by Wilbur Smith
“Come back,” he shouted after her. “I will go.”
“I am lighter and faster than you,” she called back, and though he went on pleading with her she ignored him and used all her breath and strength on skimming forward.
The sound of chariots grew louder, and spurred Mintaka on to greater effort. Watching her, Nefer was torn with fear for her safety and anger for her intransigence, but even stronger was his pride in her courage. “She has the heart of a warrior and a queen,” he whispered, as she drew closer to the far bank.
Now they could hear the voices of the pursuers and the rattle of wheels and the clank of weapons, magnified by the sounding board of the dunes.
Taita tucked his staff under his belt to leave his hands free, then he and Bay waded out to meet Mintaka. Each took a spare board from her and launched themselves out on the treacherous surface. All three started to swim back to the east bank.
From out of the dunes behind them debouched the head of the column of pursuing chariots. The unmistakable figure of Trok was in the leading vehicle, and his bull voice roared out triumphantly and echoed from the dune walls.
“Forward! Charge!”
The leading phalanx of chariots broke into full gallop and came tearing toward the edge of the sinking sands. The three fugitives sculled themselves frantically on through the yellow morass. Behind them the yells of the charioteers grew louder.
Trok’s bulk forced his wheels to sink deeper into the loose sand than those of the other vehicles, and though his horses strained under the whip, he fell back behind the first rank of the charge.
The other three chariots of the leading file ran headlong into the sinking sands, and were sucked in as swiftly as the other vehicles had been engulfed. Thus, Trok was alerted to the danger. He managed to bring his own team under control and swerve away from the morass.
He seized his short recurved bow from the rack and leaped down. Behind him the other chariots broke the charge and drew up in a mass. “Bows!” shouted Trok. “Massed volleys. Don’t let them get away. Shoot them down.”
The archers ran forward and formed into ranks four deep at the edge of the swamp, full quivers on their backs and bows strung taut.
Mintaka had once more pulled ahead of her companions. She had passed the halfway mark, and though they were sculling frantically Taita and Bay were lagging ever farther behind her.
Trok strode down the ranks, giving his orders. “Archers, nock your arrows!” A hundred and fifty men fitted arrow to bowstring.
“Archers, draw and aim!” They lifted their weapons and drew to the lip, aiming into the lowering yellow sky.
“Loose!” Trok yelled, and they fired a massed volley. The arrows rose in a dark cloud. They reached the zenith of their trajectory and fell toward the three small figures out in the swamp.
Taita heard them coming and looked back into the sky. The deadly cloud dropped toward them, whistling softly as the wings of a flight of wild geese.
“Into the mud!” Taita called urgently, and all three slipped off the boards and were immersed in the thick mud until only their heads protruded. The arrows fell thick as hail around them. One pegged deeply into the board on which Mintaka had lain only seconds before.
“Onward!” Taita ordered, and they hauled themselves back onto the boards and sculled forward again, gaining only a few yards before the air was once more filled with the hum of falling arrows, and they threw themselves back into the protection of the yellow mud.
Three times more they were forced to dive off the boards, but each time the range was longer for the archers and the volleys less accurate. Mintaka pulled away even faster than before and was soon out of range.
Trok’s bellows of rage and frustration followed them as he urged his men to shoot. The arrows plopped into the mud around them, but the fall of the volleys was less concentrated.
Taita turned his head to look across at Bay. His huge scarified head was shining with mud and sweat. His bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets, and his mouth was wide open, his filed teeth sharp as those of a shark.
“Courage, Bay!” Taita called to him. “We are almost across.” As he said it, he realized that the words were a direct challenge to the gods.
On the bank behind them Trok saw them slipping slowly from his grasp. His troopers were using the shorter and less powerful bows designed to be shot from a running chariot. Two hundred cubits was the limit of their effective range. Trok turned and glared back at his lance-bearer, who was managing the horses of his team.
“Bring my war bow,” he shouted. Trok was the only man in the regiment who carried the long bow in his chariot: he had decided that for the rest of his troops the war bow’s awkward length did not compensate for the added strength and range.
However, Trok’s massive strength and the reach of his long arms set him above the strictures placed on lesser men. He used the short recurved bow in most situations. However, he had designed a special rack on the side of his chariot to accommodate the extra length of the more powerful but unwieldy weapon.
His lance-bearer ran to him and placed the great bow in his hands. He brought also the quiver holding the special arrows, emblazoned with the head of the leopard, that fitted the long weapon.
Trok shouldered his way into the front row of archers, and they made way for him. He nocked a long arrow and measured the range with half-closed eyes.
The heads of the two swimmers were tiny blobs on the yellow expanse. The men around him were still shooting rapidly, but their arrows fell short, dropping ineffectually into the mud. Mentally he calculated the angle of release and took his stance with his left foot leading. He sucked in a deep breath and drew with straight left arm, until the string touched the tip of his hooked nose. The bow challenged even his strength. The muscles in his bare arms stood proud, and his features contorted with the effort. He held it for a heartbeat, adjusting his aim fractionally. Then he released, and the great bow-stock flexed and pulsed in his hands like a living creature.
The long arrow blurred as it climbed, high above the clouds of lesser missiles, outstripping them effortlessly. It reached its noon and dropped like a stooping falcon.
In the mud Taita heard the sharper shriller sound of its flight and looked up. He saw it coming straight at him, and there was no time for him to fall off his primitive craft or even to duck to avoid it.
Involuntarily he closed his eyes. The arrow passed so close over his head that he felt his hair stirred by the wind of its passage. Then he heard the solid thump of the strike.
He opened his eyes and rolled his head toward the sound. The long arrow had taken Bay in the middle of his naked back. It had transfixed his body, and the flint head had buried itself in the board on which he lay, pinning him to the wood like a shiny black beetle.
Bay’s face was only an arm’s length from his own. Taita looked into the deep black eyes, and saw the agony of death flare in them. Bay opened his mouth to cry out or to speak, but the copious rush of bright blood through his lips drowned any sound. Painfully he reached up to the necklace around his neck, and pulled it loose. He reached out to Taita offering him, as his last gift, the priceless relic that was twisted around his clawed fingers.
Taita gently untangled it from the rigid fingers and dropped the string around his own neck. He felt the essence of the dying shaman flowing from it into his own body, reinforcing his powers.
Bay’s head dropped forward, but the arrow prevented him rolling off the board. Taita recognized the leopard inlay on the shaft of the arrow, and knew who had fired it. He reached across, placed two fingers on Bay’s throat and felt the moment of his passing. Bay was gone, and no effort on his part could save him. He left him and swam onward to where Nefer and Mintaka stood on the far bank calling encouragement to him. Four more of the long arrows dropped close to him, but none touched him and he drew slowly out of their reach.
Nefer met him and helped him to his feet in the thick mud. Taita used his staff to help himself out ont
o firm ground. He sagged down, gasping for breath. After only a minute he sat up again, and stared across the sinking sands to where Trok stood on the far bank, arms akimbo, every line of his body and head betraying his rage and frustration. Then Trok cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Think not that you have escaped me, Warlock. I want you and I want my bitch back. I will have you both. I will run you down. I will never lose the scent.”
Mintaka walked forward as far as she could go. She knew exactly where he was most vulnerable, and how to humiliate him most painfully in front of his men. “Dear husband, your threats are as flaccid and empty as your loins.” Her high sweet voice carried clearly and two hundred Hyksos warriors heard every word. There was a shocked silence, and then a great roar of mocking laughter went up from their ranks. Even his own men hated Trok enough to take pleasure in his humiliation.
Trok brandished his bow above his head and stamped with helpless rage. At last he turned, snarling, on his men and they fell silent, abashed by their own temerity.
In the silence Trok shouted, “Ishtar! Ishtar the Mede, come forward!”
Ishtar stood at the edge of the sinking sands and faced the little party on the far bank. His face was covered by the patterns of tattoos. His eyes were surrounded by purple whorls; his one wall eye shone like a silver disc. A double row of red dots ran down his long nose. There were fern-like tracings across his chin and cheeks. His hair was set into long, hard spikes with red shellac. Deliberately he loosened his robe and let it fall to the sand.
He stood stark naked, and his back and shoulders were covered with leopard rosettes. A huge star of red was tattooed on his belly and his pubic hair was shaven, which emphasized his enormous dangling penis. Tiny bells of gold and silver were hooked through his pierced foreskin. He stared at Taita, and the Magus stepped forward to confront him. The gap between them seemed to shrink as they stared at each other.
Slowly Ishtar’s member swelled and the bells tinkled as it stiffened into a massive erection. He thrust his hips forward, pointing the angry red head at Taita. It was a direct challenge, emphasizing Taita’s eunuch status, and exerting Ishtar’s masculinity over him.
Taita lifted his staff and pointed at the Mede’s groin. Neither moved for a long while, projecting all their strength against each other like thrown javelins.
Suddenly Ishtar groaned and ejaculated, spurting all his seed into the sand. His penis shriveled, becoming small, wrinkled and insignificant. Ishtar sank to his knees and hurriedly pulled on his robe to cover his humiliation. He had lost the first direct confrontation with the Warlock. He turned his back on Taita and shuffled back to where the two priests of Seueth and the Nubian shaman squatted. He joined their circle, and they linked hands and began to chant.
“What are they doing?” Nefer asked nervously.
“I think that they are trying to divine the way around the sinking sands,” Mintaka whispered.
“Taita will stop them,” Nefer said, with a confidence he did not feel.
Suddenly Ishtar sprang to his feet, with renewed vitality. He let out a cry like a raven’s hoarse croak, and pointed south down the sand valley.
“He has chosen the route the falcon revealed to us,” Taita said quietly. “We are not yet safe.”
Trok’s regiments mounted. With Ishtar riding beside Trok in the leading chariot they trotted away southward following the winding river of fatal mud. As they passed, the troopers shouted threats and defiance at the forlorn group on the opposite bank.
After the dust settled they saw that Trok had left a small force, five chariots, ten men, camped under the dunes on the far bank to keep them under observation. Soon the last chariot in the pursuit column was gone into the yellow heat haze, and was hidden by the bend in the valley walls.
“Before nightfall Trok will have found the way across to our side,” Taita predicted.
“What can we do?” Nefer asked.
Taita turned to him. “You are Pharaoh. You are the Lord of Ten Thousand Chariots. Give us your orders, Majesty.”
Nefer stared at him, speechless at this taunt. Surely Taita was jeering at him. Then he stared into those ancient pale eyes and saw that there was no mockery in them. His anger rose in his throat with the bitter taste of bile.
He was about to protest, to point out that they had lost everything, all their vehicles and water, and that there was a burning desert ahead of them and a relentlessly pursuing army behind them, but Mintaka touched his arm, which steadied him. He stared into Taita’s eyes and the inspiration came to him.
He told them his plan, and before he was finished Hilto was grinning and nodding, and Meren laughed and rubbed his hands together. Mintaka stood closer to him, proud and straight.
When he had given his orders, Taita nodded. “That is the battle plan of a true pharaoh,” he said. His voice was flat and without emotion, but in his eyes was a spark of approval. He knew at last that the task Lostris had set for him would soon be finished. Nefer was almost ready to take charge of his own destiny.
They had covered no more than a few leagues when Ishtar pointed forward. Trok halted the column and strained his eyes in the strange yellow light and the shimmering heat haze. Ahead the valley of the sinking sands narrowed sharply.
“What is that?” Trok demanded. It seemed that some sinuous sea monster was swimming across the gap. The crest of its dorsal fin stuck up from the yellow mud, black and sharp-edged.
“It is our bridge,” Ishtar told him, “a ridge of shale running from one bank to the other. This is our crossing.”
Trok sent two of his best men ahead on foot to scout the shale bridge. They ran lightly across and reached the far side with dry sandals. They shouted and waved to Trok and he whipped up his horses and followed them across. In single file the rest of the column crossed behind him.
As soon as they were all safely on the far bank, Trok turned toward the north following the valley back to where they had last seen Taita’s fugitive party.
But they had covered less than half the distance before the overcast cloud turned to a yellow fog, a brooding miasma that brought on the night prematurely. Within minutes the last of the light had been snuffed out, and the utter darkness forced the column to halt.
“The horses are tired.” Trok tried to put a brave face on the decision to halt for the night when his commanders gathered around him in the darkness for their orders. “Water them and let them and the men rest. We will go on at first light. Even the Warlock will not have gone far on foot and without water. We shall have them before noon tomorrow.”
Taita unwrapped Mintaka’s feet and nodded with satisfaction. Then he dampened them in the strong alkali moisture of the sinking sands, and rebandaged them. Over her protests Nefer made her don his own sandals. They were too large for her by far, but the bandages made them fit closer.
They had nothing to carry, no water or food, no weapons or baggage, nothing except the floorboards from the sunken chariots. With the Hyksos troopers on the far bank watching them curiously, Nefer led them up the face of the high dune, heading east. Panting, they reached the crest. Already their thirst was a raging torment.
Nefer took one last look across the sinking sands. Trok’s troopers on the far bank had removed their horses’ harness, laagered their chariots and were lighting their watchfires. Nefer gave them an ironic salute, and followed the rest of the party down the far side of the dune. As soon as they were hidden from the watchers they rested awhile. “Every effort will cost us dear,” Nefer warned them. “We will have no water for many hours more.”
As they lay panting in the heat they listened anxiously for the sound of the men and chariots. Mintaka gave voice to their fears: “Pray to all the gods that Trok does not find his crossing and come back to us before dark.”
When they had recovered, Nefer led them, under cover of the intervening sand dune, parallel to the valley of the sinking sands. They went only a short distance, but in the heat the effort taxed them severely. Once again th
ey settled down to rest in the enervating yellow fog. They did not have long to wait before the darkness descended on them.
Night brought little relief from the heat. They climbed back to the top of the dune and below them saw the watchfires of the men on the opposite side of the valley. The flames gave just sufficient light for them to make out the layout of the Hyksos camp.
The enemy chariots were drawn up in a hollow square with the horses’ heads hitched to the wheels. Two sentries sat beside the fires, and the rest of the men were lying on their sleeping mats within the shelter of the laager.
“They have seen us set out toward the east. We must hope that they believe we are still heading in that direction, and that they are off their guard,” Nefer said, and led them slipping and sliding down the face of the dune. They reached the bottom a few hundred cubits down the valley from the camp. This was just far enough to hide their movements and muffle any sounds they might make.
Using the glow of the campfires for orientation, linking arms so that no one would lose the way in the dark, they groped their way to the edge of the sinking sands.
They launched the wooden boards and sculled across the quagmire. They had become practiced at this form of travel and within a short time they reached the far side.
Keeping close together they crept toward the camp, and crouched down just beyond the circle of firelight. Except for the two sentries the enemy camp seemed asleep. The horses were quiet and the only sound was the soft crackle of the flames. Suddenly one of the sentries stood up and walked across to where his comrade sat. The two talked softly. Nefer fretted at the delay, and was about to ask Taita for help when the old man anticipated him. He pointed his staff at the two dark figures. Within minutes their voices sounded drowsy, and at last the one sentry stood up, stretched and yawned. He sauntered back to his own fire, and settled down with his sword across his lap.
Taita kept the staff pointed at him, and slowly the man’s head sank forward, his chin resting on his chest. From the other fire came a soft snore. Both men were fast asleep.
