The Minoan Mask (A Chyna Stone Adventure #1)

  THE

  MINOAN MASK

  A Chyna Stone Adventure

  #1

  by

  K.T. TOMB

  Acclaim for K.T. Tomb:

  “Epic and awesome!”

  —J.T. Cross, bestselling author of Beneath the Deep

  “Now this is what I call adventure. The Lost Garden will leave you breathless!”

  —Summer Lee, bestselling author of Angel Heart

  “The best adventure novel I’ve read in a long time. I can’t wait to read the sequel. Count me a fan. A big fan.”

  —P.J. Day, bestselling author of The Sunset Prophecy

  “K.T. Tomb is a wonderful new voice in adventure fiction. I was enthralled by The Lost Garden...and you will be, too.”

  —Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins

  OTHER BOOKS BY K.T. TOMB

  STANDALONE ADVENTURES

  The Last Crusade

  The Kraken

  The Adventurers

  The Swashbucklers

  The Tempest

  Sasquatch Mountain

  THE CHYNA STONE ADVENTURES

  The Minoan Mask

  The Mummy Codex

  The Phoenician Falcon

  The Babylonian Basilisk

  THE EVAN KNIGHT ADVENTURES

  The Lost Garden

  Keepers of the Lost Garden

  Destroyers of the Lost Garden

  THE PHOENIX QUEST ADVENTURES

  The Hammer of Thor

  The Spear of Destiny

  The Lair of Beowulf

  THE CASH CASSIDY ADVENTURES

  The Holy Grail

  The Lost Continent

  The Lost City of Gold

  THE ALAN QUATERMAIN ADVENTURES

  The Road to Shambala

  The Seal of Solomon

  The Shroud of Turin

  The Minoan Mask

  Published by K.T. Tomb

  Copyright © 2014 by K.T. Tomb

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  The author wishes to dedicate this book to the late

  Isaac Asimov.

  The Minoan Mask

  Prologue

  The fire roared in the deep fire pit that dominated the center of the throne room, casting strange shadows on the people seated around it and against the columns and walls.

  The visitor was amazed by the warm glow the fire cast against the golden dais and throne and King Minos’ white robes and huge crown looked even more spectacular in the firelight. The wall behind his magnificent throne was covered in brightly colored frescos of griffins and serpents. He had been quite taken aback by the lengths to which the court had gone in the entertainments for the night. Surely this was much grander than would usually be afforded to a simple emissary, particularly one who bore bad news and ultimatums. He had been apprehensive of how his message would be received but after silently pondering what was said, King Minos had nodded his agreement.

  Minos had taken his time to consider the message brought by the visitors, and he was not without his reservations. Certainly taking a woman such as Artemisia of Doria to wife could hardly be called misfortune, but the undertones of the offer were what had unsettled him. Artemisia had sent her emissary to inform the king that he could either marry her to unite their armies against the threat of invasion or her father would lead the Heracleidae against Crete. As he had awaited the arrival of the visitor and his retinue, it had been difficult not to wonder what news came from the North, there had been great unrest building in the Greek territories and whispers of tyrannical invasions.

  Minos sat under the canopy of his council chair facing the sea and shaded his eyes against the sun as he watched the three Dorian ships make their way into the port at Heraklion. Slaves surrounded him slowly raising and lowering their large peacock feather fans while his wives arranged fruit, water and wine about the dais. He hated the city. It had a glare he could scarcely tolerate, especially in the high of the hot season. The stark white of the buildings there seemed to magnify each ray of sunlight that hit them.

  Absentmindedly, he raised his cup and a slave filled it from a glistening pitcher of cold water. He smiled at her as she struggled to hold the cold vessel. Even the scarce and expensive ice had been procured from the city’s merchants for the occasion, much to the delight of the women that surrounded him. They wet their scarves and veils in basins of the iced water to fend off the oppressing heat. He emptied his cup thirstily and then graciously allowed his wife Pelephone to cover his head with her dampened scarf. This offered some temporary relief to him and he took her hand in gratitude. She smiled at him and returned to her cushion among the women of Minos’ retinue.

  “Romus,” he called suddenly, to his army commander.

  “My king,” he replied.

  “Let the men quickly take water and refresh themselves. Our guests will be with us soon.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  He was not a hard man, Minos; but he was stringent when it came to protocol. Whereas he would not have tired, thirsty guards about him in the presence of emissaries from a potentially hostile court, he would never allow his army to take repast before them either. The men drank quickly and deeply and the slave girls wiped the sweat from their faces and arms with cold, wet cloth. Suitably refreshed, they reformed their ranks down the multitude of steps from the dais to the courtyard and across the courtyard’s gates.

  There were no trumpets sounded or criers going before the Dorian party as they made their way through the city. It seemed to Minos that they were not keen on announcing their presence to the public; either they were to be suspected or the Dorians were poor. The king favored the latter. When they arrived at the courtyard gates only a flag bearer and four guards went before the three men, followed by two rear guards and a fan slave.

  “Piteous,” hissed Theratides, Minos’ fifth and last wife.

  The wives and concubines all giggled. All except Pelephone, the first.

  “Hush,” she admonished them, “unless you would like to go and wait for us in the heat of the caravan.

  They fell silent and commenced to demurely pin up their veils and straighten the skirts of their robes. The gates were opened at Minos’ consent and the small group of Dorians was admitted before the great court. The flag bearer, front guards and the slave remained at the foot of the steps while the three emissaries and their rear guard climbed them to approach the dais. They nervously looked about them as they ceremoniously climbed the seventy-five steps that led up to Minos’ council chair atop the great platform. They fell to their knees and bowed before the dais and the king rose from his chair to greet them.

  “Welcome to Crete,” he said. “Rise.”

  “Thank you, King Minos,” replied the visitor, kissing the hand that had been extended to him and stepping back so his two companions could do the same.

  “You are from Doria, sent by King Ada to deliver the terms to unite our houses?”

  “Yes, sire,” the visitor replied.

  “Very well, tonight we feast and maybe tomorrow you may have audience with us.”

  “But King Minos,” the visitor pressed.

  “Silence!” the king bellowed. Then he said to all his court, “Does this one intend to harry the King of Crete?”

  All present, except his guard, laughed loudly. He raised his hand and there was again silence.

  “Visitor, tonight we feast at the palace of Knossos and perhaps tomorrow you will have au
dience with us,” he repeated.

  The King turned from the men in a swirl of white robes and departed into the council hall behind the dais, leaving them stunned and shamed. Romus assigned two of his men to escort the visitors to their accommodations amongst the wagons and just before sunset, the royal caravan departed Heraklion and made its way slowly towards Knossos.

  * * *

  Seeing him now seated on his throne, wives and concubines at his feet, his cup being filled by one of the many virgin slaves, it didn’t seem to the visitor that the king was still perplexed by the news. He had called them to his throne room that morning to hear their messages and give his response. It had been five days since their arrival and the rocky encounter they’d had atop the council steps. The king had been pleasant and accommodating to them and had offered favorable responses for them to take back to King Ada and Princess Artemesia. The negotiations had gone well excepting for Queen Pelephone’s incessant scoffing, which had punctuated the entire exchange. Looking at the king now, he seemed pleased with himself, seemed resigned to it in fact, as if it was a satisfactory deal to be had. He raised his cup for the barely clad slave to fill and put the wine to his lip greedily. He was beginning to feel in his cups but the visitor was content to believe the bright firelight and activity of the court were to blame for his headiness.

  There had been fifteen virgins in yellow and green silk who had performed sensuous, writhing dances for them as they had been served plate after plate of ripe olives, roasted meats and fresh bread. Fruit had been brought after that and delicate sweetmeats prepared from dates, honey nuts and yoghurt. Lean, muscular eunuchs had led three red bulls into the hall and regaled the court with their acrobatic feats and ceremonial bull jumping. They had leaped from the ground to land softly on their backs and ridden them in circles before the crowd. Men climbed onto the shoulders of the riding men to form perfect pyramids of human form before leaping back to the ground in a flurry of twists and tumbles. The court was euphoric, clapping wildly and hooting at them. There were fire eaters before them now and the slaves moved freely ensuring that the guests were attended to in every way.

  Again, the visitor swayed in his seat. He caught himself before falling and looked around, startled. Surely he had not consumed that much wine as to be unsteady sitting down. To his dismay, the men of his party both to the left and the right of him were all folded over themselves, unconscious on their cushions. Then he noticed the slaves staring at him. Those who had served him and his men all stood holding clay wine vessels with double handles on their shoulders, while those who served the rest of the king’s court carried bronze jugs with single handles. He also suddenly realized that they had been offered no water for the entire feast, only wine.

  “It’s poisoned!” he cried, just as he tipped forward from his seat to join his men among the floor cushions.

  * * *

  When he awoke, the visitor found himself lying on the cold floor of an outside structure, looking up at the brightness of the full moon. He managed to rise carefully to his feet, concentrating on the sounds around him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and shadows of the night around him. Then he heard a sound that turned his blood to ice. It was a scream in the distance. He backed up against a nearby wall and stood still, listening. Another scream soon pierced the night and the visitor began to run. He groped along the darkened pathway between two high walls running as fast as he could. He came to a right turn, then a left and then he was at a dead end. He clawed at the wall in front of him and another shrill scream came to his ears. It seemed closer this time and he turned and ran again. Soon he came to an intersection with one corridor to the right and another to his left. He groaned to himself, it was a labyrinth. Stopping to catch his breath, he listened intently again. He could scarcely hear the sounds of the night over the pounding of his own heart in his ears but then there came the distinct sound of a bull snorting loudly, menacingly. It sounded close.

  Again he ran, choosing to go along the corridor which went to his left. The snorting sound was approaching rapidly behind him and as he made the next turn, he found himself at another dead end. He didn’t have the time to turn back and desperately he clawed at the wall before him. In the darkness his hand pressed against a loose stone and instantaneously the wall leaped back from him revealing a passageway beyond it. He stepped through it and pushed the wall back into place. The visitor stood alone in the passageway with his back against the wall and waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He looked to his left and then to his right but only saw the deepness of the black space that surrounded him. He felt helpless and more frightened than he had ever been in his entire life.

  “Gods save me,” he whispered softly into the dark and held his head in his hands.

  There was a soft rustle and he looked down the corridor to his right. He thought he was dreaming as he saw a small flame approaching him from the distance. It was the light from a torch and as it approached he could see the billowing of the fabric from the dress the torchbearer wore, a red dress. Her face was obscured by the beautiful mask she wore and as she approached him she raised her fingers to the masks’ lips to signal that he remain silent. The mask was exquisite, made of polished bronze with filigree designs of gold and amber stones worked delicately along its right side. When she stopped before him, the visitor whimpered again as if to scream but the woman put her fingers to his lips for him to be quiet. He swallowed hard and nodded.

  She handed him the torch and motioned for him to follow her, which he did, walking swiftly down the corridors around twists and turns as if she were native to its confusing darkness. Soon they emerged through a doorway again into the light of the full moon and the visitor realized that he had been led right back into the middle of the labyrinth which he had just barely escaped from. Swiftly, he turned to flee but the woman was gone and so was the mysterious doorway they had just walked through. He groaned and turned again to run toward the labyrinth just as the blade passed through him. As he paused, impaled by the sharp thrusted metal, he looked to see the face of his assailant. His mouth formed to say the words but nothing came from his lips. As he died, somewhere in Knossos that night, the last thing he ever saw was the Minoan Mask.

  Chapter 1

  It felt amazing to finally be out of the heat and dust of the dig sites at Knossos and back into some semblance of civilization.

  Heraklion had been a very urban city to be close to but there had been no attraction for her there, mostly distraction. A bustling center of commerce and tourism, Chyna had found the city of less cultural substance and more of a place to grab a cold beer and a warm shower before driving back out to work at the archaeological site she had been stationed at. It had been a long six months but they had managed to uncover the greatest find on the island on over one hundred years since Sir Arthur Evans had first discovered the forgotten city in 1900.

  The team she had been asked to join had stumbled upon strange wall formations outside the main walls of the city. The walls seemed to form the pattern of a large square with interlocking and intersecting concentric squares moving inwards evenly toward the structures center The Labyrinth, she had been told and she had been on the very next flight to Athens. It didn’t take Chyna long, after seeing what was being unearthed, to call her assistant Lana back in the New York offices of Found History and instruct her to get to Crete as fast as she could with her best equipment which she obediently did. The girls had been working together for more than five years, ever since Chyna’s father, famed archaeologist William Stone, had retired from digs to curate a small but affluent ancient artifact museum in California. Together, they had continued the consulting and appraisal work of Found History to much international acclaim.

  Indeed, it had been a long six months but the reward had been astounding. To have found the mythical labyrinth built by Daedelaus had been life changing for them and tonight they were at the University of Athens to celebrate that very triumph. As they walked around the room gre
eting their colleagues and friends, Chyna couldn’t help feeling proud to be amongst the ranks of such intellectual and influential people. She smiled at Lana from across the room and raised her glass to her in salute. The lead archaeologist who had called them in to consult on the dig was present, so were all the members of his team who had become their family during the time they had spent on Crete. Professor Cartwright would have it no other way. Strict and proper, as the British often tend to be, he tolerated no dissension among his ranks and those who got into fights or abused their team mates or the members of the local authorities that worked with them were immediately dismissed and sent home. One such fellow had been Ethan Doyle; a cantankerous young man from a rich family of adventurers who was convinced he knew all there was to know about ancient Greece. He had tried to assault a young lady from the Greek Archaeological Service one night in her tent. He had cursed them all as he left, saying they hadn’t heard the last of him. But they had and they were now enjoying the fruits of their labor.

  Professor Cartwright mounted the podium and cleared his throat, signaling to the room for silence.

  “Colleagues, Dignitaries of the Greek government, patrons and friends; tonight we gather to celebrate the culmination of my life’s work and the discovery of a lifetime,” he said. “After six long months under the heat of the Cretian summer sun, we proudly present to you a display of the artifacts uncovered at the site of Daedelaus’ legendary labyrinth. Thought to be a mythical story, we have this year proved that there is indeed some fact to be found among the pages of the sagas and legends of world history; giving even more credence to the thought that archaeology isn’t a waste of time after all.”