Warlock: A Novel of Ancient Egypt (Novels of Ancient Egypt)

by Wilbur Smith

  Every muscle in Nefer’s right arm stood out with the effort and his eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. Then suddenly he felt something give under the point of his thumb, and he made one final effort. His thumb went in deeper, the weakened cartilage and sinew crackling and popping as they tore, the kneecap lifted in Nefer’s grip, ripped from its seat.

  Polios screamed, a sound of such extreme agony that it hushed the roar of the spectators that crowded the edge of the ring. Polios released his own hold and tried to push Nefer away from him, but Nefer rolled easily with the throw, never releasing his grip on the mangled kneecap, tearing it further open. Suddenly, rendered helpless as an infant, Polios sobbed and choked on the pain of it.

  Nefer came up on top of him and forced his face into the earth. He twisted his left leg up behind him, and Polios could not resist. Nefer bent the shattered knee back until the heel touched Polios’ buttocks, and put all his weight upon it. The terrible cry that Polios gave out sounded not human.

  “Yield!” Nefer commanded, but Polios was dumb and paralyzed with agony. The umpire ran forward to touch Nefer’s shoulder and signal his victory.

  Nefer sprang to his feet and left Polios writhing and blubbering in the dirt. The spectators parted silently in front of him, stunned by the swiftness and completeness of his victory.

  Nefer heard someone in the crowd say, “He will never walk on that leg again,” but he never looked back as he ran to the other ring and pushed out of his way the men that surrounded it.

  Meren and Sigassa, the Crocodile, were locked chest to chest. They rolled across the ring, first one on top, then the other. Nefer saw at a glance that Meren was injured. Sigassa’s diseased skin was thick and horny, impervious to pain, and he used it now like a weapon, rubbing himself against him, tearing Meren’s flesh so the blood oozed up from the shallow lacerations across his chest and arms. Taita had warned them of that, but it was impossible to avoid his loathsome embrace, and Meren was being overpowered. Nefer had arrived only just in time.

  The rules of the Red Road were deliberately stacked against the novices. However, they allowed one novice to come to the aid of the other, but only after he had defeated his own opponent. This was one of the few concessions they were granted. Nefer took full advantage of it.

  The moment he was into the ring Nefer stooped and picked up a white pebble the size and shape of a dove’s egg. As he ran to Meren’s aid, he placed the stone in the center of his palm, wrapped his fingers and thumb around it and clasped it so firmly that his knuckles whitened with the pressure. He had turned his fist into a weapon as effective as a carpenter’s mallet.

  The crowd shouted a warning to the Crocodile, and he released Meren and came to his feet in one swift movement. Head down he charged at Nefer. Taita had warned them that his bald and knobbly skull was a deadly battering ram. Sigassa had already cracked two of Meren’s ribs with his first charge, and now he strove to do the same to Nefer.

  Nefer let him come on, judging his moment, placing his feet firmly, and then he swung his clenched right fist into the side of Sigassa’s jaw, at the precise point that Taita had shown him. The weight and speed of Sigassa’s own rush met the full power of Nefer’s shoulders behind the blow. The great scaly head snapped back and Sigassa’s legs turned soft as porridge under him. But his momentum carried him on, he sprawled full-length over the line of marker stones.

  No one in the crowd had ever seen a bare fist used as a weapon. They gaped in amazement. Even Nefer was startled by the result, for Sigassa lay without twitching. Nefer recovered in a moment and yelled at the umpire, “Sigassa has left the ring! He must forfeit!”

  The umpire shouted his agreement, “Nefer Seti is the victor. Sigassa forfeits the bout. You are through and clear, Nefer Seti!”

  Nefer ran to Meren and hauled him to his feet. “Are you hurt?”

  “My ribs! The swine butted like a bull,” he gasped.

  “We must go on.”

  “Of course.” Meren straightened and squared his shoulders. His face was gray as ashes with the pain. “It is nothing.” But he clutched the side of his chest as they ran back to the chariot. Hastily they pulled on their discarded chitons and strapped on the leather armor.

  “That took too long. We are losing ground every second.” As they scrambled up onto the footplate of the chariot they both looked back down the terraced slope of the hills toward the javelin butts on the plain below.

  “There they are,” Meren grunted, and they saw the dust cloud boiling up pale and ethereal in the sunlight. The pursuing vehicles were still only dark specks beneath the hovering dust, but seemed to grow in size even as they watched them.

  There was nothing to say. The pursuers would not be tested by the wrestlers. They would ride straight past the rings of stones. Nefer and Meren knew how meager was their lead, and how swiftly they could lose even that small advantage. It needed only one more wrong step or miscalculation on their part.

  Nefer shook out the reins and called to the team. Dov and Krus had rested while they had been wrestling. Now they were refreshed, they leaned their full weight into the harness and sped away. Ahead, the line of flags marking the course began the wide turn back into the south, in the direction from which they had come.

  “Halfway through!” Meren tried to sound gay, but his voice was tight with the pain of his cracked ribs, and each breath he drew was agony. They crossed the plateau and reached the far side where the terraces dropped in a series of giant steps to the rim of the chasm. They looked down toward the paddocks and pastures of the irrigated lands, startlingly green against the ochre and dun hues of the surrounding landscape, and the towers and rooftops of Gallala, so tumbled and earth-colored that from this distance they seemed not man-made but natural features of the desert.

  They looked ahead and the chasm gaped at them like the maw of a monster. Its sides were sheer and unscaleable, falling to shaded purple depths. There were small groups of people on the path that skirted the top of the cliffs. These were the spectators who had watched the trial of the javelins and who had taken the shortcut and were hurrying to watch the archery trial.

  Nefer drove hard down the terrace, pushing the horses to their best speed, trying to win back even a few yards from the pursuit. This was where Krus made up in full measure for his mistakes at the javelin butts: his great strength bore them on and gave new heart to Dov at his side. They reached the lip of the chasm and raced along the edge, so close to it that the small pebbles thrown up by the wheels were flung out over the void. Though Krus was on the side closest to it he never broke his stride but leaned into the traces and ran with all his heart and will. Nefer felt his spirits soar on high.

  “We can still beat them to the bridge,” he shouted in the wind. “Come away, Krus! Come away, Dov.”

  Nefer looked ahead and saw the tall, unmistakable figure of Taita standing on the lip of the precipice. He was staring across the chasm at the archery targets on the far side, and he did not look round as they pulled up behind him and jumped down from the chariot.

  The previous evening Taita had predicted, “With the west wind blowing, the archery and the crossing of the chasm will determine the final outcome. I will wait for you there.”

  They took down the bows and arrow quivers from the racks, and left the horses in the care of the waiting grooms as they hurried to join Taita at the edge of the cliff.

  “We lost time at the javelin butts,” Nefer told him grimly, as he strung the great war bow, one end anchored on the ground between his feet as he exerted all his strength and weight on the other end to flex the stock.

  “Krus was too eager,” Taita said, “and so were you. But there is no profit in looking back. Look ahead!” He pointed across the deep void to where the targets were suspended on a light bamboo scaffolding.

  As at the javelin butts, there were five targets. They were inflated pigs’ bladders, each suspended on the crosspiece of the scaffold by a length of flax twine. They were well separated so th
at an arrow intended for one would not strike another by chance. The twine that held them was two cubits long, so that they had freedom of movement. Light as air they danced on the west wind, bobbing and ducking unpredictably.

  The great open void between them made it almost impossible to judge the range accurately, and the west wind swirled and eddied along the cliffs. The force and direction of the wind that they felt on this side of the chasm would be different from that on the far bank. However, it would affect the arrows almost as much as the targets.

  “What is the range, Old Father?” Nefer asked, as he chose a long arrow from the quiver. Earlier that morning Taita had paced out one side of a right-angled triangle along this lip of the chasm. Then he had gauged the angle subtended by the targets on the far side with a weird arrangement of pegs and strings on a board. He had used these measurements, in a manner that was unfathomable to Nefer, to calculate the range across the chasm.

  “One hundred and twenty-seven cubits,” Taita told him now. Nefer added this information to his own calculations of wind speed and direction, as he took his stance on the crumbling edge of the cliff. Meren stepped up beside him with the lighter cavalry bow in his hand.

  “In the name of Horus and the goddess,” Nefer prayed, “let us begin!” They shot at the same time.

  Nefer’s arrow dropped over the crosspiece of the scaffold, too long and high. Meren’s arrow rose at a steeper angle aimed wide into the wind. As it slowed at the top of its trajectory the wind took hold of it, and it veered to the left, almost at the limit of its range it dropped toward the dangling bobbing line of pigs’ bladders. It struck the middle target cleanly and they heard the pop as it burst, and disappeared like a stroke of magic.

  A joyous shout went up from the watchers, and the umpire called the hit in a loud voice, but Meren muttered as he nocked another arrow, “That was a fluke.”

  “I’ll take any more flukes that you have in your quiver,” Nefer told him, “Bak-her, brother, Bak-her.”

  They drew and fired again, this time Meren’s arrow fell short, rattling against the rocks of the cliff. Nefer missed the bladder on the right-hand end by half a cubit, and cursed Seth for the wind he had sent.

  Unlike the javelins, the rules of the Red Road placed no limit on the number of arrows they were allowed. The only stipulation was that they must carry them all on the chariot from the start, so it was a tradeoff between weight and numbers. They had each brought fifty missiles, but one of Nefer’s long arrows weighed half again as much as one of Meren’s.

  They shot and missed, and shot again and missed again.

  Taita had watched the wind and the flight of each arrow. He had gathered all his powers around him to feel the strength and impetus of the treacherous wind. He could almost see it, the flow and the strength of it, like the currents in a clear stream of water.

  “Hold the same point of aim!” he ordered Nefer. “But wait for my command.”

  Nefer drew to full strength and though every muscle in his right arm quivered with the strain he held it.

  Taita read the wind, became part of it, felt it in the depths of his being. “Now!” he whispered, and the arrow leaped out high over the void and wavered on the capricious airs. Then like a towering falcon it seemed to gather itself and stoop to the target. The bladder popped as it struck, and the crowd howled.

  “The next one!” Taita ordered, and Nefer drew, held his aim high and to the right of the second bladder.

  “Now!” Taita whispered. The old man seemed to control the flight of the arrow by the force of his mind. At the very last instant before it struck the west wind tried spitefully to turn it aside, but it held the line and the bladder burst with a sharp crack.

  “The next one. Draw!” whispered Taita. “Hold!” and a heartbeat later, “Now!” This time the arrow almost touched the bladder, but at the last moment the ball bounced aside.

  Nefer shot again on Taita’s command and he missed by a full arrow length, high and left. The strain of working the great bow was too much, his right arm ached and his muscles cramped and jumped involuntarily.

  “Rest!” Taita ordered. “Take the Periapt of Lostris in your right hand, and rest.”

  Nefer laid aside the bow and stood with his head bowed in an attitude of prayer, with the golden amulet in his right hand. He felt the strength begin to flow back into his bow arm. Meren was still trying with the smaller bow, but the pain of his cracked ribs almost doubled him over and the sweat of agony ran down his pale face.

  At that moment the crowd along the top of the cliff stirred and turned and looked back up the terrace. Someone shouted, “They come!” and the cry was taken up, until the shouting was deafening.

  Nefer lifted his head and saw the first chariot come whirling over the skyline. It was close enough for him to recognize Daimios at the reins, his golden hair streaming back on the wind. Behind him came the other chariots of the pursuers strung out in a line. Faintly he heard the drivers shouting to the horses and the rumble of the wheels over the rough ground.

  “Do not look at them,” Taita ordered him. “Do not think about them. Think only of the target.”

  Nefer turned his back on the approaching line of vehicles and lifted the bow.

  “Draw and hold!” Taita said. The wind spurted and dropped. “Now!” The arrow sped unerringly across the chasm and the fourth bladder burst.

  Nefer slid another arrow from the quiver, then he paused with the shaft in his hand and felt despair in his heart. A dust devil came spinning down out of the desert onto the line of targets. The dun-colored curtains of dust and sand and debris obscured the range, and the single remaining bladder disappeared in its depths.

  High on the hill behind them the pursuing charioteers shouted with triumph, and Nefer heard Daimios’ voice above the roar of the whirlwind: “Now you must stand and fight me, Nefer Seti.”

  “One more target before you are clear,” Socco, the umpire, shouted sternly. “Stand your ground.”

  “There is no target,” Nefer protested.

  “The will of the Nameless God,” Socco told him. “You must submit to it.”

  “There!” shouted Taita. “There is the manifest will of a greater and more powerful goddess.” He pointed across the deep ravine at the impenetrable cloud of yellow dust.

  Like a cork floating up from the depths of a turbid lake, the bladder with its broken string trailing under it rose to the top of the dust cloud, and skittered in the heated air.

  “Now, in the name of the goddess Lostris!” Taita urged Nefer. “She is the only one who can help you now.”

  “In the name of the goddess!” Nefer shouted, threw up the great bow and shot at the tiny balloon in the wild embrace of the storm. Up and up climbed the arrow, and it seemed that it must miss to the left, but abruptly the bladder ducked and dived to meet it. The razor-sharp flint arrowhead slashed it open, it burst and whipped away like a rag on the wind.

  “You are through and clear!” Socco released them with a shout. Nefer dropped the bow and ran to the chariot. Meren ran after him, favoring his injured ribs, and the crowd urged them on as Dov and Krus jumped away together. Behind them the cries of the pursuit were frustrated and angry, but Nefer did not look back.

  A thousand paces ahead the suspension bridge spanned the gorge from cliff to cliff, with the terrible drop below, but before they reached it they must run the fire.

  Shabako was the umpire of the bridge crossing. On horseback, he had galloped across from his post at the javelin butts as soon as Nefer and Meren had cleared them. Now he had taken his next station at the bridge. This was the most crucial stage of the entire Red Road.

  The novices had a choice here. They could decline to breach the wall of fire to reach the bridge. Instead they might take the long route and cross farther down the valley where the cliffs fell gently away. However, this added almost two leagues to the course.

  Shabako stood at the head of the bridge and watched Nefer’s chariot leave the archery butt
and, with the pursuit close behind, come racing toward him along the lip of the precipice.

  Shabako’s sympathies were with his pharaoh. However, his loyalty to the Red God was even more compelling. Though he longed with all his heart to see Nefer succeed, he dared not show him favor. That would go against his sacred oath, and place his immortal soul in peril.

  He considered the fence. Along the length of it his men crouched with burning torches. The fence was twice the height of a man and made of bundles of dried grass that would burn like tinder on this hot, dry wind. The fence was built in a semi-circle with each end anchored on the edge of the cliff. It held the head of the bridge in its arms. There was no way round it. To reach the bridgehead the novices must break through it.

  Reluctantly Shabako shouted the order to set the fire. The torchbearers ran down its length, dragging the flames along the bottom of the fence. They caught instantly, rising in a towering wall of awful crimson flame and dark smoke.

  Nefer saw the wall of flame rise ahead of them, and though he had anticipated it, still his spirits quailed and he feared for the horses, for they had already endured so much. He watched Krus’ ears and saw them switching back and forth with alarm as he smelt the smoke and watched the flames leap and tumble on the wind.

  Not far behind them he heard Daimios’ derisive jeers: “Take the long road, Nefer Seti. The fire is too hot for your tender skin.”

  Nefer ignored him and studied the wall of fire as they bore down on it. There was no weak place that he could see, but the nearest end had been lit first and the flames burned faster and more furiously. As he watched, a heavy bundle of the dried grass fell out of the wall and left a narrow gap through which he could make out the wavering heat-obscured outline of the bridgehead beyond.