Lauren Haney - The Right Hand of Amon

"You didn't have to borrow men from Buhen." Huy shaded his eyes with his hand so he could watch the boat carrying Nebwa's spearmen draw away from the quay. "With Puemre gone, the men in his company are without an officer. I thought to hand them over to you until you're recalled to Buhen, or until Commandant Thuty sends someone else to fill the vacancy Puemre left."

Another time-consuming task, Bak thought. To lead a company of spearmen was a full-time job. "Nebwa offered men and I accepted," he said, keeping his voice noncommittal. "As for an entire company… I doubt I'll need so many, but I can't know for sure until I see the island."

"Shall we go?" Huy asked, stepping into the skiff he had made available for Bak's use. The craft rocked beneath his weight, its hull scraping the stone revetment that prevented the riverbank from eroding between the two quays.

Bak untied the vessel, jumped in, and shoved off. Sitting at the rudder, he took up the oars and rowed across the glassy surface of the harbor. The boat was small and compact, easily handled by one man, a pleasure to use. He longed to try out the sail, but that would have to wait until the return trip. The prevailing breeze at Iken, as at Buhen, blew from the north.

He had to admit Huy was doing all he could to ease the task of preparing the fortress for Amon-Psaro. He had given freely of tools, supplies, and food. He had promised as many men as needed, had arranged for two supply boats to ply the waters, transporting men and food and building supplies from Iken to the island, and had found the skiff. He had even volunteered to accompany Bak on this, his first journey to the island, guiding him across the perilous currents upstream of the rapids. Would a man bent on murdering the Kushite king be so helpful? Certainly-if cooperation would be to his advantage.

At the end of the quay, the current grabbed the vessel with surprising force, carrying it swiftly downstream. "Row well out into the channel," Huy advised. "You don't want to be swept onto the long island. You want to go around it."

Bak nodded, recalling the lay of the islands as he had. seen them from the girdle wall high above the river the first time he and Huy had talked. Upstream to the south, the main channel flowed broad and relatively free of obstacles. Immediately in front of the city, however, the river spread out in multiple channels, flowing around and over rocky islands and outcropping rocks that formed swirling, raging rapids impossible to navigate. The island closest to the Iken waterfront was the long, narrow tumble of broken rocks from which the man with the sling had harried him and the Medjays. Pockets of earth gave a foothold to sparse but tenacious trees and brush, much of which, he guessed, would vanish under water as the flood deepened.

A second channel separated that island from another, divided now by the rising waters into two chunks of land connected by a narrow isthmus. The ridge to the north, tall enough to remain above water through the highest flood, supported trees, brush, and the island fortress. He had to swing the boat around the long, narrow island and sail down the second channel.

Following Huy's advice, he dug the oars into the — water, his powerful strokes driving them across the current. As they passed the southern tip of the long island, Bak could see water lapping over the low spots, sneaking onto land that a day or two ago had been dry. He swung the skiff into the second channel and drove it across the current toward the island on which the fortress stood. A third current caught the skiff, pulling it to the right toward a pair of craggy islets rising from the mouth of a side channel. Beyond, he heard the growl of angry water and spotted jagged rocks rising above a swath of foam.

"Careful!" Huy warned.

Bak was already working the rudder and oars, turning the skiff midstream. He was glad Huy had come along. To a man reared in Kemet, where the river flowed smooth and broad and the greatest hazards were shallows, these wild waters were a new and unsettling experience.

Ahead, the channel flowed clear all the way to the landing stage. The fortress, he saw, was an uncomplicated structure of plain mudbrick walls built on a stone-revetted base that followed the contours of the island. The fortification was protected at intervals by stubby spur walls. The vessel on which Nebwa's men had sailed was moored against the rocky shore, and the last few men were disembarking. The others, each laden with baskets or tools, formed an irregular line, hauling the supplies up a steep slope and through a partially collapsed gate.

As they drifted downstream, the growling waters behind subsided to a whisper and another, throatier roar sounded ahead. Awed by the power he heard, Bak stood up to look. A hundred or so paces beyond the fortress gate, the channel turned white and vicious. The width of the river from one island to the other was a wild tangle of rocks and water and froth. A rainbow twice the height of a man leaned over the water, trembling in the spray rising from the maelstrom.

"Now you see why we drag the ships overland," Huy said.

"They'd be beaten to pieces in that water." Chilled at the spectacle, Bak dropped onto his seat and turned the skiff toward the shallower water alongside the island. "I saw those rapids from the girdle wall, but at so great a distance they lose their impact on the senses."

"The rocks get worse downriver before they get better." The tall, lean officer caught up the rope and looped the end, preparing to moor the vessel. As the skiff bumped the shore, he threw the loop over a post grayed by the sun and made shiny from use. They followed the last soldier in line up the steep, rocky path and into the fortress.

Bak paused at the gate to look around. His first reaction was. one of dismay. To call the place a fortress, he thought, was a gross exaggeration. It was nothing more than a fortified wall enclosing a roughly rectangular space over two hundred paces wide and four times as long, a place to shelter farmers and their livestock during an attack. From the poor condition of the walls and the amount of debris covering the floor, it had been neglected for years, probably since the war against the Kushites-if not before.

Nebwa's spearmen were equally disheartened. They stood in the middle of the fortress, looking around, their faces long, their usual banter silenced.

Pashenuro issued an order, spurring them to action, and strode across the rubble-strewn floor, glancing around the filthy, dilapidated structure, frowning. "Not a place where I'd house a king, sir."

"A palace it'll never be," Bak agreed, scowling at the disarray. "Tlie question is: Can we make it not merely habitable, but attractive by midafternoon tomorrow?"

The Medjay managed a weak smile.

Huy eyed the crumbling walls. "I've not set foot in this fortress for many months. It's in worse condition than I remembered."

"Alright, let's see what's here." Bak hoped he sounded more hopeful than he felt. "Then we can decide what must be done."

The trio walked along the base of the walls, veering around trees, overgrown bushes, and mounds of fallen bricks, stumbling over hidden roots, stepping across suspicious holes in the earth, avoiding piles of waste, most of it dry and hard, left by humans and animals. They examined fallen sections of the fortification, calculating the effort needed to make temporary but effective repairs. At the end, they climbed a stairway eroded by wind and water until it was little better than a steep, irregular ramp. Standing on the wall not far from the gate, they looked out across the fortress. Nebwa's spearmen, clearing a space for their camp, were now laughing and chattering as if they had not a care in the world. It must be pleasant, Bak thought with envy, to be free of responsibility.