Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

Imsiba’s strides were long and regular, designed to cover a lot of ground fast. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his breast and back. If his head still ached, he gave no sign, nor did he display any trace of exhaustion. Bak, barely able to keep apace, shaded his eyes with a hand and stared at the distant figure. The haze had been blown away by the stiffening breeze, but heat waves rising from the sand made dunes and rock formations and the man they chased quiver and tremble.

“We’re gaining on him, Imsiba.”

“I’ve never liked him. He’s altogether too fond of himself.

But I’d not have thought he’d take one man’s life and then another and another.”

“He came close to taking a fourth,” Bak said, touching the dirty bandage on his friend’s arm. “That arrow was meant for you, I’m convinced.”

“Me?” Imsiba gave him a startled look. “I posed no threat.”

“Did he not wish to wed Sitamon? He no doubt desired her-she’s a woman of infinite charm and beauty-but he must’ve coveted more the ship she inherited from Mahu.”

A wry smile touched Imsiba’s lips. “To have control of a great cargo ship would certainly ease the path of one who deals in contraband.”

“Not if he must share his authority with a man whose task it is to balance the scale of justice.”

“Look! He’s veering toward the river.” Imsiba clutched his side, which he refused to admit pained him. “We must be nearing the backwater where he leaves his skiff.”

“I thank the gods he’s not once looked back. He must think us still entrapped.” If the big sergeant would not confess to a human frailty, Bak was not about to complain of his knotted calves.

Imsiba glanced toward the lord Re, making his final descent to the netherworld, streaking the sky with gold. “If we don’t snare him within the hour, we’ll lose him to darkness.

He knows this land far better than we. It’s been his play-ground for months.”

“We’re closing on him.” Bak wiped his brow and dried his hand on his kilt, damp with sweat, stained gray by dirt. “Not long ago, we couldn’t see the sledge. Now we can. Nor could we see…” His voice tailed off and he stared at the man ahead.

Userhet had slowed his pace and turned around as if to check the sledge and its load. His head came up. His step faltered. The sledge bumped his ankles, shoving him. He swung around and moved on, his stride longer, faster than before.

“He’s spotted us!” Bak said, breaking into a loping run.

“Who’d have thought a man could run so fast when pulling a laden sledge?” The question was rhetorical, a waste of valuable breath, and Bak knew it.

Imsiba must also have felt the need to talk. “He’s taking advantage of the slope down to the water. Gentle as it is, it’s enough to keep the sledge moving.”

Bak scanned the river, no more than a thousand paces away, with Userhet halfway between. In many places, water lapped the desert’s leading edge, stealing the golden grains, 260 / Lauren Haney yet he saw no reed-filled backwater. It had to be nearby.

“How a man whose occupation kept him inside and inactive day after day manages to maintain so hard and fast a pace, I can’t imagine.” Imsiba forced the words out between breaths. “His nighttime excursions as the headless man must’ve hardened his muscles as well as his resolve.”

“The fate that awaits him-impalement, for a certainty-would surely add wings to any man’s feet.”

They ran on in silence, wasting no more breath. Bak’s calves ached, his legs felt heavy and wooden, his mouth dry and his chest raspy. The sledge was like a toothache, a nag-ging reminder of how sure Userhet was that he would elude them. If he feared capture, he most certainly would abandon it. Bak’s sole consolation was the breeze, which was cooler as evening drew near, chilling the sweat pouring from his body.

Evenly matched with the man they chased, but un-burdened, Bak and Imsiba slowly, gradually, shrank the distance separating them. About three hundred paces from the river, Userhet swerved, taking a diagonal path across the sands toward a curving row of trees. A break in the foliage allowed a glimpse of water and a thick stand of reeds.

“Spawn of Apep!” Bak cursed. Userhet was practically within their grasp. He could not slip away now.

Without warning, a nearly naked man stepped out from among the trees to stand on the sandy verge. He carried a sickle, its sharp flint blade sparkling in the long rays of the setting sun. A woman dressed in a colorful ankle-length sheath came forth from the trees a half dozen paces downstream. In her hand she held a long-bladed knife. A second man emerged a few paces upstream, and a third and fourth spread equal distances apart. Each carried a sickle, an axe, or a mallet. Common farm tools. Weapons in the hands of men who chose to use them as such.

Bak and Imsiba slowed to a walk. They stared dumbfoun-ded.

“Have they come to help him?” Bak asked.

Userhet, less than fifty paces from the trees, slowed as his pursuers had done. Instead of waving and smiling and hurrying toward men he knew were friends, he looked back and forward as if trying to decide what to do, how best to pass them by and reach the river.

Bak offered a silent prayer of thanks to Amon and to any other god who happened to be listening.

Two men stepped forward, both armed with sickles. A youth carrying a knife. Another holding a spear. A woman and man, each carrying axes. A boy with a sickle. Others appeared farther along the line of trees. A wall of humanity, ominously silent, between Userhet and the reedy backwater.

The overseer broke into a trot, running parallel to the double row of men and trees, dragging the sledge behind him, searching for a way through.

“By the beard of Amon!” Imsiba exclaimed. “Where did so many people come from? What brought them forth?”

“There!” Bak pointed. Mery stood midway along the line of defense, holding a reddish shield that came close to hiding his small frame and carrying a long spear that towered well above his head. “He must’ve come by skiff-the breeze is right-and summoned all he met along the way.”

“A most resourceful child,” Imsiba grinned.

Spurred on by the boy’s ingenuity, Bak forgot his aching muscles and heaving chest. He ran full tilt, Imsiba by his side. Hearing their pounding feet, Userhet glanced around and saw how close they were. He dropped the rope, grabbed a bow and quiver lying on top of the load he had been pulling, and ran, abandoning the sledge.

Imsiba pulled an arrow from his quiver and armed his bow. But he hesitated to shoot, fearing he would miss the man they chased and strike one of the farmers along the arc of trees.

Bak veered around the sledge, glimpsing as he passed sealed jars and lumpy bags-and no uncut elephant tusk.

He sped on, too occupied by the chase to dwell on the knowledge. Userhet put on a burst of speed, following a course roughly parallel to the water’s edge. He constantly looked to his left, studying the human barricade in search of a weak spot. The farmers held their places, watching, waiting.

Userhet swerved suddenly, striking off toward the desert.

The people closest to him looked at each other, nodded their satisfaction, let down their guard. Abruptly he swung back and darted toward a girl holding a knife. He struck her hard with his shoulder, sending her flying, and ducked in among the trees.

Bak raced through the crumbling wall of people, who were too stunned to react to Userhet’s swift passage, and plunged through a patch of dying foliage downstream of the point where the overseer had vanished. Clearing the spindly branches, he found himself ankle-deep in floodwater, with a lush stand of reeds rising from the depths three or four paces farther out, marking the normal shoreline during low water. About fifteen paces to his left, he glimpsed a small skiff half-hidden by reeds. The sound of splashing drew his attention to Userhet, wading knee-deep along the reed bed twenty or so paces to the right. He spotted Bak, jerked an arrow from the quiver, and raised the bow. Angling the weapon to keep it dry, he seated the missile and drew the string taut.