Lauren Haney - Curse of Silence

“Go on,” Nebwa growled, picking bones from a chunk of fish.

“We couldn’t see much,” Pashenuro admitted. “The fires burned bright, but the men were shadows walking hither and yon with no special purpose. We couldn’t begin to count their numbers. If the sentry is to be believed, they’ve a fighting force of over four hundred men.”

Bak sat quite still, a piece of soggy bread poised halfway between the bowl of milk and his mouth. “That’s twice the size of our force, including the soldiers from Askut.”

The Medjay spread his hands wide and shrugged, a silent reminder that he was only repeating what he had been told.

“He claimed he heard Hor-pen-Deshret utter the number with his own lips, speaking to a tribal chieftain of note.”

“We’d best pray he was exaggerating,” Bak said, his face grim.

“We mean to go back after midday, when we can see for ourselves.” Pashenuro spoke as casually as if he and the boy were going down to the river to fish.

Bak could not reject the offer; knowing the size of the enemy force was crucial. “This time you’ll tell Amonked,” he told Pawah, his tone severe. “He was very annoyed last night when he learned you’d slipped away without a word.”

“Could you tell how well they’re armed?” Nebwa asked.

“We know only what the sentry told us.” Pashenuro spat out a fish bone. “He claimed never to have seen so many spears, bows and arrows, shields, and small weapons, all in good condition.”

“Humph.”

“How do they feel about the upcoming clash?” Bak asked.

“They talk a lot to bolster their own courage.” The Med jay glanced up as two archers came close for warmth and to listen. “Pawah heard a half-dozen dialects. My guess is they’re a motley crowd, with nothing in common but the lure of wealth. I doubt any have thought of the small por tion they’ll get when divided among so many men, with

Hor-pen-Deshret getting the greater share.”

Bak swallowed a bite of fish and threw what was left to the dogs. “If they’ve been pulled together from many dif ferent locations and they’ve had no time for training, they’ll not fight as an organized unit, as a true army must.”

“Such is my feeling, sir.”

“We’ve been talking around the real question,” Nebwa said. “When do they plan to attack?”

“They meant at first to wait until the caravan neared

Shelfak, striking when we were spread out along the desert trail.” A smile flitted across Pashenuro’s face. “However, a rumor has reached them about a treasure to be placed on a ship soon to reach Askut. Hor-pen-Deshret wants to march north today and set upon us here in the valley, while the older and wiser chieftains urge patience. They were arguing when we left. If they do come today-and I believe greed will win out-they’ll strike an hour or two before sunset.

They must, for they know we’d hear of their coming and they’d be open to attack if they camp nearby overnight.”

“They’ll be tired after a long day’s march,” Nebwa said,

“and we’ve a trick or two we think will even the odds.”

“So a clash is imminent.” Amonked dropped onto a stool next to his disheveled sleeping pallet, located beside Nef ret’s tent. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

The young woman peered out from the shelter, her face pale and frightened. “We’ll all die,” she whimpered un heeded. “I know we will.”

“I’ve known of Hor-pen-Deshret for a long time, sir.”

Seshu, his face clouded with worry, stood before the in spector with Bak, Nebwa, and Pashenuro. “He doesn’t give up easily, especially when he feels the goal to be of suffi cient worth.”

“I know, Seshu, I know.” Amonked spoke with a sharp edge of impatience. “You warned me in Buhen that I should travel with fewer amenities, and I failed to listen.”

Horhotep, standing beside the tent, scowled at the quartet from Buhen. “I simply can’t believe a petty tribal chieftain would have the audacity to face off against the royal house of the land of Kemet.”

“Believe it, Lieutenant!” Nebwa waved off three ap proaching drovers carrying flint chips, leather thongs, and other bits and pieces with which to continue their weapons making effort. He pointed them toward Sennefer, who had moved his makeshift armory some distance away.

“We must take shelter within the walls of Askut,” the adviser said, “taking with us the animals and all they carry, leaving nothing behind for those wretched tribesmen to steal.”

“And let Hor-pen-Deshret besiege us?” Nebwa laughed, harsh and cynical. “I think not. The fortress has been un dermanned and poorly equipped for many years. They store sufficient supplies for only their own men and animals, with barely enough extra to help out the rare caravan in need.

We’d get exceedingly hungry awaiting relief, even if for merely a few days.”

Horhotep’s haughty smile would have quashed a lesser man. “Then we must hasten south to the safety of Semna.”

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to defend a caravan spread out across the desert?” Bak did not bother to hide his contempt. “We could probably hold off a hun dred men, maybe two hundred. But twice that number?

No!”

“We’d be offering ourselves up to slaughter,” Pawah said. The boy had been very quiet after the tongue lashing his master had given him for going on his nighttime ad venture without telling him of his mission.

The adviser shot the boy an angry look. “Then Mistress

Nefret and Amonked must go to Askut. And Sennefer and

Minkheper as well.”

Nebwa snorted. “All the important people, you mean.”

Horhotep’s chin shot into the air, he feigned indignation.

“Not at all. I mean those of us who came from Waset.

Thaneny, Pawah, Mesutu. The porters. We’ve no reason to be dragged into a local squabble.”

“Squabble?” Bak would have laughed if the situation had not been so perilous.

Amonked looked directly at his adviser, and his voice turned hard and decisive. “Nefret will go with Mesutu and they’ll take my dog with them. Thaneny and Pawah may go if they wish.”

“I won’t!” Pawah said, looking defiant.

“I, for one, intend to remain,” Amonked went on, “and

I believe any man trained as a soldier should welcome the opportunity to prove himself.”

Color flooded Horhotep’s cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

Bak stifled an urge to clap the inspector on the back. He doubted Amonked knew the first thing about facing the enemy on the field of battle, but he certainly had the cour age of his convictions. A courage that would allow a man of ordinary abilities to slay an individual he deemed un worthy. A man like Baket-Amon. Yet the more he saw of

Amonked, the more difficult it was to imagine him taking a life for any reason whatsoever.

“You’ve no need to worry, Lieutenant. My wife will tend to her as if she were her own sister.”

Bak smiled at Lieutenant Ahmose, commander of the fortress of Askut, a tall, thin, balding man of forty or so years. “I hope you’re wed to a patient woman. Nefret has much to complain about.”

“She lives in the household of a wealthy nobleman and she’s unhappy with her lot?” Ahmose laughed. “She should dwell in a godforsaken place like this.”

Bak glanced around the room in which they sat, a good sized white plastered space with a ceiling supported by a single red column, bright with fresh paint. Except for its smaller proportions, the audience hall beyond the door could easily compete with that of Buhen, with six newly painted octagonal wooden columns supporting the ceiling and walls enlivened by crisp multicolored decorations. If any smell remained in the fresh colors, it was overwhelmed by the odors of braised fowl and new-baked bread wafting from the upper floor. Officers and sergeants hurried back and forth, talking of weapons and battle. Four soldiers sat on the floor with scribes, dictating letters to their loved ones in far-off Kemet, while a dozen or more others awaited their turn. Letters prompted by the knowledge that they might soon be facing the enemy on the field of battle.