by Wilbur Smith
Mintaka screamed as he crushed her to his chest, and Nefer scrambled to his feet. He picked up Trok’s sword from where he had dropped it, and limped up behind him.
Mintaka’s cries had given renewed strength to his sword arm. He sent his first thrust through the lacings of Trok’s corselet, deeply into his back. Trok stiffened, and dropped Mintaka. She scrambled away, and Nefer pulled out the blade and stabbed again. Swaying on his feet, Trok turned slowly to face him. He took a step toward Nefer, reaching out for him with bloody mailed hands. Nefer stabbed him in the throat, and Trok dropped to his knees, clutching at the blade. Nefer pulled it away, slicing deeply into Trok’s fingers and palms, severing the sinews and nerves.
Trok toppled forward on his face, and Nefer stabbed him through the lacing, between his shoulder-blades to his heart. He left the blade in him, and turned to Mintaka, who crouched in the shelter of the rock. She flew to him, and clung to him with all her strength. Now that the danger was past, Mintaka lost all her icy control and she was sobbing, barely coherently, “I thought he was going to kill you, my love.”
“He almost did, but for you,” Nefer gasped. “I owe you a life.”
“It was terrible.” Mintaka’s voice quavered. “I thought he would never die.”
“He was a god.” Nefer tried to laugh, but it came out wrongly. “They take a little killing.”
He became aware that the sounds of battle from farther down the valley had changed. With his arm still around her, he turned to look back. Trok’s men had seen their pharaoh cut down, and the fight had gone out of them. They were throwing down their weapons, and wailing, “Enough! Enough! We yield. All praise to Pharaoh Nefer Seti, the one true King.”
With the realization of victory, Nefer felt the last vestiges of strength flow out of his battered and bleeding body. He had just enough left to raise his voice, and shout, “Give them quarter. They are our brother Egyptians. Give them quarter!”
As Nefer slumped down, Taita materialized at his side and helped Mintaka lower him to the ground. While the two of them dressed his wounds, and staunched the bleeding from the deep cut in his thigh, his officers came to report to Nefer.
Nefer discounted his own injuries as he demanded to know who had survived the battle and who had been wounded and killed. With joy, and thanks to Horus and the Red God, Nefer saw that his trusted captains, Hilto, Shabako and Socco, were among the men who crowded around him, exulting in the victory, proud of themselves and their men, filled with joy to see him alive.
They made a litter of lances and carried him back down the valley to Gallala, but it was a long journey for Trok’s captured officers, and men crowded the roadside, kneeling unarmed and bare-headed to plead for his mercy, shouting repentance and remorse that they had ever taken up arms against the true Pharaoh.
Three times before they reached the gates of the city, Nefer signaled for his litter to be lowered and allowed the captured centurions and captains to come forward and kiss his feet. “I spare you from the traitor’s death you so richly deserve,” he told them sternly, “but you are all reduced to the rank of sergeants of the Blue, and you must prove once more your duty and loyalty to the House of Tamose.”
They praised him for his mercy, but Nefer frowned and shook his head when they addressed him as a god. “I am not one of the pantheon, as the blasphemers Trok and Naja claim they are.” But they would not be dissuaded, and renewed their praises and entreaties, and his own men, led by his brother warriors of the Red Road, joined their voices to those of the defeated, begging him to declare his divinity.
To distract them Nefer issued his orders with a frowning mien. “The corpse of Trok Uruk, the false claimant to the double crown of this very Egypt, shall be burned without ceremony, here upon the battlefield, so that his soul shall wander through all eternity seeking but never finding a home.”
They murmured with awe, for this was the most dreadful punishment that could be devised.
“The other enemy dead are to be treated with all respect, and allowed embalmment and a decent burial. The name of Trok Uruk shall be erased from every monument and building in the land, and the temple that he erected to himself in Avaris shall in his stead be dedicated to the winged Horus in memory of the victory that he gave us this day before the city of Gallala.”
They shouted their approbation at this decree, and Nefer went on, “All the possessions of Trok Uruk, all his treasure and estates, his slaves and buildings, his warehouses and goods of whatsoever nature shall be forfeited to the state. Send water wagons back along the road to Safaga, with grooms and surgeons to bring in all the horses, chariots and men that Trok Uruk left along the way during his arrogant march on our capital here in Gallala. If they repudiate the false pharaohs and swear allegiance to the House of Tamose the prisoners shall be pardoned and recruited into our armies.”
By the time Nefer had given his last order, and issued his last decree for that day, his voice was hoarse, he was pale and almost exhausted. As they carried him through the city gates he asked Mintaka quietly, “Where is Taita? Has anybody seen the Magus?” But Taita had disappeared.
Taita watched from the hillside above the battlefield as the jaws of the trap closed on Trok’s army and his chariots were smashed by the rock-filled wagons, the arrows and the javelins falling like flights of locusts upon the survivors, when a single bizarre figure caught his eye in the chaos.
Ishtar the Mede scampered between the rocks. Like a running hare he disappeared from sight only to reappear farther up the slope, ducking and dodging. By some chance or magical charm he avoided the arrows and javelins of Nefer’s troops and at last dived over the crest and disappeared from sight.
Taita let him go. There would be time for him later. He watched the climax of the battle, extending all his powers to act as a shield over Nefer during his single combat with Trok at the base of the rock. Even at this distance he managed to deflect many of Trok’s blows that should have been fatal, and when Trok went for the final thrust into Nefer’s thigh his blade might have found the great femoral artery if Taita had not used all his influence to turn the point aside.
Since that time long ago when Taita had saved Mintaka from harm during the encounter with the cobra of the goddess, she had become a subject who responded readily to his influence. She had the intelligence and imagination that opened her mind to him. It was impossible to influence a fool. He had summoned her back to Gallala to show herself to Trok at the head of the valley, and to lure him into the trap. Then, when she had stood frozen with horror on the rock above the fighting pair, Taita had bent her to his will once again and put into her mind the impulse to reach down for the javelin that lay at her feet. He had bolstered her right arm as she steadied her aim and threw. Then, as the life went out of Trok, he had rushed down the slope to minister to Nefer and to bind up the wound that had cut so perilously close to the pulsing artery in his thigh.
When his brother warriors of the Red Road lifted the young pharaoh onto the litter of spears, Taita with his duty done for the present drifted away into the throng. Nobody paid him any heed as he went.
He picked up the tracks that Ishtar had left as he escaped out of the narrow valley and followed them until they were impossible to discern on the earth on the top of the hills, which was baked hard as mosaic tiles by the sun.
Taita stopped and crouched down. From his pouch he took out a sliver of dried root and slipped it into his mouth. As he chewed on it, he opened his mind and reached out to detect the Mede’s aura, the trace he had left as he passed. As the root sharpened his senses Taita saw the aura in the corner of his vision. It was a shadow, dirty gray and ephemeral, that vanished when he looked directly at it. Each person had his own aura. Nefer Seti, on account of his noble and divine inner being, threw a rosy essence that to Taita was readily detectable. Taita had followed that faint rosy emanation to find Nefer after he had been mauled by the lion and he and Mintaka were lost in the desert beyond Dabba.
Ishtar the Mede
’s aura was dark and tainted. Taita stood up and went on again after it, striding out on his long legs with his staff tapping on the stones. Every so often he saw physical confirmation that he was on the right track, by a smudged footprint in a softer patch of earth or by a recently dislodged pebble.
Ishtar had circled round to the south, then come back toward Gallala. Taita was alarmed and lengthened his stride. If Ishtar was trying to get close to Nefer again to work some mischief, Taita must intercept him. However, the pursuit led him to one of the chariots Trok had abandoned on his march up from the coast. From the wreck Ishtar had salvaged something, and Taita closed his eyes and worked out what it was.
“A waterskin,” he murmured, and Taita saw where he had scraped away the earth to drag the skin out from under the side of the capsized chariot. Another dry and empty skin was still hanging there. Ishtar had left it, probably because he knew he could carry the weight of only one full skin. Taita picked up the empty skin and slung it over his shoulder. He left the chariot, with the dead horses in the traces already beginning to stink, and followed Ishtar onward.
Carrying the waterskin with him, Ishtar had gone back toward Gallala. When he topped the ridge above the city he had crept down to the bank of the closest irrigation canal. The imprint of his knees was clear in the wet clay where he had knelt to drink and then to fill the skin he carried. Taita drank himself. After that he filled his own waterskin. Then he rose and followed the traces Ishtar had left as he started back eastward along the road toward Safaga and the coast. Taita strode after him.
Night fell and Taita kept on. Sometimes the aura of the Mede faded away completely, but Taita followed the road. At other times it grew stronger, until Taita smelt it, a faint, musty, unpleasant odor. When it was this strong he could fathom the essence of the Mede. He could detect his vindictive and vengeful nature. He divined that Ishtar was frightened and demoralized by the turn that the fates had taken against him, but his powers were still formidable. He constituted a great and real danger, not only to Nefer and Mintaka but to Taita himself. If he were allowed to escape and regenerate his scattered powers, he might threaten the future of the House of Tamose and Apepi. Ishtar was one of the higher adepts, an evil one, which made him all the more dangerous. He could certainly overlook his selected victims, and conjure up all manner of profanities to bring down disaster on Nefer and Mintaka. He could sicken and sour their love for each other, bring down suffering, miscarriage and plague, pains and disease with no focus or reason, mental aberrations, madness and eventually death.
Even Taita was not immune to his baleful spirit. If he were allowed to escape, Ishtar might gradually erode Taita’s powers and frustrate his work. Unless Taita acted now, while he had the opportunity, to destroy him utterly.
The gibbous moon rose over the stark hills and lit Taita’s way. He was in that long swinging stride with which he could cover the ground as swiftly as a mounted man. He could sense that ahead of him Ishtar was unaware that he was being followed and his pace was much slower. Every hour that passed, Taita felt his aura stronger and nearer. I will be up to him before sunrise, he thought, and at that moment he doubled over and vomited in a projectile stream onto the stony track. Overwhelmed with a sudden, terrible nausea, Taita almost collapsed but regained his balance, and staggered back, wiping the bitter taste of bile from his mouth.
“Careless!” he rebuked himself angrily. “So close to the quarry I should have taken greater care. The Mede has detected me.”
He drank a little water from the skin, then went forward cautiously. He pointed his staff ahead and swung it slowly from side to side. Suddenly it grew heavy in his hand. He followed that direction and saw ahead of him, glinting in the moonlight, the circle of pale pebbles laid out on the side of the track.
“A gift from the Mede,” he said aloud.
Nausea seized him once more, but he choked it back, struck the earth with the staff and spoke one of the words of power.
“Ncube!” His nausea receded, and he could approach the circle closer.
It is not enough that I should break his spell, he thought grimly. I must turn it back upon the Mede.
He used the tip of his staff to move one of the pebbles out of the circle, disrupting its power. Now he could squat beside the pattern without experiencing any harm. Without touching any of the pebbles he leaned close and sniffed at them. The smell of the Mede was strong upon them and he smiled with cold satisfaction.
“He touched them with his bare hands,” Taita whispered. Ishtar had left traces of his sweat on them. Taita could use that faint effluent. Careful not to make the same mistake, he moved the pebbles with the tip of his staff, forming them into a different pattern, an arrowhead pointing in the direction that Ishtar had taken. He took a mouthful of water from the skin and spat it on the pebbles, which shone wetly in the moonlight. Then he pointed his staff like a javelin along the same line as the arrowhead of pebbles.
“Kydash!” he shouted, and felt pressure build up in his eardrums as though he had plunged deeply below the surface of the ocean. Before it became unbearable, it began slowly to abate, and he felt a sense of well-being and pleasure. It was done. He had turned it back upon the Mede.
A league ahead Ishtar the Mede was hurrying along the track. He was by now fully aware of the pursuit. He was confident that the barrier he had placed across the track would stop most men, but he knew it would not long deter the one he feared most.
Suddenly he staggered in mid-stride and clutched his ears with both hands. The pain was blinding, as though a red-hot dagger had been thrust deep into each of his eardrums. He groaned and dropped to his knees. “It is the Warlock.” He sobbed. The pain was so intense that he could not think clearly. “He has turned it back on me.”
With shaking hands he reached into the pouch on his belt and brought out his most potent talisman, the dry embalmed hand of one of Pharaoh Tamose’s infants who had died soon after birth during the plague of the Yellow Flowers. Ishtar had robbed the little prince’s tomb to obtain it. The hand was dark and clawed like a monkey’s paw.
He held it to his pounding head, and felt the pain start to abate. He came unsteadily to his feet, and broke into a shuffling dance, chanting and wailing. The pain in his ears cleared. He gave one final leap in the air and stood facing back along the way he had come. He could feel the presence of the Warlock close, like the threat of thunder on a close summer’s day.
He thought of laying another snare, but knew that Taita would send it back to him. I must turn aside and conceal my path, he decided. He ran on along the road seeking the place where he could turn. He found where the track crossed an intrusion of gray schist, so hard that even the passing of Trok’s legions had left no mark upon it.
With his left forefinger he traced out lightly the sacred symbol of Marduk on the rock, spat on it and uttered the three hidden names of the god that would summon him.
“Hide me from my enemies, mighty Marduk. Bring me safely back to your temple in Babylon, and I will make for you the sacrifice you love so well,” he promised. Best of all Marduk loved little girls sent into his furnace.
Ishtar stood on one leg and hopped backward five and fifty paces, the esoteric number of Marduk known only to the adepts. Then he turned sharply off the road and set out at right angles to it, heading into the northern wilderness. He went swiftly, trying to open the distance between him and the man who pursued him.
Taita reached the point where the ridge of gray schist crossed the road, and stopped abruptly. The aura that had been so strong only moments before had disappeared like mist in the warmth of the rising sun. There was neither taste nor smell nor a glimpse of the Mede remaining. He went on down the road a short way, but found that the trail was dead and cold. Quickly he retraced his steps until he reached the point where he had lost it. Ishtar would not have wasted his time with a simple spell of concealment. He knows that the Ashes or the Water and Blood would hardly give me pause, he thought.
He looked up
at the sky, and from the starry firmament picked out the single red star low on the horizon, the star of the goddess Lostris. He held up her Periapt and began to chant the Praise to the Goddess. He had barely completed the first stanza when he felt an angry, alien presence. Another god had been invoked on this spot, and knowing Ishtar he could guess well enough who that was. He started on the second stanza of praise and on the bare rock ahead of him appeared a glow, like that of the copper walls of the furnace in the temple of Marduk when the sacrificial fires were burning.
Marduk is affronted, and shows his anger, he thought, with satisfaction. He went to stand over the faintly glowing spot and intoned, “You are far from your own land and your temple, Marduk of the furnace. Few worship you in this very Egypt. Your powers are dissipated. I invoke the name of the goddess Lostris, and you cannot stand against it.”
He lifted the skirt of his chiton. “I quench your fires, Marduk,” he said, and squatting like a woman, he urinated on the rock. It sizzled and steamed like a bar of metal from the forge of the coppersmith drenched in the trough. “In the name of the goddess Lostris, Marduk the Devourer, stand aside and let me pass.”
The rock cooled quickly, and as the steam dispersed he could make out once more the shadowy traces of the Mede beyond as they turned off the track toward the north. The veil that Ishtar had laid was pierced and torn. Taita stepped through it and set off again after him.
The horizon paled and the light increased to a golden radiance in the east. Taita knew that he was gaining steadily, and he strained his eyes ahead in the gathering light for the first glimpse of his quarry. Instead he came to an abrupt halt. At his feet gaped a terrible abyss, whose sheer sides dropped into darkness far below. No man could scale those depths, and there was no way around this obstacle.
