Hunt Through the Cradle of Fear by Gabriel Hunt, Charles Ardai Page A

approached the wall, ran one index finger along the ancient images.
    “‘Through the portal’—that’s this here, I’ve got to assume,” she said, pointing to the circular hole, “‘but,’ it says, ‘take heed the supplicant shall bear all right and proper offerings to…placate, mollify, something like that…the jealous heart of Hathor.’”
    “And what does that mean?” DeGroet said.
    Sheba shrugged. “There were many forms of ritual offering in ancient Egypt. Burnt offerings, bowls of grain, poured water, incantations.”
    “And which form does it say is called for here?”
    “It doesn’t.”
    “It must,” DeGroet shouted, and his voice echoed from the close stone walls. “It must. Read it again.”
    “I already—”
    DeGroet whipped his sword up. The point of the blade danced an inch away from Sheba’s throat. “Read it again, I said.”
    She stepped back, turned once more to face the inscription.
    “‘…all right and proper offerings…jealous heart…’” Sheba’s voice took on a quality of despair as she ran her eyes along the rows of symbols again. Then her voice changed. “Wait, hold on. Here it talks about Hathor’s role as guardian of the floods, ensurer of fertility…it says, ‘Her heart is’…gladdened?…no, no, made light, ‘her heart is made light by the vision of her holy ones loaded down with the river’s wealth.’”
    “The river’s wealth,” DeGroet said.
    “It’s an expression you see in inscriptions during the Early Dynastic Period,” Sheba said. “They were a desert people and depended wholly on the Nile for survival. The river’s wealth was its water—that and the red silt it left behind, the rich dirt in which they could cultivate crops.”
    “So what is it telling us,” DeGroet said, a mocking tone in his voice, “that we must carry mud to enter?”
    “I don’t know,” Sheba said unhappily. “All I can tell you is what it says.”
    DeGroet turned aside, surveyed his men.
    Gabriel hung back, kept his chin tucked down.
    “Zuka,” DeGroet said, pointing with his sword at the the older man, who was loaded down with the pair ofcanvas rucksacks he’d picked up on the way in. “You have canteens in those bags of yours?” The man nodded. “Mix up some mud.”
    “Mud?” Zuka said. “With what?”
    “You have a sandbag?” DeGroet said, and Zuka nodded again. “Use that.”
    “But—”
    “Use it,” DeGroet snapped. He turned to Rashidi. “You will carry it in.”
    The young man’s face went pale, and Zuka’s head snapped up. “Not my son, please, effendi, ” he said. “I will go. I will carry it.”
    “You?” DeGroet growled. “Do you think you could fit inside that hole, you fat ox? Or Hanif—” he waved at the man with the goatee “—or Karoly?”
    Karoly frowned at this.
    “Send the woman,” Zuka said.
    “I do not trust the woman,” DeGroet said. “Your son will do it.”
    “But he will die, effendi. ”
    “He most certainly will die if he doesn’t go, since I will kill him, and you with him. Now make your mud.” Zuka miserably returned to mixing water from one of his goatskin canteens with the contents of a heavy sandbag.
    “You,” DeGroet said, turning back to Sheba. “You will tell us what he is to do with this mud.”
    “I don’t know!”
    “Figure it out,” DeGroet snapped. “You have one minute.” He turned to Karoly. “It is like pulling teeth, sometimes. Getting anything done.”
    Sheba went back to the writing, searching it for any further indication of how the offering was to be presented. Zuka remained kneeling on the floor, taking the sand and dirt that had filled the bag and mixing it with water in a loose, wet pile on the chamber’s floor. Rashidistood alone in the center of the room, visibly trembling.
    Gabriel’s hand tightened on the grip of the rifle in his hand. He would have to act—he had to do something. The only question was when. He could pull his guns now, grab Sheba, try to