Lauren Haney: A Vile Justice

"Leave me in peace, Lieutenant. I've slain no one who didn't deserve to die. What purpose will it serve to stand me before…" She gave him an ironic smile. "Before who? My father metes out justice in this province, and he's a dead man.

Bak had had enough. Her conviction that she had done no wrong was an abomination. "Did the child Nakht deserve death? Or Lieutenant Dedi?" He snorted, making his contempt clear, hoping to goad her into a rash act. "Both were innocent of Nebmose's death, probably had no idea how he died. You slew the boy because he was easy prey, the officer because you didn't have to stand up to him. The horse took his life for you."

Incensed by his disparagement, she leaped out from behind the pillar, raised the torch high, and swung it at his head. Fire spewed. He parried the blow with the shield and lunged at her. She ducked around the next column and darted into the niche-lined corridor. Sparks flew behind her racing figure, tiny stars pricking the swathed images of Osiris. Bak chased after her, dagger in hand. He had never used a weapon to fell a woman and was not sure he could bring himself to do so. A weakness he had no intention of letting her know.

He caught up in the larger columned court. As he was about to grab her, she swung around, the flame traveling with her in an arc. He ducked back, narrowly missed being scorched, the heat so close he felt it pass his face. She stood in the central aisle, her back to the exit, holding the torch toward him as before, keeping him at a distance. Her breathing was quick, harsh, her smile tight. He stood facing her, close enough to pose a threat, far enough to leap away, his body shielded, dagger poised for use. His weapon was the more deadly of the two, but hers allowed a longer reach. If only he had his spear! It would make all the difference.

They stood there for some time, catching their breath, each seeking an edge over the other, neither able to find a breach in the enemy's defense.

Determined to break the stalemate, Bak displayed the dagger, letting the light play on its blade, and took a step toward her. She thrust the flame his way. Teeth clenched tight with determination, he took another step forward. Feinting a thrust at his head, she lunged off to the side, slipped the torch past the shield, and brought it down hard on his hand. He ducked too late. Fire seared his fingers. The dagger flew into the shadows.

Driven by a sudden look of exultation on Khawet's face, Bak leaped at her, swinging the shield to shove the torch aside, and grabbed the arm holding the fiery brand. They struggled for possession. She clung as if her life depended on it-as it did. He squeezed her wrist, felt her fingers give, and jerked the torch away. He swung her around with her back to him, meaning to shove her arm high up between her shoulder blades. She twisted free and ran.

He raced after her, no more than two steps behind. She cleared the last pair of pillars and darted into the entrance passage. He grabbed for her, felt her linen shift beneath his fingers, but she was too far ahead to catch. She darted out onto the sunlit terrace. He followed her through the passage, raced into the light, lost much of his vision. Flinging the shield to his left, the torch to his right, he leaped at her in a flying tackle. His arms went around her waist, his momentum carried them forward. He glimpsed something passing beneath them, the low wall along the terrace. Khawet screamed, and they fell forward.

He released her, giving them both the freedom to save themselves, and tumbled into the sand beyond the wall. He struck with a good solid thump that jarred his shoulder. The steep slope grabbed him; the loose, slippery sand carried him down. Face forward, chest in the sand, he slid out of control toward the base of the hill. Like a sledge, he thought, broken loose and hurtling unrestrained

He remembered the boulders below, pictured himself ending his flight against one, bones broken, body battered. Keeping mouth and eyes tightly shut, he flailed out with his arms and legs, trying to slow himself and turn over. The bandages peeled off his torso and arm, the sand dislodged the fresh scab from the wound on his side, his skin burned. Grit collected in his hair and burrowed beneath his kilt. With a mighty heave, he rolled over onto his back and swung his body around, feet formost. He half sat up, saw a boulder not far ahead, dug in his elbows and heels. His speed began to drop.

He smashed into the boulder feetfirst. One knee came up hard under his chin, making his head spin, his world turn dark.

"Lieutenant Bak! Sir! Are you ahight?"

He came to his senses flat on his back, his legs buckled up between him and the boulder. Opening scratchy eyes, he looked in the direction from which the voice had come. Kasaya was half running, half sliding diagonally down the slope. The tracks he left behind came from midway up the staircase Bak had climbed, betraying the Medjay's failure to obey orders.

Bak's thoughts flew to the terrace, the plunge over the parapet, the prisoner he had caught and released. Khawet! Where was she? Slowly, carefully, straightening his legs one at a time, checking for breaks and finding none, he pushed himself away from the boulder and hauled himself into a sitting position. She lay a few paces to his right, partly on her side, facing away, unmoving. She must have struck a boulder even harder than he.

"Sir!" With barely a glance at Khawet, Kasaya dropped shield and weapons in the sand and knelt beside Bak. He stared at the bedraggled bandage, the newly reopened and bleeding wound, the burned hand, the skin scraped red and raw. His face clouded over. "Do you think… Can you stand up, sir? Can you walk?"

Bak formed a crooked smile. "It's not as bad as it looks, Kasaya. Help me up and let's see to mistress Khawet." The big Medjay offered an arm and, as gentle as if he held a new-hatched duckling, lifted his superior to his feet. Bak stood- quite still, letting a wave of dizziness pass, while Kasaya picked up the shield and two spears.

He offered one of the weapons to Bak. "Your spear, sir." Bak stared, taken aback. "This is the reason you climbed the stairs?"

"I know you told me not to go up there, sir, but…" Kasaya shifted his feet, flushed. "I thought you might need it."

Bak bit back a laugh. Of all the understatements he had heard, that was the best, or worst.

They walked to the woman crumpled on the sand and knelt beside her. Bak knew the instant he saw the pallor of her face that she was badly injured. He took her shoulder, damp from exertion and gritty from the tumble downhill, and rolled her onto her back, taking care not to hurt her further. Her body was limp, her head lying at an impossible angle. He felt for the pulse of life, found none. She was dead, her neck broken.

What a waste, Bak thought, his eyes on the prone form lying in the bottom of the skiff. The body was covered with a length of rough linen the farmer had given them in exchange for a spear. Who shoulders more blame? he wondered. Djehutyfor stealing away all she held dear? Or Khawet because she would not accept Ineni and leave her father's house for a new life, as was right and proper?

"Do you think the governor still lives?" Psuro asked Bak shrugged. "The physician said he stood on the brink of the netherworld." He glanced to the west, where the lord Re was clinging to the day, his golden orb hovering above the row of tawny, sand-draped hills that overlooked Abu, including the hill that had taken Khawet's life. "By now, the gods will surely have decided his fate."

Kasaya adjusted the braces, spilling much of the breeze from the sail, slowing the vessel's approach to the landingplace below the governor's villa "I'd not like to go home to Buhen thinking we failed in our mission and let him die, but would it not be easier than taking him to Waset to stand before the vizier and seeing him die anyway, accused as a slayer?"