Curse of Silence lb-4

by Lauren Haney

  “That’s all you could’ve done,” Bak said, trying to calm him. “You had to get help.”

  “The ram of… the prince had just come in,” Pawah went on as if in a trance. “I don’t know what I said-I don’t remember-but he ran with me to the room where

  Meretre lay helpless. He saw the state she was in and he saw that repellent creature pulling himself off her. He caught him by the arm, flung him against the wall, stunning him, and went to Meretre. She breathed her last in his arms.

  Crying out that her ka had fled, he laid her on the sleeping pallet. As he turned away, his face filled with sorrow and fury, he saw Menu trying to slip out the door. He caught him, took him by the neck, and squeezed the life from him.”

  The tribesmen walked by below, a broken stream of men.

  A word here and there floated up, a language Bak did not understand. Although he had foreseen much of the truth, he had trouble taking in the story, the terrible reality.

  “You saw it all?”

  “I did,” Pawah whispered.

  “Is that when you fled Thutnofer’s establishment?”

  The youth nodded. “The… the prince told me to leave that low place, to run as far and as fast as I could.” The boy wiped his wet, swollen eyes. “I raced to the harbor and hid on a traveling ship moored at the quay, thinking it would carry me to some far-off place. It did. We sailed downriver to Mennufer. Sennefer, whose ship it was, caught me there, hungry and afraid, sneaking off the deck.

  He took pity on me and took me to his home, where he told everyone he’d bought me.”

  “Did you tell him of the slayings you witnessed?”

  “I told him of Meretre and I said another man whose name I didn’t know avenged her death. That’s all.” The boy drew in a deep breath, tried to smile. “Prince Baket Amon saved my life, sir. I know he did. If I’d stayed in that accursed house of pleasure, I’d’ve died, as Meretre did.”

  Of that, Bak had no doubt.

  The clumps of men walking along the trail below were wider apart, the number of stragglers growing. Bak fretted.

  Surely half had come and gone, possibly more. Yet no sig nal from Pashenuro. Had something happened to the Med jay? Had he been spotted and caught? Would the rabble army walk by untouched, making the final confrontation in the valley difficult, maybe impossible to win?

  Recognizing his penchant to worry too soon, he asked,

  “Why are you so afraid, Pawah? Do you know who slew

  Baket-Amon?”

  “No, sir, but you said yourself that the man who took the prince’s life is among those who came with us from

  Waset. Would he not think me a threat?”

  “Do you know something you haven’t told me?”

  “No, sir.”

  Bak doubted Pawah was in danger, but he could under stand the youth’s fear, rational or not. “Tell me of Menu.

  Anything you can think of, no matter how insignificant.”

  “He must’ve been a man of wealth.” The youth knelt beside Bak and stared at the men on the path below. “Each time he came to Thutnofer’s place of business, he drank the best vintage wine from the northern vineyards; wagered far too much on games of chance, whether or not he played; and used the most desirable and costly of women.”

  “Did he hurt any women before Meretre?”

  “They’d sometimes come away bruised, and none wanted to go with him a second time.”

  “Thutnofer has much to explain.” And to answer for, Bak thought. “What more can you tell me of Menu?”

  “He always wore fine clothing and jewelry. When he had nothing else to trade, he sometimes offered a bracelet or anklet or collar for a night of pleasure.”

  Bak’s eyes darted toward the men on the trail and back to the boy at his side. “A man who barters away his per sonal possessions isn’t always as wealthy as he appears.

  Could that be true here?”

  Pawah cocked his head, thinking. “I never thought about it before, but…” His eyes suddenly widened. “Yes! The house he traded for Meretre cleared other debts to Thut nofer.”

  A fragment of a recent conversation came back to Bak, words spoken by chance and regretted at the next breath.

  He did not like what he was thinking, prayed he erred. “Do you recall what Menu looked like?”

  “I shall never forget. I see him even in my sleep. A beast of the night who vied with the gods in appearance.” Pawah glanced at Bak, realized something more specific was needed. “He was of medium height and slender, thirty or so years of age. His eyes were blue-green and his hair red dish, but it glowed with gold in the lamplight.”

  Sadness entered Bak’s heart. “Was he a man of the north?”

  Pawah looked startled. “How did you know?”

  “ ‘My younger brother impoverished himself in a quest for the good life,’ ” Bak said aloud, quoting Captain Min kheper. He had found the man he sought.

  Light flashed into the alcove, Pashenuro’s signal that the last of the tribesmen had entered the wadi. It was time to strike.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Go tell Sennefer what I’ve learned and where it’s led me,”

  Bak said to Pawah. He flashed a signal to the men on the opposing, southern slope, warning them to take up arms and ready themselves for battle. “Tell him the whole tale, leaving nothing out, then you and he together must carry the word to Nebwa and Amonked.”

  “But sir!” Pawah looked devastated. “I wish to stand be side you, to fight Hor-pen-Deshret’s army.”

  Bak donned a leather wrist guard, scooped up his quiver and settled it on his shoulder, and picked up the bow. “The task I’ve given you is more important by far, Pawah.” He spoke with an edge of impatience. “If you and I both were slain in the fighting, no one would ever know the name of the guilty man. The others must be told. With so many men aware of the truth, at least one will surely survive.”

  “You speak as if we’ll lose the battle.”

  Picking up spear, shield, and staff, Bak plunged downhill to the flat rock, the boy close on his heels. “I believe we’ll win, but this is no local skirmish. Men will die.”

  “Sir…”

  Bak dropped everything but bow and quiver onto the rock. “I want no more argument. You must do as I say.”

  A tribesman spotted them, shouted to his mates, pointed.

  Others looked up the slope, not overly concerned about what they evidently believed to be a lone soldier and his servant, out on a hunting trip. Two or three raised their bows as if to strike. Bak knelt, making himself smaller, and pulled Pawah down beside him, thinking to project a pose of innocent curiosity. The tribesmen chose in the end to save their arrows for game more formidable.

  “Tell Sennefer, Nebwa, and Amonked to say nothing to

  Minkheper. I myself will face him after the battle.” Bak, keyed up and eager to get on with the contest, rubbed the mirror on his kilt, brightening its already shiny surface. “As you and Sennefer make your way to the caravan, stay at the top of the slope, close to the cliff face. Keep yourselves safe from the men of the desert. Now move!”

  “But…”

  “Pawah! Men who disobey on the field of battle are sent to the desert mines, a fate I’d not wish on anyone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The youth swallowed hard, taking the threat seriously, but he could not conceal his pleasure at being treated as a man. Pivoting on a heel, he raced diagonally up the slope to the boulder behind which Sennefer hid.

  As the boy ducked out of sight, Bak signaled the archers across the wadi. Pashenuro repeated the signal for the men on the north slope, where Bak stood. Archers rose to their feet, appearing as if from nowhere, and let fly their arrows.

  Several men fell on the trail below. A tribesman shouted an alarm.

  Bak raised his weapon and sent an arrow speeding down ward. A man’s knees buckled and he dropped, the missile protruding from his back. The archers rearmed and arrows again rained down on the enemy, dropping a do
zen or more men. Those slow to realize they were under attack yelled out in anger and dismay. They all scattered, too many men seeking shelter behind the too few boulders fallen from the cliffsides. A third wave of arrows flew and a fourth, drop ping more men to the earth.

  Bak glanced toward Sennefer’s hiding place. The noble man, peering out from behind the boulder, signaled that he understood what he must do. An instant later, he and Pawah darted up the rocky slope and vanished in the shadow of a crevice in the cliff.

  Confident they would carry out their mission or die try ing, Bak focused on the tribesmen below. He had never considered himself much of a bowman, but standing high above the wadi floor, he dropped one man and another and another. The archers, more expert than he, felled the enemy as if they were cutting down grain in a ripe field. With missiles flying from both sides of the wadi and a minimum of shelter, with their shields an inadequate defense, the tribesmen could not protect themselves. Fallen men moaned and whimpered and pleaded for help, some injured, some dying, and no one to aid them.

  The enemy bowmen fought a losing but valiant battle, running, ducking, dodging, providing no firm target while firing off their weapons. Bak saw two of his archers struck, one in the side, another in the arm, neither wound serious enough to force them from the battle.

  Someone below, a man with a red cloth braided into his hair, a tribal chief most likely, shouted an order in a tongue

  Bak did not understand. Twenty or more tribesmen grouped around to form a block. Some of the men encircled the group with shields; those safely inside the ring fired back at the men on the slopes.

  One of Bak’s archers fell, an enemy arrow protruding from his breast, and lay still and quiet. Another dropped to his knees, an arm hanging useless. A third felled man pulled himself behind a fallen rock, dragging a leg. Though he had to be in pain, he turned his bow horizontal to the ground and continued to fire until he emptied his quiver.

  He dropped two men, one who fell with a yelp of pain, the second in silence.

  Three archers down out of twenty. Far too many in too short a time. The deadly barrage must be stopped. Bak raced across the slope to where his best archer stood, his quiver almost empty. “Slay the leader, Huy, the man with red showing in his hair.”

  Huy eyed the block of men, looking doubtful. “I’ll try, sir.”

  Bak ran on, snatched up the quiver of the dead man, and sped toward the man with the shattered arm. Realizing his purpose, the wounded archer held up his quiver, offering missiles he could no longer use. Bak thanked him with a quick smile and raced back toward Huy, who had taken shelter in a waist-high gouge in the earth, cut by runoff water from the infrequent rainstorms in the area.

  As Bak reached the cut, an arrow sped by, slicing the flesh of his left thigh. Dropping awkwardly into the ditch, he flung the two quivers at the archer. Blood gushed from his leg, but a quick check revealed a flesh wound too shal low to cause concern. As fast as he could, he tore the hem from his kilt, made a pad, and tied it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Each movement of the leg irritated it, making it burn-a small price to pay, he decided, and thanked the lord Amon for sparing him from worse.

  The number of arrows in the donated quiver dropped to a dozen, a half-dozen. As Huy robbed it of its contents, he spat out oaths in a slow and regular manner, an incantation of sorts that followed the rhythm of his effort.

  Pashenuro flashed a signal, letting Bak know the last stragglers had come down off the desert. The time had come to close the gap behind them, cutting them off from the sandy wastes they knew so well. Bak relayed the mes sage, this time whistling a signal so loud and clear it echoed the length of the watercourse.

  As the sound died away, Huy armed his bow and held it steady, glaring at the block of men below. Suddenly he released the string, launching an arrow. It sped straight and true, striking a man who scarcely showed himself. The man stumbled, briefly splitting apart the barrier of shields. Snap ping out a curse that may also have been a prayer, Huy let fly the last arrow his dead comrade had bequeathed him.

  One head vanished from among the others, a body crum pled to the ground. Red showed in the hair. The wall of shields wavered and the block broke apart, leaving each man to his own resources. They ran down the wadi, leaving behind their fallen chief.

  Huy wiped his brow, vastly relieved. Bak clapped him on the shoulder and climbed out of the ditch. The tribesmen were retreating in earnest, he saw, heading toward the val ley, trying to escape the deadly shower of arrows and reach the main body of the desert force where they could stand and fight with some chance of success. They fought as best they could, firing on the run at those who had ambushed them. Men who were injured but mobile staggered along with them. The more seriously hurt and the dead were left behind. Lying on the wadi floor, the wounded men moaned or cried out for help or struggled to get up and away so they would not be taken prisoner.

  A trickling stream of tribesmen turned their backs on their fellows and headed up the wadi, seeking safety and freedom on the open desert. They promptly fell into the arms of Sergeant Dedu and the archers who had blocked the trail, ending all hope of escape.

  Bak whistled again. His spearmen-about half of Amon ked’s guards-came out of hiding, joining the archers on the slopes, more than doubling the size of Bak’s small army. Other than the few men who remained behind to round up enemy deserters and the walking wounded, they pressed the enemy hard, harrying them, rushing them into the valley.

  Where, if all went well, they would charge in among

  Hor-pen-Deshret’s forces, disrupting the fighting and caus ing consternation among the men attacking the caravan encampment.

  Bak led his troops out of the wadi and onto the valley floor. Many of the men they chased were loping across the higher ground where animals normally grazed. Others ran through fields knee-deep in ripening vegetables and wheat, partly trampled by the raiders who had preceded them.

  Grim-faced men were pouring out of the village and across the fields from nearby farms and hamlets. A large pack of dogs accompanied them, those from the village and the fe ral animals that had traveled so long with the caravan.

  Each of the men carried a spear or scythe or some other tool that could be used as a weapon. Bak had no delusions.

  These men had not come to help the caravan. They had come to save as much of the year’s crop as they could. Any tribesmen wishing to wade out to the island to steal the donkeys would have serious reservations about passing through that hostile gathering.

  “Stay out of the fields,” he shouted, praying his men, whose lust for battle had grown to major proportions with their success in the wadi, would choose to hear him.

  A second shouted order sent his archers running, hunched low, toward a jagged finger of land that projected from the escarpment. Eight or ten enemy archers stood atop the rise, their backs to the approaching men, firing arrows into the caravan encampment.

  Bak ran on across the trampled grass and weeds, leading his spearmen to battle. Though he tried to remain rational, he was as exhilarated as they.

  Ahead, the tribesmen who had swarmed out of the wadi rushed full tilt in among Hor-pen-Deshret’s main force, which appeared from a distance poised to charge the bar ricaded caravan. Excited and boastful shouts wavered and died. A wave of consternation and dismay rose, crested, waned. An angry voice speaking a tongue of the desert rose above all the rest, haranguing the men. Hor-pen-Deshret,

  Bak guessed, urging his army to look forward toward vic tory, not back to a partial defeat.

  He had expected them to have long ago charged the car avan, to be in the heat of battle. They must have awaited the remainder of their force coming through the wadi. Or had they re-formed after being rebuffed?

  He glanced quickly toward the elevation where the en emy archers had stood. None remained. His own archers were climbing the slope to replace them. They had dis patched the others while he looked elsewhere. Satisfied that that source of danger no longer threatene
d, he scanned the fields to the north, beyond the enemy force. A white cloth draped over an acacia branch told him Lieutenant Ahmose and his troops were in position and waiting.

  To the west, the lord Re hovered above the horizon, leav ing the caravan in the shadow of the escarpment. About an hour of daylight remained. The battle in the wadi had lasted less than an hour, yet had seemed as long as a day. The men of the desert must shortly make their move, before the light began to fail, forcing them to retreat.

  Bak whistled, signaling his men to charge. Ready, wait ing, eager for action, they raced along in his wake. To the north, a trumpet blasted, Ahmose ordering his troops to battle. Soldiers rose from a grain field as if lifted from the earth by the gods and dashed toward the enemy.

  A harsh yell ahead and the desert warriors surged for ward, screaming like wild men to make themselves seem fiercer. They were halted momentarily by the wall of shields, which bristled with spears, felling many among the first wave of men. Those behind pressed the leaders on, forcing them through the barrier. Shields fell or were swept aside, and Nebwa’s small force pulled back to regroup, to face the enemy again among the high stacks of jars, sacks, bags, and baskets of foodstuffs and gear, Amonked’s fur niture, piles of sheaved hay, every object the donkeys had carried upriver.

  With more than half the enemy among and beyond the fallen shields, with their blood-curdling savage yells spo radic and individual, many voices silenced by the fierce fighting, Bak and his men fell upon their rear left flank while the troops from Askut struck the right flank. Sounds of the melee filled the air. The thud of wood against wood.

  The grunting of struggling men. The thunk of weapons striking tough, tight-stretched cowhide. Growled oaths and loud, excited shouting. The clang of bronze spearpoints.

  Screaming and moaning. The thump of something solid striking softer matter.

  Stirred by the excitement, the action, the dogs ran in among the contestants, teeth bared, hackles raised. Bak feared at first they would mistake friend for foe, and some times they did, but the vast majority set upon the enemy, nipping heels and buttocks and hands. Harassment, not a bold confrontation.