The Tyrant's Tomb

About seventy feet separated us from their position. The floor of their
chamber was littered with old human bones. No way could we sneak up on
them. These were skeleton warriors, the special forces of the undead world. I
had zero desire to fight them. I shivered, wondering who they had been
before the eurynomoi stripped them to the bones.
I met Hazel’s eyes, then pointed back the way we’d come. Retreat?
She shook her head. Wait.
Hazel shut her eyes in concentration. A bead of sweat trickled down the
side of her face.
The two guards snapped to attention. They turned away from us, facing
the archway, then marched through, side by side, into the darkness.
Lavinia’s gum almost fell out of her mouth. “How?” she whispered.
Hazel put her finger to her lips, then motioned for us to follow.
The chamber was now empty except for the bones scattered across the
floor. Perhaps the skeleton warriors came here to pick up spare parts. Along
the opposite wall, above the archway, ran a balcony accessed by a staircase
on either side. Its railing was a latticework of contorted human skeletons,
which did not freak me out at all. Two doorways led off from the balcony.
Except for the main archway through which our skeleton friends had
marched, those seemed to be the only exits from the chamber.
Hazel led us up the left-hand staircase. Then, for reasons known only to
herself, she crossed the balcony and took the doorway on the right. We
followed her through.
At the end of a short corridor, about twenty feet ahead, firelight
illuminated another balcony with a skeletal railing, the mirror image of the
one we’d just left. I couldn’t see much of the chamber beyond it, but the
space was clearly occupied. A deep voice echoed from within—a voice I
recognized.
Meg flicked her wrists, retracting her swords into rings—not because we
were out of danger, but because she understood that even a little extra glow
might give away our position. Lavinia tugged an oil cloth from her back
pocket and draped it over her manubalista. Hazel gave me a look of warning
that was completely unnecessary.
I knew what lay just ahead. Tarquin the Proud was holding court.
I crouched behind the balcony’s skeletal latticework and peered into the
throne room below, desperately hoping none of the undead would look up