173093.fb2 Face Turned Backward - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 16

Face Turned Backward - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 16

Chapter Sixteen

“Here!” Bak caught Mery’s arm, pulled him close, and shoved the halter into his hand. “Hold this creature! Quiet him!”

“What happened?” Mery grasped the rope and drew the trembling animal’s head against his chest. He stared through the dust cloud at the supplies and rocks scattered across the floor, Imsiba lying among them, and his voice grew hushed.

“Is he dead?”

Fearing for a moment he had imagined the groan, Bak hurried to his friend. He knelt alongside and, as his physician father had taught him, laid a hand on the pulse of life in the Medjay’s neck. Its beat was strong and steady, outpacing the regular rise and fall of the unconscious man’s breast. A good sign, but…“Imsiba. Can you hear me? Imsiba!”

He received no answer.

Clutching the Medjay’s shoulders, resisting the urge to shake him awake, he repeated the query. Again no answer came. He rocked back on his heels, whispered a quick but fervent prayer to the lord Amon, and bent again to search for a bump on the head. The whirling dust tickled his nose and abruptly he sneezed. Once, twice, three times.

Imsiba’s eyes flickered open; he gave his friend a wan smile. “Could you not wake me with a gentle whisper instead of the blast of a trumpet?”

Weak with relief, Bak laughed softly. “Who struck you down?”

“I don’t know.” Imsiba touched the back of his head, grimaced. “I heard a noise among the rocks above the tomb.

When I went to investigate, someone must’ve crept up behind me. The next thing I knew, I was draped over the donkey’s back, my hands tied to my feet beneath its belly.” Biting his lip to stifle a moan, he raised himself onto an elbow. “I was untying the rope-the knot had been made in haste-when something hit the creature’s flank, frightening it, sending it racing into the tomb. I struck…A wall, I think. And once again the world went black.”

“You hit the doorjamb and the donkey brushed you off his back.”

Imsiba raised himself higher, gave Mery a crooked smile, and looked at the supplies on the floor around him. Seeing the stones among them, his eyes darted toward the entryway and he spat out an oath in his own tongue. “Userhet?”

“Or Wensu. Or maybe the two of them.” Bak stood up and offered a hand. “Let’s get you into the next chamber, where you can rest. If I’m to clear the entrance, I’ll need space in which to work.”

“Don’t treat me like an invalid, my friend. I’ve a headache, that’s all.” Nonetheless, he took the proffered hand and, with Bak’s help, rose slowly to his feet, holding his neck and shoulders stiff and straight so he would not set his head to throbbing.

Bak gave the Medjay a stern look. “You’d best relax while you can. Who knows how deep this slide is, how many rocks lie between us and freedom?”

Imsiba eyed the stones blocking the door. “We were meant to die in here, all of us together.”

Bak, too, studied the blockage, stones of all shapes and sizes packed tight together in the entryway. A fist-sized knot formed in his stomach. Could they breach it while still the torch burned? Or would they find a boulder too large to move? The boulder that had served as a roof over the entryway? He formed what he hoped was a light-hearted smile. “At least I had the good sense to bring the proper tools.”

Imsiba’s smile was rueful. “I erred, my friend, that I freely admit.”

“Wretched thing!” Mery growled. “I’ll move you yet.”

The two men, querying each other with a glance, hastened into the larger chamber. They found the donkey tied to a standing column, munching a skimpy sheaf of grain, and the boy standing by the wooden box, trying to get a lever under it. His expression was set, determined. Sweat poured down his face and breast. Bak bit back the urge to tell him he was wasting valuable time; clearing the entry was of primary importance. But the boy was right: they needed to know what lay at the bottom of the shaft-and the task might be the perfect one to distract Imsiba, keeping him quiet until the pounding eased in his head.

Bak scooped up a mallet and heavy chisel and knelt at the end of the box resting on the floor. A few solid blows raised it, and Mery shoved the lever in the gap. Bak exchanged places with the boy and elevated the box a hand’s breadth off the floor. Mery slipped a wooden roller beneath it. Moving closer to the open shaft, they installed a second roller that lifted the end of the box out of the hole. Using a third roller, they easily pushed the container off the shaft and out of their way.

Imsiba held the torch at the mouth of the opening so they could see below. The shaft was square, an arm’s length long and wide. If the uncertain light did not deceive, it was twenty or so paces deep. A man lay sprawled face-down at the bottom. His left arm was thin and weak, the hand drawn and misshapen. The stub of an arrow protruded from his bloodied back, the feathered end lay beside him. Wensu, without a doubt.

Bak muttered an oath.

“Userhet’s wits must be addled,” Imsiba said. “He slew one of the few men who could navigate the Belly of Stones and carry him south to freedom.”

Mery stared wide-eyed. Evidently finding a fresh body in a tomb was vastly different than playing among the dried and dismembered remains of long-dead people. “With no 248 / Lauren Haney one left to point a finger, maybe he thinks he can return to Buhen and go on with his life as a highly placed scribe, respected by one and all.”

“If so, he’s deluding himself,” Bak said in a grim voice.

“Too many men know he’s the one we’ve been seeking.” He tore his gaze from the body and shook his head. “A falling out of thieves, more likely.”

Bak ducked back, narrowly avoiding a miniature slide of rocks, but caught in a burst of dust. Leaning on the wall, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, smearing the dirty streaks already there. The tomb was stifling, the oil lamp feeble and smoky, the air tainted with the sweetish scent of donkey manure. His muscles ached, his hands were scratched and bleeding, his lower right leg bruised by a falling rock, yet he had opened the entryway less than a pace. Even at twice the speed he was toiling, Userhet would be in faroff Kush or Kemet by the time the tomb was open.

If the boulder had not fallen from above, sealing them inside through eternity.

The thought was loathsome, planting fear in his heart, sapping the will to carry on. Blanking out the notion, he set to work moving out of his way stones large and small that had tumbled around his feet. A waste of time with the entryway to clear, but necessary.

“Mery?” he heard Imsiba call.

“The chamber’s been plundered!” The boy’s voice, high-pitched from excitement, resonated up the shaft. “It’s small, barely big enough for two coffins. They’ve both been broken open, probably a long time ago, and they’re so rotten they crumble at a touch. Several chests have turned to dust, and so have most of the objects inside-models of boats and servants, I think. Two bodies, bones mostly with their wrappings torn off, lie among a pile of pots at the back.”

Briefly he was silent, then his words tumbled out in delight.

“I just found a gold bead among some bones on the floor. I bet there are a lot more here.”

“Is Wensu among the living?” Imsiba called, his voice edging on impatience.

Bak glanced into the second chamber, where the Medjay knelt at the top of the shaft, looking down, the planes of his face vague in the residue of light cast by the torch he had lowered with the boy. The rope, tied to one of the standing columns, snaked over the edge and down.

“He’s dead.” A short pause, and the boy added, “Not for long, I think. He’s warm to the touch and his arms and legs are limp.”

“Do you want him brought up?” Imsiba asked Bak.

Bak let out a hard, sharp laugh. “How can we carry a dead man and at the same time chase Userhet across the burning sands?”

Imsiba had the grace to remain silent, keeping to himself any doubts he had that they would escape.

Bak returned to the task of moving the stones from around his feet: bending, lifting, carrying, dropping with a puff of dust. Going back for another and another and another. The dogged actions of a man sorely in need of a respite.

“Do you see any objects unsullied by time?” Imsiba asked Mery. “Anything fresh and new that Userhet hid down there?”

“No. I bet this chamber was too hard to reach.”

“Come on up then.”

“I’m looking for gold beads. I’m sure I can find a few more.” The boy’s voice brightened further. “And who knows what else?”

“Do you not want to leave this wretched tomb?” Imsiba demanded, exasperated. “We must help clear the entryway, and we need the torch up here.”

“Oh, all right,” Mery said, his disappointment evident.

“Very nice.” Bak, seated on a chunk of fallen column in the rear chamber, twisted the ring between his fingers, looking at the reddish scarab mounted in a bezel so it could rotate for use as a seal. The design, a simple motif of interlocking spirals, told him nothing about the deceased owner, but the stone and mounting, carnelian and gold, were valuable and the workmanship exquisite.

“Can I keep it?” Mery asked.

The clatter of falling stones spared Bak the need to answer.

Dust erupted, filling the tomb with a thick roiling cloud.

Imsiba leaped back, out of the entryway, and snarled a curse.

The donkey tugged hard at the rope binding him to the column, half-snorting, half-braying, his hooves beating a quick tattoo on the floor.

Unable to breathe, Imsiba abandoned his task and sat down on the sledge to wait for the dust to settle. A pinched look across his eyes was the only sign that his head still ached. Bak slipped the ring on Mery’s finger, too small by far for so large a circle, and cupped his hand for the beads the boy had found. They dropped in a golden cascade, eleven perfect orbs, all the size of chickpeas, hollow-cored and pierced for a string. They matched those he had found among Intef’s possessions.

He handed them to Imsiba and took from Mery the last object the boy had salvaged, a statuette whose rectangular base fit neatly in the palm of his hand. It was a small master-piece, a scribe seated cross-legged, carved from a grayish stone and unpainted, with no inscription to identify him.

Nagged by the passage of time, by the growing closeness of the air, he handed the figure to Imsiba and stood up. Mery slipped the ring off and sat on the floor to make impressions of interlocking spirals in the soft dust around him. The boy’s eyes drifted to the shaft, Bak noted, and his mouth tightened in disappointment.

Bak formed what he hoped was an optimistic smile and ruffled the child’s hair. “We’ll come back, and you with us.

If for no other reason, we must close this tomb and seal it for eternity.” The irony of his words did not escape him: the tomb was already sealed.

“What of the objects we’ve found? What of those still here?”

Bak shrugged. “The less of value we leave, the safer the dead will be. But that’s a decision Commandant Thuty must make.”

Collecting chisel and mallet, bracing himself for another stint of hard labor, he walked with leaden feet into the outer chamber. Imsiba followed, no more enthusiastic than he.

After clearing away the stones that cluttered the floor, the two men crowded into the entryway, a space barely wide enough to work side-by-side, and attacked the blockage. Mery shifted the rocks that fell around their feet. Sweat trickled down faces and backs and thighs; dirt built up in the creases of their bodies. Imsiba grimaced now and again, but refused to admit to pain. In spite of the need to stop at regular intervals to let the dust settle, exhaustion set in.

Far too soon-at what they judged to be midway along the entryway-the torch began to sputter, signaling its end.

Mery searched out the second lamp and set it unlit beside the first, ready for use when needed. And he brought a jar of beer, providing a welcome excuse to rest. Bak rolled the warm liquid around inside his mouth, wetting his parched tongue and savoring the tangy bite. How many jars remained? he wondered. How much food? How long would they live in the dark, hot tomb if they failed to dig themselves out?

Stifling a fresh burst of fear, he took a final mouthful and passed the jar on to Imsiba. Back in the entryway, he gripped chisel and mallet, gritted his teeth, and began to pry stones out of the blockage. They fell one, two, sometimes three and four at a time, raining dirt, choking him. The sweat turned to mud on his shoulders and back; his hair felt glued together.

A mass of stones broke free, forcing him back, raising a cloud of dust. Through the gloom, he saw an unbroken expanse of rock. The boulder he had feared they would find.

He felt as if he was about to be sick.

Imsiba came up behind him and stared. “What now, my friend?” His voice was flat, its natural ebullience gone.

Bak had no answer.

Refusing to think, summoning a strength born of desperation, he raised his arms high and began to hack away the stones jammed into place above the boulder. Imsiba, saying nothing, shifted the debris from around his feet. Drawn to the antechamber by the silence, Mery spotted the wall of rock and he, too, lost the power of speech. Bak toiled on, loosing the stones until he could reach no farther. At last, he sagged against the wall, tired, hot, dirty, and thirsty, his upper limbs numb from holding them high for so long.

Imsiba sat at Bak’s feet, his forehead on his knees. Mery went to the donkey, wrapped his arms around the creature’s neck, and buried his face in its hair. Bak had an idea the boy was crying.

He raised his face, resting the back of his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. Why would the gods frown on them now? he wondered. Why hand them an ugly, lingering death in this dreary tomb when, as men of action, they should be given a quick and honorable death on the field of battle?

He took a deep breath, drew in air cooler and cleaner than before. As if his ka had flown from his body and escaped from the tomb. His eyes popped open; he tore himself away from the wall. No! As if air was seeping in from outside. He drew in a long, cautious breath. Sure enough. The air was sweeter, purer. He must have opened a tiny crack or hole above the boulder.

Afraid to speak aloud news of his discovery, fearing it would prove an illusion, Bak grabbed a lever. He raised the tool and attacked rocks the chisel had been too short to reach. The angle was bad and his blows not as hard as he wanted, but several stones fell, allowing him to imagine air pouring in instead of seeping. When next he tried, the whole mass collapsed, a deluge of rocks and grit and dust. Yelling a warning, he leaped back. Imsiba scrambled out of the way on all fours. Rocks clattered, building up in a pile, rolling into the antechamber. A dense cloud surged through the tomb. Retreating to the inner chamber, they closed their eyes tight and tried not to breathe. The donkey squealed and fought for freedom, entangling his forefeet in the rope. Awed by the noise and the roiling cloud of dirt, Bak prayed he had not brought down the whole face of the ridge, entombing them forever.

As the dust settled, they saw a sloping pile of rocks reaching through the doorway. Fearing the worst, they hurried to its leading edge and looked into the antechamber.

The slope rose steeply to the top of the boulder, a loose conglomeration of stones illuminated by light flowing through a good-sized hole above the entryway. The sky was pale and tinted with gold, harbinger of sunset.

Bak let out a delighted whoop, grabbed Imsiba around the waist and Mery by the shoulders, and hugged them tight.

The Medjay returned the embrace, squeezing the breath from the others. Mery’s grip loosened and he backed off to gulp air.

“Let’s get out of here,” Bak said, breaking free. The words sounded feeble, trite, but he could think of no worthy way to express the joy he felt.

Mery scrambled up the loose rocks. At the top, he raised his hands high and yelled, “We did it! We’re free!” And he raced out of sight along the ridge.

Imsiba went to the donkey and scratched its head, calming it. “What of this creature? Can we get him out, do you think?

Or must we slay him?”

Bak studied the steep slope. With the rocks so loose, the donkey could easily break a leg, especially if the stones began to roll beneath his hooves and he panicked. If they could somehow build a road…Should they take the time? Or should they go instead in search of Userhet? They had been trapped in the tomb for close on two hours, plenty of time for the overseer to reach his skiff and sail away to safety.

His eyes fell on the wooden box. “There. The box. We can break it up, leaving the sides and bottom intact, and lay them end-to-end up the slope.”

“Lieutenant Bak!” Mery squatted at the opening, looking down. “I’ve found tracks. Userhet’s, I bet.”

Imsiba scooped up a chisel and mallet. “Go, my friend.

See what the boy has found. I’ll tend to the donkey.”

Bak climbed the treacherous slope, taking care where he 254 / Lauren Haney placed his feet, trying not to disturb the stones beneath him lest he set off another slide. At the top, with a light breeze drying the sweat on his body, he stared out across the tawny desert, savoring a world he had feared never to see again.

Barren and dry it was, nothing but sand dunes and rock formations, but beautiful beyond words. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to the lord Amon for allowing him to stand once again in the sunlight.

“Here,” Mery said, pointing to a scuffed trail down the side of the ridge.

Bak half ran, half slid down the incline. The place where they had tied the donkey when first they came was a mass of intermingled prints. Its journey to the tomb, where its hooves had been driven deep by Imsiba’s weight, was clear, as were the footprints of the man who had led it. The slide had covered the fissure and the rock face to either side, concealing the burial place as if it had never existed. A good stiff breeze would have covered the tracks and deposited sand on the fallen rocks, leaving no sign of human presence.

Anger surged through him. As Imsiba had said, Userhet had meant them to die.

The long, drawn-out bray drew Bak’s eyes to the top of the ridge. Imsiba stood with the donkey above the rock slide, letting it rhapsodize. Bak’s anger slid away in a smile. Not only had the Medjay rescued the creature, but he had loaded on its back their weapons, what little food remained, and no doubt the ancient jewelry and statue as well. The tools, he had left behind.

After sharing a celebratory jar of beer and rewarding the beast with water, they set off at a good pace. Two men, a boy, and a donkey, all coated with dust, streaked and mottled. Because the ridge offered a broader view of the landscape, Bak suggested they walk along the top. From there, they could keep an eye on the path they had followed to the tomb, now a multitude of intermingled impressions.

Should Userhet stray, they would be sure to see his trail when he left the trampled sand. A further inducement was the breeze, stiffer on the high ground, a gift from the gods after their sojourn in the tomb.

Beyond the low rise from which Bak had first spotted the entrance to the burial place, the ridge narrowed and its eastern face steepened. From above, it looked as if a giant bite had been taken out of the rock. A ledge spanned the cut, a flat shelf cluttered with boulders and lesser chunks of stone.

“That’s the ledge I thought we should explore.” Eyes dancing with enthusiasm, Mery leaned so far out Bak grabbed him by the belt so he could not fall. “See how smooth it is?

I bet there’s a tomb behind all those rocks.”

Bak eyed the ledge, noting scuffs in the sand he assumed Mery had left on their outbound trek. His glance dropped to the path below, and he stiffened. The many smudged footprints were suddenly overlaid by the twin impressions of runners, the mark of a sledge. The track ran south along the base of the ridge as far as he could see.

“A sledge has been lowered from above,” Imsiba said, voicing Bak’s thought. “Perhaps the boy is right.”

Scrambling to his feet, Bak grinned at Mery, “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll send you back to keep Wensu company.”

Laughing, the boy plummeted down the steep, rocky slope to the ledge, so eager to find a tomb he risked a twisted ankle or worse. Bak hurried after him, leaving Imsiba to hobble the donkey. Scuffed sand and a smudged footprint led to the back of the ledge. There they found a lever leaning against a boulder and a gaping, rectangular portal.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mery’s eyes glistened with excitement.

“I saw no opening when I climbed up here before-the boulder must’ve stood in front of it-but I knew there was a tomb. There had to be!”

Certain Userhet had gone long ago, Bak allowed the boy to enter first. Following close behind, he heard Mery’s disappointed grunt. The instant he crossed the threshold, he understood the reaction. The small amount of light falling through the door illuminated a shallow chamber with rough, undecorated walls and a doorway cut at center back that led nowhere. A tomb never completed.

Imsiba peered into the empty room, casting an elongated shadow across the floor. “A second hiding place? Could this be where Userhet stored his share of the contraband?”

“More likely, he was holding out on his partners,” Bak said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Wensu, suspecting deceit, followed him into the desert in search of enlightenment.”

“And Userhet slew him rather than share?”

Bak shrugged. “What better reason to slay a long-time ally?”

Buzzing flies drew his eyes to a pile of leaves crumpled in a corner. He picked them up, spread them out, sniffed. They were slick with oil and reeked of fish. From the small number of ants he found, he concluded the bundle had not long been emptied of its contents. Flashing a sudden smile, he handed the leaves to Imsiba. “Maybe we’re not as far behind Userhet as we thought.”

While Imsiba unhobbled the donkey, Bak studied the landscape to the south, searching for a sign of life among the lengthening shadows that heralded the approach of nightfall. In the distance, heat waves rose from the tawny sands, merging land and sky in a wavering, shimmering world more fanciful than real. A broad swath glistening like water teased the imagination. A figure the shape of a man came and went, a small indistinct image moving through the shiny pinkish, yellowish haze. He reappeared, his head dis-jointed from his body.

“The headless man,” Bak murmured, barely above a whisper.

Imsiba’s head snapped around. “Userhet? You see him?”

“I’m not sure. I…” Bak stared at the distant haze, willing the figure to again show itself in the sparkling, gauzelike vapor. As if on cue, the image reappeared, this time with no legs or feet. “In the haze! Can you see?”

“There!” Mery yelled, pointing roughly in the right direction, his finger bobbing up and down with excitement.

“I don’t…” Imsiba laughed. “It’s him! It has to be him!

Who else can it be?”

Mery ran to the laden donkey. “Where’s my sling?”

“Wait!” Bak caught the boy by the nape of the neck, stilling him. He had risked the child’s life once during the day; he had no intention of doing so again. “Darkness will soon be upon us and we’ve no time to lose. You must ride to the cove and…”

The boy’s smile crumpled. “No! Don’t send me away now!”

“Psuro must be warned,” Bak insisted. “Tell him to borrow skiffs from the local people and spread men across the river from the cove to the far bank. Should Userhet sail downstream, they must snare him.” He paused, waiting for a response.

The corners of Mery’s mouth turned down in a pout.

“Can you see the donkey making speed with my weight or Imsiba’s on his back?” Bak asked.

The boy gave a slow, reluctant shake of the head. “No, sir.”

Imsiba retrieved the weapons from the creature’s back and Mery climbed up in their place, settling himself among the nearly empty baskets. His eyes looked close to overflowing.

Bak squeezed the boy’s knee and backed off. “Go with haste, little brother. Userhet has defied the lady Maat, making light of right and order. He must not be allowed to get away.”

The importance of the task stiffened Mery’s spine, the term of affection drew forth a faint smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He jerked the rope halter, pulling the donkey’s head around, and kicked it in the ribs. It plunged down the ridge and trotted toward the river, boy and baskets bouncing to the animal’s gait.

Bak armed himself with spear and shield, while Imsiba shouldered the quiver and carried the bow. With their quarry in sight at last, they hurried south along the base of the ridge, following the dual channels left by the sledge. They lost much of the breeze, but were less likely to be spotted by the man ahead. For the first time in many hours, they dared hope for success.

When they reached the trail of smudged footprints joining the ridge to the cove, the twin depressions left the well-beaten path and continued south, straddling the prints of a single man. Userhet was heading for his skiff, not Wensu’s ship.

How far away had Ahmose said the backwater was? A half-hour’s walk?

“His sledge isn’t large,” Imsiba said, “but the furrows it leaves are deep. Whatever his load, it’s holding him back.”

“I pray it includes an elephant tusk.”

“As do I.” The Medjay’s face, his voice were grim. “I’d not like to spend the rest of my days, searching every wretched ship and caravan passing through Buhen and Kor.”

“If Wensu hid the tusk on Mahu’s ship, and I’m convinced he did, Userhet told him to do so.” Bak blew a drop of sweat off the tip of his nose. “He’ll confess. He must.”

Imsiba’s strides were long and regular, designed to cover a lot of ground fast. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his breast and back. If his head still ached, he gave no sign, nor did he display any trace of exhaustion. Bak, barely able to keep apace, shaded his eyes with a hand and stared at the distant figure. The haze had been blown away by the stiffening breeze, but heat waves rising from the sand made dunes and rock formations and the man they chased quiver and tremble.

“We’re gaining on him, Imsiba.”

“I’ve never liked him. He’s altogether too fond of himself.

But I’d not have thought he’d take one man’s life and then another and another.”

“He came close to taking a fourth,” Bak said, touching the dirty bandage on his friend’s arm. “That arrow was meant for you, I’m convinced.”

“Me?” Imsiba gave him a startled look. “I posed no threat.”

“Did he not wish to wed Sitamon? He no doubt desired her-she’s a woman of infinite charm and beauty-but he must’ve coveted more the ship she inherited from Mahu.”

A wry smile touched Imsiba’s lips. “To have control of a great cargo ship would certainly ease the path of one who deals in contraband.”

“Not if he must share his authority with a man whose task it is to balance the scale of justice.”

“Look! He’s veering toward the river.” Imsiba clutched his side, which he refused to admit pained him. “We must be nearing the backwater where he leaves his skiff.”

“I thank the gods he’s not once looked back. He must think us still entrapped.” If the big sergeant would not confess to a human frailty, Bak was not about to complain of his knotted calves.

Imsiba glanced toward the lord Re, making his final descent to the netherworld, streaking the sky with gold. “If we don’t snare him within the hour, we’ll lose him to darkness.

He knows this land far better than we. It’s been his play-ground for months.”

“We’re closing on him.” Bak wiped his brow and dried his hand on his kilt, damp with sweat, stained gray by dirt. “Not long ago, we couldn’t see the sledge. Now we can. Nor could we see…” His voice tailed off and he stared at the man ahead.

Userhet had slowed his pace and turned around as if to check the sledge and its load. His head came up. His step faltered. The sledge bumped his ankles, shoving him. He swung around and moved on, his stride longer, faster than before.

“He’s spotted us!” Bak said, breaking into a loping run.

“Who’d have thought a man could run so fast when pulling a laden sledge?” The question was rhetorical, a waste of valuable breath, and Bak knew it.

Imsiba must also have felt the need to talk. “He’s taking advantage of the slope down to the water. Gentle as it is, it’s enough to keep the sledge moving.”

Bak scanned the river, no more than a thousand paces away, with Userhet halfway between. In many places, water lapped the desert’s leading edge, stealing the golden grains, 260 / Lauren Haney yet he saw no reed-filled backwater. It had to be nearby.

“How a man whose occupation kept him inside and inactive day after day manages to maintain so hard and fast a pace, I can’t imagine.” Imsiba forced the words out between breaths. “His nighttime excursions as the headless man must’ve hardened his muscles as well as his resolve.”

“The fate that awaits him-impalement, for a certainty-would surely add wings to any man’s feet.”

They ran on in silence, wasting no more breath. Bak’s calves ached, his legs felt heavy and wooden, his mouth dry and his chest raspy. The sledge was like a toothache, a nag-ging reminder of how sure Userhet was that he would elude them. If he feared capture, he most certainly would abandon it. Bak’s sole consolation was the breeze, which was cooler as evening drew near, chilling the sweat pouring from his body.

Evenly matched with the man they chased, but un-burdened, Bak and Imsiba slowly, gradually, shrank the distance separating them. About three hundred paces from the river, Userhet swerved, taking a diagonal path across the sands toward a curving row of trees. A break in the foliage allowed a glimpse of water and a thick stand of reeds.

“Spawn of Apep!” Bak cursed. Userhet was practically within their grasp. He could not slip away now.

Without warning, a nearly naked man stepped out from among the trees to stand on the sandy verge. He carried a sickle, its sharp flint blade sparkling in the long rays of the setting sun. A woman dressed in a colorful ankle-length sheath came forth from the trees a half dozen paces downstream. In her hand she held a long-bladed knife. A second man emerged a few paces upstream, and a third and fourth spread equal distances apart. Each carried a sickle, an axe, or a mallet. Common farm tools. Weapons in the hands of men who chose to use them as such.

Bak and Imsiba slowed to a walk. They stared dumbfoun-ded.

“Have they come to help him?” Bak asked.

Userhet, less than fifty paces from the trees, slowed as his pursuers had done. Instead of waving and smiling and hurrying toward men he knew were friends, he looked back and forward as if trying to decide what to do, how best to pass them by and reach the river.

Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to Amon and to any other god who happened to be listening.

Two men stepped forward, both armed with sickles. A youth carrying a knife. Another holding a spear. A woman and man, each carrying axes. A boy with a sickle. Others appeared farther along the line of trees. A wall of humanity, ominously silent, between Userhet and the reedy backwater.

The overseer broke into a trot, running parallel to the double row of men and trees, dragging the sledge behind him, searching for a way through.

“By the beard of Amon!” Imsiba exclaimed. “Where did so many people come from? What brought them forth?”

“There!” Bak pointed. Mery stood midway along the line of defense, holding a reddish shield that came close to hiding his small frame and carrying a long spear that towered well above his head. “He must’ve come by skiff-the breeze is right-and summoned all he met along the way.”

“A most resourceful child,” Imsiba grinned.

Spurred on by the boy’s ingenuity, Bak forgot his aching muscles and heaving chest. He ran full tilt, Imsiba by his side. Hearing their pounding feet, Userhet glanced around and saw how close they were. He dropped the rope, grabbed a bow and quiver lying on top of the load he had been pulling, and ran, abandoning the sledge.

Imsiba pulled an arrow from his quiver and armed his bow. But he hesitated to shoot, fearing he would miss the man they chased and strike one of the farmers along the arc of trees.

Bak veered around the sledge, glimpsing as he passed sealed jars and lumpy bags-and no uncut elephant tusk.

He sped on, too occupied by the chase to dwell on the knowledge. Userhet put on a burst of speed, following a course roughly parallel to the water’s edge. He constantly looked to his left, studying the human barricade in search of a weak spot. The farmers held their places, watching, waiting.

Userhet swerved suddenly, striking off toward the desert.

The people closest to him looked at each other, nodded their satisfaction, let down their guard. Abruptly he swung back and darted toward a girl holding a knife. He struck her hard with his shoulder, sending her flying, and ducked in among the trees.

Bak raced through the crumbling wall of people, who were too stunned to react to Userhet’s swift passage, and plunged through a patch of dying foliage downstream of the point where the overseer had vanished. Clearing the spindly branches, he found himself ankle-deep in floodwater, with a lush stand of reeds rising from the depths three or four paces farther out, marking the normal shoreline during low water. About fifteen paces to his left, he glimpsed a small skiff half-hidden by reeds. The sound of splashing drew his attention to Userhet, wading knee-deep along the reed bed twenty or so paces to the right. He spotted Bak, jerked an arrow from the quiver, and raised the bow. Angling the weapon to keep it dry, he seated the missile and drew the string taut.

Bak swung his shield up and ducked sideways. The arrow struck the wooden frame and dropped into the water.

Glimpsing Userhet seating a second missile, he dived in among the reeds. Dirt swirled up from the bottom, clouding water that reached to his waist. The long, tough stems grabbed his spear and shield, entangling them. He freed the spear, though the weapon was close to useless in the thick tangle of vegetation.

A man with a scythe peered out from among the trees. Userhet swung the bow toward the new target, and the farmer slipped out of sight. The overseer swung back and released the arrow, which thunked into the shield, piercing the cowhide half a hand’s breadth from the grip. Bak jerked his hand away and ducked lower. A third arrow and a fourth struck within moments of each other, forcing the shield deeper into the thicket.

With Userhet’s attention diverted to the shield, Bak decided the time had come to even the odds a bit. The spear would hamper his mission, so he found a suitable spot an arm’s length from where he stood and rammed the point into the mud, letting the shaft rise among the tall reeds. Visible to him, invisible to anyone unaware of its presence. Near enough to the shallows that he could reach it should he need it.

Crouching low, he struck off for deeper water, slipping through the reeds, trying not to set their crowns to waving any more than normal in the breeze. The mud squished up between his toes, a root caught at an ankle, tiny water creatures tickled his legs. He edged past the last of the reeds, the bottom fell away, and he was in open water. An arrow sped past his head so close he heard its whisper. He dived beneath the surface.

A dozen swift strokes propelled him to Userhet’s skiff.

Taking care to keep his head down, he waded in among the reeds and alongside to the prow. An arrow sped over him, slicing through the vegetation and into the water. He crouched lower. A second missile thudded into the skiff, a hairsbreadth from his face. He ducked beneath the prow and came up on the far side, placing the skiff between himself and Userhet. Pulling his dagger free, he sawed through the rope holding the boat in place. He hated to release it-it looked to be a fine vessel-but he dared not leave it for Userhet. Clinging to the skiff, using it as a shield, he walked it out to deep water. A final hard shove sent the boat into the current, its prow swung around, and it floated downstream.

“Spawn of Set!” Userhet bellowed, and he fired off an arrow that sped across the water’s surface an arm’s length from Bak’s head.

Bak spotted Imsiba standing in the shallows some distance beyond Userhet, bow in hand. Men, women, and children, half-hidden among the branches, stood all along the shore, watching the contest. They barred the overseer from the open desert, but they also prevented Imsiba from using his weapon.

“Give up, Userhet!” Bak called.

“Never!”

With a defiant sneer, the overseer waded downstream, 264 / Lauren Haney keeping close to the reeds and far enough from the farmers to evade a sudden attack. His golden flesh gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. It took Bak a moment to realize he was heading toward the shield-and the spear he must have spotted among the reeds.

Bak drew in air, dived underwater, and sped upriver. He surfaced to look for the path he had made on his outbound journey through the thicket. Userhet fired off another arrow.

The missile sliced through the flesh of Bak’s lower arm. The blood flowing from the shallow wound washed away when he dived once again. His feet struck bottom and he plunged headlong into the vague line of bent and broken reeds already falling back into place.

Userhet saw him coming and dived toward the shield.

Jerking it free, he slapped at the surrounding reeds, searching for the spear. Bak reached out, grabbed. He felt the cool, wet flesh of an arm, but lost it an instant later. Userhet ducked away and splashed back toward shallow water. Bak reached out a second time, and stumbled. His hand closed on Userhet’s bow. The overseer tried to hold onto the weapon, but Bak wrenched it away. Regaining his balance, he flung the bow, useless without arrows, toward the water beyond the reeds.

Userhet looked around frantically for a weapon. He located Bak’s spear and jerked it from the mud where it stood. Bak ran at him, caught the weapon a hand’s breadth from the point. Userhet held the spear in both hands, twisting, jerking, trying to pull it free, while Bak held on with only a single hand. The wooden shaft was slick and muddy, hard to hang onto. Bak’s fingers slid along the wood; he could feel the sharpened edge of the blade against his wrist. He was close to losing the weapon and he knew it. He lunged forward and caught the shaft with his free hand.

The two men stood facing each other, ankle deep in muck and tangled roots, holding the shaft vertically between them, the sharp blade at head level. They pulled and twisted and shoved. The long shaft caught among the roots, became entangled in reeds, making it hard to move in any useful way-almost as if it had taken on a life of its own.

Userhet shoved the blade toward Bak’s face. Cursing the overseer, the weapon, the muck, Bak ducked backward and twisted the shaft. Userhet, his face grim and determined, his neck muscles taut with strain, forced the blade back toward his opponent’s face. Again Bak ducked backward. He could feel himself tiring, the muscles in his arms and legs aching, a reminder of the effort expended in digging open the tomb.

He knew he must soon free the spear or Userhet’s greater store of strength would win the battle.

Userhet must have sensed his opponent’s weakness. A stiff, mean smile touched his lips and abruptly he shoved the spear at Bak. Bak stumbled back, tripping on a root. Userhet pressed harder. Bak dropped to a knee, regaining his balance, and at the same time pulled the spear over his head-in the same direction Userhet was pushing. Stumbling forward, the overseer reached out to catch himself. Bak jerked the weapon away and scrambled backwards, giving himself room. Userhet, eyes blazing with fury charged. Bak struggled to his feet and, holding the weapon much too close to the blade, swung it up and around.

The sharp spearpoint sliced across Userhet’s neck. He stood for a moment, spewing blood, then his knees buckled and he dropped. Bak, stunned by so quick an end to the chase, stared open-mouthed as Userhet’s life drained into the muck.

Imsiba came splashing along the line of trees, followed close behind by several husky, young farmers. Collecting his wits, Bak knelt beside the body of a man he knew was lifeless.

None could live with a neck severed so deeply, with only the spine and a bit of skin holding the head onto the body.

The farmers sucked in their breaths, gaped.

“The headless man,” Imsiba said in a hushed voice.