Page 17 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“I will. May Dalla protect you,” Henri said with a nod, his voice and expression shifting into confusion and awe.
The woman started and twisted in the seat to stare after Henri as he crossed the road and climbed into another car. Nasser suspected that neither awe nor confusion was common for the man.
When he climbed into the backseat beside Colin, Musad hit the gas before Nasser had even closed the door. Behind them, half a dozen vehicles pulled out to create a traffic jam for the vehicles coming up behind them. Ahead of them, Enrique and three more vehicles made sure the intersections were clear. Musad expertly navigated through a maze of streets before exiting the city via a highway that would lead them deeper into the desert.
“Where are we going?” Nasser asked.
“Henri suggested Plan C. Hellman’s mercs have the waterway and bridges leading east, west, and south closed. The only option is to head north. We’ll meet up with the others at a safe house near the mountains. How are you doing, Colin?”
“Hurts like hell, but I’ll live thanks to our new passenger,” Colin replied through gritted teeth.
The mention of their passenger drew everyone’s attention to the woman who hadn’t spoken since they left the city. Nasser waited to see if she would respond, but she remained silent. Now that he was finished patching Colin up as best as he could in the moving vehicle, he sat back in his seat and turned his attention to the weapon she was holding between her legs.
The bow appeared carved from a single piece of oak. There was a single notch carved at the top and bottom, and from the way she had it angled, the damn thing was a good four and a half feet long. It looked like something out of the Middle Ages.
He leaned forward. “What’s your name?”
Her shoulders stiffened, her voice low and unreadable, and between the noise of the road and her soft voice, he wasn’t sure at first if he had misheard her. Musad’s low hiss told him that his brother had heard her just fine.
“What did you say it was?” he asked again in a voice laced with disbelief.
This time, the woman turned in her seat and returned his stare. She reached up and jerked away the cloth that had been covering the lower half of her face. Nasser sat back in stunned silence. She was… breathtaking!
“I am Dalla Bogadottir. I wish for you to tell me what year this is.”
New York City: USA
Harlem Jones descended the stone staircase, his footsteps soundless against the century-old steps worn smooth by his own passage. The heavy iron door groaned as he pushed it open, the weight a deliberate design. There were no electronic locks here once someone reached this section—just stone, metal, and secrets.
The soft swell ofLacrimosadrifted from hidden speakers, Mozart’s mournful requiem wrapping around him like a shroud. It had been his choice tonight—he preferred the melancholy tones when he came down here, as if the dead deserved their own symphony.
The sub-basement was his sanctuary—a cathedral to memory and mortality.
Vaulted ceilings rose high, the walls lined with dark mahogany shelves heavy with tomes bound in cracked leather and faded silk. Titles in a hundred languages—some dead, never to be spoken aloud again—stared out from the shadows.
Clay tablets from Sumer rested beside bamboo scrolls inked by forgotten hands. Ancient Egyptian papyrus, brittle and yellowed, were displayed beneath glass, the hieroglyphics hand-painted by scribes long since turned to dust. A single scroll, wrapped in fine red silk, lay open on a pedestal—its delicate gold ink shimmering in the low light. There was also a complete compilation of the fragile pages ofAnaxagoras,a relic even the most powerful collectors believed lost to time.
A thick rug, Persian and priceless, sprawled across the stone floor. Faded reds, midnight blues, and threads of gold ran through the intricate designs. Harlem knew every knot, every story woven into the pattern—he’d traded three months of his life for it once, and had no regrets.
Massive columns of dark wood framed the space, each carved with figures from civilizations erased by conquest and time. The obsidian bust of a Nubian queen rested in silent judgment near the entrance, her ageless eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight.
At the far end of the room sat his desk—a hulking beast of carved ebony, its surface littered with journals, ledgers, and maps inked by his own hand over the centuries. Quills shared space with fountain pens and modern Montblancs. An untouched glass of bourbon gleamed in the lamplight, its ice long melted.
Above the desk, an oil painting dominated the wall—his wife and son, captured from memory, staring out at him with eyes that no brush had ever truly matched. Abeni’s smile was soft, her hands resting on little Malik’s shoulders, the boy mid-laugh. Harlem stared at them for a long moment, his jaw tightening as the memories, even after countless lifetimes, seemed almost as strong as if it had all happened today.
Niger River Valley – Over Three Thousand Years Ago
The sun burned low over the water, gilding the river in blood-red light. Harlem—though he hadn’t been called that then—lashed the last bundle of goods to his pack. Ivory. Spices. Gold. He’d bartered for months to prepare for this journey.
“Abeni!” he called, smiling. “Come. I leave soon.”
His wife’s laughter drifted from the hut. “Your son is chasing fireflies. Let him play.”
Hakeem chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. “The world is waiting. He must see it.”
He turned away and ducked back into the lean-to to check another bundle. He knelt on one knee on the ground, and the low snicker of the mules he had purchased a few months before caused him to look up. He frowned when he saw the two beasts moving uneasily. Picking up his long, heavy sword, he stood just as Abeni’s scream ripped through the air.
The sound was high –pitched. Terrified.
