Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“And, for the lord Amon’s sake, bring back some weapons.

And shields.”

The pair hurried off to do his bidding. While Seshu and the others remained where they stood, Bak walked in among the nearest animals, speaking quietly, trying to calm them, wishing fervently that he could see better. He could not understand why the dogs were silent. True, they were not trained to protect the caravan, but they were feral, and feral dogs barked at the least provocation.

He turned to sidle between two donkeys, at the same time raising his shield so it would not get in his way. He heard a soft thunk and felt a faint vibration through the heavy cowhide. The donkey to his right snorted fear. Bak’s heart shot into his mouth. The white tunic, he thought, a target in the dark. He ducked low and lunged forward, hiding among the animals. Turning the shield, he looked at its face, at the arrow impaling the leather.

“Get down!” he yelled. “The intruder’s using a bow!”

“Lieutenant!” Pashenuro’s voice and the flicker of light played across the backs of the donkeys.

A whisper of sound caught Bak’s ear. The animal nearest to him screamed and fell to its knees, an arrow planted deep in its thick neck. Bak tried to catch the rope halter to quiet it, but it flung its head and thrashed its legs, trying to escape the pain and the stench of its own blood, and it brayed non stop. The nearer animals panicked and tried to run in spite of their hobbles. Their wild lunges instilled fear into the rest of the herd. The dogs, so quiet before, began to bark, their excitement triggered by the donkeys’ terror.

“Get some men to quiet these animals,” Seshu yelled.

“Lieutenant, are you all right?” Pashenuro called.

Hating what he had to do, Bak jerked his dagger from its sheath and slit the throat of the wounded animal, si lencing it forever. Keeping low, he grabbed the halter of a jenny who, in her panic, was bucking madly, threatening to crush her foal. He led her and her baby away from the dead donkey, caught another animal and quieted it, and another and another. By the time he and the drovers had subdued the most panicked of the creatures, by the time

Pashenuro joined him, torch in hand, he was certain the intruder had gotten away.

Nebwa and the archers came running, awakened by the clamor. They went through the herd, searching for the in terloper, while the drovers quieted the animals and checked their well-being. As soon as they finished, Bak led a thor ough search of the encampment, soothing people who had awakened in alarm, but finding no one who did not belong.

The dogs settled down among the stacks of equipment and supplies as if nothing of note had occurred.

Nebwa assigned more guards to patrol the perimeter of the camp, and he, Bak, and the others returned to their sleeping places. Bak’s last thought before he slept was of the dogs, of their failure to respond, their silence, when what everyone believed was a desert nomad had crept up to the encampment and in among the donkeys.

A nomad, a stranger from outside the camp. He was not so sure.

“You’re right about the dogs. They’d’ve reacted to a stranger.” Nebwa rubbed his chin, bristly from a failure to shave the previous evening. The training session had taken precedence over personal care. “Maybe someone in Amon ked’s party feels cornered.”

“Why must the lord Amon be so whimsical?” Bak scowled at the long train of donkeys plodding south, the older animals sedate and well-behaved, the younger made frisky by the early morning chill, the fear in the night for gotten by one and all. “Thanks to him, I raised that shield when I did, but why, after saving me, did he allow the donkey to be a target, causing panic throughout the herd so the intruder could get away?”

Yawning mightily, Nebwa stared off to the west, his eyes on the tribesmen standing on the crest of a long golden dune. The six men had come closer at daybreak, making them easier to see in the clear morning light. “No sign of

Hor-pen-Deshret, but I’m troubled that those vile barbarians have come so near. What accounts for their newfound cour age?”

Bak was equally troubled. He wanted to walk out to them, to demand answers. Not feasible, he knew, for the instant he headed their way, they would slip from sight.

“We’re in urgent need of news, Nebwa. I hesitate to leave the caravan today, but I must. By late afternoon, when the air is cooler and I can cover the distance quickly, I’ll walk to the river and the village of Rona, the man of influence

Woser mentioned. He’ll surely know more of the tribes men’s intentions than we do. And who knows? I may even convince him to sway his people’s thoughts in our favor.”

“You can’t go alone.” Nebwa’s tone brooked no argu ment.

“I’ll take Pashenuro. Other than befriending Pawah, his pretense of being a drover has led nowhere.” Bak looked at the men on the dune, his thoughts on the journey ahead.

“We can take nothing with us that the tribesmen would covet, inviting attack, yet we must take a gift of value for the old man.”

Nebwa snorted. “What, may I ask, would that be? We brought nothing from Buhen. If not for our weapons, we’d be impoverished.”

“Perhaps Amonked can live without one of the many objects he brought along from Waset.”

“How about mistress Nefret? I’ll wager he’d be glad to get rid of her.”

“Two men crossing the barren desert, with Amon alone knows how many human predators lurking about.” Amon ked, his face grave, shook his head. “The very thought ap palls me.”

“If anyone knows what Hor-pen-Deshret is plotting, the old man will,” Bak insisted.

“Would that wretched bandit not hold his plans close within his heart, letting no one know his intent?”

“He would if he could, but secrecy is impossible. During normal times, news travels along the river faster than dust in a high wind. That’s doubly true now, when the people’s lives depend on their knowing where he is and what he means to do.”

Amonked laid his hand on the brush-like mane of the donkey beside which they were walking, a white jenny carrying two jars of water and a large basket containing the twin foals she had birthed during the night, lying in a nest of pungent straw. Pawah had discovered the tiny newborns at dawn and prevailed upon Amonked to allow him to look after them until they grew strong enough to keep pace with their mother.

Bak had found Amonked walking with the boy and don keys some distance behind the rest of the inspection party, well away from Nefret and her complaints. Horhotep was walking alongside the concubine’s carrying chair, assuring her, most likely, that she had no reason to worry. As soon as Bak had appropriately praised the foals, Pawah had dropped back to talk with Pashenuro, seeking suggestions about caring for his new charges.

“Can you not wait until morning?” Amonked asked. “If we maintain a good pace today, according to Seshu, we’ll camp tonight not far from the river. Your trek would be considerably shorter-and safer.”

“By the time Pashenuro and I strike off on our own, we’ll be less than an hour’s walk from the next signal station and the river.” Bak studied the undulating sands off to the left, burnished gold where struck by the sun, tarnished by the long morning shadows. “Seshu knows of several places where the sandhills rise taller than a man. With the help of the gods and a diversion Nebwa is planning, we should be able to leave the caravan unnoticed.”

“You’re determined to go, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

Amonked let out a long, weary sigh. “All right, do so if you must.” He noticed a patch of sand on his kilt, brushed it off. “What would you suggest we give the headman?”