He was intelligent, too, and his blue eyes had been full of blood and high-mountain ice when he’d spoken of Pharaoh and the way his entire family had been butchered in the slave city. There had been no tears, only a grim resolve, and Melembrin had liked that, also. This was no milksop, for all his soft looks, and if proof were needed of that, it probably still lay rotting in a certain clump of reeds back at the river’s edge. In disposing of that pair of scummy runaway mercenary dogs, the boy had shown a natural killer instinct which completely belied the soft existence he must have known as the son of a great architect in Asorbes. More than that, without question he had saved the life of the next Candace of Kush!
Finally, Melembrin spoke: “These men you killed in the forest across the river. They weren’t Khemish?”
“They were Arabbans. Slavers working for Khem—and for themselves,” Khai answered.
“You must call my father ‘Lord,’ ” Ashtarta reminded him for the tenth time from her cushion.
“And the mercenaries on the riverbank,” Melembrin continued. “They were Theraens, right?”
“Yes,” Khai nodded, and winced at the throbbing in his temples which the movement of his head produced.
“Yes, ‘Lord,’ ” said Ashtarta, softly.
Khai immediately rounded on her. “And shall I call you parrot?” he cried. “I owe no allegiance to your father. If anything, he owes me!”
Ashtarta’s mouth fell open at Khai’s audacity and her eyes went wide. “Ephrais’s clout has addled the boy’s brains!” she gasped.
Melembrin’s face was now black as thunder. “By all that’s merciful!” he roared at his daughter. “You take a lot of interest in this fellow, Sh’tarra. Can’t I talk to him in my own tent without your interference?”
“But he’s only a boy,” she protested, “an ill-mannered, stupid—”
“—And he saved your life, girl!” the king roared. “In my eyes, that makes him a man—and by the same token, it makes you an ungrateful little witch! Damn it all, I don’t know whether to thank him for your life or curse him for it! And you—” he turned his wrathful eyes upon Khai. “Be more respectful or I’ll knock your head off!”
Khai hardly heard him. His ears were still ringing to the sound of the pet name by which the king had addressed his daughter. Sh’tarra!
Sh’tarra . . . where had he heard that name before?
“Listen to me, Khai Ibizin, or whatever your name is,” Melembrin continued. “There’s room for marksmen in my army. Since you’re fleeing from Pharaoh and we’re heading for home—and since Nubia’s a long way off and lots of dangers in between—I suggest that you forget Nubia and come along with us. That way you will eventually owe me some allegiance, and sooner or later you may even learn to call me ‘Lord!’ Well, what do you say? Haven’t you been listening to me, lad?”
Dazedly, Khai shook his head, not in answer but as if to clear it. He staggered a little. His ears kept echoing to that name—Sh’tarra!—Sh’tarra!—Sh’tarra!—and each echo made his hair tingle at its roots. There was something important here, something he should know, something he should remember. But what?
He swayed again and put his hand to his head. Ashtarta was up off her cushion in a second, her face full of concern. She sprang to Khai’s side, taking his arm and lowering him to the floor.
He pulled free of her and struggled to his feet. “It’s all right,” he said. “I was dizzy, that’s all.”
Melembrin, too, had climbed to his feet. “All right, lad, take it easy now,” he said in softer tone. “You’ve taken a few clouts, sure enough; you’ve run too far and eaten too little. I reckon I can wait for your answer until you’re feeling more yourself. Meanwhile, Sh’tarra will show you where you can rest.”
“You can have my answer now . . . Lord,” Khai answered. “And if you’re worried that I can’t kill Khemites as easily as I can kill Arabbans and Theraens, then you’ve no need to be. I can destroy anything that belongs to Pharaoh, anything! And I can kill anyone who works for him.”
Hearing the sudden savagery in Khai’s voice, a grim smile came to play about the mouth of the Kushite king. “I believe you, Khai,” he said, “and we shall talk again—later. Until then—” he turned to his daughter. “Sh’tarra, take him away. Feed him and see he’s well rested. When someone hates the Pharaoh as much as this one. . . . Well, that’s the sort of hate we need to nurture!”
Khai slept through the rest of that day and did not awaken until late in the evening. His “tent” was a travois propped against a tree, forming a sloping shelter over his head, and he had been given a blanket to sleep on. At that, he considered himself lucky and was well satisfied. He had left Khem a fugitive, with only the clothes he wore, a bow, arrows and a knife. Now, in addition to these things, he had a job in the army of Melembrin, a blanket, and he seemed to have made a friend in the king himself. And so for the first time in a long while, Khai had managed to sleep a completely restful sleep.
Now, with the night creeping in, he found himself hungry. Since the sky was rapidly darkening over and smoke from the fires was unlikely to be seen, meat was already turning on spits and filling the air with its aroma. Khai drank deep of the evening air and got up. He stretched his limbs and felt good, then groaned as he heard a voice from the shadow of his tree:
“Khai? Are you awake?” Ashtarta stepped out from the darkness and came up to him. “There’s meat for you and a seat by the fire. You can listen to the men talking and learn the ways of the camp. Tomorrow you’ll have to start working for a living, and there’s much you’ll need to learn. The younger men are bound to bully you for a little while, but you’ll have to put up with that.”
“I can put up with a great deal,” he retorted, “but not the prattling of a mere girl—even if she is a princess!”
“You ungrateful—” She stepped up close to him, her blue-shaded eyes flashing fire to match the blaze of the cooking-fires close by. And indeed she looked more like a princess now—a warrior princess! She wore black knee-length trousers of leather and a high-necked shirt of finest green linen tucked loosely in at the waist. Her hair fell in ropes almost to her waist, and in her hand, she carried a small, loosely-coiled whip. It was a horsewhip, whose dark color matched that of her roughly-stitched calf-length boots. Her ears were hung with golden disks and a third disk glowed in her forehead.
Now she thrust her face at Khai and stared at him through the darkness. “You drive my friendship too far, Khemite!”
“And you drive me too far, Princess!” and he spat out the last word as if it were poison. There was something about the girl that got right under his skin, making it impossible for him to treat her cordially. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” he asked.
Her jaw fell open. “How dare you!”
“No!” he cried. “How dare you! I save your life, and now I’ve dedicated my own life to the destruction of your father’s enemies. All I ask in return is food for my stomach and a measure of privacy. Why, if necessary I’ll even catch my own food, for the meat doesn’t walk or fly that I can’t bring down. But I’ll not be pestered continually by a quarrelsome girl!”
Ashtarta couldn’t believe her ears. “Why, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? You say I’m to suffer some bullying? Good! Better that than be followed around by a spoilt child of a princess with the temper of a crocodile and manners to match!”
“Temper?” she screamed. “Temper? You think you’ve seen the measure of my temper?” Tears flew from her eyes as she shook her head in rage. “I’ll show you temper, you son of a Khemite bitch!” And before he could guess what she was about, her hand flicked back and forward and the metal tipped thong of her whip cracked across his cheek, stinging him but failing to fetch blood.
Off balance, Khai stumbled backward, tripped and fell, and Ashtarta moved to follow him. Again her arm drew back, but before she could use her whip a second time, he put his left foot behind her ankle and lifted his right to plant it fir
mly in her midriff. She was still coming forward and he took her full weight on his leg—then straightened that leg and drove her into the air with all the strength he could muster. She flew high and fell hard, flat on her back with all the wind knocked out of her.
By now their scuffling had attracted the attention of the men at the fire. A young man who was Khai’s senior by at least two years got up and came over to them. Khai stayed where he was on the ground but the princess got her breath back and struggled to her feet. As she sprang at Khai, the young warrior caught her round the waist and put her behind him.
“Mind your business, Manek Thotak!” she cried. “I’ll fight my own fights.”
“What?” he said. “I should let you soil your hands on Khemish filth? No, Princess, your father would not thank me for that. If your little lash can’t curb this cur, then we’ll see how he answers to a real whip!” As he spoke, the young warrior took a coiled whip from his belt and shook it down like some fantastic snake on the ground. But Khai had not been idle.
He reached into the shadows beneath his travois to find his bow. Now, sitting up, he nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring taut against his cheek. Sighting his weapon almost point-blank at Manek Thotak’s breast, he grated, “Would you like to wager, dog, that you can crack that whip of yours faster than I can loose my arrow?”
“Oh? And what’s all this?” came the deep, gruff voice of the massive Ephrais as he came upon the tableau. “Put up your whip, young Manek. And you—” he addressed Khai, “put down your bow.” He stepped between the two and narrowed his eyes on Ashtarta where she stood, arms akimbo, beside her would-be champion. “Ah! And is that you, Princess? And have you been baiting the boys again?”
She stepped forward, angry words forming on her lips, but before they could be uttered there came the drumming of naked hooves and the distressed snort of horses. A moment later, and three riders entered the clearing. They got down from their lathered mounts and asked for Melembrin. All were disheveled and looked winded through hard riding. Their ponies seemed near-dead on their feet.
“What’s the hurry?” cried one of the men at the fire; and another called: “Are you pursued by devils, you three?”
“Worse than that,” one of the riders panted. “There are thousands of Khemites north and south of here—columns from the forts at Afallah and Kurag, I think—marching through the night. They are closing in a huge pincer. I fear they may already have taken our lads to the north, and those to the south will be lucky if they make it home. As for us: we’d best be on our way tonight, now. Tomorrow will be much too late!”
III
RUN FOR THE HILLS!
In a matter of minutes, Melembrin received and interpreted the grim news. It only remained for him then to gather his men about him and give them their orders. This he did at the main fire, ringing himself about with warriors and explaining the situation to them in short, vivid sentences:
“Men,” he began, “it appears we’ve stung the Pharaoh once too often. Normally, he doesn’t much bother with this side of the river, certainly not this far from Asorbes, but this time he seems determined to have us. As you know, our little party here forms my command post; though we’re also a fast-moving, highly mobile task-force in our own right when needs be. But mainly, this is where the brains are to be found which control our little forays against Khasathut’s forts and border patrols—particularly here!”—and here he put a finger to his own broad forehead.
“Now then, there are only one hundred and ten of us here,” he gazed around the small sea of faces that glowed in the firelight, “and we couldn’t put up much of a fight if Pharaoh hit us with a big posse.”
“We’d fight to the last man!” someone in the crowd gruffly protested.
Melembrin held up a hand. “Of course we would,” he agreed, nodded his head. “To the very last man—and then we’d be overrun. That’s why there are three hundred more of us to the north and another three hundred to the south. And it’s also why they’re the best Kush has to offer! I’m the brain and they’re the fighting body, forming a buffer between us and any troops Khasathut may send against us—at least until now.”
“Brave men all!” someone grunted.
“That they are,” Melembrin agreed, “but against overwhelming odds even the bravest must fall eventually. . . .” He paused and there was complete silence.
“If Pharaoh has sent large numbers of his soldiers after us,” the warrior king finally continued, “then they may already have met and clashed with our lads. If they have—” Again he stared around the sea of faces. “I gave orders that if ever Pharaoh should take after us in earnest, then that it would be every man for himself and full speed for high ground. There’s no shame in flight if it means we live to fight another day.”
“You think our men have fallen then, Melembrin?” this from a huge and glowering chief. “Or that they’re already fled?”
“I didn’t say that,” the king answered, “though I’ll admit it’s not unlikely. Whichever, it means our flanks are now unguarded.”
“Six hundred men—fled?” someone else grunted. “I can see so large a number fighting, but never fleeing!”
“My orders were clear,” Melembrin answered. “If they have not fled, then they are now either dead or captive.”
“Then it’s up to us to pay Pharaoh’s dogs back for their blood!” cried another voice, more passionately.
“Aye,” the king agreed, “but not here. If they’ve come after us in such great numbers, it can only be that they intend to invade Kush herself. Pharaoh’s been threatening that for years. Yes, and it’s something we’ve planned for.”
“That we have!” several rumbling voices agreed.
“But Melembrin, great king,” a younger voice, full of unconscious bravado, called from the front ranks of the crowding warriors. “Are we really going to turn tail like cowards and hyenas? I hate the thought of showing my heels to any dog of Khem!”
“Ah, Manek Thotak!” Melembrin growled. “The voice of experience, eh? And what would you do, warrior? Stay and fight—and die? And who then would carry word of Pharaoh’s invasion home? No, you are brave, but you are wrong! Should we kill a handful of Khemites here and die ourselves when we might run for home and live—and kill thousands of our enemies beneath the towering walls at Hortaph?”
“But—”
“But?” Melembrin raised his eyebrows. “But? When you are a captain or a general—which you will be one day, as your father before you—then you may ‘but’ me, Manek Thotak. But even then warily. As a whelp? Do as you are told, boy!” And Melembrin put the matter aside and turned to his men.
“We’ve wasted enough time and there’s work to do. Pile everything in a heap—tents, travois, everything—then mount up. Before we leave, fire the tents and all. Let them burn. Let there be a blaze to draw Pharaoh’s troops like moths. Take only your weapons with you, nothing else. We ride two-abreast, nose to tail, and we carry no torches. The moon will be up soon; the stars are bright; we move carefully, quietly, quickly—but with no panic. Hurry now, for we leave in minutes!”
Silently, swiftly as Melembrin turned away, his men moved to obey him. They took up sleeping pallets and travois, tore down tents large and small—even the king’s command tent—bundled up blankets and skins and piled the lot close to the central fire. Then, almost before Khai could drag his own crude shelter over to the pile, the ponies were brought forward and the warriors mounted up. Someone took a brand from the fire and tossed it on the heap of flammable materials, and bright flames at once began to light up the night.
In another moment, ponies were being guided out of the camp area and directed toward the west, their riders armed to the teeth and sharp-eyed in the shadows. Suddenly panic-stricken, Khai found himself alone beside the bonfire which now roared up and hurled a pillar of sparks at the stars. In the leaping shadows around the campsite he saw the shapes of animals and men passing into the night, and he stumbled after them with his
mouth open but too dry to utter any sound.
Then there came a pounding of hooves and a whinny of fear as a pony drew near and shied at the roaring flames. A grinning girl’s face, all eyes and teeth in the firelight, looked down at him from the beast’s back. “Ashtarta!” he gasped.
“Princess, to you!” she frowned, holding out a hand to him. “Come on, jump. Get up behind me—and hang on!”
While her pony continued to shy, Khai grasped the girl’s hand and jumped, throwing himself onto the animal’s back and almost unseating her. “Careful!” she cried. “Steady, there! Some horseman you, Khemite!”
“There are no horses in Asorbes,” he angrily answered, his arms around her waist and his chin bumping on her shoulder.
“Aye, that’s obvious,” she told him. “Grip the pony’s back with your knees and keep them bent. Grip his flanks with your feet. And watch where you put your hands—Khemite!” And she cantered her mount away from the fire and joined the column as it wound westward.
A moment later and the bulky shadow of the massive Ephrais drew alongside, pairing up with Ashtarta. “I see you remembered the lad, Princess,” he said in a lowered voice. “I went back for him, but saw you pick him up. Your good-luck piece, is he?”
“He is not!” she answered hotly. “But a debt is a debt—and now it’s paid in full!”
“I seem to remember it differently,” Khai grated in her ear, just loud enough for her to hear. “The way I remember it—”
“You’d be well advised to forget it!” she hissed. She dug her left elbow viciously into his ribs and deliberately caused her mount to the rear. Khai hung on for dear life and his hand inadvertently clasped her breast. Her shoulder came up under his chin, rattling his teeth and caused him to bite his tongue. Hearing him utter a colorful Khemish curse, Ashtarta’s anger left her in a moment and she chuckled as she drew her pony back into line.