Tomb Raider: The Golden Seal

Chapter 12: A Sketchbook

Gunderson collapsed upon the rickety old bed and squinted through the sun that shone through the bars of his cell window. He'd spent three days locked up and under judicial disposition, awaiting trial over the damage caused to Brasov's heritage. His situation couldn't be worse and he didn't expect anybody to help him.

He was proved wrong when he heard almost inaudible steps on the hall floor. He looked through the little window of his cell door and noticed a black clothed figure. Gunderson bowed his head in respect.

"Meister."

"Excellent work you made of Bran," Karel said.

Gunderson wasn't sure if he was serious or just more of his snarky comments. "Meister, I lost my men."

"I'll provide you with better ones."

Gunderson found that offensive. Each one of his men was valuable and had been precious to him. After so many months of training, of earning confidence and respect, they had been absolutely loyal toward him. They had been the best. "I exposed those two, but they've escaped."

"Of course. What did you expect? If I don't let them make progress, they won't find out what I need."

"That being the case, Meister, should I suppose I'm no longer useful?"

"That decision belongs only to me." Karel extended a hand and lightly touched the door lock. At his contact the metal began to twist and melt like butter, dripping onto the ground. Gunderson stepped back, feeling a mixture of horror and admiration. The lock melted completely and the door opened. For a moment, Gunderson thought he was going to be killed. But Karel turned and went down the corridor. He hurried to follow after him. "What about the guards? They might hear us," Gunderson commented.

"I seriously doubt it," Karel replied, pointing to a corner with a contemptuous wave of his hand. There, on the floor, were the twisted corpses of the unfortunate guards that were on call that night. And all over wall, smeared with their blood, was the Nephilim writing. The Damned Language.

(...)

Five Jeeps, preceded by a big motorbike, were crossing the desert's highway toward Al-Fayoum Oasis. It was afternoon by the time they set up camp in a nearby area: Jean, Lara, Kurtis and about thirty workers. That evening they sat around the campfire to have supper, except Kurtis, who went by himself to sit on a dune.

Still looking at him, Jean told Lara: "Where did you find that guy?"

"He was a legionnaire."

"Was? And now what?"

Lara shrugged. "I crossed paths with him by chance and since then we've been working together on this."

"I do not have a good feeling about him."

She laughed. "He's a bit sullen sometimes, but not so bad at heart."

"Trusting a stranger is something you don't do."

"I know, but I owe him that. He helped me when he didn't have to. After all, it was his mission, not mine."

Jean already knew about Boaz's incident.

"Eckhardt, or rather Karel, murdered his father," continued Lara, "and he wants to have revenge. I'm involved because of Werner's murder."

"That man was insufferable," Jean snorted with all his good reasons to hate Von Croy.

"Maybe," Lara admitted distractedly. "He'd been a thorn in my side all these years, but he made me who I am. He didn't deserve to die like that."

"Nobody does," Jean agreed.