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

by Wilbur Smith

  He steered for the gap and told Meren beside him, “Cover your head!” They wound headcloths over their heads and splashed water from the skin over themselves, drenching their headcloths and chitons.

  “Have the blindfolds ready,” Nefer told Meren.

  They were so close now that they felt the heat blazing out to meet them, and Krus broke step and began to balk at the barrier of leaping flame that confronted him.

  “Mount up!” Nefer ordered, and still at the gallop they ran out along the shaft between the horses and swung up onto their backs, riding astride. Nefer stretched out along Krus’ neck and spoke to him calmly. “It’s all right, my darling. You know the blindfold. You know I will not hurt you. Trust me, Krus! Trust me!” And he covered his eyes with the thick woolen cloth, and steered him with his knees at the narrow gap in the burning wall. The heat poured over them in a wave. Their wet clothing steamed and Nefer felt the skin on the back of his hands blistering. The tips of Krus’ mane blackened and crisped. But both horses ran on strongly.

  They struck the wall of blazing grass, and it exploded around them. Nefer felt his eyes frying in his head and he closed them tightly and urged Krus on. They burst out of the far side, trailing sparks and fire.

  Nefer looked back under his arm and saw Daimios aiming his chariot at the gap they had broached in the burning wall. Daimios’ horses were not blindfolded, and they saw the flames and shied off the line and began to rear and plunge, fighting to avoid the horror they saw ahead of them.

  “Daimios’ horses have refused!” Nefer shouted across at Meren on Dov’s back. “We have a chance now.”

  They charged up to the bridgehead, reined the horses down and halted them just short.

  “Keep them blindfolded!” Nefer ordered. “Don’t let them see the drop.”

  The catwalk of the bridge had been built deliberately too narrow for a chariot to drive across, and it would not carry the weight. They would have to break the vehicle down and carry it across piecemeal. While Meren unbuckled the harness and hobbled the horses, Nefer seized the mallet and knocked the bronze retaining pins out of the hubs. Then he pulled off the wheels. He picked up one of them and Meren took the other. They ran to the head of the bridge.

  The bridge swung gently and undulated to the impulse of the wind. It was not wide enough for the two of them to cross shoulder to shoulder. Nefer did not hesitate but ran out onto the narrow way, and Meren followed close behind him. The bridge moved under their feet like the deck of a ship at sea, but they balanced the motion and fixed their eyes on the far bank, never looked down at the terrible void beneath them and the gut of the gorge lined with jagged rock.

  They reached the far side, dropped the wheels and ran back. At the burning fence, the flames were still too high and fierce to let Daimios pass, though they saw him flogging his team and screaming abuse at them.

  They discarded the waterskin, the last of the arrows and every other piece of redundant equipment, and picked up the chassis of the chariot between them. They carried it out onto the bridge, where the wind caught their hair braids on the ends of the long staffs and whipped them jubilantly. Each careful step they took seemed to take a lifetime, but at last they reached the far side, dropped the chassis and ran back. Nefer picked up the shaft and balanced its weight across his shoulders. Meren carried the harness and the swords and they crossed again. Now only the horses remained to bring over.

  When they started back they saw that the flames were dying, but where the fence had collapsed it had formed a thick bed of ash that still glowed with ovenlike heat. Rastafa, one of the pursuers, forced his horses into it with whip and threatening shouts, but within a few paces the hide was burned from their legs and the raw red flesh showed through. They turned back despite their driver, screaming and kicking at the pain.

  Nefer led Meren back at a run with the bridge swaying under them. They reached the horses. Dov and Krus stood patiently, hobbled and blindfolded. They unbuckled the knee hobbles.

  “Take Dov across first,” Nefer ordered. “She is the steady one.”

  While Nefer waited on the near side, with his arm around Krus’ neck, Meren led Dov out onto the catwalk of the bridge. She felt it move under her, lifted her head and snorted with alarm. Meren talked softly to her. Gingerly she took another pace and stopped again.

  “Don’t rush her,” Nefer called. “Let her set her own pace.” A step at a time Dov moved out onto the high bridge. When she reached the middle she froze, and stood with all four legs splayed and trembling. Meren stroked her forehead and whispered to her and she went on. She reached the far side, stepped off the catwalk, felt the solid earth under her hoofs, whinnied and shook her head with relief.

  Still blocked by the burning barrier, Daimios shouted, “They have got one of their team across. We have to stop them now. Rastafa, give me your horses. They are crippled already. I will ride them through, even if it kills them.”

  Nefer glanced back and saw Daimios ride into the glowing bed of ash. It reached as high as his mount’s knees, and the maimed animal stumbled and almost fell, but Daimios drove it on in a torrent of sparks and the stench of burning hair and flesh. The terribly injured creature carried him through, then collapsed as soon as it reached open ground. Daimios jumped from its back, drew his sword and rushed toward Nefer.

  Nefer drew his own sword, and called to Meren across the chasm, “Come back and take Krus over. I will hold this bastard in play.” He stepped forward to meet Daimios as he charged in. He met his cut high in the natural line, and the blades jarred and scraped their full length. Daimios reversed and cut again at his head. Nefer caught the stroke, then riposted, forcing him to jump back.

  Nefer had one moment to glance back and saw that Meren was already leading Krus out onto the swaying catwalk. Krus felt it move under his hoofs, tossed his head and tried to back away.

  “Come away, Krus!” Nefer shouted at him sternly, and at the sound of his voice the colt steadied and stepped gingerly onto the planking.

  Daimios came in again and Nefer had to concentrate everything on him. He aimed a rapid series of thrusts at Nefer’s throat and chest and when Nefer blocked and parried he reversed and cut low at his ankles. Nefer jumped over the glittering circle of the blade and went for his exposed shoulder. He touched him and saw the blood spring brightly on the tanned and oiled muscles.

  But Daimios seemed not to feel the shallow wound. He came on as strongly as before. They exchanged parry for thrust and block for cut, then Daimios stepped back and circled to the left, trying to move in behind him and cut him off from the bridgehead, but Nefer went at him again and forced him to give ground.

  A moment’s respite and Nefer saw that the flames had died down, the grass fence burned almost entirely away. The other chasers had left their chariots and were jumping over the bed of glowing ash and running to join the fight.

  “Form a ring around him, and cut him down!” Daimios shouted to them as they ran up.

  Nefer glanced back and saw that Meren had led Krus far out on the catwalk. The colt was trembling and sweating at the sensation of the moving deck under his hoofs, but he could not see the terrible aching void below him.

  Just then the other chasers ran up, brandishing their blades and jeering at Nefer: “Now, we will ram your hair braid up your right royal arse.”

  Nefer retreated quickly onto the head of the bridge. Now they could come at him only one at a time, and the jeers died away. They paused in a group at the head of the catwalk.

  “He has nicked me,” said Daimios. “Do you go after him, Rastafa, while I bind it up.” With his teeth he tore a strip off the hem of his tunic, and tied it over the shallow flesh wound. While he was doing this Rastafa ran out onto the bridge. He was bearded and swarthy with a dark and angry gaze, a big man but quick as a ferret. He balanced easily on the moving deck and thrust at Nefer’s throat, coming on so strongly that Nefer had to fall back again.

  Krus heard the clash of blades and the shouting close behi
nd him and he reared up in protest. The bridge jumped and wobbled under him, and for a terrible moment it seemed that the colt might lose his balance and go over the side, but by some miraculous chance he came down on all four legs, and stood quivering on the wildly swinging catwalk.

  It was Rastafa who stumbled and teetered on the edge. He windmilled his arms as he fought to regain his balance. Nefer took one quick step toward him and stabbed him under his lifted arm. The bronze blade slipped in between the ribs and went in deeply. Rastafa looked at him with mild surprise, and said, “It hurts. In the name of Seth, it hurts!”

  Nefer jerked the blade out and Rastafa’s heart-blood fountained after it. Spouting crimson, he toppled backward, and went spinning into the abyss, arms and legs spread like the spokes of a wheel. His voice was a wild screech, fading in volume as he fell away, and the sound was cut off abruptly as his armor clattered on the rocks in the gut of the gorge.

  His comrades hesitated at the bridgehead, appalled by the horror of that death plunge, suddenly reluctant to step out onto the narrow way.

  Nefer seized that moment to turn back and stroke Krus’ trembling haunches, “Steady, Krus. I am here, my darling. Walk on!” Krus calmed to his voice, and then, as the wild gyrations of the bridge eased, he took a step forward and another.

  “Walk on, Krus, walk on.”

  They were almost halfway across when Meren shouted a warning: “Behind you, brother!”

  Nefer whirled around just in time to meet another opponent. Nefer knew him by reputation. He was a Libyan slave, and was fighting for his freedom. Fearlessly, he ran down the narrow deck, straight at Nefer. He used the full impetus of his charge and Nefer was only just able to turn aside that first stroke. They locked blades and came chest to chest, clamping each other in a murderous embrace with their free arms. They heaved and wrestled, shifting and shoving for the advantage.

  Krus heard the struggle behind him and it spurred him on. He lunged forward again, covering another few paces toward the safety of the far bank.

  Nefer was face to face with his man. His teeth were black and jagged and his breath stank like rotten fish. He tried to sink those filthy fangs into Nefer’s face, snapping at him like a dog, but Nefer pulled back, then butted with his forehead, slamming the peak of his leather helmet into the bridge of the man’s nose. He felt the bone and gristle break, and the man released his grip and reeled back. He lost his footing and grabbed the side rope of the bridge to steady himself, hanging on desperately, his back arched out over the drop. Nefer chopped off his grasping fingers, and the rope slipped from the bloody severed stubs. He went over backward, screaming and twisting in the air. He seemed to fall for a long time before he struck the rocks far below with a meaty thump.

  There were three men on the catwalk behind him, led by Daimios. He had bound up his wound, and seemed unhurt. But he had seen what had happened to his two comrades and now he was more wary. Nefer engaged him, keeping him off a full blade’s length, giving him ground only as Krus moved forward slowly and hesitantly toward the far bank.

  Suddenly Meren shouted triumphantly, “We are across, Nefer.” And he heard Krus’ hoofs clatter on the rock bank. “Krus has come over.”

  Nefer could not look round, for Daimios’ blade flashed and gleamed before his eyes, but he shouted, “Cut down the bridge, Meren, cut away the mainstays, and let her fall.”

  Daimios heard the command and jumped back with alarm. He glanced over his shoulder and saw how far he had come out onto the catwalk, how far it was back to the other bank.

  Meren stood over the two thick ropes that carried the full weight of the catwalk. He hacked at one, and his first stroke cut halfway through, the strands parted with a sharp popping sound and began to unravel like mating serpents.

  Pale horror washed over Daimios’ sweaty face and he turned and fled, his comrades with him, back along the narrow way. Nefer whirled and ran toward where Meren stood over the ropes. He reached the end of the bridge and jumped to safety. Immediately he attacked the other mainstay, chopping at it with full overhead blows. One of the stays parted and the entire bridge shivered, then tilted violently to one side. Daimios flung himself forward and dragged himself onto firm ground just as the second stay gave way, and the bridge sagged and fell into the abyss.

  Daimios recovered and stood on the edge of the precipice, glaring at them across the void. Nefer sheathed his sword and gave him a taunting wave. “You have a long ride ahead of you.”

  Then he ran to help Meren reassemble the chariot. They had practiced this a dozen times under Taita’s watchful eye. While Meren lifted one side of the chassis Nefer eased the wheels onto the hubs and drove the bronze locking pins home with the mallet. Then they lifted the shaft and fastened it to the ringbolt in the footplate.

  Nefer wasted a few seconds to look back across the gorge. He saw that Daimios and the surviving chasers were already mounting their chariots, and through the last wisps of smoke from the smoldering grass fence he saw them speed away in a line ahead, following the track along the edge of the gorge that would lead them eventually to where the cliffs flattened out, so that they would be able to bring their vehicles and horses across, and renew the pursuit.

  “We have won enough time.” Meren tried to sound confident, but the effort of bringing the nervous horses across the bridge had taxed him severely, and he pressed a hand to his injured side.

  Nefer feared for him. “Perhaps, but that will depend on the Red God,” he said and touched the Periapt of Lostris at his throat.

  They buckled the horses into the harness and hitched them to the long shaft. Then they scrambled up onto the footplate and started them along the line of marker flags. They could push the horses to the utmost on this stretch, for at the end of it waited Khama of Taurine and Drossa of Indus. The horses might have a long rest indeed while their drivers went into the ring with the two most notorious swordsmen in Aartla’s troupe.

  Nefer forced the pace, and the marker flags sped by in quick, regular succession. They crested the final rise and saw ahead of them, at the far end of the long, narrow valley, the city of Gallala with her gates standing wide open to welcome them.

  But at the head of the valley, between them and the city, gathered in a shallow basin of hills, was a large crowd of many hundreds of persons. It seemed that every last citizen had come out from the city to watch the trial by swords.

  They rode down fast, and heard the din of the crowd rise like the sound of storm surf to greet them.

  There was a lane through the crowds demarcated by wooden railings that led them to the two rings of white stones in the center. As they jumped down and the grooms ran forward to hold the horses, Nefer embraced Meren.

  “You are sore hurt, brother,” he whispered to him. “There is no shame in that, for it was a wound received with honor, but it will hamper you. You must not try to confront Drossa, and trade him blow for blow. He is fast and strong, and he wears full armor. Run from him and keep running until I can come to your aid.”

  They parted then, each to the ring allotted to them by the umpires, and Nefer halted at the line of white-painted stones, and looked at the warrior in the center.

  Khama of Taurine wore full armor, helm, breastplate and greaves. If Nefer and Meren had wanted the same protection they would have had to carry it in the chariot from the start, but the weight of the two suits would have drained even Krus’ strength.

  From the edge of the ring of stones Nefer studied his man. Khama’s helmet was a hideous mask with spread wings above the ears, and the nosepiece was an eagle’s beak. The eyes that glittered behind the sockets were inhuman and implacable. His chest was protected by a bronze cuirass. His gauntlets were covered with golden fish scales. He carried a small circular shield on his left shoulder.

  “Throat, wrist, armpit, ankles and eyes,” Taita had instructed Nefer. “All else is covered.”

  Nefer lifted the Periapt of Lostris over his head and wound the long golden chain around his left wrist
. Then he held the tiny golden figure to his lips and kissed it. He stepped over the white stones and went forward to meet Khama of Taurine.

  They circled once to the right, then back, and suddenly Khama burst upon him with a blazing series of thrusts and cuts that were so rapid as almost to cheat the eye. Carrying that weight of armor, Nefer had not expected him to be so fast. He had to exert all of his skill and strength to hold him off, and still he received a cut through his leather body armor that scored his ribs. He felt the hot blood trickle down his flank as they disengaged and circled again.

  The crowd was shouting and roaring like a storm sea all around them, but in the sudden quiet as they disengaged he heard a cry of pain from the other ring and he recognized Meren’s voice. Meren had taken a hit, and by the sound of it a grievous one. He needed Nefer’s help, probably his life depended upon it. But Nefer’s own life was in terrible jeopardy, for he had never faced an opponent such as this Khama before.

  Even Taita had not been able to divine any weakness in him, but as they came together again in the whirl and clangor of metal on metal, Nefer noticed a tiny flaw. When Khama made a low underhand cut, he opened his right side for an instant and thrust his head forward, an awkward gesture out of keeping with his otherwise fluid and graceful style.

  Nefer knew that he could not hold out much longer. Khama was simply too skilful and powerful for him.

  “Everything on one throw of the dice.” He took the gamble, and offered his right hip unguarded, and like a striking adder Khama went for it with the low cut, his front opened and his head thrust forward. Prepared for it, Nefer swayed his hip out of the shot and the blade slit the hem of his chiton without drawing blood.

  The golden Periapt of Lostris twinkled as he spun it on the end of its chain, then Nefer whipped it in like a slingshot, using the chain to speed the throw so it became a darting beam of light. It flashed into the eye socket of Khama’s helmet and the sharp metal edge sliced deeply through his eyeball.