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

by Wilbur Smith

  Taita looked across at the far side. It was at the very least a thousand paces across, and the precipice was even more daunting when seen from this angle. There were vultures soaring over the bottomless gulf. One of the grotesque birds circled in to alight on its shaggy nest of sticks and twigs built on a ledge high in the opposite cliff face.

  Taita shook his head with admiration. “Wonderful, Ishtar!” he murmured. “Even the vultures. That was a masterful touch. I could not have improved upon it, but such an effort called for a great expenditure of strength. It must have cost you dearly.”

  Taita stepped out over the edge of the cliff, and instead of plunging down into airy space, he felt firm ground under his feet. The vista of cliffs and gorges, even the circling vultures, wavered and broke up as a mirage does when you walk toward it.

  The abyss was gone and in its place was a gentle plain of stony ground, with low hills still blue with shadows at the far end. In the middle of this plain, not five hundred paces away, stood Ishtar the Mede. He was facing Taita with both arms held above his head, trying desperately to preserve the illusion that he had created. When he saw that he had failed and that Taita was striding toward him like an avenging djinn, he dropped his arms with a hopeless, resigned gesture and turned toward the limestone hills at the far end of the stony plain. He broke into a shambling run, his black robes swirling around his legs.

  Taita followed him with his long indefatigable strides, and when Ishtar looked back there was desperation on his blue-whorled face. For a moment he stared in terror at the tall silver-haired figure, then he turned and ran faster. For a while he pulled away, opening the gap, then his run faltered, and Taita gained upon him inexorably.

  Ishtar dropped the waterskin from his shoulder, and ran with a lighter step, but he was only a few hundred paces ahead of Taita when he reached the low hills that were gray-blue with limestone outcrops in the early light. He disappeared into one of the gullies.

  When Taita reached the mouth of the gully he saw Ishtar’s footprints strung along the sandy floor ahead of him, but they disappeared round the corner where the gully turned sharply to the right. Taita followed him, but as he reached the corner of pale limestone pillars, he heard the thunderous grunting and roaring of a wild beast. As he stepped round he saw that the gully narrowed ahead of him, and standing foursquare in the way, his tail lashing from side to side, was a huge male lion.

  The lion’s black mane was erect, a great bush that shook like grass in a high wind at each roar that erupted from the gaping jaws. His eyes were golden and the pupils were implacable black slits. The rank, bestial scent of the animal was thick in the hot air, the stench of the rotting carcasses on which he had feasted with those long yellow fangs.

  Taita looked down at the sandy earth on which the massive paws were planted with all the claws unsheathed. He could still see Ishtar’s footprints in the sand, but the paws of the lion had left no mark.

  Taita never broke his stride. He raised the Periapt on its chain, and walked straight at the slavering animal. Instead of rising in pitch the roaring became muted, the outline of his head turned transparent so that Taita could see the rock walls of the gully through it. Then, like river mist, the animal faded and was gone.

  Taita walked through the space where the lion had stood and rounded the corner. Ahead of him the gully became narrower still and the sides were steeper. It ended abruptly against a wall of rock.

  Ishtar stood with his back against the rock, staring at Taita with mad eyes. The whites were yellowed and bloodshot, the pupils black and dilated. The smell of his terror was more rank than the odor of the phantom lion had been. He raised his right hand and pointed a long bony finger at Taita. “Back, Warlock!” he screamed. “I warn you!”

  Taita walked toward him and he screamed again, this time in a guttural language, and made the gesture of hurling some unseen missile at Taita’s head. Quickly Taita held the Periapt of Lostris before his eyes, and felt something fly close past his head, with the sound of a flighting arrow.

  Ishtar turned and bolted into a narrow opening in the rock wall behind him, which had been screened from Taita by his body. Taita paused before the entrance, and tapped the stony portals with his staff. The rock rang true, and he heard Ishtar’s blundering footsteps echoing out of the dark entrance. Taita was almost certain that this was no illusion, but the real entrance to a cavern in the limestone cliff.

  Taita stepped through after him, and found that he was in a low, rocky passage, dimly lit by the sunlight through the entrance behind him. The floor of the cave sloped away in front of him, and he went on, stepping more cautiously. Now he was certain that the passage was real in time and dimension, not something conjured up by the Mede to thwart him and turn him aside.

  He could hear the echoes of Ishtar’s footsteps, distorted and magnified in the tunnel ahead. Taita counted his paces as he went forward into darkness. After a hundred and twenty the light strengthened again, a strong emanation from some source deeper in the hillside.

  Suddenly the tunnel took a sharp bend, and as he stepped round it Taita found himself in a large cavern with a high roof. In the center of the roof was an aperture which must lead to the outside world and open air, for a beam of bright sunlight fell from it to the floor of the cavern.

  From the floor rose sharp-pointed stalagmites, the crystals glimmering like the fangs of a man-eating shark. From the high roof hung down matching stalactites, some shaped like spearheads and others like the shining wings of the gods.

  Across the cavern Ishtar crouched against the far wall. There was no escape that way. When he saw Taita appear in the mouth of the tunnel he began to shriek and blubber. “Mercy, mighty Magus! There is a bond between us. We are brothers. Spare me and I will show you such mysteries as even you have never dreamed of. I will place all my powers at your disposal. I will be your faithful dog. I will devote my life to your service.”

  So abject were his entreaties and his promises that, despite himself, Taita felt his resolve waver. It was just the mere flicker of doubt in his mind, but Ishtar picked up the tiny chink in his armor, and exploited it instantly. He flung out one hand with the thumb and forefinger forming a circle, the sign of Marduk, and shouted something in that strange guttural tongue.

  From behind him Taita felt an insupportable physical weight bear down upon his shoulder, and something like the invisible tentacles of a giant octopus envelop his body, trapping his arms to his sides, wrapping around his throat in a strangler’s grip. He smelt scorching human flesh, the aura of the Devourer, suffocating him. He could not move.

  On the far side of the cavern Ishtar danced and capered, his tattooed face contorted in a grotesque mask, his tongue sticking out between his blue lips and lapping at the air like that of a cat. He lifted his skirts and thrust his hips out at Taita. His penis was in full erection, the skin peeled back from the swollen purple head like an obscene fruit. “Your frail goddess cannot protect you here deep in the earth, Taita. You can no longer prevail against Marduk the Devourer and Ishtar, his minion,” he shrieked. “Our contest is over. I have defeated you and all your wiles, Warlock! Now you will die.”

  Taita turned his eyes up toward the high dim roof of the cavern and fixed all his attention on one of the long gleaming stalactites that hung down from it like a great shimmering dagger. He gathered all his reserves, lifted the staff in his right hand and pointed it upward. With the last breath in his lungs he shouted, “Kydash!,” the word of power.

  There was a crack like the ice shattering in the depths of a glacier, the stalactite broke from the roof and plunged downward. Driven by its own immense weight, the point struck Ishtar on the top of his shoulder, close to its juncture with his neck. It transfixed him through chest and belly and tore out through his anus. The long stone spike pegged him down on the cavern floor like a gutted fish on the drying rack.

  As Ishtar twitched and shuddered and kicked convulsively in his death throes, Taita felt the weight lift from his shoulde
rs and the pressure on his throat relax. Marduk had retreated and Taita could breathe again. The smell of burned flesh was gone. The air was ancient and sterile once again, cool and tainted only with the faint odor of fungus.

  He picked up his staff, turned and walked back along the tunnel into the open air and the sunlight. At the entrance he turned back and with his staff struck the limestone portals of the tunnel, once, twice, three times.

  Deep in the earth there was a rumble of collapsing rock, and a gust of air and dust blew from the tunnel mouth as, deep in the earth, the roof of the cavern caved in.

  “With the stone spike driven through your heart, not even your foul god can free you from your tomb. Lie in it through all eternity, Ishtar the Mede,” Taita said, and turned away. With his staff tapping on the stones, he struck out along the road back to Gallala.

  The three messengers reached Babylon in the spring when the snows were still thick upon the distant mountain-tops in the north where the two great rivers rise.

  Pharaoh Naja Kiafan gave them audience on the uppermost terrace garden of the palace of Babylon. Queen Heseret sat beside his throne. She wore the most magnificent jewels that the treasury of King Sargon had yielded. Her high-piled dark hair was covered by a silken net on which gemstones sparkled like all the stars of the firmament. Her arms were laden with bracelets and her fingers with rings so heavy with emeralds and rubies and sapphires that she could barely lift them. Around her throat was a stone the size of an unripe fig, as clear as water from a mountain spring and so adamantine that it could cut through glass or obsidian. This marvelous gem came from the land beyond the Indus River, and when the sun caught it, the shafts of light it threw out pained the eye.

  The messengers were all high officers from the army that Pharaoh Trok had taken westward four months before. They came in great fear of their lives, for they bore evil tidings. They had ridden so far and so fast that they were thin and burned dark by the suns of the desert and the high mountains. They threw themselves at the foot of the throne on which Naja sat in glory and splendor to overshadow even that of his wife. “All hail to you, Pharaoh Naja, mightiest of the gods of Egypt,” they greeted him. “We are bearers of terrible tidings. Have mercy upon us. Though what we have to tell you will displease you, be merciful and turn away your wrath from us.”

  “Speak!” Naja commanded sternly. “I alone shall judge if you are to be spared.”

  “The news we bring is of Pharaoh Trok Uruk, your brother god and the co-ruler of Egypt,” said the officer who was a Commander of the Vanguard, bore the rank of Best of Ten Thousand and wore the Gold of Valor upon his chest.

  “Speak!” Naja ordered again, for the man had faltered.

  “In the desert that surrounds the ancient city of Gallala there took place a mighty battle between the armies of Pharaoh Trok Uruk and those of the usurper Nefer Seti.” He fell silent again.

  “Continue!” Naja rose to his feet, and pointed the royal flail at the man’s face, a gesture that threatened torture and death.

  The messenger went on hurriedly, “By the means of cowardly deceit and wicked witchcraft the army of your brother and our Pharaoh Trok Uruk was lured to destruction. He is slain and his army decimated. Those of his men who survived have gone over to the enemy, and have rallied to the standard of the false pharaoh Nefer Seti, may Seth visit him with a terrible vengeance and eradicate his name and all his works. This same wicked usurper with all his force marches on Avaris and both kingdoms of this very Egypt!”

  Naja sank back on his throne and stared at him in astonishment. At his side Heseret smiled. When she did so, the cruel lines at the corners of her mouth vanished and she was transformed, becoming once more ineffably beautiful. She touched Naja’s arm with a bejeweled finger, and when he leaned toward her she whispered in his ear, “Praise to the gods, and all hail to the one and only Pharaoh of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms, the mighty Naja Kiafan!”

  Naja tried to remain stern and expressionless, but a tiny smile played for an instant over his lean and handsome features. It took him a moment to suppress it, then he rose again. His voice was sibilant and soft, but menacing as the sound of a sword blade being swiped across the face of the whetstone. “You bring the news of the death of a pharaoh and a god. Woe upon you, for you are now contaminated and steeped in misery and misfortune.” He made a gesture to his bodyguard who stood around the throne. “Take them away and give them over to the priests of the god Marduk that they be sacrificed in the furnace to appease the wrath of the god.”

  When they were bound and led away to the sacrifice, Naja stood again and announced, “The god and Pharaoh Trok Uruk is dead. We commend his soul to the gods. I declare before you all that there is now only one ruler over both kingdoms, and over all the territories and all the conquered lands and possessions of Egypt. I declare further that ruler to be myself, Pharaoh Naja Kiafan.”

  “Bak-her!” cried all the courtiers and captains, who stood around his throne, and they drew their swords and beat them on their shields. “Bak-her! Exalted be the king-god Naja Kiafan!”

  “Send word to all my commanders and the generals of all my armies. We will meet in war council at the noon hour this same day.”

  For eleven days that followed, from dawn to dusk, Pharaoh Naja sat at the head of his council in the throne room of the palace of Sargon. With sentries at the doors to bar interlopers or spies they drew up their plans and their order of battle. On the twelfth day Naja commanded the muster of his armies in Mesopotamia, and sent ambassadors to the subservient kings and satraps in all the conquered territories between Babylon and the borders of Egypt. He ordered them to prepare all their forces for war, and place themselves under his command for the campaign against Nefer Seti.

  In the full of the following moon, when the army mustered before the Blue Gate of the city of Babylon they were forty thousand strong, all veteran and blooded troops, well equipped with horse and chariot, bow and sword.

  Heseret stood with her husband, the one and only true Pharaoh of Egypt, on the ramparts of the city to review the array.

  “What a glorious sight,” she told him. “Surely there was never such a muster as this in all the annals of war.”

  “As we march westward, back toward the motherland, our numbers will be swollen by the Sumerians and the Hittites, the Hurrians and all the armies of the conquered lands through which we pass. We will return to Egypt with two thousand chariots. The puppy dare not stand against us.” He looked down at her. “Do you feel no pity for your brother Nefer?”

  “None!” She shook her head so her jewelry glinted and sparkled in the sunlight. “You are my pharaoh and my husband. Whosoever rises against you is a traitor, and deserves death.”

  “Death he shall have, and the treacherous Warlock will share his funeral pyre and burn beside him,” Naja promised grimly.

  They smelt the river from afar, the perfume of the sweet cool waters on the desert air. The horses lifted their heads and whickered. The infantry quickened their step and gazed ahead, eager for the first glimpse of the waters that, at this season of the year, would be swollen and dark with rich silts, the flesh and blood of the motherland.

  Nefer and Mintaka rode together in his chariot at the head of the long cavalcade that wound down the caravan road from Gallala. Meren and Merykara rode at his right hand in the second chariot of the column. Over the protests of Merykara, who thought him still too weak and sick, Meren had insisted on being in the van. “I missed the battle at Gallala, but I vow I will never miss another. As long as there is breath in my body I will ride with my king and my dearest friend.” Though he was thin and pale as an egret he stood proud on the footplate, with the reins in his hands.

  The leading chariots topped the escarpment, and below them stretched the green valley of the Nile, with the mighty river itself gleaming like a spill of molten copper from the furnace, glowing red in the early sunlight. Nefer turned and smiled at Meren in the chariot alongside. “We are coming home!”

/>   Mintaka began singing, softly at first, then more strongly as Nefer added his voice to hers.

  “Temple of the Gods,

  Seat of ten thousand heroes,

  Greenest in all the earth,

  Our dearest love. Our sweetest home.

  Our very Egypt!”

  Then Meren and Merykara were singing with them, and the singing spread back down the column. Squadron after squadron picked up the joyous chorus as they wound down the escarpment.

  Another army came to meet them, armed charioteers in the van, generals and captains leading their regiments and legions of foot soldiers following them. Behind them followed the elders, the priests and the governors of every nome, all dressed in their robes, chains and decorations of office, some in carriages and others in litters borne by slaves and still others riding astride or on foot. After them came the dense masses of citizenry, laughing and dancing. Some of the women were carrying their infants and weeping for joy, as they picked out their husbands, lovers, brothers and sons in the ranks of the army of exile coming home.

  The two cavalcades came together and mingled, and elders and generals prostrated themselves before Pharaoh’s chariot. Nefer dismounted, raised up those he recognized and embraced the mightiest and most powerful of them, calling down the blessings of the gods on all his people.

  When he mounted again they fell in behind him, and followed him to the banks of the Nile. There Nefer dismounted again and, fully dressed, plunged into the waters. While they lined the bank and cheered and sang, he bathed ritually and drank of the muddy brown waters.

  Mounted once again and dressed in fresh linen robes, with the blue war crown on his head, Nefer led the vast concourse along the riverbank toward the city of Avaris. For a league outside the city the road was lined with the welcoming crowds. They had allayed the dust by sprinkling the road with Nile water, and had spread palm fronds and flowers in his way.

  When they reached the city the gates stood wide open and the populace lined the walls. They had hung banners and bunches of sweet flowers and fruits from the ramparts. They sang anthems of loyalty, praise and welcome as Nefer, with Mintaka beside him, drove under the arch of the gateway.