Face Turned Backward lb-2

by Lauren Haney

  Snapping out a curse, Bak signaled a retreat, hoping to slip away unseen. The cove was the last place he had expected to find Wensu. With word no doubt spread all along the river that this mooring place was no longer safe, the man’s wits had to be addled for him to return.

  Imsiba tugged at the braces to haul the sail around. The ledge stole the breeze and the heavy fabric began to flutter.

  Psuro took up the oars, but too late. Momentum carried them into the cove. A man on board the larger vessel yelled a warning, destroying any hope they might have had of making a surprise assault from another direction.

  Sailors ran to the rail of Wensu’s ship to peer over the side. Six by Bak’s count, all as dark as night, men from far to the south of the land of Kush. They wore skimpy loincloths, with daggers and axes suspended from their belts, and carried long spears. A man hurled his weapon. It sliced through the water to vanish in the depths. A second man flung his spear, striking the prow with a solid thunk. The weight of the shaft dragged it down, tearing the point free, and it, too, fell into the river. Bak, kneeling low, hastened to distribute weapons among his fighting force, which suddenly seemed small and vulnerable, easy targets for the men standing on the higher deck.

  “Put in among the boulders,” he commanded. “We’ll be safer there than in this open boat. And from there, we should be able to climb onto the ledge.”

  Psuro paddled with a will, swinging the ungainly skiff around. Imsiba lowered the upper yard and gathered the sail into an untidy mess, getting it and both yards out of the way.

  Mery scrambled around the bottom of the vessel, searching for the bag of smooth, rounded stones Psuro had loaded on board for the sling.

  Bak donned thumb and wrist guards, picked up a bow, jerked an arrow from a quiver, and seated the missile. With the skiff unsteady beneath him and his own lack of skill, he had little hope of striking the enemy. To discourage a concentrated assault of spears would satisfy him. Bracing himself against the mast, he took aim as best he could and released the arrow. The sailors ducked away from the rail and the projectile sped by. The men reappeared, laughing. Mery let go with the sling. A man took a quick step back and clutched his head, dazed. Bak acknowledged the feat with a smile and fired off another arrow. It struck a man in the thigh, dropping him to his knees. His shipmates ducked back from the rail, abandoning their vantage point, and dragged the wounded man away.

  The skiff struck the boulders with a jolt. Bak dropped his weapon and scurried forward. A spear struck the spot he had vacated, its point buried in the mast, its shaft vibrating from the force of impact. He sucked in his breath, awed by so narrow an escape, and muttered a hasty prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

  Stepping over the side, he eased himself into the water.

  Not until he felt the tug of the current and noticed flecks of foam on the surface did he realize how close the vessel had drifted to the churning rapids, no more than three paces away. Both Psuro and Imsiba were paddling now, their faces grim, their muscles bulging from the strain of holding the skiff in place.

  Staving off the urge to panic, Bak explored the depths with a foot. He found a submerged rock, slippery but reasonably flat, leaned into the current to maintain his balance, and waded in among the boulders, pulling the skiff after him.

  The vessel bucked and jerked, trying to break free. He heaved himself half out of the water and, with a single, mighty tug, lodged the prow in a space between two massive chunks of rock.

  While Psuro and Imsiba encircled a boulder with a rope and made the vessel fast, Bak retrieved the bow and quiver and climbed higher onto the mound, hunched over, picking his way through the boulders. Mery followed hard on his heels. Bak swallowed the urge to order him back to the skiff and safety. The boy had proven his worth. He had earned the right to stand as an equal.

  From among the higher boulders, they had an unimpeded view of the deck of Wensu’s ship. With Bak and his contingent no longer on the water below them, no longer vulnerable or even visible, the Kushite sailors had grown cautious, giving up the offensive to safeguard their vessel. Hunkered behind bundles and bales stacked aft of the deckhouse, well armed and ready for action, they stared at the mound, awaiting attack. The man with the thigh wound sat inside the deckhouse, staunching the flow of blood with a dirty rag.

  The one Mery had clouted on the head had returned to the fray. Six men total, none with a wasted arm and hand. Where was Wensu? Eight men, white-kilted soldiers from the land of Kemet, stood immobilized on the deck, sweating in the harsh sunlight, their hands tied to the lower yard high above their heads.

  Bak did not know whether to laugh or rage. “We’ll get no help from Nebwa’s men.”

  Mery stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look. “How many of the wretched enemy do we face?”

  Bak knelt, offering a view of the ship over his shoulder.

  The question, he felt sure, was a direct quote from the boy’s soldier father.

  A scuffling of sandals heralded Imsiba’s arrival and Psuro’s.

  They each settled into a cranny from which they, too, could see the ship. Looking out from their natural stronghold, the four men studied the enemy, searching out 234 / Lauren Haney approaches, weighing their chances of taking the vessel.

  Imsiba broke the long silence. “I see no man on that deck with a weak and shriveled arm.”

  “Nor do I,” Bak said.

  “Maybe Wensu’s gone off to meet Userhet,” Psuro guessed.

  Bak slipped back among the boulders and drew his small party close around him. “Without a head, a fighting force has no direction. We must take that ship before Wensu comes back.”

  Imsiba gave a quick smile of agreement, Psuro nodded his satisfaction, and Mery’s eyes danced with excitement.

  Bak slipped the quiver off his shoulder and offered it and the bow to Imsiba. “You’re more skilled at this than I, so you and Mery must stay here, pelting them with arrows and rocks. While you draw their attention and-with luck and the favor of the gods-slay or disable a man or two, Psuro and I will work our way along the ledge and onto that ship.”

  Imsiba took the weapon, handing over in return his spear and shield. He clasped Bak’s shoulder. “Take care, my friend.”

  “Don’t I always?” Bak turned half away, had a new thought, and swung back. “Do you remember, Imsiba, the day we fought those vile desert raiders who attacked the caravan bringing gold from the mines?”

  Imsiba frowned, puzzled by the question. “Of course.”

  “Do you remember their war cry?”

  “I’ll not soon forget that accursed sound.”

  “It was enough to drive terror into the hearts of the gods,”

  Psuro explained to Mery.

  “The moment Psuro and I show ourselves on the ledge,”

  Bak said, “you must sound off as best you can.”

  Imsiba chuckled. “You’ve a streak of black in your heart, my friend.”

  Bak flashed a smile at the sergeant, squeezed Mery’s shoulder, and beckoned Psuro. Together he and the Medjay worked their way across the mound, ducking low, sidling through gaps between the boulders, taking care not to be seen by Wensu’s crew. A cracked and broken shelf, washed by the becalmed waters on the downstream side, took them to the back of the ledge, which was half-cloaked in drifted sand.

  Crouching low, they ran along the slope, their footsteps muffled by the grit.

  They had gone no more than a dozen paces when an un-godly shriek rent the air. They stopped dead still, looked at each other, prayed to the gods for the safety of the man and boy they had left behind. The ensuing silence was broken by a long, drawn out moan, the sound of a man in mortal pain. It came from the ship, not the boulders in which Imsiba and Mery hid. Relief flooded through Bak. Psuro mumbled a prayer of thanksgiving.

  They ran on along the drift of sand, keeping their heads down, trying not to hear the agonized moans that gradually changed to whimpering as the wounded man weakened.

  When they
thought they had gone far enough, Bak dropped onto his belly and wormed his way upward. Cautiously raising his head, he looked across the ledge. The ship’s prow, abandoned and forgotten by the crew, rose above the stony formation not ten paces away. He nodded to Psuro, who crawled up beside him.

  Imsiba and Mery had been busy, they saw, lowering the odds in an admirable fashion. The dying man lay out in the open, curled around an arrow lodged in his stomach. Another man showing no signs of injury lay crumpled behind piled sacks of grain, downed by Mery’s sling, Bak felt sure. The man with the arrow in his thigh huddled in the deckhouse, spear close at hand but nearly useless if he could not stand.

  Three sailors remained on deck to fight.

  Well satisfied with the new odds, Bak and Psuro scrambled to their feet. A deep-throated howl filled the cove and the surrounding landscape, silencing the birds and setting the air atremble. The war cry of the desert warrior. Bak’s skin crawled. Psuro looked about to flee. Laughing quietly at themselves, at so irrational a response, they darted across the ledge to the ship. The war cry gained in volume and intensity, setting dogs to baying all along the river. The two men

  leaped on board and raced down the deck. The Kushite sailors stood wide-eyed and awestruck, clinging to their weapons as if to a lifeline, their limbs paralyzed by fright.

  Nebwa’s soldiers hung helpless from the yard, pale-faced with terror.

  Bak and Psuro ran up behind the nearest sailor. The former clamped an arm around the man’s neck and slapped the flat side of his spearpoint hard against his face. The Medjay struck him on the head with his mace, tore the spear from his hand as Bak let him sag to the deck, and jerked the smaller weapons off his belt. Bak dragged him behind a stack of wine jars, where his mates could not see him. He and Psuro split up then, each running cat-footed to one of the two remaining sailors. The Medjay clouted his man with the mace, while Bak made a fist, tapped his man on the shoulder, and struck him hard on the chin when he swung around.

  With the last man disabled and disarmed, Imsiba ceased the howling. While he and Mery rushed to the ship, Bak cut the ropes binding the soldiers to the mast and restored their weapons. They were shame-faced at having been taken prisoner by common sailors, and they cringed at the very thought of having to explain their capture to Nebwa. Psuro tied the prisoners along the yard where the soldiers had been. The dying man pleaded for death, and the Medjay obliged. The man with the thigh wound was bandaged and bound and tied to the mast with the unconscious man.

  Bak stood before the bound prisoners. “Where’s Wensu?”

  One man shrugged, another appeared confused, the third looked sullen. With the sun midway to the western horizon, Bak had no time to waste. He turned them over to Psuro, who spoke a halting version of their wretched tongue.

  He sent Imsiba off to search the water’s edge for Userhet’s skiff or some other sign of the overseer’s presence, and he sent Mery up the rocky spine to look for footprints. After they set off, he examined Wensu’s ship and its cargo. Instead of the exotic products he expected to find, objects imported from far to the south, he found fine linens and wines, weapons, several stone statues, and two empty man-shaped coffins. Products of the land of Kemet. Exports not imports, none listed on a manifest. Illicit goods bound for the land of Kush. These items, he suspected, explained why Wensu had not fled up the Belly of Stones when he had the chance.

  He must have been waiting for them, unable to pick them up as long as traffic stood at a standstill at Buhen and Kor.

  Mery burst in on his thoughts. “I’ve found footprints, sir!

  A single set, where a man walked up the ledge and struck off into the desert.”

  “The tracks must be Wensu’s,” Imsiba said, following close behind the boy. “I found no sign of Userhet-or anyone else, for that matter. Either he hasn’t come yet, or he left his skiff in the backwater Ahmose described.”

  Bak stared westward, looking up the gently rising slope of sand to the ridge beyond. “Why would Wensu go into the desert to meet Userhet? The cove-or almost any other spot along the river-would’ve been a more convenient place to meet. Certainly an easier place from which to flee, should the need arise.”

  The trail was easy to follow, too easy perhaps. Could a trap lay ahead? With a wariness built on experience, Bak followed with his eyes the footprints along the base of the ridge, a low wall of dark, weathered rock cloaked as often as not by windblown sand. The tracks in the soft, loose surface were deep indentations having no distinct shape and no peculiarities. One man could have left them-or a second could have followed, taking care to walk in the first man’s footsteps.

  “Psuro’s competent and careful. He’ll not let those soldiers walk into another snare.” Imsiba shifted the coil of rope hanging from his shoulder. “But once again we’re stalking our prey short-handed.”

  “Someone had to stay behind.” Bak glanced back at the sturdy black donkey trudging through the sand behind him, its back laden with the tools, weapons, food, and water they had taken from their skiff. “Should Wensu and Userhet be leading us on a merry chase, thinking to swing back around to the cove, we could lose them both and the ship, too.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t move it to the island.” Mery spoke deep within his throat, trying to sound as manly as they.

  “Who among us knows how to sail a ship that size?” Bak shuddered. “I can see us even now, standing helpless on the deck while the rapids lure the vessel to its death-and us to certain destruction, our bodies lost forever, our kas given no sustenance through eternity.”

  Imsiba rubbed his arms, chilled by the thought. “It should be safe where it is. With Ahmose keeping watch from his island, Psuro will have ample warning of intruders.”

  “And it can’t go far with no rudder,” Mery added, giving Bak an admiring glance. “How did you think of that, sir?”

  Bak preferred not to dwell on the source of his idea, a memory from the recent past: his rudderless skiff drawn into the most dangerous stretch of rapids in the Belly of Stones and his life or death swim through the maelstrom. The landing on the mound of boulders, with the raging waters so near, had brought forth memories he had hoped forever to forget.

  He nodded toward the ridge along which they walked.

  “You mustn’t allow your attention to falter, Mery. Wensu could be meeting Userhet anywhere, but I’d bet my newest pair of sandals we’ll find them at the tomb we seek.”

  A hint of pink touched the boy’s cheeks. “You can rest assured, sir, if there’s an old tomb, I’ll find it.”

  “We’d not have brought you if we didn’t believe you would.”

  Appeased, the boy grew expansive. “Some of the local people, those whose families have lived near Buhen for many generations, tell tales of powerful lords who ruled this land for southern masters, but kept the customs of the land of Kemet. If that’s the case, the tomb we seek might well be deep within a ridge like this. But if the tomb is that of a man who followed the customs of the south, his house of eternity would be a pit dug in open land, covered by a vast mound of rocks and sand.”

  “Intef was slain near this ridge, and the bracelets I found hidden on his donkey were those of a man of Kemet.”

  Mery gave him a quick look. “He was slain nearby?”

  “At least a half hour’s walk to the north,” Bak said, shaking his head, “and on the back side of the ridge, where the sand blown in from the western desert has covered much of the formation’s face.”

  Imsiba nodded agreement. “Too far away, I’d think, for Userhet to drag a laden sledge.”

  Bak looked back the way they had come and tried to imagine a man leading an ox through the night, after the moon and stars had turned the sands from molten gold to silver gray. They had not come far, but the familiar landmarks had already fallen away. The cove had disappeared beyond a swelling of the desert floor, and he could not distinguish the spine of rock from other, similar formations. At the foot of the long, gradual slope to the river, he coul
d see the swollen waters flowing among dark and rugged, mostly barren islands, all much alike in the distance.

  The undulating landscape, a desolate world of yellow sand, increased his feeling of unease. Like the few dry watercourses that had long ago been filled to the brim, the higher formations were slowly being consumed by the constantly moving, greedy sea of granules.

  The footprints drew them on. Mery stopped now and again to examine a wall smoother than nature usually offered, or to climb onto a ledge that could hide a tomb entrance, or to explore a crevice in the eroded wall of rock. One ledge, he insisted, had been carved by man, but the rock face at the back had fallen, cluttering the ledge with close-packed boulders that would surely have sealed any cavity that might have existed. Bak, very much aware of the passage of time, refused to tarry.

  While Mery chattered about the possibilities the ledge might offer, they climbed a low rise. Near the top, Bak dug the goatskin waterbag from among the food stowed on the donkey and passed it around. Imsiba, the last to drink, returned the bag to its proper place, while Mery poked around in a basket in search of grapes. Walking on ahead, Bak eyed the trail of footprints in the distance-a trail that abruptly vanished. He stood quite still, searching for an explanation.

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  A fissure cut the rock face at the point where the tracks ended.

  A fault in the rock. Soft or crumbled stone, most likely, providing an easy place in which to cut a tomb.

  “There,” he said, pointing.

  Mery ran up beside him, laughed. “We’ve found it!”

  Imsiba slapped the donkey on the flank and followed the creature up the rise. He took in the scene with a glance, studied the empty landscape, frowned. “We’d best take care, my friend.”