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Kneeling before the bleached-white tent's inner fire ring, Kafar dropped the map onto the smoldering embers and stared at the red-orange glow while the leather curled, began to smoke, and finally burned to ash. He stirred through the embers, then, satisfied nothing remained to be found, he took a breath, rose, and turned to the woman lying motionless in the shadow at the back of the tent where he'd let her fall after snapping her neck.
Thanks to Nephthys' magic, the Priestess of Isis had told him the location of the priestesses preparing to send baskets to the island on which Horus hid. For a moment, as the priestess knelt before him, blood across her lip, blood streaking her white gown, he allowed himself to hear her pleas for mercy, her promise to depart the village and never disclose what had transpired.
But how could he believe her, a Priestess of Isis, so skilled in the ways of manipulation? The pink and cream-colored square he'd forced into her mouth had compelled her to reveal her secret. But the magic, created to meet a single goal, had served its purpose. It wouldn't make the priestess tell the truth about other matters.
He gazed into the lifeless eyes. No, she would have called out to her queen as soon as he'd left. Well, she wouldn't warn Isis now. His sneer faded. Clenching his jaw, he hoisted the priestess' body over his back.
Under cover of darkness, Kafar scuttled toward the thick marsh that surrounded the hidden village and began slogging through the waist-high water, the sucking mud and the leaden weight of the body he carried slowing him. Straining his muscles, he pushed on till he could no longer hear the low calls of the village's guards, no longer smell the wafting aromas of bread and spices, no longer see the flickering of small night fires.
Kafar dropped the body, grimacing against its splash, and dragged it into the tangle of decaying reeds. Grasping pliable young shoots, he wrapped the priestess' arms and legs, securing her. He leaned back, appraising. He bent to wrap more shoots.
The villagers would think nothing of their priestess' disappearance. Only her guard would question, and Kafar had killed him in the outlying marsh when the man came to investigate the quiet noises Kafar had deliberately made, knowing they would be caught by a trained ear. It was only if the body broke free and the villagers found it that Kafar's plan would falter.
He groped through the cold, muddy water, then, fingers finding what was needed, he dug the rounded, forearm-length rock from its resting place. Hands and arms aching, legs and back straining, he half-lifted, half-dragged the stone to the body and rolled it in place over the torso.
The priestess' dark brown hair swayed in the water, curling over the frozen face and reaching as if to tangle around Kafar's legs. He stepped away.
He had killed a priestess.
Now he was to find and kill a child—a god.
Perhaps—no, it was too late to abandon his mission. Even if he ran, Seht would know soon enough. His king would send warriors to hunt him, and he, so skilled at fighting, knew nothing of hiding.
Seht's warriors would find him, return him to their king, where Seht would force him to watch the torture and death of his wife, son, daughters, the mutilation of their bodies. Only after days of additional, physical, torture would Seht finally order Kafar's death. It would be a slow, brutal end.
Kafar would take his chances with the boy.
Boy. He pressed his eyes. Could he bring himself to kill a child? The coldness of the water crept through him, and he shivered. A reed slapped his back. He spun, sword hard in hand.
"Kafar."
Heart speeding, Kafar turned, searching. There was no one. Clutching the sword, he demanded, "Show yourself."
"Don't you know me, Kafar? I'm here to assist you, to help you understand the glory of your mission."
Cold seemed to cut into Kafar's chest. He lifted his hand against the stabbing pain.
"Horus is not a boy but a god who must be undone. He has brought Seht's wrath to you and your family. His existence means the fury of your king, and his birthright ensures war if he lives to reach Osiris' followers. You know I'm right."
"Wh-who are you?"
"One your king knows well. Take my counsel."
The stabbing cold lessened, almost as if merging with Kafar's bones, mixing and melding with his flesh. Slowly, he lowered the sword. "Go on."
"You kill him to spare yourself and your family. You kill him to save the people. You are the hero, Kafar. You are chosen. Annihilate Horus. Then reap the honor and privilege of victory."
The cold again stabbed, its pain striking deeper. Again, it dissipated, seeming to absorb into him.
"Remember my words. Now go and meet your destiny."
The pain receded. Lifting his chin, Kafar pressed forward through the marsh.
Honor. Privilege. If he destroyed Horus, perhaps Seht would promote him to commander. He drew back his shoulders. Those in the encampment would gaze at him with respect and awe. Those in the villages he would bring to submission would gaze at him with fear and wonder. His grain pots would be full. He might even have wine.
He licked his dry lips and paused to suck a few handfuls of the wretched, muddy water.
Others would curry his favor. They would bring him food and drink and women. They would rush to do whatever he said. They would refuse him nothing. He would be a man of power.
The moon broke from the cloud, its sudden light interrupting his thoughts.
He must be mad. How could a human defeat a god? And what of Isis' wrath? Would his king protect him from her? Would Seht order Nephthys to assist him against the magic, full of vengeance, Isis would hurl at him? Stretching his hand over his mouth, he considered.
Clouds again stretched together, blocking the light. Dank wind touched his face. "Destiny," the voice whispered.
Isis would be too broken with grief to pursue him, and Seht would ensure Kafar had protection against any attempt she might try to make before her collapse. Nephthys would help him, too, for surely she saw he was one Seht favored. After all, she'd given him the magic and the information he needed. She must have seen his potential, just like Seht.
Still, what of the other gods? No, they feared Seht and wouldn't risk angering him by attacking one of his commanders.
A slight splash off to his left caught his attention. He crouched, listening intently for sound of a crocodile.
A tern whipped over his head. It called loudly and glided away.
Releasing a breath, Kafar smiled. No crocodile would take him, the hero who'd defeated twelve of the fiercest warriors in the land to win his king's contest, the hero who'd defeated a Priestess' High Guard and forced to submission a Priestess of Isis, Seht's chosen, on mission of his king.
Perhaps Seht, powerful and wise, had arranged the contest, knowing its outcome, as a means for Kafar to discover the power he held within himself. Perhaps Seht, a king and a god, was grooming him now for power beyond even a commander. Why else entrust him with so important a mission?
He scratched at the fine cuts the reeds laid across his arms. Seht, who had no one in charge of his commanders, had awarded Kafar the sword of a general. Perhaps that was the rank he had in mind for him. And what better qualification for the position than having destroyed Horus?
Kafar tightened his fingers around his sword's hilt. Yes, it was only Horus who stood in his way on his path to greatness. The stars seemed to skitter from the sky, leaving him in darkness. Groping and grasping, he moved deeper into the marsh's tangled blackness.
He was meant to kill Horus and become Seht's general. That was his destiny. He saw it now clearly.
He would hold power unknown to any other human. Even Netum would kneel before him.
He had only to secure the honor of victory, had only to bring back evidence of Horus' death. A simple enough matter.
The only obstacle remaining was reaching the one he would destroy, and thanks to his skills and Nephthys' magic that obstacle would be surmoun
ted soon enough.
The smell of salt. Kafar turned toward it, satisfied with the knowledge in a short while he would reach the village he sought, the village the Priestess of Isis revealed. The priestess....
His brows twitched together. A cold wind caressed his cheek, and his brow cleared. Yes, even a Priestess of Isis had knelt before him.
The sword had become almost a part of his flesh, almost a part of his being. Yet it seemed to hold a life of its own, seemed to time its swaying thumps, like a heartbeat, to his strides, seemed almost to whisper his name.
"Kafar. Follow me to the village then to the one we'll strike. Together, we cannot fail. Together, we'll find victory. Then all you've ever wished will be granted to you. All you've ever dreamed will be made real for you."
The sword seemed to turn in Kafar's hand, guiding him in the darkness.
"Follow me, Kafar. Follow and have all you desire."
A gust parted the reeds, and Kafar saw before him the orange and blue of low fires. Blue? White-robed women bent filling woven reed baskets, their ochre and kohl-adorned faces and quick, skillful fingers seeming to glow pale silver. Startled by the strangeness of the scene, he hesitated.
"Destiny, Kafar."
He sharpened his gaze and, realizing, suppressed his laugh. The scene was only of priestesses employing magic.
Blinking hard, the light of the fires hurting his eyes, he fixed the pouch between his teeth and lowered. Black water lapped around his chest. The water's chill seeped into his core.
Stealthily, he skimmed forward, the wind clearing a path through the quivering reeds, till he neared the edge of the marsh, where the water receded. Across the short distance, he could hear the priestesses' chanted spells.
Bitterly, he recalled how as a boy he'd shrunk from such magic and cowered before such women. But of what importance were these priestesses' tricks when he held in his possession potent magic? What consequence were these women to him, a man destined to become almost a god?
The first part of their task completed, the priestesses glided single file and entered their round, palm-cane huts, for a moment leaving the baskets lying unguarded on the sand.
Kafar rushed forward to the waves surging against the grey-brown of the shore, entered the waves, and ducked low.
Hands lifted high, the priestesses returned. Kneeling, they fastened fragments of symbol-etched cypress around the baskets' handles.
The priestesses' peculiar song and the high-pitched clatter of their rattles reverberated hard in Kafar's ears. He held his position, gasping through the rush of waves.
Chanting spells, the priestesses slid the baskets into the water.
Feeling a presence behind him, Kafar turned. Was Isis here? His heart thudded.
No, there was only water. Or was there? Between waves, he glimpsed a mass of land. It seemed almost to hover against the sea.
Water crashed over him, submerging him. He popped up, searching, but the land had disappeared in mist. He fixed his focus on the baskets floating toward him.
Battling the waves' surging, Kafar swam farther out and waited, fighting against being swept away, till the priestesses finished their prayers and blessings, waited, struggling to retain possession of sword and pouch, till the priestesses, task complete, turned from the sea.
He paddled hard, each forward stroke pushed back by the sea's turbulence. Desperate to draw a breath, he flipped onto his back. Saltwater stung his lips, filled his mouth. But he couldn't drown. He was chosen, destined. Wasn't he?
The water around him, cooling, suddenly stilled.
Quickly, he opened the pouch, placed on his tongue the dot of red and blue, fashioned through high magic, and slipped his fingers over the handle of the nearest basket. The cypress fastened to it slapped against his forearm. The slaps burned. No matter. What deterrence could it be to him, Seht's general?
The tiny disc dissolved against Kafar's tongue, its taste reminding him of the honeyed wine he'd been privileged to sample as a child. How had Nephthys known he'd longed to experience that taste again? Surely this was a sign she wished to please him. And why not?
Warmth filled Kafar's abdomen then spread to envelop his chest, arms, and legs. His hands and feet began to tingle. It almost tickled. Ah, Nephthys' magic, made pleasant.
The waves and baskets around him blurred.
Pain tore through Kafar's legs, up his stomach, his neck, into his head. His fingers clamped around the basket's handle. His body shuddered. His back arched. Through clenched teeth, he screamed.
The voice returned, "Yes, Kafar. Soon you'll meet him, Horus, the boy god, the one you're destined to destroy."
Transformed, Kafar curled his tail over his back and scuttled into the basket. His mind fractured, his thoughts splintering, distilling to the single words: Horus. Destroy.
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