The sun baked down onto Jason as he surveyed the ridge before him.  He'd been two days searching just at the mountainside.  His goal didn't seem any closer.  He wondered if the map he'd been given wasn't some wild goose chase.  He'd fix that if it came to it.  He wiped the sweat from his brow, shifting his wide-brimmed hat out of the way.

He felt himself wobble and cursed his stupidity.  A long drink from his canteen pushed back the heat for a moment.  He splashed a bit on his face, washing the burning sweat from his riverbed brown eyes.

"Don't kill yourself with stupid," said Martin. The light-skinned black was watching him carefully.  He was pouring sweat as well, but it looked like he was dealing with it better.

"You know me, Martin, I'll die for crazy but not stupid," grinned Jason.

"Hard to tell with you, sometimes," mused Martin.  He took a deep drink of his water.

"You think that Scott was on the level about this map?" asked Jason.

"Yeah," replied the broad-shouldered man, "He was worried about some English-French team getting to it first."

"Well, I can't find this damned pass anywhere," grumbled the long-haired cowboy.  He scanned the ridge again.  He froze as he ate those words.  A thin break in the mountains caught his eye.  He realized it was only a matter of luck that he'd seen it.  From this distance, it was just a hairline of light streaking down the mountain.  It was only visible due to the sun moving to just the right spot in the sky.


"I take that back," Hollered Jason, "Last one there's a daisy!"

He let out a whoop as he leaped into the saddle.  He was off in a flash.  Martin swore, taking off after him.  The two cowboys tore across the steppes.  It had been a frustrating two weeks of hunting for this tiny path along a barren mountain range in the wide lands of the Uzbeks.

They'd been given a map by a Scottish arms dealer in exchange for

forty percent of any treasure they could find.  It was a race to find the lost vaults of a Mongol king named Timur.  A team lead by an unnamed Englishman and a Frenchman had a four day head start. 

They'd seen traces of them on the way.  One of them was apparently a chain smoker.  It was probably the Frenchman given the particular scent of the many cigarettes trailing between burned out campfires.  The Scot had told them he liked expensive tobacco. They'd counted about six riders and a supply wagon as their support.  It was a good bet that most of them would be armed in case of bandits. That'd make things tricky.

They crossed into the hills  below the mountain.  Their gallop slowed to a trot.  Rocks hidden behind scrub made it harder to navigate here.  There was a faint path leading up into the mountains.  It vanished at times though.  Martin would have to take their bearings periodically to make sure they were still going the right way.

They began hearing voices speaking and laughing about halfway up to the pass.  There was a narrow section ahead that opened up into a small clearing right at the beginning of the pass.  The pass itself was a thin trail cut deep into the rock.  There was barely enough room for a person to walk through it.  They had left the horses and wagon behind with a pair of guards.  They were two British regulars given the way they held themselves and talked, not to mention the standard issue firearms both were wearing.

"Well, I wasn't expecting real soldiers," whispered Jason as they spied.

"Gun shots'll draw the others," commented Martin.

"Yep," agreed Jason, "And they won't spook like the locals."

"Plan?" asked Martin.

Jason only grinned at him.  There was a sinking feeling in Martin's stomach.

#

A stone sailed through the air.  It  crashed onto the rock floor of the clearing.  Both of the British guards started sharply and unshouldered their rifles.  Another rock flew at them.  It almost struck one.  A man's voice called out in a strange language.  The two cocked the hammers back on their rifles, aiming at the entrance.

"We'll not be falling into your bloody trap, damned savages!" called one of the soldiers.

"We're not daft!" called the other.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," came Jason's voice.

He sunk his blade into the first soldier's throat.  A hatchet flew from his hand, splitting the second's skull.  The first gurgled trying to call out.  The other began to crawl around for a few moments.  He was dead, but his body was having trouble catching up to the fact.  He

finally collapsed in a pool of blood.

Martin led the horses in.  He looked displeased at the scene, but said nothing. 

"See?" boasted Jason, "Not a problem."

A long, sharp scream echoed from the pass.  Both men had their pistols drawn and trained down it before the sound faded.

"Accident?" asked Jason,

"Probably," doubted Martin, "Or someone got greedy."

"Less problem for..." Jason let out a noise, then scrambled up onto the supply wagon. 

Martin gave him a look, then scanned the clearing.  It didn't take him long to leap onto the wagon as well.  He let loose a long and imaginative stream of expletives.  His mind tried to comprehend what he was seeing.

The blood from the two dead Brits was gone.  The thick pools that had been growing on the rock floor had vanished.  Jason's hatchet and knife were clean though still planted in their victims.  The bodies themselves were pale and clean like a mortician's prize.  Not even a stain on their clothes.

The sun sank into the pass.  It became a golden hall.  The walls of the path were smooth, obviously worked stone.  It became a shining alternative to the creeping darkness coming up the mountainside and this unsettling disappearance of the soldier's blood.

Jason jumped from the wagon and ran down the pass. Martin was soon after.  The tunnel swallowed them as the darkness crawled into the clearing.

Night had fallen fully before they'd made it down the path, though it was a short trail.

Beyond it lay a city.  Not a town, nor a series of vaults but an entire city.   There were enough buildings to hold thousands.  There were streets, alleys, signs.  At the center was a magnificent palace.  This city was almost as big as London or San Fransisco in Jason's opinion.  It was certainly more beautiful.  There were not words to describe it. 

"I'll be damned," uttered Martin.

Both forgot the terror of moments ago.  They were too awed by the scene before them.  The buildings were beautiful even after centuries of time wearing at them.  Every building was made of stone, with wood trimming.  Both stone and wood were worked with intricate designs.  There were lamps running along the streets.  The main street had been lit, probably by the other group.

Lewis/Vault/7

Something moved down the road.  It was human, but walked strangely.  As it came closer, they could see it was a man dressed like the other soldiers.  He was missing part of his neck to a bloodless and gaping wound.  He was moving oddly from what looked like his leg having been twisted completely backwards.

The former man tried to speak.  His lips moved quickly.  No sound came out except for a wheezing from damaged throat.  Whatever had hit him must have gotten his vocal cords out in one shot.  The man was oblivious to the fact he was making no sound.

"Okay, this is seriously ruining my night," said Jason.

"So, not much of an accident," said Martin, "more of a horrifying supernatural thing."

"Yep" replied Jason, "Going to need to change my britches soon enough."

The two moved down the main street.  Their guns were in hand.  The mutilated soldier remained stationary for a few moments, then began to shamble after them.  It was still trying to speak as it moved, but didn't appear anymore threatening than a walking corpse should.  The two tried to ignore it.

That was far from easy.


There was no one else on the road until they reached the palace near the center of the city.  Two more of the British soldiers were sitting in the guardhouse.  Their rifles trained onto Jason and Martin quickly.  Some distraction was provided by their unwholesome companion though.

"Who in the blood hell are you two?" demanded the older looking of the soldiers.

"Us? Well, my name's Jason Gray and this here is Martin Stable," introduced the skinny cowboy, "We're adventurers of a sort.  Just passing through the neighborhood and thought we'd say howdy."

The soldiers, as well as Martin, stared at him in disbelief.

"Is the lady of the house at home?" grinned Jason.

The sentries growled at him a bit, both decided to aim at him.  He pointed his pistols back at them with a cheerful smile.  Martin had his own guns trained on the guards as well.

"We'll take that as a no," said Martin, "How about your bosses?"

The two Brits weighed their chances.  They whispered together, keeping their eyes on the Americans and their former comrade.  A third soldier, one no older than sixteen, appeared behind them.  He ran across the courtyard and into the palace.


"Either of you boys know what's going on?" asked Martin.

"Some damned bloody thing is hunting us down for being here," answered one of the soldiers, "They already killed Simmons here, but the bastard thing won't let him die!"

"So, it' just one thing then?" asked Martin.  He liked getting his facts together.

"As far as Professor Falk can tell," answered the same soldier, "Sarge here thinks it's just some of the locals trying to scare us off."

"Professor Falk?" asked Jason.

"That would be me," came a youthful gentleman's accent, "Professor Carter Falk, Oxford University's Antiquities Department."

Two men were approaching the gate.  The one speaking was a lean, pale man with thinning blond hair.  The shoulder of his coat was torn, adding to his generally shabby and dirty appearance. 

His companion, introduced only as Alernon, was quite the opposite.  A Frenchman, he was immaculately dressed and groomed. His hair was slicked back and his pencil-thin mustache was neatly shaven.  You would have expected to see him anywhere except coming out of an ancient palace.  He was obviously not pleased with Jason and Martin's arrival.

           
Martin was quick with questions.  To his credit, Falk was quick with answers. He must have realized that fighting would only worsen the situation in a very bloody way.  It was an admirable trait for the young scholar.

According to Carter, with some interjections from the British soldiers for color, they had been in the city for only two days.  The creature had made its presence known after they had unlocked (broken through) the first vault door.  Inside had been the bones of thirteen young adult males.  There had obviously been something of value, but the Frenchman gave a glare before Falk could reveal much.  The creature had subsequently killed three of their soldiers (all bloody fine men).    It would absorb all of the blood from its victim while also showing remarkable strength and vicious claws.  Even more disturbing was its ability to reanimate a corpse, such as the the one Jason and Martin stood near.  None of them could agree if bullets effected it.  There was an argument between the soldiers about accuracy.

The argument faded as everyone began noticing a large black mass just beyond the lantern's light.  It shifted and stretched down the entire road, always just out of the light.  It appeared that the general size of their problem had been vastly under estimated.

The walking corpse that had been with them had vanished as well. 

"How long will those lanterns last?" asked Jason.

         
"Until the morning at the very least," answered Falk.

Aleron watched the line of evil with quiet contempt.  He pulled a thin cigarette from his jacket.  He stalked back into the palace with his own purposes in mind.

The soldiers allowed Jason and Martin inside the gate.  They kept their eyes on the black shape, full of fear.

Jason immediately noticed a pile of locked satchels.  It did not take much figuring to label them as treasure.

"We on the original thought about this place, Jason?" whispered Martin.  He had noticed the bags as well.

"Naw, I think we better take this as it comes, compadre," he whispered back.

The two moved past the pile.  A few of the soldiers had remembered them and gave them a careful eye as they passed the loot. 

They stepped into the palace itself.  The artistry of the city was nothing compared to the beauty of the inner palace.   The entire place was awash with marble, carved with strange writings.  The carvings stretched from just under waist high to the peak of the minarets, below was perfectly smooth even these far centuries later.   They wondered how such a thing could have been created so long ago and unrivaled in beauty
  
by anything made in modern days.

"Timur kidnapped the best artisans of every city he conquered," came Falk's voice, almost as if he knew their minds.  He was sketching the room into a notebook.

"What's the writing?" asked Martin.

"A religious text of the Mohammedans," answered Falk, "written in Arabic rather than what I think was Timur's own language."

Martin nodded a bit as he marvelled at it.  It did not stop him from noticing the cold glare of the French archaeologist from a darkened hall.   Whatever Falk supposed, it was clear that Aleron knew their purpose here.

Gunfire erupted outside.  Martin and Jason were out with pistols drawn in seconds.  The area around the gate was choked with gun smoke.  A scream from within was cut off abruptly.  Two spears sailed out of the smoke and clattered on the stone floor.

Another pair of gunshots echoed through the courtyard.  The sound of bone shattering and a cry of delight rang after.  The clank of gears began as the gate started to rise.  Two of the three soldiered ran out from the smoke. 

The youngest of the soldiers stumbled as four spears impaled him
       
from behind.  He tried to stagger onward, his brain keeping his body in step.  A fifth spear sent him down.  His blood began to be drawn away into the stone.  The city drank his sputtering life away.

Following the soldiers from the lingering smoke came the first of hundreds of skeletons.  They had been stripped clean by the years, but each was armed with a long spear and a sword.  Among them were two of the dead soldiers, one wielding the spears that had slain him.

Jason gave it a try and put a bullet in the nearest dead man's forehead.  The impact shattered his skull and he dropped.  He did not get back up.  The cowboy let out a whoop.  Both he and Martin began shooting.  Others began going down the same way.    Fourteen eventually went down, but they were only a sliver in the necrotic army surging forward. 

The living men ran into the palace.  They were barely able to close and bare the doors before the undead reached it.  They slammed fists and swords violently against the ancient stone.  The door would not hold long.

The cowboys started reloading quickly.  The last soldier had slumped to the floor.  He was weeping in terror.  Martin took away his rifle and began loading that as well.  They were going to need every shot they could muster.

"Falk!" yelled Jason, "There a back door to this place?"
  
"Somewhere, but I haven't found it yet!  It could take weeks to find," he called back.

"Right.  You or Aleron armed then?"

"No!"

"Right! Course not!" Jason yelled, "What I wouldn't give for some dynamite or maybe the 10th Calvary right now!"

Falk ran into the room with a small crate.  He set it down very gingerly by Jason.  It was full of explosives.   Falk said they brought it in case the pass had been blocked.

Jason gave Martin a smile that sent dread into the black man's stomach.  He picked out three sticks of dynamite.  They, and his matches, went up the nearest set of stairs in search for a window.  A few minutes later a succession of three explosions rocked the palace.  Ancient dust flitted down from the ceiling.  Falk look horrified more by it than he did by the skeleton army.

Jason came downstairs with a wide grin.   "That stirred 'em up a bit."

"Now what?" asked Martin.

"Well, I was thinking we might try clearing a path through them with
  
the dynamite," grinned Jason.  He was enthused about exploding his way to freedom.

Jason gathered everyone together to explain his plan.  He'd rig a few sticks of dynamite to burn slower, then toss them along the path to the courtyard.  There would hopefully be enough time to get through at least the gate.   He couldn't see any more of them beyond the walls, but they were encircling the palace. They'd have to run for the pass once out of the gates.   It had a slim chance, but in Jason's opinion it was a good choice against simply waiting for death.  Reluctantly, each agreed to the plan.

As they prepared, Martin took Falk aside to speak to him.  "How do you think your partner'd be about splitting up the treasure you've found? If we can get it on the way out, that is."

Falk looked at Martin quickly.  The true mission of Jason and Martin formed in his mind.  "What treasure?"

"Gold, jewels, that sort," the cowboy suggested, "And don't play games with me, I saw the packs outside."

Carter laughed a bit, then explained, "There were not any gold or jewels here.  There were plenty of other artifacts though, minor artworks and such.  I theorize that Timur never got around to actually filling the vaults.  Of course, I never expected him to have done so.  An empire as his would have required great resources."

Martin cursed under his breath, "Then why'd you come all this way?"

"The history, Mr. Stable, centuries of it," Falk offered.

"Don't see how you can afford to just go rambling halfway across the world for history," Martin grumbled.

"Well, usually one would get a grant from a university to undertake such a task, though they cost a great deal in time and influence.  But there's a market for antiquities, especially selling to the British Museum.  Once I finish studying the artifacts, I usually sell them," said Falk.  His voice started to take on a lecturing tone. 

"That's all that's in the bags then?" asked Martin.

Carter nodded as if it had been obvious the entire time.

Martin walked off in a foul mood.  Jason's was no better once he found out.  They'd been promised treasure.  They'd ridden two weeks on horseback, traveled far from their cozy rooms in San Fransisco and killed two people for it.  They were going to have words with the Scot if they made it back alive.  Probably were going to have bullets too.

The survivors gathered in the main hall.  Both Jason and Martin had dynamite prepared.  They would have a handful of seconds to throw it and get back down to the doors.  There were three flights of stairs and a few yards of hallway to the nearest window. 
  
They ran as fast as they could.  Their throws wee spaced out to make as straight a line as possible to the gate.  The cowboys almost leaped down the steps afterwards.  The blast was deafening.

The group was through the doors in the next instant.  There had been few of the creatures to survive the explosion even by the door.  The ones that made it were cleared away by a few shots from Jason.  Each of the survivors grabbed as many satchels as they could carry, putting them over their shoulders.  

The remained dead, however, were far quicker to recover than any of them had anticipated. 

A rifle went off.  The black air filled with screams.  More gunfire followed.  Bones cracked and skulls shattered.  The sickening sound of skin rending whispered beneath it  An explosion sounded the final moments of the battle.  Rocks fell.  Jason felt himself still running then falling.  Something slammed into his side and darkness washed over him.

#

Jason blinked the world back into focus.  The morning light was just beginning to creep up the mount.  His ribs were in agony.  He couldn't move his left arm.  Blood and dirt caked the side of his face.  His shifted onto his side, trying to ignore the pain.

Martin was nearby.  He was bloodied and there was a large gash across the side of his chest.  He was breathing though.  Jason was glad of it.
   
"Oh good, you're not dead!" came Carter's voice.  He sounded extremely relieved.  He bent into Jason's view.  His face looked like he'd run it through a thorn bush all day.

"Everyone make it?" groaned Jason.

Carter frowned, "Aleron vanished right after we gathered the packs.  Smithers fell behind afterwards."

"We got horses?" asked Jason.

"Yeah, four made it.  I'm guessing two of them are yours," answered the professor.

Jason reached a hand out to the scholar.  With a grunt to keep back the pain and Falk's help, he rose to his feet.

"Let's get Martin up and get out of here," wheezed Jason, "long ride ahead and it'll be hard going through bandit country."

He groaned loudly as he leaned down for his hat.  The mountain stood ominous before him.  Anger poured out at him.  He grinned up at it, then placed his hat on.

It was going to be a long week.