“Long enough. Knife?”
“We are within range, oh pharaoh.”
“Then begin!”
“As the pharaoh wishes. Draw,” Knife told his Medjai calmly. “Aim. Release. Yes. Repeat.”
The Medjai had, in the proper way, aimed their shots high so that even an arrow that overshot the first row might well strike a man in the second or third, a warrior who’d, till the final instant, considered himself safe. On shore, men begun crying out as arrows struck true and men began falling, dying.
“Now!” Kamose shouted.
Under cover of the archers’ continuing fire, the Egyptians rushed ashore, swords drawn, shouting savage war cries that blurred into one great mass of noise. The Hyksos warriors were silent, braced, the security of the walls to their backs. Frantic Hyksos archers up in the watchtowers and on the walls were finally bringing their own bows into play, but it was already too late. They couldn’t fire without hitting their own men, and the two forces clashed, sword against sword.
Methos, who had fully intended to stay out of things, safely back with the Medjai, found himself instead caught in the crush, swept forward despite himself (or perhaps because of himself?), straight into the heart of the battle.
And realized with a sudden blaze of unexpected fury as he closed with the Hyksos, with those who had watched Nebet’s death that yes, as he slashed across a foe’s throat, dodging the gush of blood, he did wish this fight after all, and yes, as he sent another foe crumpling, screaming, he still wanted blood for Nebet, he still wanted vengeance for her death, he still wanted—
Another Immortal! The sudden warning shocked Methos into momentary calm, and he drew back, panting, the shouts and screams and reek of battle all about him, hunting the one he knew must be nearby:
Khyan! Yes, there he was in the crush, fighting like a demon, eyes flaming with bloodlust. Methos, once again just as savage, gladly began to cut his way through the enemy, heading blindly toward—
No! Gods, no! Sanity stabbed at him again, sharp and cold as a blade. Are you utterly insane? What if he gets you? No guarantee of taking a head, not in this crush. And anyone suddenly resurrecting in the middle of battle is going to be just as suddenly beheaded as a demon!
His moment of hesitation nearly got him killed. A surge of bodies crashed against Methos, sending him staggering off his feet, tumbling him right into the canal. Pjedku Canal, his mind provided inanely, and wonderful, he thought wildly, he knew the name of where he was about to die—and die he would, because a Hyksos warrior had just fallen on him, stronger than he, forcing his head under the water’s surface no matter how fiercely he struggled. Once he was drowned, he’d probably die for good; the warrior would probably take himself a bloody souvenir, a nice new head to add to the Hyksos collection. But with the air running out, there didn’t seem to be anything Methos could do about stopping him.
Without warning, the pressure was suddenly gone. Methos burst to the surface, gasping and choking, coughing his lungs clear, just in time to see Ahmose-the-Soldier run the Hyksos warrior through, then neatly slash a trophy hand off the body.
“You all right?” the young man panted, grinning, clutching his bloody trophy in triumph.
Methos managed a nod, then struggled soggily back to land, finding and snatching up his sword again. He lost sight of Ahmose-the-Solider in the next wave of warriors, and concentrated only on one thing: surviving, working his way back in slow, bloody stages to the relative safety of the ships. Nothing like almost getting drowned to shake the battle fury out of a man.
Who was it first called retreat? Methos could have sworn he’d suddenly heard it simultaneously in both Egyptian and Hyksos—yes, the Hyksos were in full retreat, swarming back into their fortress, and the heavy gates were inexorably closing.
Those last few Hyksos caught outside after the gates shut turned on the approaching Egyptians with grim resignation, knowing that they faced their deaths. But a storm of arrows from the walls drove the Egyptians back across the torn, bloody field to the relative safety at the water’s edge, just out of bowshot. The gate opened barely a man’s width, and most of the trapped Hyksos scrambled back into the fortress before the gate slammed shut with harsh finality.
Into the fortress, Methos thought, where they will die more slowly.
He was all at once aware of his immediate surroundings, seeing that he stood next to Knife, who shrugged at him. “That,” the Medjai leader said fatalistically, “is that. We do not so easily breach those walls.”
“And they,” Methos retorted, wiping sweat and blood off his face with a hand that he only realized now was shaking with weariness, “do not so easily visit us again. We have a powerful ally in there.”
“Eh?”
“Thirst, Knife. Our ally now is the demon thirst.”
He saw Knife’s white teeth flash in his sharp grin. “Ah, and a fine, strong demon that is, too! Let him play his games, and we shall see what we shall see.”
Prince Ahmose, trailing frantic guards, hurried down from the Rising in Memphis, clearly furious at not having been allowed to fight. “Now what?” he asked.
“Now,” Methos and Knife said almost as one, “we wait.”
A day into the Siege of Avaris brought nothing much. The Egyptian priest-physicians, their linen robes no longer spotless, tended the wounded and, in their spare moments, cast spells against the Hyksos.
Spells, Methos thought dourly. I have yet to see the magic that could bring down so much as a brick from a wall.
Still, anything that gave the Egyptian warriors hope was a good thing.
Meanwhile, Ahmose-the-Soldier dared the Pjedku Canal again to pick off one of the Hyksos stragglers and gain himself another hand and a second Gold of Valor ornament. Knife and his Medjai scavenged the battlefield, one eye warily on the watchtowers, gathering what arrows they safely could find.
And everyone else… waited.
They were still waiting a day later. There was, Methos realized, no word for “siege” in the Egyptian language, though he suspected that there soon would be. If and when this one succeeded.
The fishing boats that had joined the royal flotilla were turning out to be very convenient, adding to the royal ships to create a total blockade of Avaris. Under cover of the Medjai, warriors had dragged the bodies of the fallen off the field, burying the Egyptian dead as best they could to the accompanying murmurings of the priests, dumping the Hyksos casualties into the Nile for the crocodiles with no ceremony at all. No risk of plague either way, Methos thought approvingly.
Around him, men were making themselves as comfortable as possible on the dank ground. Someone had brought dice, and Methos could hear the faint rattling and muttered wagering. Someone else manufactured a makeshift flute out of a reed and played the same shrill tune on it over and over till it was snatched from his hand.
I’ll take dankness and even the torment of a truly untalented flutist over a lack of water. I don’t know how full their water tanks are in there, but a man needs a fair amount of liquid each day in this climate. The Siege of Avaris can’t last too much longer. All we truly need out here is patience.
Unfortunately, Pharaoh Kamose seemed to be running out of that resource as quickly as the Hyksos must be running out of water within the walls. Pacing back and forth on the shore, he snapped, “This is ridiculous! They are not going to surrender, Methos, no matter what you say, no and we are caught here till—ha, look at those bastards up on the walls!”
What taunts they were hurling couldn’t be heard at this range, but the obscene gestures were unmistakable.
“Knife!” Kamose commanded. “Shoot me those men!”
The Medjai archer cocked his head thoughtfully, measuring distance with a practiced eye. “Not possible, oh pharaoh,” he said after a moment. “The distance, yes. But the wind is with them just now. They might shoot as far as this; but we as far as them, no.”
“What nonsense is this? Give me a bow. Give me a bow, I told you!”
With a shrug, Knife gestured to one of his men, who reluctantly surrendered his bow. Kamose nocked an arrow, took a step forward, another, drew—
“No!” Methos shouted, a bare instant too late. As though time had slowed, he saw the Hyksos archer on the walls shoot, the wind in his favor, saw the arrow flash through the air—saw Kamose fall. Methos and Knife rushed forward together, carrying the wounded pharaoh back to the safety of the water’s edge, and were instantly surrounded by a mob of horrified Egyptians.
“Get back, idiots!” Methos snapped at them. “Give him room.”
But then he saw the severity of the wound and silently amended that to room in which to die. That arrow had been far too accurately aimed.
Kamose knew it, too. “That,” he gasped with the ghost of a smile, “was a damnably stupid thing to do.” He broke off, coughing, and blood frothed on his lips. After a moment, he called weakly, “Ahmose…?”
“… brother…?”
“Do better… than me. Be wiser. Free… our… Egypt.” He slid into unconsciousness.
And that night, Pharaoh Kamose, son of the slain Pharaoh Sekenenre, joined his father among the gods.
Somewhere in the confusion that followed, Prince Ahmose managed to slip away. Methos found him in the shelter of the Rising in Memphis’s hold, huddled in misery, and cleared his throat tactfully.
The boy looked sharply up at Methos’s approach, his face wet. “What am I to do?”
It was, for this one last moment, the voice of a frightened child. Methos, moved by a tenderness he never would have expected in himself, knelt by the youngster’s side, letting Ahmose cling to him, feeling the boy shake with sobs for his brother, for himself.
“I’m sorry,” Methos said at last, drawing back. Hardening his voice, he added, “This is not the time for weakness.”
The boy shuddered, then ran a brusque hand over his eyes, struggling for self-control. “No,” he said. “I know. I… am pharaoh now, and I… I will rule. The Hyksos,” he added with sudden coldness, “will pay and pay most dearly for this.”
“So they shall,” Methos agreed, just as coldly, aware that he no longer was in the presence of a boy. And so Tetisheri’s Gift proves true yet again. “Pharaoh Ahmose, you must let your troops see you, know that you are alive and strong.”
“Yes.” The new pharaoh stood, fighting down his trembling till it was gone. “They shall know this. And so, to their eternal regret, shall the Hyksos.”
Another day of seige. Kamose’s body was preserved as best as was possible, utilizing every spare ounce of salt on all the ships and distilled from the Nile, tidal and drawing in the salt water from the sea at that point. A coterie of priests continually surrounded the body, praying without rest for the safety of the pharaoh’s soul.
Meanwhile, life went on. Men fished in the river, hunted waterfowl on its banks, honed weapons, and tested bowstrings. All that was lacking in all this activity, Methos thought, was any sign of camaraderie.
How could there be any? They’ve lost their second ruler in three short years, and are left with an untested boy.
Not exactly a boy anymore. Ahmose did seem to be holding up remarkably well—so filled with anger toward the Hyksos, Methos mused, that he had no room left for grief or fear.
And the new pharaoh had, after all, been raised to lead. His finger stabbed at the most leather-lunged of his warriors. “You, you, and you: I want you to shout into the city, ‘We have water, sweet water! Throw down your weapons and join us! Drink all you wish!’”
Two more days of siege. Two more days of shouting to the people of Avaris with no apparent effect.
Two more days, Methos thought, of wondering if he’d been right or wrong. Were they really desperate for water in there? What if there really was some hidden spring within Avaris, and he’d been too foolish, too overconfident, to find it? What if—
“The doors,” someone snapped, and everyone came alert.
Sure enough, the massive gates of Avaris were creaking open.
“At last!” Ahmose cried in relief.
Every warrior stood rigidly on guard; every priest began murmuring protective prayers. This would be the final battle. They all knew it.
One way or another, only one ruler would be left alive when it was done.
Chapter Twenty-four
Egypt, Avaris: Reigns of Pharaoh Ahmose and
King Apophis, 1570 B.C.
I never will learn, Methos thought, slashing, blocking, slashing, battling foe after foe, never.
But this was his fight now, as much as anyone’s. He had sworn to bring down the Hyksos world, and by the gods, he was going to give it his best!
By now, though, his sword arm was aching. No, Methos corrected, his whole body was aching, bruised, cut, and stabbed a dozen times; the wounds, of course, none of them that serious, healed, but not as swiftly as he would have liked. And the accumulating shocks of pain reverberated up and down the nerves and mind long after the injury was gone, taking their toll.
Somewhere in this loud, bloody, reeking chaos, Khyan was also battling, no mistaking that, but the prince was hidden in the mob of warriors.
Mob, yes. The Hyksos were men downright maddened by thirst and the knowledge that the Nile was flowing so tantalizingly near—if only they could get past the barrier of the Egyptian warriors determined to stop them. Behind the Hyksos, trying frantically to push their way past, were the ordinary people of Avaris, desperate beyond the bonds of sanity, adding to the crush, trapping warriors of both sides in a press so tight they could not use their swords, trampling the fallen underfoot.
And Apophis—could that fierce, powerful figure, face half hidden by the leather, bronze-studded helmet, be the king himself, cutting his way brutally out through his own people? The king come to join in the fighting? If so, Methos thought with a jolt of hope, then the Hyksos truly were at the edge of despair, and the end would come soon.
The end for them, he corrected. Nebet, I vowed the end of all their world—let it be so!
His guard slipped during that instant of thought. Methos gasped, stumbling, nearly falling as unexpected new pain blazed through him, and the Hyksos warrior who’d just stabbed him laughed, sure of victory.
But the laugh froze on the mortal’s face when Methos, secure in the knowledge that a mere stabbing couldn’t be fatal, laughed savagely back at him. The mortal’s mouth dropped open in horror as the victim he’d thought already dead parried what should have been the death blow. In the next moment, he was dead, throat cut open, and Methos, panting, covered with blood that wasn’t all his, stood waiting for his wound to heal, glancing fiercely about for more foes to—
Apophis. He was looking straight at Apophis, the king’s strong-featured face a mask of despairing rage.
The world seemed to freeze about them. There was only this, two men staring at each other in utter hatred
Then Methos took a step forward. “For Nebet,” he said.
But Egyptian warriors were swarming over Apophis, tearing the sword from his hand, forcing him to his knees despite his furious struggles, and Methos heard himself cry out in cheated rage, “You can’t! He’s mine!”
No one heeded. Of course not! This was hardly the place for a personal feud, not when the king of the Hyksos was taken and the battle was won!
Not quite:
Khyan!
The prince came charging blindly forward to free his brother, cutting down two, three, five men who moved to stop him. Methos calmly raised his sword, sure that single combat was about to begin, like it or not, an Immortal duel to the death—
But there were too many Egyptians even for one utterly crazed Immortal to fight, and Khyan was dragged down, struggling with all the useless ferocity of a captured bull till he was forced prone.
With him went the last of the collective Hyksos heart. More and more of the warriors lowered their blades or threw them away, rushing past the Egyptians for the Nile, drinking and drinking, heedless of danger from m
en or crocodiles. The common folk came in the next rush, just like the soldiers seeing only the water, the precious, wonderful water.
“Let them drink,” Pharaoh Ahmose ordered. “Our fight is not with them. It never was with them.”
Some died, convulsing, from too much water taken too suddenly. Others lay in utter exhaustion or crept into kneeling submission. Soon there was silence on the field save for the moans and cries of the wounded.
Those cries ended, one by one: The Egyptians were in no mood for mercy save for their own, and saw no need for prisoners.
Save for the royal two. Apophis was dragged before the young pharaoh, fighting his captors, refusing to kneel. “Let him be,” Ahmose ordered.
He and the fierce-eyed Hyksos king studied each other, Ahmose looking even younger, almost fragile, against Apophis’s powerful bulk.
But Methos saw that there was nothing at all youthful in Ahmose’s eyes. “What am I to do with you?” the pharaoh wondered coolly.
“Kill me, damn you, boy. Kill me and let me haunt your dreams!”
“My dreams are my own. And boy I may be, but I am no fool. One thing I do not need is a royal martyr.”
Ahmose’s sharp glance took in Methos and the others, then focused on the Egyptian priests. “Advise me,” he ordered them. “What shall be done with this one?”
The priests consulted, whispering among themselves, glancing at Apophis, at Ahmose. Methos felt Apophis’s hot stare and turned to stare right back.
“Why?” the king snarled. “You are not one of them!”
Methos let himself smile a cold, thin, humorless smile. “Ah,” he purred, “but Nebet was.”
Blankness. Of course: A king would hardly need to remember the name of a slave.
“Nebet,” Methos continued, his voice still a purr, “whom you forced me to destroy. Nebet, whose only sin was loving me.”
“Ah, that one! The little scar-faced slut! I never thought you were so—”
“For shame, Apophis.” Methos kept his voice pitched at that same deadly softness. “I am not that weak. No matter how you beg, I won’t give you an easy death.”
The Captive Soul Page 18