by D.A. Dean
Chapter 14: Kafar's Descent
Coughing against the gritty dust that hung heavy in the late evening air, Kafar made his way to the mud-brick shelter which served as his family's home. From the corner of his eye, he could see Netum trailing him, Nephthys' second in command, High Priestess Califah, following, chin lifted, behind. He inched his hand to his knife's hilt and entered the encampment.
Women lowered their sunken eyes. The few children not in their shelters halted from their play to gaze up at him and lifted onto their thin legs to scan for their fathers. Catching sight of Seht's counselor, they scurried to hide behind their mothers. Kafar quickened his pace. Reaching his hut, clods of dirt crumbling across its edges, he paused.
Califah stopped and surveyed, her cool gaze barely disguising her disgust. A child crept near and touched her gown. She recoiled, the toddler's mother hastening forward, pulling back her daughter, murmuring apologies and pleas. Califah waved the fearful mother away.
Netum, scowling at Kafar, lifted high the sword, the prize, the burden that had brought the threat of death to Kafar's family.
Kafar swung open his home's palm-cane door, stepped inside, and quickly secured it behind him. The door's latch wasn't strong enough to hold against a heavy blow if Netum decided to issue one. How much time would Netum afford him alone with his loved ones?
"Sahli," he called quietly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light given by the few short, thick candles placed in the hut's corners.
Sahli turned her attention from the basket she was weaving in the near dark. "Kafar," she whispered and lifted from the hut's dirt floor to greet him.
Yearning to look upon his wife's beauty, Kafar pushed Sahli's long black hair from her face. Staring into her pale blue eyes, he pulled her forward and bent to kiss her.
Stiffening, she submitted.
"You don't have a kiss for me, your husband, winner of the king's contest?"
Sahli darted her gaze to his then cast it down. "Husband, I'm glad you're safe." She lifted onto her toes, kissed his cheek, and withdrew, returning to her weaving.
Kafar's gaze moved past the nearly-empty pots of grain and hollowed-in basket of dates to the bundles of cloth and skins. Why weren't their children in bed? Had Netum already ordered them taken? But why leave Sahli? Kafar demanded, "Where are the children?"
Sahli's fingers stilled. She pointed to the alcove at the back of the hut.
The couple's two daughters lay curled together over a thin, fraying reed mat behind their son, asleep at the alcove's edge, a short spear still clutched in his hand.
"Wake them," Kafar commanded.
"But they're finally rest—"
He lifted his fist.
Sahli jumped to her feet. "Mahni," she said and gently shook their son. "Mahni, wake. Your father's returned."
The adolescent stretched, dropping the spear. "Father?" he called drowsily.
"Come here."
Mahni hurried to Kafar. The worry in his eyes shifted to excitement. "Did you win the contest?"
Kafar glanced back at the latched door. Grimly, he nodded.
"I didn't hear the other men come back. Were they following you?"
"They aren't returning."
Mahni scratched his leg. "Have they been sent to another battle?"
"I told you only one would return from the contest. Don't you ever listen?" Kafar lifted his open hand, cocking back his arm.
Mahni cowered. "Forgive me, Father."
No, of course Mahni hadn't understood. Kafar hadn't explained. But he couldn't shield his son from knowledge any longer. He lowered his hand to his side. "As victor, I was awarded a mission. I must fulfill it. You must take my place here."
Scratching at the scabs over his shoulder, Mahni leaned back to search his father's eyes.
Kafar continued, "I only have a few moments. Then I must leave. And I may not—"
"Take me with you."
Kafar shook his head, still swimming from battle and the meeting with his king and queen. "You must remain here and look after your sisters."
"And Mother?"
Kafar's gaze drifted to Sahli, bent low over their daughters. "Yes, and your mother. Netum is coming soon. You must do whatever he says."
Sahli straightened. She spun to face her husband.
He locked his gaze to hers. "Whatever he says. Do not hesitate. Do you understand?"
"You'd have me—"
"Heed me, wife. Or you put our daughters in jeopardy."
Her eyes held her fierce retort. She turned from him and hovered her hands over the two slowly-waking girls.
Kafar turned his stare to his son. "Heed me, Mahni."
Mahni's shoulders crept up. "Yes, Father."
Hands trembling, Kafar unwound the pouch's strings and slipped them around his neck. He handed his sheathed stone knife to his son. "Take it," he ordered.
The two girls crawled from under their mother's arms. "Father?" the oldest called.
"Here, Daughters," Kafar said and knelt.
They rushed into his open arms, kissed his cheeks, and snuggled against him.
"Kiiah," he murmured, hugging her. "Kienna." He brushed back her waist-length brown hair, and lowered his forehead to hers.
The door's latch rattled.
Kafar held his daughters tight.
"Ouch, Father," Kiiah scolded.
Kienna looked up at him, her keen brown eyes appraising. Her gaze slid to the doorway.
"You must listen to me now," he said fast, low, and Kiiah's playful blue-green eyes filled with fear. "I must go. While I'm gone, you must follow Netum's instructions."
"No, Father," Kienna begged and pressed her cheek against his shoulder.
"Listen to me, Kienna. Never make him repeat an order. Do whatever it takes to stay in his graces." Kafar pushed away the images that flashed through his mind. "Your mother will do what she can, and Mahni will look out for you. Find Netum's favor, and you'll be safe. Do you understand?"
"Don't go," Kiiah pleaded, wrapping her fingers through his. "Please don't go."
Kafar kissed his daughters' cheeks, disentangled himself from their hold, and stood.
A heavy thud shook the door.
Kiiah huddled against her sister, fastening her arm around Kienna's slender waist.
After taking one more look at his son, one more lingering look at his daughters, Kafar lifted the latch and swung open the door.
Netum yanked Kafar closer. "Kafar, High Priestess Califah has information for you." He gestured to the piece of rolled leather she clutched. "Tell him."
Califah gave Netum a contemptuous look and turned her gaze away. "I am here according to our king's request. It's his orders I follow, according to my queen's wishes. I am not subject to your demands."
Netum crossed his thick arms. "Is that what I report?"
Califah's eyes flashed with fury.
"Oh, well, have it your way," Netum said, fastened his hand around her throat, and squeezed. "I have orders, too."
Califah lifted her hands, and Netum released his hold. She drew a ragged breath. To Kafar, she said, "Priestesses send baskets of food to the one you're to find. The Priestess of Isis in the village circled on the map I hold will know from which village the baskets will next be sent."
She took a step nearer. Her voice lowered, taking on a strange resonance, "It's imperative you do not allow this map to be found. If it's discovered that a Priestess of Nephthys assisted you in your mission, there will be war among the priestesses, and it will end only when all priestesses and their guards are dead."
Priestesses killing priestesses? Kafar struggled to understand the revelation.
Califah's eyes glistened. "What's more, if it's discovered I aided you, our queen—"
Netum knocked her aside. Glowering at her, he stuffed the map into the sword's sheath and threw it at Kafar. He thrust forward the sword, its metal gleaming in the fading twilight.
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Overwhelmed by questions he feared to ask, Kafar secured the sheath's strap around his waist. Unable to stop himself, he glanced back toward his family.
"Don't worry," Netum said. "I'll watch over them."
Kafar cringed against Netum's harsh laughter, grabbed the sword's hilt, and ran.
Nearing the edge of the encampment, he forced himself to slow and find his bearing. The sword's solid weight reassuring him, he turned and moved off in the direction of the village by the sea, the village harboring the priestess he would force to submit. He stopped. Force to submission a Priestess of Isis? If he failed, it would mean his death. If he succeeded, it would mean taking the next step.
Kill a god? The very thought was madness.
Or was it? He swung the sword hard. The leather pouch containing the magic Nephthys had presented slapped against his chest. The sword's blade cut through the air with a sharp hiss. He nodded. Winner of his king's contest, he now had, in addition to his fierce skills, the aid of a goddess, the sword of a general. He had no need for fear. Staring up at the dark night sky, moon covered in cloud, he roared.
