‘Bayek, recover yourself,’ warned my father from by my side, a common mantra from our coaching, spoken whenever my temper seemed to be getting the better of me. I didn’t bother to answer. At least I was rewarded by the sight of the killer’s tunic reddening, just as my father’s had. The wound I’d given him would bleed a lot, and maybe if I could prolong the fight for long enough then he would weaken and tire and his superior swordsmanship be not such an advantage. Perhaps I could even dream of prevailing.
And then it was no longer just me. My father had joined the battle, surging forward to engage the killer, their swords meeting – clash, clash, clash – two men who were better matched in a sword fight, each of them trying to find a weak spot, some vulnerability in the other one, probing with attacks, defending then moving back into offence.
Father was tired and, like the killer, he was bleeding. The two of them had only a limited time before blood loss would send them to their knees, and then – this is where a connection between my father and me came in – I could move in to finish the job.
But the killer knew it, too, of course, battle-hardened and cool headed. And knowing he could not afford to let his opponents dictate the rhythm of the battle, he drew me into it, driving back my father with hard downward strokes. It was the kind of power another man would have needed full-blown swings to create, but the killer seemed to achieve it with small flicks of the wrist. In his other hand he held my knife, slick with his own blood, and if I came forward, trying to find a way around his defence, he used it to ward me off.
I felt frustration bubbling within me, crushed it ruthlessly. We were two, he was one. The battle should have been short and brutal and yet we could not find a way round him – his strength, his determination and undeniable skill. My father and I were protectors. The man we were fighting was a master of his own craft, a soulless killer, pure and simple.
I saw my father. I saw the effort playing out on a face that was drawn and pale. I saw the doubt in his eyes.
And then it happened. The killer opened a cut on me. As I surged forward, falling for a feint I would never fall for again, he took my lack of actual combat experience and used it as a weapon against me, probing beneath my swinging sword with the shorter knife and with a flick, opening a cut on my stomach that sent me stumbling back, one arm across myself. His sword slashed my upper arm. Another, and then another.
There came a lull, and for a moment the battle stopped and we all stood, our shoulders heaving as we caught our breath and leaked blood from our various wounds.
‘Who is paying you? The Order?’ asked my father of our enemy. ‘We can pay you more.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. It was tantamount to an admission that this opponent was too much for us. At the same time, I could see how pride could lead to a downfall, how just paying off an enemy could be practical. As long as you could be sure not to wake up with a dagger in the chest for it later on.
‘I do not work for money, Medjay,’ said the killer dispassionately.
‘Then you work for principle. Perhaps your ideals are more closely allied to the Medjay than you think.’
‘Perhaps I don’t have ideals,’ said the killer. His eyes flicked to me and I thought of Aya, and was about to speak when my father cut in.
‘Your job is to kill me, is that it?’
‘My job is to destroy the bloodline, to eradicate the Medjay.’
He admitted this easily. Confident he was near his goal. That we were done for.
‘You’ll never do that. You cannot kill an idea.’
‘My employer begs to differ,’ he surged forward, ‘and your tie to the bloodline is your weakness.’ I could not help but feel he had a point. And the fight resumed, swords swinging, hard and fast. My father’s shirt was soaked red. Of us all he was the most badly wounded, but I could feel my own warm blood beneath my belt, and when I shifted I imagined I felt the wound part and open like a mouth on my stomach, spilling more blood which ran down my stomach, down my legs and into my boots, my toes squelching in it.
Meanwhile the fighter opposite us seemed to deal with his pain, keeping it hidden behind his eyes, refusing to let it beat him. How badly was he hurt? It was difficult to tell. He came forward relentlessly, mercilessly. This was a man who had hunted his prey for years. He was in no mood to stop. He came forward, inexorable, implacable, pitiless, and when he landed yet another blow on my father, the end seemed inevitable.
I saw him stagger – my father, whom I never believed would taste defeat. His eyes, which before had seemed to gleam with the thrill of the oncoming battle, now spanned with the knowledge of certain defeat: fear not of pain or death – though both were surely to come – but of failure. Of loss. Later I would realize that when he raised his sword again as if to mount another attack it was done with no expectation of triumph. All he could do now was try to save me.
Seeing him so weak, and thinking of Aya, what rose to the surface was a fury that eclipsed anything else I might have felt. A need for vengeance. A bone-deep hunger to inflict the same pain on this deathful ghost – to do to his world what he was doing to mine.
Father saw. Even in the depths of defeat he was able to read the situation and react, just as I made my move and lunged forward to begin an unstructured and chaotic attack that would have inevitably ended in my own death. With a grunt and a surge of strength he threw himself to one side and shoved me into the water. My arms flailed. I hit the river with a slap, went under, then surfaced, gasping for air.
The current was strong, the river unexpectedly deep. I grabbed at bulrushes to try to prevent myself being carried off but they came away in my hand. I grabbed for more, found purchase and, for the moment at least, avoided being swept away. At the same time I felt blackness coming down, as though clouding my brain, threatening to take me, the pain of my wound flaring, and I looked up to the bank to see the killer standing over my father. I saw his sword flash and my father drop to his knees then lurch to the side. I saw the killer raise his sword then slam it down, pinning my father.
And then the darkness that had been threatening to claim me closed in. My clutching fingers relaxed on the bulrushes and I was carried away, leaving behind everything I ever was.
The last thing I saw was own blood colouring the water. My last thought was for the father I had just truly begun to know.
59
Aya had no desire to return during the day, when she would be under the watchful eye of every Siwan going about their business. Thus it was no coincidence that it was dark when she came in sight of the place she had last seen what felt like a lifetime ago.
And yet, of course, nothing was different. Astride her horse, watching the old village come into view, she almost smiled at the thought of it. Everywhere else in Egypt was changing; indeed, so much of what she and Bayek had discussed was involved with those changes to their country. Siwa, though, had resisted it. Laid before her was the oasis, the moon rippling like a wafer on its surface. Rising up beyond that, the township itself: the fortress, the temples, the memories …
It was a place that existed in her past, represented by Bayek and her aunt Herit, and it was a place that represented a future that she now knew in her heart of hearts was not for her. She might stay for some years, still. Would have stayed with Bayek, certainly. But for ever? No.
The village was quiet and sleepy as she made her way up the path towards it. She couldn’t help but cast her eyes up towards where Bayek had lived, wondering about his mother, Ahmose, and knowing that she would pay her a visit. She would see Rabiah as well. That would be an interesting encounter.
The streets were dark and quiet. The only sound was that of her horse’s hooves. When she arrived at her aunt’s house, her old home, her breath caught in her throat to think that she was here – that this was journey’s end – and she found herself staying seated for a moment or so, trying to readjust and dealing with waves of memory and nostalgia that ran through her. The worry, too, that she might be too la
te to see her aunt.
Exhaustion hit her, and she felt her shoulders drop, her head nodding forward, braids hanging as she gathered strength and resolve, telling herself that she had to do this, she had to go in.
And then with a deep, decisive breath, she dismounted, took her pack from her horse, slung it over her shoulder and crossed to her front door.
There, something had changed. She sensed it right away.
The flowers, that was it. It used to be that her aunt always displayed flowers outside. In fact, the sight of Herit returning from market with a basket of fruit and flowers was so familiar to Aya that when she turned and looked down the street it was as though that figure was imprinted on the scene, even though it was dark.
But no, there were no flowers outside any more. In fact, the exterior of her aunt’s home looked a little uncared for. Had it always been like that or was it just in her imagination that it was perfectly painted and adorned with vibrant blooms each day? She reached, chipped a little paint off with a nail and wondered whether it was just her memory playing tricks on her.
The other thing was the smell. Now, this definitely wasn’t her memory. And neither was it a smell she associated with her childhood. It was …
Gods, what was it? As she went to push aside the screen and step into her old home the stench leapt at her from the interior, forcing her to put a hand over her mouth and instinctively reach for her scarf before remembering that she had given it to Bion at the waterhole.
Thoughts of that strange encounter were pushed to one side by the smell she was now confronted with, and, being careful to breathe shallowly, she advanced, cautiously and as quietly as possible. Burners flickered. Tendrils of oily smoke rose into the room. The smell was nauseating. Otherwise, the house had an air of emptiness.
She extinguished the burners, trying to match their presence with the absence of her aunt – why would burners be lit if Herit were dead? – and trying to ignore the worry gnawing away in her gut. Once she might have rushed out into the street, knocked on the nearest door and demanded to know where her Herit was. She would have looked and sounded like a panicky fool and the gossip – oh, the gossip: ‘Did you see Aya, Herit’s girl, came back from her travels, shouting up the place …?’
But not any more. Not the Aya she was now. Instead she went calmly back into the street, grateful to escape the almost overwhelming burning-oil inside, turned to her right and went to the house of Herit’s neighbour, Nefru – her aunt’s best friend.
‘Hello?’ she called at the door, and then reeled back. That same smell, just as pungent and, if anything, even more intense. It was almost unbearable.
‘Hello?’ came the reply, the Nefru she remembered. ‘Come in, whoever you are.’
‘Is that … Nefru?’ called Aya. She held a hand over her nose and mouth and stepped across the threshold into Nefru’s home, just as Nefru appeared in a doorway into the sleeping area. A lantern flared.
‘Aya? Is that you?’ Nefru was saying, moving into the room and raising the lantern so that it threw a light not just in the space but on herself as well.
And at the sight of the first familiar face she had seen in so many years, Aya almost gasped, because seeing her was like a portal to a world of childhood memories. This was Nefru, Herit’s next-door neighbour: short and slightly rotund with ruddy cheeks that Aya always remembered as bulging slightly when she smiled, which was all the time, because Nefru smiled a lot. As well as being a neighbour she was Herit’s best friend and the two of them – well, as far as Aya remembered, anyway – never stopped laughing. Always giggling about something.
‘Can that really be you?’ Nefru looked almost overcome. She had always doted on Aya and Aya loved her in return. Now as the two women faced one another, reunited by sad circumstances, the emotion caught up with them and tears divided Aya’s vision as Nefru came forward and took her in her arms.
‘Child, child. Herit will be …’
Aya grasped at hope. ‘She’s alive? Where is she?’
‘Why, she’s back there,’ said Nefru indicating the sleeping area at the rear. ‘I’ve taken her in to care for her.’
‘And does she thrive?’
‘She hangs on, child she hangs on. We do what we can, myself and the physician.’
‘What ails her?’ Aya asked Nefru.
‘It’s the coughing,’ said Nefru. ‘The physicians say the demons are in her and they’re making her hack.’
Aya looked around doubtfully. ‘And it’s the physician who insists you have all these burners here?’
Nefru nodded solemnly. ‘It will drive them out, so he says. We have them next door as well in case they’re lurking there too.’
You don’t any more, thought Aya, but chose not to say, instead asking, ‘Can I see her?’
‘You can, of course you can, child, but all in good time; she is resting at the moment. Sleeping, bless her, and she hasn’t been getting much of that so I’d rather not disturb her right now. Have a peek, though. See for yourself.’
Once Aya had peered inside the other room, satisfied her aunt was just sleeping and not dead, Nefru led her to a table that took Aya by surprise. Her memory of that very same table had it much bigger when she’d last seen it, and yet here it was in reality so much smaller.
‘Are you well?’ asked Nefru, settling on a stool with a little wiggle and beckoning Aya to take a seat. ‘Have you brought that young man of yours back with you? Do you have news of the town’s protector? So many questions I have for you. How long have you been back? Have you seen anybody else? There’s lots who will have questions, that much I can tell you, so you better get used to answering them.’ She nudged Aya and winked. ‘And make sure you get your story straight.’
The last time Aya had sat with Nefru and drunk milk she’d been an adolescent. Doing it now, she was a woman. Everything she had been through – the ‘adventures’, as she and Bayek used to call them – had changed her. She had gone away one person, returned as another. Yet talking to Nefru helped her locate that girl she had once been. It brought her back in touch with the curious, mischievous tomboy that Nefru remembered. And so she told Nefru her story. Rather, she told Nefru a version of her story, omitting some of the more distressing details and failing to mention the Medjay and The Order, although she told her that Bayek had remained behind, training with his father to become the town’s protector.
‘Can’t he learn his trade here?’
Aya chewed her lip, thinking that telling Nefru they had spent years wondering if they were likely to face an assassin any time soon, of her doubts, of Sabu’s insistence on not returning no matter what, was not the best way to stop her from being worried. ‘It’s, er, complicated,’ was the best she could offer.
Despite the dim light she could see Nefru studying her hard. ‘Have you two had a falling-out, by any chance?’ said the older woman.
Aya’s head dropped. She knew she’d find it difficult to talk about. All that time trying not to think of Bayek on her journey, convincing herself he truly did understand, that everything would be all right once they sat down and talked properly – she couldn’t bring herself to cry now. But then she was nodding, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Nefru, oh, but now her bottom lip was trembling, and in the next instant she was in Nefru’s arms, curling in close for comfort. ‘I miss him, Nefru, I miss him so much.’ I’m worried for him, was what she truly wanted to say, worried the killer might be after him for real, and that I’m wrong.
‘There, there, child,’ said Nefru. ‘There there …’
After a while, Aya caught hold of her emotions and cleared her throat, standing as she and Nefru disentangled themselves. ‘I’ll stay next door, then, while I’m here.’ The question of how long she planned to stay went unexamined. ‘When are you expecting to see the physician again?’ she added.
‘He said he will come back in a couple of days,’ replied Nefru.
‘I see,’ said Aya. ‘In the meantime, then, we’re going to ge
t rid of these burners.’
‘Oh, child, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘The smell is horrendous, Nefru. How can you even stand it?’
Aya shook her head, wrinkling her nose, as Nefru frowned, confused.
‘But Aya – this is what the physician says will chase away what ails her.’
‘Well, I’m no physician,’ said Aya, ‘but the smell is suffocating, and I don’t see how they can be good for anyone. We’re taking these burners away.’
Aya weaved slightly, dizzy still from her travels and the smell, and Nefru reached out to steady her, slowly grinning. ‘Tears one minute, bossing me the next. There’s no doubt about it, child, you’re back. That’s for certain.’
60
When Herit awoke the following morning there was another tearful reunion. Some hours later, Aya had told her the same story she had told her aunt’s friend, and then dispatched Nefru for supplies (knowing full well that her news would soon be making its way through the streets of Siwa, Nefru being a lover of gossip). Just as perceptive, Herit had also discerned that things weren’t right between her niece and Bayek, and for the second time, Aya found herself seeking comfort in an embrace and in her aunt’s comforting reassurance that all young people were dramatic, and everything would work out well enough, given time and proper thought. The comforting familiarity of her aunt transported her back to a childhood unsullied by killers and ancient ideologies.
She preferred it here, she decided. Right now she liked the past much more than she did the present.
Shortly, Nefru arrived back and came into the room where Herit lay on a mat, tended to by Aya. Aya had taken down the hangings that covered the windows – quite how the demons were supposed to escape with those there, she wasn’t sure – letting in the fresh air and doing her best to expel the last of the noxious herbal oil recommended by the physician.
Desert Oath: The Official Prequel to Assassin’s Creed Origins Page 22