Read Online The Avenger 6 - The Blood Ring by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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door, left open by the watchman in his frenzied search, drifted a figure robed in gauzy white.
The figure was that of a girl—tall, slender but well-rounded. The robe was that of a priestess of Egypt, and it appeared that priestesses of old Egypt didn’t wear much.
The girl’s face was dreamy, with wide eyes seeming like those of a sleepwalker. The line from the peak of her forehead to the tip of her pretty nose was straight. Her face was startlingly like the faces depicted by ancient Egyptian sculptors.
She moved through the main rotunda, seeming to float rather than walk.
From the direction of the Egyptian room came strange music. It was chanting, or singing. The song was one long forgotten by mankind. With the sound came the regular shuffling of feet.
The girl got to the room just off the Egyptian wing. There she saw three figures. They were men, in priests’ garments. They marched slowly, in a funereal rhythm, toward the double doorway into the Egyptian wing. They were carrying something on their shoulders, a sort of box with a V-shaped roof on it, heavily carved in bas-relief. Handles from the box allowed each of the three to help carry it, which was necessary, because the box was obviously heavy.
That box, a scholar could have told, was the ark of the Egyptian desert or death god—Typhon. Carrying it into the temple was a preliminary to strange, mad rites in its honor.
The priestess fell into step behind the three priests, and marched as they did. Also, she chanted as they did, a low, strange song which was only a succession of vowel sounds.
The procession passed through the doorway of the Egyptian wing. There was a pause as the second doorway—that of an Egyptian temple brought to Braintree stone by stone and set up again—was reached. The head priest stood under the massive lintel saying something in a weird tongue.
The figure leading the little procession was tall and emaciated. Its skull was hairless. The face, the color of putty, was lank and lantern-jawed and there was an eagle beak of a nose.
From the far corner of the wing came a sound. The sound was followed by movement, and from behind the tallest of the temple statues stepped a figure that made the strangeness of the others seem tame.
This newcomer was swathed from head to foot in the yellowed linen bands of an embalmed body. The outer bands binding the legs together were gone, so that it could walk. But each leg was swathed heavily. The head and body were also wrapped, save for a space in the front of the skull where most of a face could be seen.
The walking mummy came to meet the procession. Its slightly exposed face was visible for an instant in the dim light.
It was the face of Harold Caine, line for line.
From far in front, where the great main doors swung, there was a clang as those doors thudded shut with the re-entrance of the watchman. With the clang, the Egyptian temple surroundings, so faithfully reproduced in another land after thousands of years, lost its fantastic life.
The lights overhead seemed to dim. When they burned brighter, again, there was nothing moving in the great room.
Walking mummy, priestess, three priests, ark of Typhon, the Evil One, were gone.
The watchman had his jaw set as he came back into the wing, innocent of all knowledge of what had just been visible. He was resigning himself to losing his job. For there had been no trace of the stolen mummy outside—as he had really known there wouldn’t be before he started to look. He’d have to report it to the police.
But first, he was going to look into the mummy case, once more, to be sure he hadn’t been blind or nuts when he looked before and found it empty.
So he looked into the empty case—and found it was tenanted!
There was the mummy, calmly in place. Its wrappings were in no way disarranged. The lid of the cabinet was securely screwed down, and seemed never to have been disturbed.
The man swallowed hard. He’d have sworn the thing was gone a
The figure was that of a girl—tall, slender but well-rounded. The robe was that of a priestess of Egypt, and it appeared that priestesses of old Egypt didn’t wear much.
The girl’s face was dreamy, with wide eyes seeming like those of a sleepwalker. The line from the peak of her forehead to the tip of her pretty nose was straight. Her face was startlingly like the faces depicted by ancient Egyptian sculptors.
She moved through the main rotunda, seeming to float rather than walk.
From the direction of the Egyptian room came strange music. It was chanting, or singing. The song was one long forgotten by mankind. With the sound came the regular shuffling of feet.
The girl got to the room just off the Egyptian wing. There she saw three figures. They were men, in priests’ garments. They marched slowly, in a funereal rhythm, toward the double doorway into the Egyptian wing. They were carrying something on their shoulders, a sort of box with a V-shaped roof on it, heavily carved in bas-relief. Handles from the box allowed each of the three to help carry it, which was necessary, because the box was obviously heavy.
That box, a scholar could have told, was the ark of the Egyptian desert or death god—Typhon. Carrying it into the temple was a preliminary to strange, mad rites in its honor.
The priestess fell into step behind the three priests, and marched as they did. Also, she chanted as they did, a low, strange song which was only a succession of vowel sounds.
The procession passed through the doorway of the Egyptian wing. There was a pause as the second doorway—that of an Egyptian temple brought to Braintree stone by stone and set up again—was reached. The head priest stood under the massive lintel saying something in a weird tongue.
The figure leading the little procession was tall and emaciated. Its skull was hairless. The face, the color of putty, was lank and lantern-jawed and there was an eagle beak of a nose.
From the far corner of the wing came a sound. The sound was followed by movement, and from behind the tallest of the temple statues stepped a figure that made the strangeness of the others seem tame.
This newcomer was swathed from head to foot in the yellowed linen bands of an embalmed body. The outer bands binding the legs together were gone, so that it could walk. But each leg was swathed heavily. The head and body were also wrapped, save for a space in the front of the skull where most of a face could be seen.
The walking mummy came to meet the procession. Its slightly exposed face was visible for an instant in the dim light.
It was the face of Harold Caine, line for line.
From far in front, where the great main doors swung, there was a clang as those doors thudded shut with the re-entrance of the watchman. With the clang, the Egyptian temple surroundings, so faithfully reproduced in another land after thousands of years, lost its fantastic life.
The lights overhead seemed to dim. When they burned brighter, again, there was nothing moving in the great room.
Walking mummy, priestess, three priests, ark of Typhon, the Evil One, were gone.
The watchman had his jaw set as he came back into the wing, innocent of all knowledge of what had just been visible. He was resigning himself to losing his job. For there had been no trace of the stolen mummy outside—as he had really known there wouldn’t be before he started to look. He’d have to report it to the police.
But first, he was going to look into the mummy case, once more, to be sure he hadn’t been blind or nuts when he looked before and found it empty.
So he looked into the empty case—and found it was tenanted!
There was the mummy, calmly in place. Its wrappings were in no way disarranged. The lid of the cabinet was securely screwed down, and seemed never to have been disturbed.
The man swallowed hard. He’d have sworn the thing was gone a
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