Lauren Haney - Path of Shadows

“What was the man’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

Bak felt certain he did know, but to press for an answer might silence him altogether. “When I came back this morn ing and found the caravan here, I talked of my abduction.

One thing I failed to mention was the name of the man who led the nomads who took me away. You’ve dwelt here a life time, so you must know him. I was never told his birth name, but he said Minnakht called him Nefertem.”

The guide’s relief at the change of subject turned to sur prise. “He’s our tribal chief, the one man standing at the head of all our clans. Why would a man of his stature abduct you?”

Bak also was surprised, but for a different reason. He had not guessed Nefertem was of such import, though when he thought back on how quick the nomads had been to obey his every command, he should have. “He spoke of his father as

Minnakht’s guide, not as a tribal chieftain.”

“His father was a good man highly regarded by all, but not a leader. His uncle, who died two months ago, leaving behind no sons of his own, named Nefertem to succeed him.”

“He believes his father was slain at the hands of another. If he was so well thought of, why would anyone wish him dead?”

The question hung in the air between them with no answer to be found.

Bak awakened, rolled onto his back, and groaned. What now? he wondered. The donkeys were moving around, blow ing, making small noises. Something had disturbed them.

This was not the first time the creatures had grown rest less. He and Psuro had gotten up earlier in the night to walk among them, calm them, and search for a reason. At the same time, User’s drovers had dealt with the larger string of ani mals for which they were responsible. He had no idea how long ago that was. The gorge, whose overhanging cliffs had cut off much of the moon- and starlight, had been very dark.

Even with eyes accustomed to the deep gloom, they had had trouble seeing. Unable to find anything wrong, they had gone back to sleep.

The narrow strip of light between the cliffs told him the lord Re had begun to rise from the netherworld. He rolled over and looked toward the mouth of the gorge. The pools glowed like mirrors in the clear light of dawn. Ordinarily the caravan would have been ready to leave, or already on the way, but User had decided they needed fresh meat. The large numbers of sandgrouse that came to drink offered too tempt ing an opportunity to resist. They would remain until evening.

Bak sat up and glared at the donkeys. They were not go ing to settle down without a gentle touch and soft words of encouragement.

“What’s gotten into them?” Nebre grumbled as he, too, sat up.

The two men scrambled to their feet and walked into the small herd. As they calmed the animals, they examined the ground and the walls of the cliff and probed the supplies and forage scattered around, trying to discover what had made the creatures so restless. A single thought lay unspoken be tween them: a snake. In the better light, they could see fairly well, but were no luckier than before. Whatever the donkeys had sensed had either gone away or hidden itself.

They walked deeper into the gorge to help the drovers with

User’s donkeys. Again, they found no apparent reason for the animals’ distress.

When they returned to their camp, Psuro, Kaha, and Rona were seated around their makeshift hearth, where the long dead fire had turned to ash, eating a skimpy morning meal of bread and dried fish. The sandgrouse would make a welcome change to so dreary a diet.

Psuro glanced out through the mouth of the gorge toward the dry waterfall and the rocky steps on which the men as signed to guard duty often sat. “Someone must relieve Min mose.” His gaze traveled from one man to the next and settled on the slender Medjay seated beside him. “You slept through the night, Kaha, unlike those of us troubled by the donkeys.”

Kaha sighed dramatically. “I thought for a while that I was blessed by the gods. Now I see they favored me through the night to deprive me of the opportunity of slaying a few birds.”

The sergeant rolled his eyes in mock despair. “Leave your spear behind and take a bow and quiver. The lord Inheret might by chance send the grouse flying your way.” Inheret was the god of war and hunting.

With a quick smile, Kaha rose to his feet, scooped up a chunk of bread and a couple of dried fish, and strode to the weapons leaning against the cliff wall.

While the Medjay selected a bow, Bak looked across the pools toward the dry waterfall. The morning was cool, the sun pleasant rather than fiery hot. Why was Minmose not seated on the rocky step at the top the men on guard duty pre ferred? His thoughts returned to the donkeys’ behavior, and concern entered his heart. He picked up a spear and shield and walked with Kaha out of the gorge.

The Medjay scowled at the place where his fellow police man should be. “If Minmose saw or heard anything, sir, he’d have raised an alarm.”

“If he could have, he would’ve.”

Grim-faced, the two men picked up their pace, passing the pools with long, fast strides. They stopped at the bottom of the dry waterfall to study the slopes to either side. Minmose was nowhere to be seen. Exchanging a worried look, they raced up the natural stairway. At the top, a desert lark burst out from among the rocks, calling an alarm, and fluttered up the rocky hillside to their right. Other than the bird, they saw no living creature in the wadi beyond.

Their eyes were drawn to a good-sized patch of disturbed sand that would have been immediately behind a man seated on the top step facing the pools. A shallow hollow in the sand had smudged the vague footprints Bak, his pursuer, and the

Medjays had left the previous day. Traveling in an upstream direction from the hollow was a depression about a cubit wide, cut by two narrow indentations. The wider was the path of a man’s body, the narrow were the marks of his heels dragged along behind.

Praying to the gods that Minmose was unhurt, Bak trotted up the wadi, following the depression, with Kaha at his side.

As they neared the rock formation behind which Imset had vanished the previous day, Bak heard-or thought he heard-a low moan. Kaha sucked in his breath. He had also heard the sound. They broke into a run. Behind the forma tion, they found Minmose trying to sit up, holding the back of his head. Muttering a quick prayer of thanks to the lord

Amon, Bak knelt beside him, while Kaha helped him to rise.

The usually cheerful young Medjay pulled his hand away from his hair and stared perplexed at the rusty red stain on his fingers. “What happened?”

Bak parted the hair, which was matted together with dried blood, and looked at the wound. When he touched the bump,

Minmose flinched. The small break in the skin had bled a considerable amount, but was entirely scabbed over. Bak’s knowledge of head wounds was limited to the few times when his father, a physician, had taken him along when he dealt with such injuries. He had been a mere boy, easily dis tracted, and had not learned as much as his parent would have liked, but he doubted Minmose was badly hurt.

“What can you remember?” he asked.

“I was sitting at the top of the dry waterfall. The moon was high and I was watching a herd of gazelles, seven or eight of them, drinking from the pools.” Minmose wrinkled his brow as if trying to squeeze out what had happened. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I remember.”

While Bak reassured him, Kaha studied the sand up stream. “Whoever did this walked the same path we did yes terday. The sand is too churned up to leave distinctive prints.

I’d wager this weapon…” He touched the bow lying beside him on the sand. “… that he climbed down a hillside close by to leave as small a sign of himself as possible before creeping up behind Minmose.”