by Dan Hunter
“There’s the palace!” Manu said, pointing down.
Akori twisted the Ring of Isis on his finger so that they became invisible, then they swooped down for a closer look. Even though they were hidden from sight, he still felt nervous, as if arrows and javelins could start flying up at them at any minute.
The palace lay on the banks of the Nile, a huge complex of white buildings surrounded by a high wall with towers. It was well defended, with ranks of soldiers both outside and in. Most of them were clustered around a huge gatehouse at the front.
Akori silently gave a prayer of thanks to Horus for his gift of flight. Oba had obviously expected an attack to come from the ground. Flying down from above, they might have a chance of reaching the palace in one piece.
“Listen,” he said. “They’re chanting!”
The soldiers were stamping and chanting Oba’s name, beating on their shields with their swords.
“They sound like fanatics,” Manu said anxiously. “Loyal to the last breath. They’ll never surrender.”
Akori wondered if they were truly loyal or just terrified of Oba. Down below, he saw the central hub of the palace come into view. In front of it lay a wide sandy courtyard, enclosed by pillared walls. The neglected remains of flower beds lay parched by the sun. Before Oba came, the courtyard must have held ornamental gardens. Now it was nothing but a square for soldiers to march in.
“I’m going to land in that inner courtyard!” he said. “That has to be where the Pharaoh’s rooms are. Past those double doors.”
Ebe made an agitated whining noise and pointed at a group of soldiers standing in the shadow of the wall.
“I know,” Akori said. “They must be Oba’s personal guard. We’re going to have to sneak past them.”
Akori began the descent. He took them in a wide spiral, dropping lower and lower until they were nearly brushing the domed rooftops. Then they glided silently down into the centre of the courtyard.
Standing at the head of the soldiers was a cruel-faced man in priest’s robes, holding a staff. Akori guessed who he was immediately – Set’s High Priest and Oba’s closest ally, Bukhu. He scowled upwards, as if he alone expected the attack to come from the sky and not from the ground.
Still invisible, they landed. Akori had had no practice at this, and his feet made a thudding sound and churned up the sand as he touched down.
Bukhu noticed the disturbance and narrowed his eyes. He shook his staff and spat some words of magic. And, like a cloak being ripped away, their covering of invisibility was suddenly gone.
“Oh, this is bad,” Manu said, looking around at all of the soldiers glaring at them. “Very bad.”
Bukhu grinned, showing yellow teeth. “I see you, farm boy! You shouldn’t be playing with magic. You might get hurt.”
Akori stood in a battle stance. “I am Akori, the true Pharaoh,” he announced. “I have freed Horus and all the good Gods, and now I’m here to defeat Oba.” He raised his voice. “The false Pharaoh who rules through fear and lies!”
The soldiers muttered uneasily.
“You all know it’s true!” Akori shouted at them. “But nobody has the courage to say so, do they?”
The soldiers looked at one another, as if they wished someone would speak. Nobody did. Akori could feel their loyalty to Oba hanging by a thread. The news that Horus was free had shaken them.
“Oba wants you dead or alive,” Bukhu snarled to Akori. “It doesn’t matter which.”
“Fight by my side, or lay down your weapons and get out of my way!” Akori said to the soldiers, ignoring Bukhu. “I can offer you a better future. Be sensible and take it while you can.”
A handful of the soldiers moved away from the others and approached Akori.
“You have freed all of the good Gods?” one of them asked him.
Akori nodded. “Including Horus, who was guarded by Set himself. It was Horus who gave me this cloak, so that I might fly here today and save all of Egypt from Oba.”
A murmur of admiration rippled through the soldiers. One of them even saluted him. Akori felt hope lift his heart. Then another group broke away to join him, and then another.
Bukhu scowled. “Charge them!” he yelled frantically to the remaining soldiers. “Cut them down!”
The soldiers charged. Akori cursed under his breath. Wild fighting broke out all around him. Some of the soldiers fought each other, but most of them attacked Akori. The Shield of Sekhmet rang with the impact of blow after deadly blow. He parried, dodged, parried again...but there were so many! He lost sight of Manu and Ebe in the crowd.
A group of soldiers tried to surround him, with Bukhu urging them on. “A bag of gold for whoever brings me the boy’s head!” he yelled.
Akori was backed into a corner, with half a dozen soldiers thrusting spears at him. He fought desperately, trying to think of some way out. But every exit was closed off and he faced a seemingly endless army of warriors.
A spear point caught him on the cheek, painfully drawing blood. He sliced the end off the spear, leaving the soldier with a useless pole. Filled with rage, he was about to cut the man down when Bukhu’s triumphant voice rang out:
“Surrender now, boy, or watch your friend die!”
Bukhu had Manu’s arm twisted up behind his back. He was holding a dagger at his throat. Manu’s eyes were wide with fear, begging Akori to do something.
“No! Don’t hurt him!” Akori yelled. If Manu’s throat was cut, even the Scarab of Anubis wouldn’t be able to save him! There was no way to reach Manu in time, even if he flew.
Bukhu shrugged. “So be it.” He held the struggling Manu pinned, ready to kill him with one swift stroke.
A roar resounded across the courtyard.
Everyone turned in shock.
Akori was dumbfounded. It was the same roar they had heard in the desert, from the creature that had saved them from Anat and Astarte! How could it be here, too?
The soldiers started backing off from something, fighting to get away. A widening gap was appearing in the battle. In its centre stood—
“Ebe?” Akori gasped. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Ebe’s whole body was changing. Her arms and legs grew long, the fingernails and toenails extending into claws. Tawny fur began covering her face. Terrified soldiers were screaming and running away at the sight.
Ebe fell to all fours, roaring, no longer a mute slave girl, but a gigantic wildcat – the very same beast that had saved Manu’s life in the desert, chasing away the evil wives of Set.
Akori thought back to their very first quest, when he had been at the mercy of the Snake Goddess Wadjet. A catlike creature had helped them then, too, coming out of nowhere to protect them.
It had been Ebe all along!
Rank upon rank of soldiers turned and fled from Ebe the giant wildcat. They crashed through the outer gates and ran, yelling. Their panic was catching; more and more of Oba’s royal guard saw the terror and fled themselves, afraid of what might be coming after them.
“Stand your ground, men!” Bukhu bellowed. “It’s an illusion! A stupid trick!”
But no one listened to him. In a matter of moments, not a single soldier was left. The dusty courtyard was littered with abandoned shields and spears. Only Bukhu himself had dared to stay, his knife still at Manu’s throat. Ebe crouched down, snarling menacingly.
Bukhu tightened his grip on Manu and began to edge back towards the palace. “Move and he dies!” he shrieked. “I mean it!”
Akori slipped the Talisman of Ra into his hand. “Mighty Ra, send me light!” he prayed.
A dazzling beam flashed into Bukhu’s eyes. He covered his face to save his sight – and Manu slipped free.
Quick as a flash, Ebe sprang. She landed on Bukhu hard, knocking him sprawling in the dust. His staff went flying. Ebe’s clawed paw shot out and held his thrashing body down like a cat pinning a desert rat.
Bukhu howled in pain and fear. “Mercy! I beg you...mercy!”
Manu rubbed his n
eck. Then he picked up Bukhu’s staff and broke it across his knee.
There was a hiss and a faint wailing sound, like many tormented voices crying out at once. A host of freed spirits went spiralling up from the broken staff, fading in the bright sunshine.
Ebe raised one great paw, ready to strike and end Bukhu’s life quickly and cleanly. Bukhu was sobbing with fear now.
“No, Ebe,” said Manu. “It’s all right, his power is broken.”
“But he tried to kill you!” Akori yelled.
Ebe looked at Manu questioningly with her great golden eyes.
“He’s nothing now,” Manu said. “He’s not worth killing.”
“Oh, thank you, merciful priest of Horus,” Bukhu blubbered. “Thank you.”
Ebe let him go and he scrambled to his feet.
As Bukhu limped away, Akori saw something glint in the sunlight. Bukhu still had his knife. And he was turning around!
“Manu, look out!” Akori yelled.
Manu dodged out of the way just in time and the knife went flying past him – straight for Akori! Akori lifted his shield. There was a clink as the knife hit the metal and the shield glowed with light suddenly – then came a piercing cry. Akori looked over the shield and saw Bukhu lying on the floor. The knife had rebounded and was embedded in his chest. Bukhu would never speak again.
Manu was staring wide-eyed at Bukhu’s body. Akori touched his shoulder and Manu swallowed, then met his friend’s eyes, and nodded. Akori’s quest was not over yet.
His heart pounding, Akori left Manu and Ebe guarding the entrance, and quietly slipped into the palace. He was finally about to come face-to-face with Oba. He knew the Pharaoh would be expecting him, but he didn’t know what kind of evil tricks he had in store. He had to be prepared. Gripping his shield and sword tightly, he made his way along the corridors of the palace. The walls were alive with colour, with floral and lotus designs blazing from the white plaster. Ornamental chairs with soft cushions were set against the walls for visiting ambassadors to sit on. Bowls on pedestals overflowed with fruit. Where in this luxurious warren was Oba hiding?
Slaves peeped out from doorways as Akori passed, whispering to each other. Were they afraid for him or of him? He couldn’t tell. There were no more guards, only empty room after empty room. Akori stayed alert, watching for ambushes and traps. There had been too many surprises already and he was not going to be tricked again. Eventually, deep within the palace, he came to a set of double doors covered with carvings. A young slave girl waited outside, clutching her arms, her eyes full of fear. She saw Akori, ran to him and fell on her knees.
“The one you seek is inside,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “He is alone, but not alone.”
“What do you mean?” Akori asked.
The girl shook her braided head as if she had said too much. She beckoned him close and whispered in his ear, “May the good Gods go with you.”
Then she was gone, running on silent feet, vanishing up the hallway like a ghost. Gripping his khopesh and shield tightly, Akori kicked the doors open.
It was dark in the private chamber of Oba the Pharaoh, as it always was. Flames flickered in the fire basket, casting dancing shadows. Akori waited on the threshold, wary. He took in the details of the room. Every surface glistened with rich colour. Gold ornaments, black polished wood, blue crystal...it was a treasure house as well as a bedchamber. The air was thick with mixed scents; jasmine and rose, and under it all the bitter dark odour of myrrh. On a nearby bench, hundreds of bottles of scented oils shone in the firelight. Then something moved in the darkness at the back of the room, like a crocodile at the bottom of a murky pool. Akori tensed. He could just make out the figure of a young boy on a couch. Pale eyes rimmed with black looked back at him, as if the darkness were wearing a human mask.
“I’ve been expecting you,” sneered the high-born voice, then added, “farm boy.”
A crescent of silver appeared in the darkness as Oba drew his sword. Graceful as a panther, he advanced.
“It took you long enough to find my chamber,” Oba said. “What happened?”
Akori said nothing. He breathed hard and fast. A bead of sweat began to trickle down his face. The heat from the fire was like a furnace. Oba’s body shone in the firelight as he moved closer. His chest was bare, gleaming with oil. All he wore was a black woven shendyt. He was obviously used to the heat.
Akori quickly judged the distance between them. He wasn’t quite close enough to reach him with his sword. He stood his ground, waiting for Oba to get nearer.
“Don’t you know how to talk, farm boy?”
Oba’s sing-song voice rang in Akori’s ears. His belly was full of anger and it was boiling over.
“Shut up and fight!” Akori roared.
“A miracle. The idiot can speak.”
Feeling a flash of rage, Akori lashed out too soon. Oba easily knocked the clumsy blow aside. He swung at Akori, but his blade clanged off the Shield of Sekhmet.
“Brave little Akori, hiding behind your magical toys,” Oba sneered. “But you dare not face me man to man.”
Then Oba attacked, viciously and fast. He came at Akori from the sides, from above – his blade seemed to be everywhere!
Akori could only retreat, holding up the shield to ward off the hacking, slashing blade. The heat was intense. Sweat was running into his eyes. Oba dodged back and forth like a dancer. His soft, mocking laughter never stopped. Akori tried to attack, but only managed another clumsy swipe. Oba leaped back from it nimbly.
“You fight like a peasant reaping wheat!” he sneered. “You never learned how to use a weapon, did you?”
Akori backed up further, clenching his jaw hard. Oba’s constant taunts were driving him wild with rage. He felt the bench of scented oils press against the back of his legs. If he let Oba drive him any further back, he’d trip over it.
“A farm boy from farmer stock!” Oba spat, slicing as he spoke. “But the farm isn’t doing so well these days, is it? You ran away, and your poor old Uncle Shenti got killed!”
“Shut up!”
Oba pursed his lips. “Such a tragedy for a poor hard-working family...”
Akori snapped. “Your men murdered him!” he screamed at the top of his voice. He dropped the Shield of Sekhmet and grasped his sword two-handed, like a scythe. If Oba wanted to see how a farm boy could fight, Akori would show him. Roaring madly, he slashed and struck.
Oba barely managed to get out of the way in time. Cushions split. Feathers flew. Akori might have been backed up against the wall, but he was coming out fighting like a madman!
It was sword against sword now. Oba was skilled, but Akori was strong. Even when Oba blocked Akori’s blows, the force of them made him stagger. Time and again the golden sword hummed past Oba’s head, close, so very close.
“Not laughing any more, eh?” Akori yelled, his mind a pure red fury. His sword was a golden blur.
Oba dodged, just avoiding a severed arm. Then, with lethal speed, Oba lunged. His sword caught Akori’s at the guard, and locked. Oba gave a vicious twist and the khopesh was torn out of Akori’s grip. It fell to the floor.
Akori tried to grab it back, but Oba’s sword was suddenly levelled at his face. Oba bent and picked up the khopesh, exchanging it for his own sword, which he threw to the back of the room.
“Our little game is over,” he said with a smirk. “Clod. Dung-head. I knew you would not be able to resist my trap.”
“Trap?” said Akori numbly.
“I knew you would come looking for me here, alone! That’s how you thought it would work, isn’t it? Just you and me? A heroic duel to the death?” Oba backed away towards the fire. “Stand still, you fool, and prepare yourself. We’re about to have company.”
“Company?” Akori tried to guess what he meant. “Your High Priest, Bukhu, is dead. Didn’t they tell you? He won’t be coming to help!”
Oba laughed mockingly. “Not him! That useless idiot got what he deserved. I’m ta
lking about Set himself! The Lord of Storms will be finishing you off personally, once I have called him from his sacred fire!”
Akori glanced at the flames and forced himself to be calm. He kept his eyes on Oba, but he began to move his hand stealthily behind his back towards the bench full of oils.
“What will you do now, with none of your precious Gods to help you?” Oba snarled.
“Set has fallen already,” Akori said. “Horus defeated him. With my help.”
Oba’s face twisted in hate. “Liar! A weakling like you couldn’t—”
Akori seized his chance. He grabbed a huge bottle of scented oil from the bench and flung it at Oba’s feet.
Oba leaped to avoid it – and came down on the spreading puddle of oil. His bare feet skidded and slipped.
Akori dived across the room and grabbed Oba’s wrist. He pulled Oba down, sending him sprawling. Then he bashed Oba’s hand against the edge of the fire basket until he let the khopesh go. Akori snatched it up. Oba struggled to stand up, still slipping about in the oil. “Come forth from the fire, Lord of Darkness, Mighty Set!” he cried desperately. “Help meeeee!”
Summoning his last drop of strength Akori thrust out with his khopesh.
Oba’s eyes widened. Blood began to mingle with the oil at his feet. All at once, Oba fell, limp as a rag doll.
But Akori barely had time to draw breath before the embers in the fire basket began to stir! From the midst of the fire Set arose, breaking up through the charcoal like a figure of volcanic rock rising from a burning sea, terrible in his anger.
Set had been horrific before, but now he was out for revenge, and there was no terror on earth like him. Hairs bristled like needles on his massive body. His lips peeled back from his huge yellow teeth in a beast-like snarl, and threads of drool trailed to the floor, sizzling in the heat. Hellfire surrounded his dark form, burning like a halo.
