Back to Life, a tomb raider fanfic

Back to Life

Tim Radley

This story was my entry for last year's Village of Tokakeriby Story Competition (http://www.geocities.com/ostercy/subterranean.htm), where the goal was to write a story continuing on from the ending of Last Revelation in 10,000 words. The second Village of Tokakeriby Story Competition has just been announced, details here (http://www.shef.ac.uk/britfanfic/secondsub.htm, closing date 22nd June 2002) and I'd urge anyone with an interest in writing TR fanficion to enter.

Damn.

Bloody uncomfortable this bed. I'd never quite noticed that before. My body can't be persuaded to do anything about it though. Oh well, that's okay then.

Darkness. Floating.

I don't know how long it is before a coherent thought forms again. Then I realise that there's someone else in the room with me. I can hear their footfalls, soft and distant. Did I ask Winston to bring breakfast up? I can't remember. My head is slightly fuzzy just now. Possibly that's understating it a bit.

Must be Winston. No one else would be coming into my bedroom at this time. Leave the breakfast on the bedside table and don't whatever you do open the curtains. There's a sport.

Hmm, something odd here.

The footsteps are subtly wrong. Winston – well to be blunt he shuffles. These footsteps don't. And instead of moving around the bed they walk straight up to it. I can feel whoever it is dimly, standing over me, casting a shadow.

Still, if it were anything to worry about I'd have done something about it by now. So it can't be worth bothering with. There, impeccable logic. I start to drift again.

An odd sound intrudes. Metallic. Again I'm not sure how long it's been. They're still standing over me, that person. I can hear their breathing – soft and pensive. Very well they should be too. Bloody cheek, intruding in a lady's bedroom like this. I've got a damned good mind to. . . Oh, who cares?

Whoever this impertinent individual is, they lean closer. I can feel their breath on my cheek, and there's a smell. A very strong smell – sharp and sterile like carbolic soap. Strangely it's the smell that penetrates where nothing else has.

My eyes snap open.

There is a face directly above my own. Eyes so dark they look almost black; skin like worn and pitted bronze; a neat moustache shot through with strands of silver-grey. His pupils contract rapidly in shock.

Then my gaze catches on something hard and scintillating – a bright line, held in his hand and poised above my breasts. My hand shoots out and clamps tight around the man's wrist.

A scalpel, I finally register. About to make an incision into my flesh.

Then he screams; a wild, terrified shriek. He yanks his wrist violently from my grasp, the scalpel falling and clattering on the floor.

His face disappears from my field of view and I hear the sound of footsteps running rapidly away. There is the sound of a door being thrown violently open, then the footsteps fade gradually from earshot.

I raise a hand to rub my forehead, the bright light painful to my eyes. How odd.

* * *

Okay, I'll admit it. Pausing when I see old Werner was not the wisest decision I've ever made. In fact, as I find myself hanging by my fingernails over a bottomless abyss with rock falling all around me, I'd venture that it is the most cretinously stupid thing I've ever done.

But no time for recriminations now.

My feet scrabble for grip, kicking at empty air. The muscles in my arms feel like they're on fire. In fact my whole body aches from the battering it has so recently received.

My grip starts to slip, millimetre by inexorable millimetre.

Strangely I don't feel particularly afraid. I should. I'm going to die. But the encounter with Set has left my emotions as battered and drained as my body. The best I can manage is a kind of dull resentment. All that and this is how it's going to end. Someone somewhere has a sick sense of humour.

An enormous block crashes past less than a foot to my left. If it had hit I'd be nothing more than a smear of blood and splintered bone fragments. Quick at least.

A rain of debris falls in its wake, something striking the back of my hand. My grip slips and now I'm hanging by one hand, swaying back and forth. A frantic hiss escapes from between my teeth and I can feel my heart palpitating wildly.

Maybe I'm not quite so blasé about this after all.

I can feel the skin of my fingers tearing. As I try desperately to secure a handhold something strikes me a glancing blow on my forehead. My vision blurs. Any second now. . .

As it happens I don't get chance to lose my grip. There is a harsh cracking sound and the rock I'm hanging from breaks free.

"Bugger."

As last words go it lacks a certain something, but since there's no one around to hear I don't suppose it matters much.

Then I'm falling. After one shocked, breathless instant I start to scream. It seems appropriate given the circumstances.

I fall and fall.

There's only so much screaming a person can to do before it starts to get really tedious. Ten seconds after I started falling I'm still at it, so I decide to shut up. The edge of the terror fades somewhat. Just how deep is this? Surely I should have hit bottom by now?

It's absolutely pitch black so I can't see anything of course, but I can still feel the air rushing past. As far as I can tell I've stopped accelerating. If it wasn't for the knowledge of what waits at the end this would be exhilarating.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Still I fall.

This is getting ridiculous. I hazard a look down, into the darkness beneath me, and suddenly there is a strange sense of disorientation. Everything goes blank. . .

. . .

I groan. What the hell? Not falling anymore I note. In fact there's ground beneath me. Rather hard, uncomfortable ground. I hurt like hell, although after a moment I come to the conclusion that I haven't suffered any new injuries.

Another groan. I force myself into a sitting position and open my eyes. Rather unexpectedly I find there's enough light to see clearly. I appear to have landed on hard, sand covered rock. Man-made blocks of stone rise up on either side of me. The air is warm and dry.

Was the fall just a dream? I feel strange – disorientated and detached, as if I've surfaced too quickly from deep sleep. The fine hairs on the back of my neck are prickling and there is a tight, tense feeling inside my chest. As I rise to my feet, ignoring the protests of my muscles, I reach for my guns.

Gone, along with my gunbelt. My heart thuds. Lost in the. . . fall?

A soft sound – shifting sand – comes from directly behind me. I spin immediately to face it.

There is a man standing behind me – still and implacable, and seemingly as solid as the stone blocks. I know somehow that he has been there the whole time, silently watching me. It is several seconds before I manage to take in the one rather distinctive feature he possesses – the head of a hawk.

We look at each other.

"You must be Horus," I say finally. "I take it this means I'm dead?"

* * *

A morgue.

That is my considered conclusion after a brief examination of my surroundings. And from the look of the array of implements resting in a tray next to me I was about to partake in an autopsy. From the wrong end.

I'm feeling slightly put out. Honestly, you don't necessarily expect the same standards as back home, but you'd have thought being able to tell whether someone was dead or not was pretty fundamental.

My head hurts abominably. It's like the worst hangover I've ever experienced only multiplied threefold. My mouth tastes like something died in there and is now starting to decompose. Wincing, I force myself into a sitting position, my legs dangling off the side of the metal gurney I've been lying on. I'm naked by the way. No sign of my clothes.

The smell of carbolic soap is fading. What lies underneath is far less pleasant; decay, rank and fetid, mixed with the ammonia tang of bleach. I'd gag if there was anything inside to bring up.

That would be coming from my friend on the neighbouring gurney. He isn't going to be doing the Lazarus bit from the look of him. Road accident, at a guess. He has a misshapen, slightly gelid look, as if the only thing holding him in one piece is his skin. He's turning a livid shade of purple and is starting to attract flies, buzzing like miniature attack helicopters.

Not exactly sterile conditions, although they do make at least a passing effort.

Oops. I catch myself as my legs give out. Not been used for a while by the feel of them. Gradually I steady myself, although I can still feel my muscles trembling.

That's another thing. There's a gaping black hole in my memories. How I got here, and where here is aside from a morgue I have no clue. Werner von Croy. Set. The Temple of Horus. Collapsing stone. Falling. Then nothing. Except that fleeting fever-dream flashback.

I suppress a shiver. Stay unconscious a few seconds longer. . . The decay smell hits me again, stronger than ever and my stomach turns over. Despite my earlier thoughts on the subject I manage to throw up a small amount of bile.

Damn. I detest being weak like this.

After a few minutes searching I manage to turn up my clothes. Not that they'll do me much good it turns out. Apparently someone saw fit to cut them off me and all that's left is a collection of shreds. I might be able to rig a few bandages from them if necessary, but wearing them is pretty much out of the question.

My pack and gun-belt aren't with them. Neither are they anywhere else in this room. I experience a sudden pang of fear when I can't find them. Somehow I know that there was something vitally important that I absolutely cannot afford to lose.

What exactly my memory is being decidedly recalcitrant on.

The mortician or pathologist, or whatever he was. I need to find him. He'll know what was done with my belongings.

I turn to the door he fled through. It's standing slightly ajar. From the look of it, it leads outside. Cautiously I stick my head through.

An alleyway. Although it's in shade the heat is fierce. A line of bright blue sky can be glimpsed between the buildings overhead and I can hear distant traffic noise. Proof if any were needed that the threat Set posed has passed. If there was a Set. If it isn't just my memory playing tricks.

I can't see the man. Not a surprise. Since coming round I've not exactly been quick to act.

Cautiously I take a step outside, avoiding the strewn bin bags. There is a layer of sand beneath the soles of my feet. Legacy of Set's storms? More flies buzz loudly and the smell is even stronger than it was inside the morgue.

A man steps into the head of the alleyway in front of me. Unfortunately it is not the man I'm looking for.

He stops and stares, goggle-eyed, his jaw hanging halfway open. I stare back at him, though our eyes do not meet. For some strange reason he isn't particularly interested in my face.

"Excuse me, did you see a man run past?" I wrack my brains for a description of the person I glimpsed. "Forties or fifties with a greying moustache. Dressed as a doctor or surgeon."

No response. If he doesn't close his mouth soon he's literally going to be catching flies.

I repeat my question. Okay, my Arabic is less than perfect I'll admit, but it's usually adequate to make myself understood. I get the impression that I'd be just as well off using Swahili or Esperanto.

He continues to ogle me, saying something back. My grasp of Arabic vernacular is particularly woeful, so the only thing I get is something that may or may not pertain to 'soft fruits'.

I can feel my temper rising. Must be the result of PMT.

PMT? Pathetic Male Tendencies. It's a common condition and one I suffer from a lot.

In the end I hit him. Hard. Okay, it's probably a bit uncalled for, but it has the benefit of translating unambiguously into any language. His eyes roll back into his head and he topples over backwards, hitting the floor with a satisfying thud. My strength is returning it would seem.

Bit of a scrawny looking bloke all told. Still, his clothes look as if they'll approximately fit. A minute or two later and I'm dressed in a light linen shirt, black trousers and brown leather sandals. They smell of his sweat and old-mannish aftershave, but beggars can't be choosers and so forth. I leave him his underwear, though not out of any sense of modesty. There are some things not even I would dare to tamper with. Shudder.

A quick look in his wallet turns up several medium denomination pound notes, which I pocket.

The pedantic might regard this as stealing, but given the eyeful he's just received I'll call it payment due. The rest I return to him. Fair do's.

I freeze. I can feel my flesh crawling.

The smell of decay has intensified exponentially – almost unbearable – and the buzzing of the flies has taken on a strange note. Kind of like a fly voice choir, singing in discordant unison. As I look down I can see the layer of sand flowing beneath my feet in swirling eddies.

Swallowing heavily, I turn around.

* * *

"Your status has yet to be determined, Lara Croft."

Subconsciously I'd been expecting Horus to boom. He doesn't. All in all he sounds disconcertingly ordinary. Though the fact that he has an English accent could be called odd. I guess my brain is doing some interpretation here.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" I inquire. One thing that hits me then is it is very difficult to read the expression of somebody with the head of a hawk. Nevertheless I get the impression that Horus is at least slightly amused. Or feeling indulgent anyway.

"Look around you. Where do you think you are?"

I've been looking around surreptitiously for the past few minutes, and what I've been seeing is to say the least disconcerting. Almost as disconcerting as finding oneself in conversion with a hawk-headed Egyptian deity.

Odd really how extremely different pristine ancient Egyptian architecture is to the ruins I'm used to. All of the blocks are straight and unworn, perfectly fitted together, and the colours are bright to the point of gaudy ostentation. Strangely it bears a closer resemblance to the Las Vegas version than the vast, faded monuments I have so recently explored. Though without the slot machines and roulette tables obviously.

It is magnificent, but I think I almost prefer the ruins. There is an element to this, which looks, dare I say it, almost tacky. None of the sense of age and timeless mystery is there.

Ahead of us, between a pair of massive, brightly painted pillars, I can see sky. That too is unusual: the clear blue of deep twilight, though without any trace of moon or stars. I get the sense that something lies beyond it that I should be able to make out if only I look hard enough. I pull my gaze away quickly.

Horus apparently gets impatient with my silence and supplies the answer to his own question. "The Duat."

The Egyptian version of the underworld. An involuntary shiver passes up my spine. "So I was right first off. That fall killed me."

"Certainly most who find there way here – which is not many now – are dead. But you are an unusual case. You are here in flesh as well as spirit."

No sun I note. From my recollections of Egyptian mythology I think this means it is daylight in the world above. "How is that possible?"

"Your confrontation with my unbeloved uncle released powerful and chaotic energies."

Yes, I'd got to notice that. At rather closer hand than I'd like.

"I would assume that you fell through an opening torn by those energies between the realm of the living and the Duat."

How jolly. I suppress another shudder. At some point, without me noticing, we've started walking and are now crossing a broad plaza. On either side towering obelisks rise up into that strange sky, while in front of us what looks to be a temple of almost unimaginable vastness looms. This appears to be our destination. "So what happens now? How do I get back?"

"I cannot answer either of those questions I am afraid. This is not my realm. I am here merely because I recognised the pattern of your soul and was curious."

"Curious?"

"Curious to meet the person who caused my old enemy such troubles."

And released him in the first place, but apparently he's too much of a gentleman to bring that little detail up. I suspect I must be something of a disappointment.

I don't know why, but suddenly I get the impression that Horus is amused, as if he has just read my thoughts. I find myself blushing. "Where are we going? Or are we just taking a stroll?"

"This is the kingdom of my father, Osiris. I am taking you to meet him. He will have the answers you seek, and will decide whether you are to return or remain."

I can't help feeling there is something rather ominous about that statement, intentional or otherwise. My unease multiplies.

Now we are ascending a flight of steps leading up to the enormous temple's entrance. We walk in silence. Nervousness has made my conversational wellspring run decidedly dry. What sort of smalltalk is appropriate with a god? Finishing school never covered that one.

Abruptly, as we pass between another set of pillars, a shrouded figure steps out in front of us. I just about manage to stifle an embarrassing yelp as I recognise who it is.

Strangely Set doesn't look entirely pleased to see me.

* * *

The sight that greets me makes me wonder whether I'm not still unconscious. If I'm not, then I profoundly wish I was.

It – that seems the appropriate pronoun – is about eight feet tall, sculpted out of a mixture of sand and rubbish. The head has a vaguely crocodilian aspect, though it is topped with what look like antelope horns. The body is warped and twisted with four arms, two of which appear very much like hooked beetle appendages. The remaining two end in more normal looking hands, though supplemented by one of the nastiest looking sets of claws I've ever seen.

It's wrong to judge solely on appearances I know, but somehow I get the impression it doesn't want to be my friend.

I back slowly and steadily away from it – whatever the hell it is – obscurely glad that my bladder appears to already be empty.

"Betrayer. You are to come with me."

Betrayer. That would make this one of Set's minions. Its voice sounds like it is being produced from the careful modulation of the noise made by the buzzing flies. It makes my skin crawl.

"Charming as your invitation undoubtedly is I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline." Fear tends to make me flippant. Right now I'm feeling extremely flippant indeed.

I find myself reaching for my guns before I remember they're not there. Not that they'd do much good in all likelihood, but they're reassuring placebos.

"You are to come with me," it repeats. Then it strikes.

I manage to duck, feeling the wind as the thing's two beetle appendages whip past my head. Made of sand and garbage it may be, but that doesn't stop it leaving deep gouges in the morgue's outer wall. I scramble backwards frantically, trying to put as much space as I possibly can between it and me.

A fleeting memory surfaces. "Wait! I have been granted safe passage. You may not touch me!" Somehow I'm sure that this is true, although I don't know how I know.

For a wonder the thing actually pauses. "Then you will have been given a passport. Show me the passport."

"Passport? What the hell are you talking about?"

I just about manage to twist out of the way of its answer. Instead of disembowelling me its claws merely slice through the stolen shirt I'm wearing, missing my skin by millimetres.

The passport. With dull certainty I know that this is the thing that I was worried about having lost in the morgue. But I have no clear idea of what it even is, let alone where I could have lost it.

My heel nudges against the man I hit earlier on and I barely avoid stumbling. He groans, this quickly turning into a bout of terrified Arabic yammering, too rapid for me to understand.

"Get out of here!" I yell at him. In English. Apparently he catches the gist of it. I hear him scrambling to his feet, then dashing away.

The distraction takes its toll. I'm a little slow jumping out of the way of the thing's next attack. A line of blazing pain ignites in my shoulder as it lays open a deep and bloody gouge. The next several seconds disappear in a blur of desperation as I attempt to stave off a rain of blows.

At the end of it I'm panting and dripping sweat, one side of my shirt sodden with blood, yet still miraculously in one piece. I find myself staring up into its nightmare of a face as it continues to advance. "Can't we just talk about this?"

"Your soul belongs to Set. You are to come with me."

"I'll take that as a no then."

Something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I grab it without looking to see what it is. A two-by-four plank of wood.

I manage to catch its next blow on this, though the impact is numbing, sending me staggering backwards. The pain in my torn shoulder is something savage.

It comes forward again and I lash out at it with the plank, striking the thing where its neck joins its torso. Being made primarily of sand, the plank slices on down in a diagonal line until it lodges around the centre of the thing's chest.

It stops dead, the buzzing of the flies rising to an insane pitch. Little cascades of sand and garbage break off, dropping to the alley floor. I feel a brief surge of elation. Quickly extinguished. It yanks violently backwards, ripping the plank from my grasp.

I watch as it takes hold of the plank and yanks it free, the gaping wound rapidly closing over. Damn. I'm sure I've seen this before in some movie.

There are times in this business when it pays to run away. Those who don't recognise this tend not to live very long. And being torn to shreds by a walking spoil heap isn't exactly top of my list of preferred ways to go.

So I run. No sense in mistaking stupidity for courage.

* * *

Set. Seth. Sutekh.

Whatever name you know him by, there's no getting round the fact that, without his mask, he is one seriously ugly bastard.

Take an aardvark and mix it with a deformed jackal, then liberally beat around the head with the ugly stick. It's the first time I've laid eyes on Set's face, and believe me, it's an experience I could have done without. His eyes are volcanic. The rage and hatred as his gaze bores into me is beyond anything I have experienced before. Immortal, undying hate. Rage without bounds.

It's all I can do to keep myself from cowering behind Horus for protection and whimpering.

Eventually the gaze passes on from me and I almost collapse in relief. He focuses on Horus. I've only come into his world in the past few days. The enmity between these two has spanned four millennia.

The reason for Set's deformity stems from his birth. Too impatient to take the more traditional exit, he injured himself in tearing himself free from his mother, Nut's, womb. That brief look into his eyes gives me no trouble believing it.

"Shouldn't you be buried under several hundred thousand tonnes of rock?"

Me and my big mouth. I silently curse myself before I've even finished speaking. Set's hideous head swings back, his gaze flaying me open. He doesn't say anything. It would beneath him to address such as I. Nevertheless I get the strong impression that he wishes to split me open and devour my insides while I still live.

"Your trespasses are not welcome here, vile one." Now Horus's voice does boom, deep and resonant. It's the sort of voice to inspire you to bow down and tremble in awe.

"You speak with your father's voice now do you, usurper?" Set's reply is quiet – dangerous. I get the impression that there is a hell of a lot more passing between these two than is being said. I'm merely getting the edited highlights.

How can Set be here? Has all that's passed these last few days been for nothing? The idea is numbing – leaves me close to despair.

As I look at Set more closely though, I realise that I can see right through him – make out the patterns of stonework behind him. He's not all there, so to speak.

"What do you want, vile one?" Horus demands.

"What do I want?" The sneer is audible in Set's voice. "I want what is due to me. I want what is mine." My heart leaps into my throat as I realise he is looking straight at me as he says this. Then he dwindles, becoming a dark stain on the air before even that disappears.

It takes a while for me to calm down. Horus looks troubled – as far as I can read anything from him. Suddenly he is a much more distant, intimidating figure than previously.

My voice is tentative as I give voice to my earlier thought, "How can he be here? I sealed him within your temple. Didn't I?"

For a moment it seems like Horus isn't going to answer, but then he speaks. "You sealed his body certainly. The shadow has ceased to block the sun, and the lands of Egypt are returned to peace. But he is a hard one to defeat entirely, my uncle."

"What did he mean by 'his due'?"

"That I know not. Whatever it is I fear it does not bode well." Hardly the reassurance that I'm looking for. "Come. My father will wish to know about his brother's trespass."

So we walk through the temple. The House of Osiris I assume; the place where the dead are judged. Inside it looks even larger than from outside – almost a city in its own right.

As we traverse vast halls, the ceiling hundreds of feet above our heads, I notice one thing that up to now has eluded me. Aside from ourselves this place is empty; neither sight nor sound of anyone else; only the echoing of our footsteps. There is something slight sad and forlorn about it.

When I mention this to Horus he says nothing. Perhaps he is lost in thoughts and memories of his own.

Finally we reach our destination. It feels like we have walked miles. In front of us a pair of vast doors swing silently open, apparently of their own accord.

Beyond them is a place that I recognise. I have seen it before numerous times, depicted in Egyptian art. The Hall of Two Truths. The Scales of Justice dominate the place. You could weigh a small herd of Elephants in one of the two golden bowls, never mind a human soul.

I feel more than a hint of trepidation as I look upon those scales. Am I to be judged in them? And if so, will I be found worthy? I must confess to a few doubts on that score.

We walk around the scales and my gaze drops to the deep pit beneath them. The pit where the demoness, Ammit is supposed to lurk, waiting to devour those who are judged unworthy. Ammit; the head of a crocodile, the torso of a wildcat and the hindquarters of a hippopotamus. Poor girl. No matter what she wears her bum is always going to look big in it. At the moment though, she doesn't appear to be home.

An unexpected voice speaks, causing me to start violently. "Horus, my son. Have you now taken Anubis's duties upon yourself as well?"

The throne at the far end of the room, which I'm certain was empty when we entered, is now occupied. A figure wearing a lion mask. The aura of strength and power is palpable. Osiris.

"Father, it is good to see you." Horus does indeed sound pleased. "And I assure you I do not seek to usurp Anubis's position as guide of the dead. Perhaps you need to look at this one again."

Osiris's scrutiny is, in its way, even more intimidating than that of his brother. There is no malice in it, but neither is there any kindness. It feels like I have been stripped naked and held up for display, those eyes boring right into me and seeing everything – no possibility of hiding. By the time he looks away again I am shaking, barely able to stand. I can hear my breath coming in ragged gasps. Osiris is the judge, and shows no favour.

"Interesting. And how is it, my son, that this one comes to be here in the Duat, still attached to her mortal flesh?"

Normally I would be offended, being talked around like this. Right now, in the circumstances, I can put up with it.

"I believe that a large part of the blame for that can be lain with your brother."

"Indeed. And what has Set been up to?"

I can't help it. At the mention of that name I look around, instinctively expecting the dark god to materialise behind us. Nothing. Osiris and Horus have both fallen silent, though I get the impression they are still communicating with each other – just in way I can't eavesdrop on.

The relationship between Set and Osiris is not one in which brotherly love plays a large part. Given how Set murdered him and all.

After Ra left the Earth to rule the skies, it was given to Osiris to rule Egypt with his virgin bride and sister, Isis. Set was jealous of the power his brother had been granted, the jealousy growing to consume him until one day he slew Osiris on the banks of the Nile, scattering his body to the four corners of Egypt.

Isis and her sister Nephthys (who also happened to be Set's consort; they have a real soap opera propensity for relationships, these gods) recovered the pieces of Osiris's body. On finding her husband dead, Isis wept so loudly that Ra took pity on her, sending Anubis and Thoth, the ibis-headed god of wisdom, to help her. Together they restored and mummified Osiris's body, Isis transforming into a kite to fan breath into her husband.

Despite these efforts Osiris was still dead, so was not allowed to remain in the land of the living, instead becoming king of the underworld. Before he left though, Isis became pregnant with his child (still retaining her virgin status somehow; the mind boggles). Sometime later she gave birth to Horus.

Set – who now ruled Egypt in his brother's place – found out about this birth and was determined to slay the child of his brother lest he rise to threaten him. One of his lackeys – a man called Herrut – drove the virgin mother and child into hiding in Lower Egypt, where they found shelter. Set then sent a poisonous serpent to bite Horus.

Some interesting parallels in this part.

To cut a long story short, Horus survived, growing up to defeat Set and we get eventually to the situation I find myself in now.

That of course is the vastly simplified version. There are others. Someone should sack the bloody scriptwriters.

The conference appears to be over finally. I realise with a jolt that Osiris is looking at me again. Looks well, all things considered. No visible scarring. He starts to say something.

Now of course, Set chooses to make his appearance. I feel his presence instantly: a black pall. He knows a thing or two about entrances I'll grant you.

"My brother." Osiris finally breaks the deathly silence. "You dare to show your face here, of all places?"

"I have come to claim back my property, recently come into your possession."

"Oh?" Osiris sounds nonplussed. "To what do you refer?"

I have a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Why, the soul of my errant servant. Lara Croft."

* * *

It doesn't follow me into the crowds.

After a few hundred metres I look back and there is no sign of the thing – Set's demon. I'm distressingly tired for such a short run, panting and breathless. My head gyrates beneath the blazing heat of the sun. From its angle it is early afternoon.

On the horizon I can see the towering edifice of the Citadel, and with it the graceful minarets of Muhammad Ali's mosque – no not the boxer. At a guess this would put me in either the Al Muski or the Darb al-ahmer. Not the choicest neighbourhoods.

I can feel people staring. I must look very strange. A dishevelled western woman in a part of Cairo where tourists rarely venture, wearing a man's clothes and covered in blood. Most look away quickly when I meet their eyes, embarrassed.

No one bothers me though. Not even the men, who are usually drawn magnetically to unaccompanied western women. Must be losing my allure.

It takes a while to find my way back to the morgue. I'm on edge the whole way, jumping at the slightest unusual sound, constantly seeking for any signs of pursuit – anything to herald the demon's return.

"I'm sorry. This is not a doctor's or a police station." In English from the male receptionist, almost before I'm through the front door. I get the impression from the way he says this that it is a common mistake. His face bears a pinched expression of permanent disapproval.

"That's okay." I give him my most winning smile. He isn't won. "I'm not looking for a doctor's or a police station.

"Then what are you looking for, Miss?" A curl to his pronunciation of the word 'Miss' makes it a term of disrespect. I've always found most Egyptians unfailingly helpful, if only because of the assumption that a white face has money attached. My luck to find an exception.

"You mean you don't recognise me?"

He starts to say something but stammers quickly to a halt. I can almost see the wheels turning over inside his head. Abruptly all the blood rushes from his face. "B-But you're dead. . . I saw. . . Dr. Mansur. . ." He's acquired a squeak. "What do you want?"

"Lets see, I'm an evil spirit returned from the dead to wreak vengeance on anybody who's stolen my worldly possessions. How does that sound?"

Apparently he's sharp enough to spot when he's being mocked. His expression hardens.

"Look, I need to find out what's happened to my belongings. What did you do with my possessions when I was brought in?"

"I'm afraid I really couldn't say."

I recognise an all too familiar bred in unhelpfulness. Back home this sort tend to gravitate towards jobs in the civil service. Where's a demon when you need it?

"Perhaps I could talk to. . . Dr. Mansur did you say?" Looking around I see a picture of the man I saw fleetingly earlier on. He appears to be at a degree ceremony. Near this there's a door with Dr. Mansur written on it in both English and Arabic. I head towards it.

"Wait! You can't go in there!"

I ignore him as I push the door open. Self evidently I can. Several heartbeats later I slam the door violently shut again.

The flies were the first thing to give it away. That and the smell. Dr. Mansur was in there too, although sadly I doubt he'll be telling me anything now. It's amazing how much mess you can make with eight pints of liquid. Even the ceiling was dripping.

Our friendly receptionist catches the look on my face and backs off hastily. Then something slams violently against the door, wood splintering. One of the demon's claws comes right the way through.

He's quick on the uptake I'll grant: a garbled scream and off like a shot. I'm not that far behind him.

Again the demon proves reluctant to follow us into crowds. Why I can't fathom, but I'm not going to look this particular gift-horse in the mouth.

Pulling level with my new friend, I grab him by the shoulders and yank him into a shaded gap between two stalls. He starts to struggle so I slap him about a little until he quietens down. Verbal persuasion is fine in its place.

"Okay, we're going to have a quick chat, and you're going to be co-operative. Nod if you understand. No don't say anything. Jolly good."

He's finally come to the conclusion I don't want to be messed around. Clever boy.

"Okay, you were there when they brought me in, correct?"

Another nod.

"Good. See, you can be helpful when you try. My backpack. What happened to it?"

"B-Backpack?"

I grit my teeth, having to restrain myself from hitting him. "I don't have time to waste. Do you want our friend from the morgue to catch up to us again?"

"I'm telling the truth. You didn't have anything with you. Just your. . . clothes." A hint of disdain shows what he thinks about my choice of attire.

Okay, deep breath. Breaking his nose is not constructive. Maybe he is telling the truth at that. "Where did you find my. . ." I hesitate over the word body. "Me."

"I don't know!"

"Okay, what exactly can you tell me?" Exasperation creeps in.

"Noth. . ." He sees my expression and cuts off, sensing that isn't what I want to hear. "Not much. I just saw you being carried in. You weren't breathing and your heart wasn't beating, although there was nothing more than superficial injuries. No obvious cause of death. But Dr. Mansur checked. You weren't alive."

"He obviously didn't check hard enough then, did he?"

"N-No."

He looks pleading. I let out a sigh and release my grip on him. "Was there anyone else around, apart from Dr. Mansur, who might know more?"

A shake of his head.

Damn. "Okay then. Run along."

So, how did I end up in the middle of Cairo, able to pass for a corpse? There are a lot of other questions I could ask too. Werner, I decide. He was the last person I can remember seeing before, when the temple collapsed. Maybe he can shed some light on things.

* * *

"What?" As three sets of eyes turn my way I experience a profound sense of déjà vu.

It's my childhood all over again. Me bursting, heedless, in on my father as he's talking with some political cronies, drinking brandy, the air heavy with pipe smoke, to show him the painting I've just done. The sense of profound disapproval directed my way as I shrink back from the alien stares. My father's barely contained fury. Seen and not heard. It was soon drummed in.

At least this time I manage not to flee in tears.

"How can you possibly claim her as your servant?" It is Horus who speaks. "She trapped your body inside my temple, beneath the sands. Returned you to your exile"

Set is amused, I can tell. It is a dark, dreadful kind of amusement, much worse than his rage. "That just makes her a treacherous servant. Tell me, oh simple one, who is it who answered my call and set me free from the shackles you so self-righteously imposed?"

"No." My voice is scarcely audible. Involuntarily I take a backwards step to put more distance between Set and myself. That was Von Croy's attempt at revenge. A set-up. Nothing to do with Set's call or anything else.

Horus is silent.

"It is my unalienable right to take the souls of all my servants, true or otherwise, into my care. You cannot deny me that."

Again no voice is raised to gainsay him. I feel something close to panic. This can't be happening. It's insane. "I am not your bloody servant!"

"You deny that you set me free?"

I open my mouth, then close it again.

"You deny that you heard my voice and listened, and felt the greed stir within your soul. And were only too happy to obey."

It wasn't like that. It wasn't.

"Enough!" Osiris's voice cuts Set off. "You are in my house brother, and would do well to remember it."

"You would deny me my rights by law, Osiris? You, who set such stall by it? Was I not punished for my crimes by the strength of that law? Tell me brother, what strength will that law have if you are free to ignore it? Might it have no strength at all?"

I hear Horus's jaw – or beak rather – click shut.

Realisation hits like a body blow.

The Amulet of Horus. The symbol that binds Set, imprisoned from the world once again. It is the symbol of the power of the Egyptian pantheon. The symbol of their justice. Set doesn't want my soul – or at least not as anything other than a very distant second prize. No. He is banking that Horus won't stand by and let me be damned. That is what he really wants.

If the law of Ra does not apply to him when it works in his favour, then it cannot apply when it works against him either. And if that is the case the Amulet of Horus becomes nothing more than a pretty piece of metal.

Several hundred thousand tons of rock plus a pretty piece of metal against the shadow across the sun; the destroyer; he who's voice is thunder. It will not be enough.

Of course I could solve all this by accepting the offered damnation. Obviously not a hero after all.

"That's as maybe." Osiris sounds calm. "However, you have yet to convince me that she is truly your servant. I would hear what this woman has to say on the matter. Without any interruptions."

"As you wish, o' brother mine." The cordiality is poisonous.

My mouth has gone dry. My throat feels like it has contracted down to a pinhole. Even the idea of speech feels impossible.

"Is what my brother says true? Did you free him from his imprisonment?" This time both Osiris's voice and his gaze are curiously gentle.

"Yes." No lies. No evasions or distortions. He would see through any of that instantly.

"And why would you do such a thing?"

"I did not realise what I was doing. If I had realised what would happen when I removed the amulet I would not have done it."

A slight inclination of the head by way of acknowledgement. "May I ask what brought you to the Temple of Seth? What your motivations were in taking the amulet?"

"I was commissioned to find the amulet and recover it."

"Ah, so you are thief. Working in the employ of somebody else."

I bite back the angry denial that rises up. "I am an archaeologist. I recover lost artefacts and treasures of the past so that people of today may study and learn from them."

He considers. "So, you are not just any kind of thief. You are, in fact, a robber of graves. Yes, you are correct to point out the distinction."

I feel heat flare in my cheeks, my instinct to argue. Again I manage to restrain myself. From a certain angle what is an archaeologist apart from a robber of graves? I do not think I could make Osiris see my point of view.

"Yet your profession is not the question here. Who hired you to remove the amulet?"

"Werner Von Croy." Tattletale. "I did not know exactly who at the time."

Nothing more than another slight nod. "And once you found out that you had released my brother from his just imprisonment, what did you do?"

"I strove to rectify my error and return him to his prison."

"Even though it would likely cost you your life and more. Admirable. Although it doesn't change the fact that many died because of what you did."

"No."

"Still, it is wrong to place responsibility for my brother's actions upon your shoulders. He is quite capable of taking that responsibility on himself."

This is not going well. There is so much more I want to try to explain, but just now I'm incapable of articulating it.

"One final question. At any stage when you were removing the amulet did you hear my brother's voice?"

No, I want to say. But I can't. I can remember my feelings as I knelt atop Set's sarcophagus, staring down at the amulet, entranced. Right then I wasn't acting because it was what I'd been hired to do. The amulet, glittering; magnificently beautiful. Nothing else. When I took it, it was greed. Greed and lust on an instinctive, animal level.

Can I say that greed was not the voice of Set?

"I don't know."

"Thank you," Osiris says simply. The questioning is over. He turns back to his brother. "You twist the spirit of the law like the venomous snake you are."

"The law is carved from stone. Not spirit." There is triumph in Set's voice. He and Osiris stare at each other, and again I have the impression that there is something passing that I am not party to.

I don't know what I feel precisely then. Dead. Drained. Empty. I've got a horrible feeling that I haven't been persuasive enough.

"A servant is still a servant, unwitting or not." Set, rubbing it in.

Osiris is looking at me once more as he speaks. "However much I might despise that it is so, the law would appear to support my brother in this. I cannot refute his claim on you."

Each word another nail being hammered home.

Everything slows to a crawl, each sense coming sharply into focus. Set is looking at Horus rather than me, smiling. I can feel the tension in Horus – the barely contained outrage at how events have turned out.

Whatever way things go now I'm neck deep in the brown stuff. And sinking fast.

* * *

"Hello Werner, fancy seeing you here. Close your mouth it's impolite to gawk." I slip past him quickly before he can decide to slam the door in my face

Finding him has not been easy. It's now dark outside. Even once I'd managed to trace him to the Conrad International it wasn't the end of the problems. Getting past doormen and obtaining his room number proved ample additional challenges, especially given my current dragged through a thicket backwards look.

My gaze darts nervously around, into the room's corners.

Over the course of the afternoon I've developed an almost pathological fear of being on my own. Ironic, given my usually preferences. The demon has come for me three more times when I've found myself alone, almost catching me in a restaurant bathroom when I was trying to take care of my injured shoulder. Even with just the two of us I feel a frantic edge of nervousness I can't fully suppress.

"L-Lara?"

Anyone would think he'd seen a ghost.

"Tales of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, et cetera, et cetera. Is that food you've ordered there, Werner? How thoughtful." On spying the trolley I make a beeline towards it. Hunger hit several hours ago and has been growing ever since. Until now there hasn't been the opportunity to do anything about it.

I attack it with my bare hands, too impatient to bother with niceties like cutlery. Several of my old finishing school tutors would die of indignity to see me now.

"W-What? H-How? I saw you. . ." He trails off. Usually Werner is one of the more articulate people I know. Too damned articulate by half I'd almost venture. Makes a change to see him like this I suppose.

I stop and look at him. Up till now I've avoided thinking too much over how he's going to react to me showing up. We've hardly been like best friends recently.

There's wariness in his eyes. Almost fear. "It's really me Werner."

"Your parents, Jean-Yves. . . They all think you're dead. Your funeral was held a couple of days ago. . ."

"Damn, I was hoping I'd be back in time to catch that. Still, not to worry. . ."

"I saw you die, Lara."

"Like I saw you die back in Angkor Wat."

He nods. A concession. "I tried to reach you. . . There was nothing I could do."

"I know Werner. I know what it feels like."

Another nod. I can't help feeling a lot of trouble could have been avoided here.

There's a noise from the corridor outside. Just another guest I suppose, but it brings my thoughts crashing back to the demon – what I'm here for. "Werner, you don't happen to know where my backpack is do you?"

His face suddenly cracks into a smile. He actually laughs. "Lara, you're alive!"

Wonders will never cease. But right now I don't have time to get all happy-clappy. "Werner, this is very touching I'm sure. But right now what I need to know is, do you know what happened to my bleeding backpack?"

His face falls. I've managed to offend his sense of propriety. Not difficult. Sigh. Here we bloody go.

"That is not important now. No material thing is. I've come to appreciate that these last few days. I think it's something that you need to realise as well. . ."

Always one for a lecture, old Werner, even in the most inappropriate circumstances. "My backpack Werner, please."

"I found it yesterday, buried beneath the rubble." Dismissive. "But look Lara, you're alive. Nothing else matters!"

"You found it?" I grab him by the lapels to try and hold his attention on what I want. Up till today Werner Von Croy is the very last person I'd accuse of fuzzy-minded sentimentality. Talk about bad timing. "Where is it? It's imperative that I get my hands on it. Right now!"

"Lara, calm down please. You're covered in blood. You're hurt."

My shoulder is throbbing like an abscessed tooth. It really needs stitches, and I've got a nasty feeling that it's become infected. I don't have the time right now. "For Christ's sake Werner. Pay attention." I shake him until his teeth start to rattle. "My life depends on me getting hold of my backpack. Otherwise I'm going to die. Messily. Do you understand me?"

Finally. About bloody time. He looks a little hurt, but he can cope I'm sure.

"Through here." Icy. He leads me to his bedroom. It's sitting on his dressing table, battered and dusty but more or less intact. Strangely I feel quite emotional at the sight of it. "Happy now?"

My hands are shaking as I tear open the straps. Silly cow. Box of glow-sticks, squashed flat. A first aid kit. Ration bars. My canteen – split open. Spare clips for my pistols. Shotgun shells. A couple of broken crossbow quarrels.

That's it. Empty. I feel like screaming.

"I was about to send it back to your family. I thought it best that they should have it. Though of course that won't be necessary now. . ."

I go through all the pockets again but still turn up a blank. Then I go through all the junk I've pulled out, scattering it hither and thither. Nothing. Nothing that could be what I'm looking for anyway. Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Lara, there are things we need to talk about. Thing's we need to get straight between us. This feud between us. It does no one any favours. Yes?"

"Werner, you haven't taken anything out of here have you?"

"No, no. Of course not." He sounds offended, like I have accused him of being a thief.

"And there was nothing you found near it? Please this is vitally important."

He shakes his head, frowning. "Just rubble. Lara, did you hear me?"

I swear. Werner looks shocked. He has some old fashioned ideas.

"Lara, what are you looking for? Why this obsession?"

Not now. "I don't know. Some kind of passport. . ."

"Your passport?" Another frown. "How does that matter?"

"No, no. Not my passport. A. . . oh, I don't bloody know!"

Too late. Suddenly I can feel an all too familiar prickling sensation. Apparently Werner can feel it too. His face has gone pale "Lara. . ?"

"I don't suppose you have anything on you for warding off demons do you?" My voice is surprisingly calm. "No? Shame. Because we're about to receive a visitation."

Speak of the devil.

It's changed a bit since its first appearance, integrating poor old Dr. Mansur into itself to supplement the sand and garbage. His blood streaked face stares vacantly at me from the thing's chest – about my eye level. It hasn't done anything to improve its odour.

"Your soul belongs to Set. You are to come with me."

Just having to listen to this thing's conversational range for the next eternity is going to be hell enough. 'Come with me', I've come to the conclusion, is synonymous with 'stand still while I gut you'.

I spring back, narrowly avoiding it's first attempt at said gutting. It obliterates a coffee table. Strike two knocks over the sofa, a cushion exploding to fill the air with a cloud of feathers. I back off rapidly. Then there is no more space to retreat into. The balcony railing presses into my back.

Werner, bless him, attempts to come to my aid, showing rather more courage than sense. He tries to whack the demon over the back of the head with his walking stick.

The demon is a bit sturdier than when I hit it with a plank and the blow just bounces off. A casual flick of one of its arms swats Werner backwards. He hits the wall hard and collapses in a heap.

Just the two of us now. A glance behind me show's that there's a pool about seven floors below. I jump.

Not a dive to win Olympic gold. I hit the water hard enough to knock the breath from my body, clawing disorientated back towards the surface. The world spins crazily before my eyes.

My vision steadies just in time to see as the demon jump down after me. The shoulder wound has broken open again and the water around me is turning red.

It misses the pool, apparently deliberately. As it hits hard tile its legs disintegrate. No more than a passing inconvenience though – the thing rapidly starts to reform. Gritting my teeth, I start to stroke towards poolside.

Damn, that hurts!

I accidentally put weight on my injured shoulder, hissing between my teeth as I fall back into the water. The demon is up now, and approaching rapidly. Movements leaden and graceless, I manage to pull myself out of the pool at the second attempt.

A shadow passes over me.

Furiously buzzing flies. "You are to come with me."

I look up, into the face of death.

* * *

"There is, however, one small detail you appear to have overlooked, my brother."

At Osiris's words that eternal, frozen instant shatters. Set looks slowly round. I can feel his rage at being interrupted. I can feel myself shaking. Horus is still wire-tense.

"And what is that?"

"You are only entitled to claim the souls of the dead. Lara Croft is not dead."

Silence. Set looks back at me. "Then what is she doing in the. . ." He trails off, apparently seeing me properly for the first time. I get a brief sense of incredulity, followed by murderous fury. "That can be remedied easily enough."

As he starts to advance I back away rapidly.

"Stop!" Osiris's voice leaves no room for any other possibility. Even Set halts instantly. "I will not have the sanctity of my house violated. Anybody who does so will have cause to regret it."

After several seconds Set inclines his head. "Very well. I will not violate the sanctity of your house. I will simply take her when she leaves. Presuming brother, that you do not intend to keep her within these walls forever?"

"Oh no, that would hardly be fair, would it? I intend that she should be returned to the world of the living, where she belongs."

"Then it is settled." Set is looking at Horus as he says this, goading. "I will slay her the moment she takes a step beyond these walls."

Osiris merely smiles, then beckons to me. "Come, Lara Croft, and stand before me."

I feel like a pawn; a gambling chip in a high stakes game of poker, completely at the whim of the players. It is not a feeling I like. More than that though I feel scared. I do what I'm told.

"What are you doing?"

"Silence brother!"

Set shuts up. I can feel him glowering at my back. When I'm before the throne I drop instinctively onto one knee. Maybe it's the remnants of my upbringing.

Osiris lays one hand on my head. I manage not to flinch away. "I bestow upon you my protection, Lara Croft, and grant you safe passage back to the land of the living. To symbolise this I give to you a passport, which shall become permanently part of your being. No one in this room today may henceforth do you harm, either directly or through their agents. Such is my word."

"No!" Set appears to be suffering apoplexy. "You may not!"

I don't know how to adequately describe what I feel next. A rush. An epiphany. Something much, much more. It leaves me tingling; shaking; weeping.

"I have already done so. It is my right. It violates no laws. And as we know, you are such stickler for the laws."

Set howls. I almost feel like laughing, although I suspect it would come out slightly hysterically.

"You will of course respect my passport, and protection. As the law requires." I can't help feeling that Osiris is pushing it slightly.

Several seconds of silence, save the hammering of my heart. "Of course. Though I cannot vouch for others."

Osiris obviously isn't satisfied by this.

"Very well. None in my service will touch her as long as she is able to show the passport you have bestowed." Each word bitten out.

Then Set is gone. My back is turned, so I don't get to see whether it is in a flash of fire and brimstone – as seems appropriate. But I feel the lifting of his oppressive presence instantly.

I'm almost giddy with relief. Saved by a legal technicality. Hurrah for lawyers. God, there's a thought I'd never have.

* * *

"Wait. I have the passport!"

The demon's claws stop their descent at the last possible instant. Slightly after the last possible instant in fact. They've cut a shallow scratch in the skin of my forehead and a line of blood is running down my face.

"Show it to me." The buzzing flies, entirely devoid of emotion.

"I am the passport. In looking at me you are being shown the passport."

No response. If I've got this wrong. If those memories are merely fevered imaginings. . .

Abruptly the demon disintegrates, turning into nothing more than a heap of sand, garbage and severed body parts at the side of a hotel pool.

A moment later my body gives in and I collapse.

Well that's that then. Lot of fuss over nothing.

* * *

I stand at the edge of the Duat, staring out at endless desert and that strange, unworldly twilit sky. Horus stands next to me. No trace of Set's presence, thank goodness.

"I guess this is goodbye then." As goodbyes go this is an easy one. Magnificent as it is I would gladly never see this place again.

"Yes." Horus's response is simple. "By the power of my father I will return your body to the world of the living. Prepare yourself. You may find the experience disorientating.

How you prepare for something when you've got no idea of what it's going to be I don't know. But I nod anyway to show I'm ready. No sense delaying.

Abruptly everything around me twists and distorts, the desert vanishing. All sense of direction – and indeed anything else – is lost. Then, a few seconds later, I stagger and there is solid ground beneath my feet.

Everything feels decidedly odd, like I am somehow in two separate places at once. I blink several times and my surroundings resolve into what appears to be a set of catacombs, deep underground. Bloody hell, they've not gone and sent me back beneath the collapsed Temple of Horus. . . have they?

A shock passes through me as I realise that Horus is still beside me.

"Did something go wrong?"

"As I said, I have returned your body to the realm of the living." He fades away as he speaks, becoming transparent. "Your soul, I'm afraid, must find its own way from here."

Bloody hell. I stare into the catacombs in front of me. They form a vast, impenetrable looking maze. "Wait! How do I know which way I should go?"

"That I know not." Horus's voice is coming from a long way away now. "You will know though. Your body will draw you back to it."

Then he is gone and I'm alone. After a couple of minutes I notice there is a faint silver line stretching out in front of me. I can feel myself distantly, at the end of it.

Sigh.

Best get walking then.

Epilogue

I feel slightly feverish as I sit in Cairo airport, waiting for my flight. My shoulder aches still, though that is to be expected. It is not going to turn gangrenous now at least, which is a relief.

The flight has been delayed by about an hour. Actually I'm glad.

It's odd, knowing that everyone else has thought you dead. That you have been buried and mourned, and life has gone on after you. I managed to pick up a copy of The Times containing my obituary. A surreal experience, although some of the inaccuracies in it were almost offensive. I shall definitely be exchanging words with Professor Farrelly. That was downright libellous.

I have to say I'm disappointed to have missed the funeral. Not many people get to live through theirs, and it's a shame not to have been able to watch. Still, maybe someone videotaped it. Dad is probably furious. Going to all that expense only to find I'm not even dead. I'll suggest he keeps the tombstone. It may well come in handy sooner rather than later.

We had a brief telephone conversation, dad and I. An uncomfortable experience for both of us I think. Neither of us knew what to say. Still, at least we didn't argue.

Embarrassed to say I got a bit emotional when Jean-Yves dropped me off. Still, I think I can be forgiven, in the circumstances.

Patched things up with old Werner too. I doubt we're ever going to be what you'd call friends, but at least there's a truce between us now. I get the impression that he's going to be even more badly affected by this than I am. It can't be easy, having had someone like Set inside you.

Ah, they're ready for boarding. Finally.

I find myself hesitating – have to force myself to stand up. Part of me really doesn't want to go.

Oh well.

Back to life.

Back to reality.

All in all there are worse fates to be had.

THE END

Disclaimers:

Huge thanks to Heidi Ahlmen for her helpful comments and suggestions J