picked up Gwynnever’s sword and ran the blade against the altar, as if against a whetstone. She made two passes and cried out. She dropped the sword and put her scorched fingers in her mouth. The sword glowed purple at its edge, and more blue-black smoke curled from the altar.

  Florence swore for several seconds. Then she took up the copy sword and ground it against the altar. There was no smoke, no scorching heat. It would take some energy, but she would make a tool from the sword.

  She would rework it. She would not be thwarted. She would make the sacred weapon fit Nefertiti’s altar.

  Lara and Carter almost ran into Denny outside the entrance of the treasury chamber.

  Denny looked anxious and tense.

  “I was looking for you,” Lara said.

  “It’s been kinda busy in here,” said Denny, “in lots of nasty ways.” Gunfire and yelling echoed through the chambers around them.

  “You can say that again,” said Carter.

  Lara raised her weapons and led the way into the treasury. Denny and Carter glanced at each other, then followed her.

  “There,” Carter whispered.

  Florence was sitting on the floor of the treasury, Gwynnever’s sword braced between her knees. With agitated effort, she was using the copy sword to try to taper a new edge, and form a new point.

  “It’s over, Florence,” said Lara, her guns aimed. “Give me the sword.”

  “She did pay for it, Croft,” said Denny.

  Lara turned her head and glared at Denny.

  “Because that’s what really matters!” said Carter, his sarcastic tone mirroring the expression on Lara’s face.

  “You’ll have to take it out of my cold, dead hands,” said Florence, dropping the copy sword and standing.

  “That can be arranged,” said Lara, panning her aim around to follow Florence’s movement.

  Florence looked down at the altar and uttered a sigh of frustration and determination.

  “Florence—” Lara warned.

  One-handed, and in one swift motion, Florence Race shoved Gwynnever’s sword into the groove in Nerfertiti’s altar.

  There was a burst of bright, golden light.

  Florence was thrown backwards off her feet as though she had grabbed a live cable.

  Blue-black smoke rose into the air, acrid and hot. Lara winced at the sound of flesh and bone hitting stone as Florence’s body landed hard against the chamber wall.

  “Oopsie,” said Denny.

  Lara holstered her guns. She strode up to the altar, reached into the cloud of smoke, and drew out the sword by its grip.

  “Lara!” yelled Carter.

  Lara turned as Florence lunged at her. She had not expected the attack. She had assumed Florence was out cold after being thrown across the room by whatever mystical energy had blasted out of the altar.

  Florence seemed almost feral. Her face was a snarl of hatred. Lara met her clawing attack and punched her away. Florence staggered, then scooped up the copy sword from the floor. She uttered a fierce shriek and swung it at Lara.

  Gwynnever’s sword came up to parry the attack and then to counter.

  Obsidian flashed against obsidian as the two blades met. The women circled each other, passing, trading blows fast and ruthlessly. The striking blades made a ringing noise like bells chiming. Lara swung and parried, and the swords locked. Lara threw out an elbow to drive Florence back and break the clinch.

  They circled again, exchanging brutal blows. Each ferocious flurry ended with them locked, and each lock broke when one of them hooked a knee or punched a kidney. The fighting was fierce, uncompromising. Florence Race was good, and she was driven by rage.

  Another flurry of blows and they locked together again. Lara blinked and breathed, trying to clear her head.

  What was wrong with her? She couldn’t think clearly. Her mind was—

  The pelts were bound to her body with tendon twine, like a second skin, allowing her ample freedom of movement. She strode across the tundra, through the hair grass and acid-yellow pearlwort, and followed the flight of the albatross. The beast was close. They could smell it. She looked left and
right along the phalanx of women warriors spread to either side. She was the spear tip.

  She saw the lumbering shape in the distance, drew her sword, lifted it to the heavens, and raised her voice to rally the battle cry. Throats yodelled in response.

  The beast rose to its full height, dense grey fur cascading from its broad shoulders. It turned to face them, its heavy brow creased, its square jaw and simian features tensed. The beast beat its chest and then dislocated its lantern jaw in an inhuman howl.

  It would not kill more of them. She would not allow it. She raised her voice, and the chorused, ululating battle cry of the women drowned out the monster’s threat.

  Denny and Carter watched, mesmerised, as the two women clashed in battle. Florence was like a woman possessed. Lara was poised, economical in her movements, precise, brutal.

  The chamber’s yellow light waxed and waned, and then turned from yellow to green, and then to an incandescent blue. The floor trembled, but Lara did not seem to notice.

  Florence lost her footing and fell out of the reach of Lara’s precise thrust. The fall saved her life.

  Carter set a wide stance and aimed a gun. Denny leant heavily against the nearest wall, and then bounced off it as he felt the wall move against his back. He landed on his hands and knees on the floor.

  “It’s happening again,” said Carter.

  “Whatever it is,” said Denny.

  Lara wasn’t listening. She was turning wide circles, thrusting, parrying, lunging, swinging, almost as if she was going through a set of exercises, except that she never repeated a move, and her head was tilted, as if she was looking up at something or someone.

  Lara had to look up into the eyes of her opponent. Past the cheek guards of his helmet, she could see the swarthy skin of his hairless face and his dark eyes. The red cloth of his garment was already dull with dirt and blood where it was not covered by his mail tunic. His legs were unclad, revealing more of his swarthy skin, and he had lost his shield.

  There was surprise on his face, too, hesitation. She was a woman. She struck first, fiercely, and low, ducking and swinging hard into his thigh. Her reach was shorter than his, but her shield work was good, and he was taken by surprise. She fought hard and fast, getting in a second strike before he could react. His first and second blows were defensive. He was exhausted, bewildered, and losing blood before he counterattacked. She would have this Roman; the first of many who would die by her hand on Iceni soil.

  Denny tried to stand, but he couldn’t, and Carter had to brace himself against a wall as the floor began to writhe beneath him. The texture was changing. The stone was breaking, cracking, and remoulding. It shifted and throbbed. Then it began to cohere at the centre of the room.

  Carter got his footing. He grabbed Denny by the back of his jacket and dragged him to his feet. They were both armed, and they watched the floor.

  Florence had been jostled by the floor as it rumbled and undulated, shoved against a wall, crumpled in a heap. As the floor began to stabilise, from the walls inwards, she lay still, lifeless.

  Only Lara seemed comfortable on the floor as it swelled and moved beneath her, sending up a green mist. It was almost as if she were surfing or moguling. Her knees bent and flexed to the rhythm of the floor, and her hips swung and her body weight adjusted to the movement as if instinctively. And all the time, her upper body was doing battle with some imagined adversary, her sword arm swinging, her free arm balancing, or coming in to throw an elbow or a punch.

  Lara stood on the prow of her ship. They were under attack; the boarding party was clambering up the keel, being beaten down by her loyal crew. Her lieutenant was at the helm.

  Then the enemy was upon her. She did not hesitate as he plunged across the swaying deck. She struck first. He snarled, expelling his breath as he parried. She crossed, defended, lunged, ducked. The ship yawed, throwing her attacker off balance, and her blade pierced his right shoulder. He cried out and tried to swing, but his arm was partially disabled. He switched his sword to his other hand, but it was too late. Lara brought her blade hard across his belly, eviscerating him.

  Carter and Denny watched as mist rose to shroud Lara, and a shape began to emerge from the floor, green and brown, rough and scaly. The curved back ended in a long, thrashing tail, the thick neck in a long, flat, tapering jaw filled with a mass of protruding teeth. Lara rose into the air, standing astride the emerging back.

  “The Sobek!” gasped Carter.

  He drew his gun and began to fire on the beast. Shots spanged and pinged off the dense, petrified skin of the creature, ricocheting into the walls and altar.

  Denny reached out and batted the barrel of the gun down.

  “For God’s sake, Bell! You’ll get us all killed,” he said. “You’ll get Croft killed!”

  “How?” Carter asked. “How the hell do we get close to that thing?”

  The great crocodilian tossed its head and snapped its jaws as it began to surge forwards, its tail swinging back and forth. Lara continued on its back, riding it, carving a path through the mist.

  The beast’s passage was relentless. It surged through the tombs and chambers, tossing its head and snapping its jaws. All other beasts cleared a path for it, turning their backs or casting down their eyes. Obstacles were crushed or swept aside by its swinging head or clamped between its jaws before being discarded.

  “Oh, the waste,” said Carter, as he and Denny followed in its wake, walking at a distance behind its lethal tail, single file, staying in the creature’s blind spot. “The history being lost.”

  “Never mind the history,” said Denny. “I could make a fortune out of this stuff.”

  The Sobek entered Tutankhamen’s tomb in a low veil of green mist. The locusts, which had been swarming, dissipated at once, vanishing into the shadows. Dibra suddenly had a clear shot at Florence’s guards. The sight of the monstrous apparition did not faze him. He had good cover and honed skills. He relied on his training, training that would help him avoid panic, get them out alive, and protect his principal. He picked off two of Florence’s men before any of them got a shot off. The others were all terrified by the appearance of the ancient Egyptian reptilian god. One fainted clean away; another was a gibbering wreck.

  “Time to leave, sir,” said Dibra. He sounded ridiculously calm. He pushed Vata out of cover in front of him and then followed.

  The Sobek saw the movement. It rushed them.

  “Dammit,” said Dibra. He aimed at the charging creature.

  “Run,” he told his boss.

  The beast’s jaws opened wide. The Sobek launched its full weight, turning its huge head sideways to strike.

  The massive jaws clamped around Dibra’s torso. The bottom jaw pierced his thigh, hip, and abdomen. The top jaw went through his shoulder and arm, and pierced an artery in his neck.

  When the Sobek’s jaws shut entirely, Dibra’s head was sliced from his body, and his legs severed above the knees. Everything else, including the duffel bag with its precious cargo, disappeared into its insatiable maw.

  Denny and Carter stopped dead. They watched Lara launch herself off the ascending back of the crocodilian as it flew forwards. She landed on its shoulders, feet wide, knees soft, dipping her hips low and then rising upright as much of Dibra’s body disappeared between the Sobek’s jaws.

  Mist bellowed from its nostrils, and from the pall rose another ancient, long-dead warrior. What was left of Dibra raised its single hand, now armed with a chain mace, fixed its hollow glowing eyes on Lara, and swung the weapon.

  Lara sidestepped the mace, and brought her sword down to put Dibra out of his misery.

  The Sobek swallowed the parts of Dibra that it had torn away, and, satisfied with its snack, continued its plodding passage through the tombs. The falcons formed an honour guard high above its giant form, as if drifting on invisible thermals in a great, black archw
ay. They did not strafe Lara, or pluck or pick at her.

  She looked left and right, and as far as Lara could see was a great Arab force riding into battle. She was at its head. She thundered across the desert to meet her adversary, her blade flashing in the sunlight. She split a head, carved an arm from its body, pierced a femoral artery. Every cut, every thrust took down an enemy.

  Then her horse was gone from under her and she was standing on the shifting sands. Even at a height disadvantage, she wielded the sword around her shoulders and above her head like a whirling dervish, carving at the enemy mounts, thrusting at legs and groins, unseating her adversaries, and making her kills.

  Carter and Denny watched as Lara made easy prey of the falcons. She swung her sword around her shoulders and over her head, ripping through their oily feathers, slicing through wings and necks, reducing the birds to scattered, crackling black insects that rained to the chamber floor.

  “I don’t know how she’s doing it,” whispered Carter.

  “Is she even conscious?” asked Denny. “Doesn’t matter. It looks like we’re going to get out of this godforsaken place.”

  “That is a god!” said Carter, pointing at the Sobek.

  “Don’t remind it,” said Denny.

  The Sobek cut a path through every chamber back to the passage and out of the tomb. All the while, Denny Sampson and Carter Bell followed in its wake. The other creatures in the tomb bowed to it, hailed it, formed honour guards. It was their superior. It cut a swath through the humans, too, turning any and all who crossed its path into undead warriors, only for Lara to kill them anew.

  Florence’s men knew the legends. They hid, played dead, or kowtowed. The Wolf-Heads were more pugnacious. Any who were roused to attack were cut down; any who underestimated the Sobek died twice. Dibra had been the first, but several others followed.

  Then they were in the desert, out in the darkness, in the cold, under the night sky.

  There was no sun.

  Carter and Denny followed the Sobek for a hundred metres, but it began slowing. Another hundred metres and it was crawling on its belly, its skin turning a sickly grey. Its joints were creaking.