“Matt? Matt?” She heard a thump and she imagined her dad had resorted to swatting Matt awake after tapping and shaking him had failed.
“Wh-what?”
“I think it’s time we talked.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I know you really like Sarah, but you’re very young right now and feelings can change. You may not stay together.”
“I know,” said Matt. “People can die. People can get divorced. People can get trapped in time machines, too, and never see each other again.”
“Um, right. But that’s not exactly what I meant.”
There was a pause, then Matt said, “I think I know what you trying to say, but we’re friends. We’ll always be friends. We’re just . . . better friends.”
Her dad chuckled briefly. “Is that really the way you see it?”
“Uh, well, not exactly.”
“I didn’t think so. You’re living in the same house. You’re only thirteen. Having a relationship can lead to complications.”
“What? You don’t trust me? I’m not a bad guy.”
Her father sighed, a long weary hiss of air. “I know you’re not. If you were, this would be so much easier. I’d just kick you out, threaten you, tell you to never come back.”
“Haul out a shotgun.”
Sarah had to suppress a giggle with her pillow.
Her dad cracked a short laugh too. “No, Matt. We’re not in Texas. But I think you understand what I’m getting at. Dating is a whole new ballgame. If I find anything happening beyond a few mild kisses, the door will be opened and you will be leaving.”
Sarah’s cheeks burned. Yes, things were happening fast, but they weren’t stupid. And kicking Matt out, when he had nowhere to go and nobody to care for him? Would her father really do that?
“Sarah and I have something special,” said Matt. “We’re not going to ruin it. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll go back and live in my old haunted mansion.”
“Haunted?”
“Sarah thinks it is.”
Memories of that creepy crumbling mansion sent a shiver down her spine. If it isn’t haunted by ghosts, it sure is haunted by Nadine. Or remnants of her, which is just as scary.
“Anyway, I don’t want you to have to fend for yourself. You’ve had to contend with enough trouble in your life and I know you have a good heart. I just want you to listen to that good heart and brilliant mind of yours, and disregard the hormones. Respect for Sarah and for my rules, that’s all I’m asking.”
“There’s no one I respect more than Sarah.”
There was a long silence.
“The rules, Matt?” her dad finally added. “You have trouble with rules.”
“Only the ones that stop me from finding my dad.”
Her father sighed. Matt would only obey rules if he thought they were just. One of these days, her dad would have to accept that.
Except now there was no need. If she died here, her father wouldn’t have to deal with Matt, his principles and his defiance, anymore. If only he knew that it was Matt who’d kept her going, kept her alive through all this, even when they’d been separated. And it was Matt’s ideals that she’d ignored, which was why she’d probably die.
“Matt’s the best thing in my life, Dad,” she murmured. “And now it’s over. Everything is over.”
She curled into a ball and buried her face in her lap.
But something tapped at her eardrums and wouldn’t leave her be. Some whispering noise that crept out of the shadows. Rustling, shuffling, followed by a frantic scrabbling. It belled out, a sound that grew louder and louder and ricocheted off the walls. Sarah drew in her legs and fisted her hands. She couldn’t do much with them, though, since they were still tied behind her back.
Tap, tap, tap echoed out of the darkness, like a Jacob Marley ghost trudging towards her. The chains didn’t rattle, though, but snicked the ground.
Tap, tap, tap.
Her throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, why couldn’t Nefkat have just killed her and been done with it?
A warm breeze gusted towards her. Moist air swirled around her face. She could feel something cold and wet skim her nose. Sarah screwed her eyes shut. She waited for that deadly moment when it would chomp, chew, rip her throat out. And it did. Well, it nipped.
“Maa,” it said. “Maa.”
“Matt?” she whispered.
* * * *
The night had sped by quickly, a single breath in time, but it had also seemed like an eternity when sleep kept eluding him. Matt had wandered through the weaponry workshops and barracks—all made of mudbrick and wood—and squeezed between pedestrians on the narrow streets to get to the back of the fortress. He’d stood wide-eyed before the stalwart rear gate and climbed the battlements, studying the defensive towers, complete with loopholes—slits to fire arrows through. At the top of the tower, he’d paused to peer down on the drawbridge, rolled back from the gate, and the green-water moat that divided the fortress from the desert. An incredibly secure place, no doubt about it. Eventually he’d climbed down again and gravitated towards the governor’s palace—a broad stately building that made the others look like doll houses.
This was where Taharqa was supposedly spending the night, but he wasn’t there either. He was overseeing the distribution of armaments, the provisioning of horses, the repair of chariots, and other last minute preparations. When Matt did finally find him, the prince had taken only a few minutes to show him how to wield his sword and parry a few blows before he’d shooed Matt away. Too busy to train him anymore. They were out of time.
After that, Matt had tried to sleep in the crowded barracks next to his fidgety father and snoring Nadine. But when he closed his eyes he kept seeing arrows fly, remembering the one that had pierced him, feeling the sharp bite, the agony, and the moment he’d nearly lost his mind. He couldn’t get these wretched thoughts to stop.
Finally, before the first rays of dawn filtered through the narrow windows, Taharqa sent word out to the men.
“Rise and hitch your chariots,” he said. “Prepare your mounts.”
Matt strapped on the hefty sword Taharqa had given him, tossed his bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and hurried to the door. Before he swung it open, though, a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
“Matt,” said his dad, his face looking paler in the torchlight, like a man made of wax. “Don’t do this. You can’t make a difference in this battle. You’re hardly a warrior. But you can die.”
Matt’s head burned with frustration. “Is that all that matters? Doesn’t courage count for something?”
“Only if it makes a difference,” said his dad.
“But maybe it will. Not to the outcome of this battle, but to Sarah. To save her.”
“I understand you wanting to help her, Matt, but there’s absolutely no guarantee that she’s even alive, or that she hasn’t been taken somewhere else.”
A current leaped through him, as if he’d already been run through with someone’s sword. “But the prince seemed to think—”
“Maybe the prince just wanted another warrior.”
“No, Dad. I trust him. I shouldn’t mean much to him, a stranger without a clue how to fight, but he trained me, he listened, he cared. He didn’t lie.”
“But he doesn’t really care if you die. We saw that with the lion. Matt—” He squeezed his shoulder. “I do.”
Matt gazed long and hard at his father, trying to reconnect. “I understand that now. I really do. You and I are sort of alike, even though I couldn’t see it before. So you should understand how I feel about Sarah. Anyway, I don’t think the real question today is whether I die or not, but if I can kill.”
Matt gently shook off his dad’s hand and dashed out into the street. Maybe he shouldn’t go. Maybe the timeline demanded that he stay with his father and avoid this battle. But his heart demanded that he go. Clearly, he was his father’s son.
“Matt!”
“Not today, old girl.”
She jerked her head and pawed at the gate. He patted her tenderly and turned away. Then he saw him—Taharqa—every ounce a general wearing a pelican-white linen kilt, with a black leather war helmet capping his head. His massive composite longbow and quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder, and a supple cowhide scabbard hugged his sharp iron sword.
Even as everything else blended with the background, fading to insignificance, Taharqa stood out, or reality zoomed in, showcasing him as a lead actor, something pronounced and unavoidable. A boulder in the middle of a stream. A mountain that must be climbed. Taharqa was history itself.
As Matt watched, the prince threw a couple of hide shields into the back of the chariot. Then he noticed Matt and called him over.
“Are you prepared?” he asked.
“I have my sword, my bow—”
“No, I mean are you prepared? Fear is natural, but you must have your purpose in mind or the terror will sweep you away.”
Matt cast around for some response. What did the prince want him to say? He was terrified. But what was his purpose? Well, he could only think of one thing. “Sarah?” he asked.
“Sarah,” the prince nodded. “I would prefer it was allegiance to your prince, the protection of Egypt and Kush, to put down miserable thieves and raiders, but if it’s only Sarah, so be it. It should be enough.”
He wheeled and leaped onto the chariot. Matt followed, looking back with longing at the stable and his dependable horse. He didn’t like the feel of the chariot, even less when the prince slapped the reins and urged his horses forward. The chariot rattled. It shimmied left and right and bobbed up and down until Matt could barely keep his footing. The body of troops on either side—400 chariots and 600 mounted horsemen—moved with them, a never-ending stream. They headed south, along the Nile bank, beside pleasantly golden wheat fields and long strips of emerald grass. Matt still couldn’t get over the fact that a green pasture could flourish with life beside such a brittle yellow scorching graveyard. But even more, he couldn’t believe what this column of soldiers represented. Not life at all, but approaching death. A battlefield splashed with blood and guts, life oozing away and quickly slurped up by the thirsty sand to become nothing but dust.
The measured march ended abruptly, on a rise overlooking the next valley. The town of Faras lay to the east, a jumble of sandstone buildings and mudbrick huts adjacent to the Nile. Farther to the north sat a huddle of huts and tents—temporary lodging for the Medjay? And beyond? A series of bluffs, where, astonishingly, massive sculptures of some pharaoh had been hewn in the rock.
What was this place? What had brought the Medjay here? They claimed they despised the pharaohs, yet, according to Taharqa, they gathered in this location annually, under the presiding glare of an ancient pharaoh.
Matt cocked an eyebrow at the prince.
“Nostalgia,” he answered, guessing what was on Matt’s mind. “They remember their duties from the past, even though they don’t perform them anymore. At least that is what I think. It’s hard to read such meddlesome creatures. You are aware of their objections to our “slave-gathering” expeditions. They throw their rigid morality around without considering the consequences of their actions. Slaves sometimes die in their raids.”
Matt flushed with shame. What would the prince think of his meddling if he really knew what Matt was about?
Taharqa raised his hand, shouting out instructions to his men. Then he slashed down his arm. The chariots and horses charged forward, a tide that tumbled headlong down the slope. Matt clutched the side of Taharqa’s chariot as it rocketed over the sand, wind slapping his face and sand stinging his eyes. But even through tears, he could still see the lanky silhouettes of Medjay spilling from the huts below, screaming and leaping on horses and racing towards them. Before the army was halfway down the hill, arrows arced from either side and clouded the sky.
Matt leaned into the wind, feeling it scour him, feeling the arrows climb closer, like the crushing foot of the giant pharaoh. Nothing could be more real.
This . . . is . . . it, his heart pounded out with a thundering rhythm. This is war.
Chapter 28
Battle for the Ages
Sarah wriggled around and twisted her arms upward, as high as she could behind her back. Matt butted her back and shoulders, but eventually found the rope. He nudged closer to her wrists and began to chew diligently, snapping thread after thread.
“Good, Matt. Good,” she cooed, unable to believe her luck. Who would have thought that having a goat for a pet could save one’s life? Maybe it was the name. Pesky, stubborn, but ultimately loyal.
Matt gnawed and chewed, releasing her snip by snip until she could wrench the ropes apart on her own.
“Thank you, Matt,” she said, spinning back around and petting the goat’s downy fur. He butted her playfully, and then proceeded to nip at her shirt and rip a tidy portion right off.
“Bad goat,” said Sarah. “Not that.” She patted his head anyway. “How did you get in here?”
Matt seemed content to chew and butt her head, clearly not feeling any urgency to lead her out of the temple. But there had to be an opening somewhere else. If it was big enough for a goat to squeeze in, it should be big enough for her to squeeze out.
Sarah forcefully turned Matt around. “Out, Matt. We have to get out.”
The goat shook his head and flicked his ears, but eventually caught her meaning. He scooted forward and Sarah had to cling to his curly fur to keep up. She banged on the wall, banged on a sculpture, and then banged on another wall. Matt was leading her through a labyrinth of passages, or so it seemed in the dark, but suddenly he stopped short.
Sarah halted beside him and fell to her knees. She could just distinguish, not light, but a lightening of the dark—like the mysterious glow around a magic lamp. She explored along the edges, her fingertips discovering a miniature archway where rock had crumbled and drizzled rubble on the ground. Matt nuzzled her, then walked straight through the opening and disappeared. The scrabbling sound began again, but now Sarah knew what it signified—a goat slipping and sliding on pebble-strewn earth.
She immediately crouched and crawled forward, the sharp rocks jabbing into her palms and legs, the low ceiling scraping her head and shoulders, but it was no more irritating than mosquito bites. In fact sometimes mosquitoes announced the beginning of spring after a long closeted winter indoors—lighter clothes, fresher air, a release from prison. This was her prison break. Or the granting of her second wish. Maybe she’d even have time to stop Qeskaant in his mad attempt to provoke a prince. Maybe.
* * * *
Matt raised his bow, lowered it. He raised it again, thrust out his jaw, lowered it. Medjay, with hair-raising battle cries, rode all around them, snapping back bowstrings, unleashing arrows, impaling warriors with spears, and slashing them with swords. Taharqa’s bowstring never stopped vibrating—his arrows released in unending succession as if his bow was a machine gun. In every direction, Medjay warriors screamed as Taharqa’s arrows plunged into their chests, their throats, their thighs, and their horses. But arrows zinged all around him, too. Every other heartbeat the prince had to fling up his shield to protect himself. How incredible that not one arrow had passed by his defences yet, although the chariot was littered with them.
Still Matt couldn’t find it in him to shoot someone.
The prince glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “Didn’t I train you well? Fight, or we
will all die,” he snarled.
Matt raised his bow. He aimed at a Medjay streaking across the field. Somehow this horse and rider seemed familiar. A white diamond marked the horse’s chest. The man was taller than the others, with a pink puckered scar on his chin. It had been dark the night of the attack on Taharqa’s camp, the dunes barely visible in the moonlight, but the diamond shape had been etched in his mind, along with that zigzag of a scar. Sarah’s abductor! This time Matt did release the bowstring. But the man sailed past and the arrow whistled way behind him. Matt reloaded and aimed again, but now the man had vanished in the swarm of clashing raiders and soldiers.
Look for another target.
He adjusted his aim when he saw a rushing, snarling, screaming Medjay jabbing at a soldier with his spear. He pulled back, but . . . his heart skipped a beat. He lowered the bow.
How crazy that he couldn’t fight. Men were dying all around him. His father wasn’t there to flick his magic wand of wormholes and spiral weapons down a vortex into another universe. He wasn’t there to prevent Matt’s death, and if an arrow struck him, he could die. But somehow, he couldn’t kill.
This was everything he raged against. Fruitless battles. Men killing each other just because they couldn’t figure out how to talk.
Sure, he’d participated in a war before, a war that was impossible to stop. He’d even shot down a plane once, but that had been to protect the Allies and to keep their own plane from being shot out of the sky. It was something he’d done on impulse, maybe because he couldn’t see the person’s face. And, thankfully, the pilot had survived.
For him this battle was to rescue Sarah, but somehow it didn’t look like a rescue mission. It just looked like slaughter and he couldn’t do it, even under the prince’s harsh glare and with arrows flying all around him.
But, maybe he could shoot horses. He raised his bow again, aimed. He thought of his pretty bay mare, Sarah, nickering at him and doubt pulsed through him. But if he just wounded them . . .
Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 17