Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant Bak. Since you’ve come to the Belly of Stones, you’ve proven to be a friend of my people. A man of honor.”

“Commander Woser told me of you. He called you not only honorable and wise but a man of influence.”

The old man ignored the compliment-and the impli cation that he had the prestige to assist, should he so desire.

“Tell me of this man Amonked. Will he see our need for the army? Or will he return to your capital and your sov ereign with a message of destruction?”

“I don’t know,” Bak admitted. “At first I thought he’d say whatever she wishes to hear, giving no thought to the consequences. I’ve since come to know him better, and I think he’ll recommend what he truly believes to be the best possible action.” Noting a glimmer of hope on the old man’s face, he raised a hand to still the thought. “What he thinks of as best may differ from what you and I believe to be best.”

The old man nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “I appreciate your candor. Now what do you want of me?”

Bak reached out to the brindle dog, which had inched forward to sit beside him, but it ducked away from his hand. “You know Hor-pen-Deshret has returned.”

“A nightmare come true.”

“His men have been watching the caravan. We believe he wants the rich trappings Amonked has brought south and the weapons we carry and our many donkeys. He’s not yet interested in the farms and villages along the river.”

“Not yet, for a fact.” Rona leaned forward, the weight of his upper body supported by his staff. “If the army is torn from the Belly of Stones, he’ll take what he wants and lay waste to the rest, destroying all we’ve built up during his absence.”

Bak refused to go down the same path twice. “We’ve seen Hor-pen-Deshret once-two days ago-and he left be hind six men to watch us. We feel certain he means to attack, but we don’t know when or where or the size of the force he’ll bring against us.”

“You’re a man of arms, Lieutenant, as is Troop Captain

Nebwa. Why have you not sent out spies?”

Bak longed to stand up, to tower over the old man.

“We’ve seen men march off into the desert and never re turn, and we’ve no desire to lose the few skilled fighting men we have.” He flashed Rona his most disarming smile.

“Besides, Commander Woser assured us that nothing oc curs between Iken and Askut without your knowledge.”

“I’ve been told you’ve begun to train men to fight, men who set out from Kor knowing nothing of combat.”

Bak’s smile broadened. “You are indeed a man of vast knowledge.”

A hint of a smile touched Rona’s face. He rocked back, glanced toward a nearby rooftop from which the scent of onions drifted, and raised a hand to make a signal Bak could not interpret. “You will share my evening meal, you and your Medjay.” The smile waned and he stared out across the oasis, saying nothing, until Bak feared old age had stolen his thoughts. “Hor-pen-Deshret will slay every living creature in this village if he hears I’ve helped you.

And he will hear, I have no doubt.”

“If we slay him or send him to Kemet a prisoner, he can no longer take anyone’s life or property.”

Neither Bak nor Rona felt a need to mention the death and destruction that would result all along the frontier if the caravan was taken by the tribesmen and Hor-pen Deshret deemed himself invincible.

“He’s forming a coalition of desert tribes,” Rona said.

A coalition? Bak prayed the reality was not as ominous as the word.

“While the women and children, the elderly and infirm, remain behind to tend their flocks, the fighting men are gathering in the desert south of Askut, not far from the old island fortress of Shelfak, presently unoccupied, as you know. When he deems he’s amassed sufficient forces, they’ll attack your caravan.”

Rona raised a hand, holding off the many questions risen in Bak’s throat. “He planned at first to strike today, when the caravan was far from the river and the animals spread out along the trail. He thought the men traveling with you to be poorly armed and with no talent to fight back. When word reached him of your training efforts and the new weapons you’ve acquired, he decided to postpone the attack until he has a larger force.”

Bak had to laugh. He and Nebwa had underestimated the tribal chieftain, thinking he would plan his attack based on numbers alone. “How many men have gathered?”

“The last I heard, close to a hundred and sixty. Addi tional men come each day.”

Bak tried not to show how staggered he was by the news.

One and a half times the number of men the caravan con tained and more on the way. “It would be to your advantage and to the advantage of all who dwell along the river if your young men came to our aid.”

“We’ll do nothing to help you until the death of Prince

Baket-Amon is avenged.” Rona’s voice was firm and flat, a statement of unalterable fact. “You must snare his slayer and see that he’s punished.”

“Are you speaking for yourself, or has so rigid an order come from elsewhere? Ma’am, I’d wager.”

Rona bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I speak for the mother of his firstborn son.”

As we suspected, Bak thought. A woman dwelling in the safety of a distant fortress, deep in mourning and yearning for revenge, has issued an order that might well destroy the people who would one day look to her son as their leader in name if not in fact.

“Your people, though far from helpless, always suffer at the hands of rampaging tribesmen. Does she have no pity?”

Rona clamped his mouth tight, refusing to commit.

Bak rose to his feet, his face grim. “I’ll lay hands on the man who slew Baket-Amon-if I survive the attack Hor pen-Deshret plans.”

The old man gripped his staff, preparing to stand. “You will stay here through the night.” He gave Bak a humorless smile. “I’ll not have you slain by those wretched tribesmen before the battle begins.”

Bak pulled the leather thong from around his neck, un tied the knot, and held out the ring. “When I told Amonked

I wished to give you a gift, he offered this symbol of his esteem.”

Rona took the ring, studied it, and for a moment Bak feared he had forgotten to breathe. “I’ve seen nothing so magnificent in all my many years. Nothing.” His eyes nar rowed. “Does he hope, with this ring, to make me indebted to him? To oblige me to tell my people they must fight for you and then smile at the loss of the army along the Belly of Stones?”

“The ring is a sign of his regard, that’s all. He hoped you’d show him a mutual respect, and you have. You’ve warned us of the multitude we must face and you’ve told us where we can find them. I’d hoped for more, but the lord Dedun has conspired against me, it seems.”

The lord Dedun and Baket-Amon’s chief wife.

Bak and Pashenuro left the village at first light and hurried to the nearest watch station, a couple of meager mudbrick buildings built on a high knoll to shelter the half-dozen soldiers posted there. They had expected the station to offer a good vantage point from which to see the caravan ap proaching from the north, but its expansive view proved unnecessary. Men and animals were less than three hundred paces away, breaking camp and preparing to depart. Seshu had kept them marching until nightfall, not stopping until they neared the river and its precious water.

They went first to the station, where they found the men on duty speculating about the tribesmen watching from afar. The sergeant in charge was dismayed to learn of the much larger gathering near Shelfak. He produced the highly polished mirror he used to pass on messages to north and south and, at Bak’s direction, signaled a warning to Askut.