Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

Pashenuro nodded. “Our men are even now searching for a hiding place outside the walls of this city.”

Bak saw Imsiba hurrying Psuro and Mery out the fortress gate. “When you locate it, summon Hori. I want a record of each and every item you find there.”

“Yes, sir.” Pashenuro shifted his feet and took a fresh grip on his spear. “I feel a witless oaf, sir, not thinking to look closer at the officers’ skiffs.”

“We thought to let him go anyway,” Bak admitted, “to give him his head and let him lead us to the place where he hides the contraband.” But we didn’t expect to follow so far behind, he thought, or to lose him before we started.

“We’ll go first to the cove.” Bak ducked, letting the lower yard swing overhead as Imsiba adjusted the sail to catch the breeze. He could see ahead the patch of boiling water at the collapsed end of the ledge where Wensu and Roy had met the headless man. The headless man who now had a name: Userhet. “If we find no tracks heading out to the desert, we’ll sail on to the backwater Ahmose described, the place where Userhet hides his skiff.”

“What if we come upon Wensu’s ship? He has six men.

We’re only three.” Psuro spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, a warrior untroubled by the odds.

“Four!” Mery grabbed a sling from among the weapons piled in the boat and pantomimed firing off a rock. “My father taught me to use this, and I’ve practiced a lot. You can count on me.”

Smothering a smile, Bak answered Psuro. “I doubt the gods will be so generous as to drop Wensu into our hands, but if they do, so much the better. I promised Userhet to Commandant Thuty, and I’d like nothing more than to give him the Kushite as well.”

“Nebwa sent men to Kefia’s farm,” Imsiba said, his eyes locked on the frothing waters ahead, “and he sent a couple to Ahmose’s island. A good, loud shout will no doubt bring them should we need them.”

The breeze shoved the skiff upriver and the skilled use of sail and rudder drove them past the rapids. They rounded the mound of boulders, and the cove opened out before them. Moored hard against the ledge was a traveling ship, small and graceful, a vessel of elegance and beauty. The head of the divine cow, its horns twisted in the Kushite fashion, decorated the prow. Imsiba sucked in his breath, Psuro gaped, Mery stared wide-eyed.

Snapping out a curse, Bak signaled a retreat, hoping to slip away unseen. The cove was the last place he had expected to find Wensu. With word no doubt spread all along the river that this mooring place was no longer safe, the man’s wits had to be addled for him to return.

Imsiba tugged at the braces to haul the sail around. The ledge stole the breeze and the heavy fabric began to flutter.

Psuro took up the oars, but too late. Momentum carried them into the cove. A man on board the larger vessel yelled a warning, destroying any hope they might have had of making a surprise assault from another direction.

Sailors ran to the rail of Wensu’s ship to peer over the side. Six by Bak’s count, all as dark as night, men from far to the south of the land of Kush. They wore skimpy loincloths, with daggers and axes suspended from their belts, and carried long spears. A man hurled his weapon. It sliced through the water to vanish in the depths. A second man flung his spear, striking the prow with a solid thunk. The weight of the shaft dragged it down, tearing the point free, and it, too, fell into the river. Bak, kneeling low, hastened to distribute weapons among his fighting force, which suddenly seemed small and vulnerable, easy targets for the men standing on the higher deck.

“Put in among the boulders,” he commanded. “We’ll be safer there than in this open boat. And from there, we should be able to climb onto the ledge.”

Psuro paddled with a will, swinging the ungainly skiff around. Imsiba lowered the upper yard and gathered the sail into an untidy mess, getting it and both yards out of the way.

Mery scrambled around the bottom of the vessel, searching for the bag of smooth, rounded stones Psuro had loaded on board for the sling.

Bak donned thumb and wrist guards, picked up a bow, jerked an arrow from a quiver, and seated the missile. With the skiff unsteady beneath him and his own lack of skill, he had little hope of striking the enemy. To discourage a concentrated assault of spears would satisfy him. Bracing himself against the mast, he took aim as best he could and released the arrow. The sailors ducked away from the rail and the projectile sped by. The men reappeared, laughing. Mery let go with the sling. A man took a quick step back and clutched his head, dazed. Bak acknowledged the feat with a smile and fired off another arrow. It struck a man in the thigh, dropping him to his knees. His shipmates ducked back from the rail, abandoning their vantage point, and dragged the wounded man away.

The skiff struck the boulders with a jolt. Bak dropped his weapon and scurried forward. A spear struck the spot he had vacated, its point buried in the mast, its shaft vibrating from the force of impact. He sucked in his breath, awed by so narrow an escape, and muttered a hasty prayer of thanks to the lord Amon.

Stepping over the side, he eased himself into the water.

Not until he felt the tug of the current and noticed flecks of foam on the surface did he realize how close the vessel had drifted to the churning rapids, no more than three paces away. Both Psuro and Imsiba were paddling now, their faces grim, their muscles bulging from the strain of holding the skiff in place.

Staving off the urge to panic, Bak explored the depths with a foot. He found a submerged rock, slippery but reasonably flat, leaned into the current to maintain his balance, and waded in among the boulders, pulling the skiff after him.

The vessel bucked and jerked, trying to break free. He heaved himself half out of the water and, with a single, mighty tug, lodged the prow in a space between two massive chunks of rock.

While Psuro and Imsiba encircled a boulder with a rope and made the vessel fast, Bak retrieved the bow and quiver and climbed higher onto the mound, hunched over, picking his way through the boulders. Mery followed hard on his heels. Bak swallowed the urge to order him back to the skiff and safety. The boy had proven his worth. He had earned the right to stand as an equal.

From among the higher boulders, they had an unimpeded view of the deck of Wensu’s ship. With Bak and his contingent no longer on the water below them, no longer vulnerable or even visible, the Kushite sailors had grown cautious, giving up the offensive to safeguard their vessel. Hunkered behind bundles and bales stacked aft of the deckhouse, well armed and ready for action, they stared at the mound, awaiting attack. The man with the thigh wound sat inside the deckhouse, staunching the flow of blood with a dirty rag.

The one Mery had clouted on the head had returned to the fray. Six men total, none with a wasted arm and hand. Where was Wensu? Eight men, white-kilted soldiers from the land of Kemet, stood immobilized on the deck, sweating in the harsh sunlight, their hands tied to the lower yard high above their heads.

Bak did not know whether to laugh or rage. “We’ll get no help from Nebwa’s men.”

Mery stood on tiptoe, trying to get a better look. “How many of the wretched enemy do we face?”

Bak knelt, offering a view of the ship over his shoulder.

The question, he felt sure, was a direct quote from the boy’s soldier father.

A scuffling of sandals heralded Imsiba’s arrival and Psuro’s.

They each settled into a cranny from which they, too, could see the ship. Looking out from their natural stronghold, the four men studied the enemy, searching out 234 / Lauren Haney approaches, weighing their chances of taking the vessel.