Very much aware that his options were limited, he pivoted and raced toward the two men at the end of the housing block. The warren of lanes offered his sole chance of escape.
If he could overcome the pair, he could slip into the lane they had come out of and vanish in the gathering darkness.
He closed on the two men, aiming toward the one with the mace. At the last moment, he veered toward the other man, grabbed the hand wielding the scimitar, and shoved it hard against the wall of the sacred precinct. The man yelped and dropped the weapon. Bak kicked him high between the legs, immobilizing him, and turned to face the man with the mace. The running footsteps of the trio behind drew closer.
He grappled for the mace, with he and his opponent doing an odd little dance while they struggled for possession.
A man leaped on his back, knocking him to the ground. In an instant, they were all upon him, holding him face-down with the weight of numbers.
“We’ve got him this time,” the man with the gravelly voice said with a satisfied laugh.
Bak managed to raise his head, to take a look at the men who had caught him. One bent double, clutching his man hood; three other hard-faced men held him against the dirt.
Standing over him, mace raised to strike, he glimpsed the swarthy man he thought was Zuwapi.
The man’s arm came down and he saw no more.
Chapter Fifteen
The world was dark, hurtful. A throbbing place where low voices came and went. A place where the air smelled of dirt and sweat and stale beer. Where the surface on which he lay was sometimes hard and dusty, sometimes not there at all.
Or was it he who was not there?
He lay in the black space, sensing the world around him come and go, offering snatches of itself. A man gulping from a jar, a belch, the stench of foul breath. Something small and whiskered-a mouse, he imagined-sniffing his cheek. The crisp sound of a man chewing a radish with his mouth open. A harsh “Shhh.” The mouse again, or some thing bigger, exploring his leg. A man cursing and a short scuffle.
He opened his eyes, but could see nothing. The throbbing in his head was intense and he felt disoriented. He tried to move, but the pain sharpened, forcing him to be still. He lay motionless, barely daring to breathe, praying the agony would lessen.
“How much longer?” a man whispered.
“An hour, maybe more,” a gravelly voice murmured. “Af ter the revelers have gone to their sleeping pallets and the streets and lanes are empty.”
A third man groaned. “I’d hoped to have some fun tonight. There’s a game of knucklebones in a house of plea sure north of the royal house, the one the lame Hurrian runs.
It started the day the festival began.” He kept his voice low, as if he feared someone nearby would hear. “I’d like to sit in just once. They say it’s the best game in Waset.”
The first man laughed softly. “The way your luck’s been going lately, you’d do better to find yourself a woman, one with udders as big as a cow and…”
The description went on, a buzz of words running to gether, sometimes audible, sometimes fading away.
Feeling ill, he clamped his eyes shut, swallowed, and let his head roll to the right. The place above his ear, the spot where he had been hit, struck the hard-packed earthen floor.
Pain exploded and he felt no more.
He knew he was going to die, prayed it would happen sooner rather than later. His wrists were tied together and so were his ankles. His body, limp and helpless, was slung from a stout pole like the carcass of a dead deer. His head hung close to the ground, swinging free, a mass of agony too intense to endure.
Each time the pole jiggled, each time one or the other of the two men carrying him made an abrupt movement, the torture worsened. The searing pain inside his head took his breath away, clouded his vision. He prayed for relief, for the darkness of oblivion, yet he never lost sight of the man near his head, the sturdy legs pumping, large callused bare feet.
“Shhh. We’re close,” gravel voice said.
The two men lowered the pole, letting him drop roughly to the ground. His head seemed to split apart, and blessed darkness set in.
He came back to life slowly, in bits and pieces. Once he heard a man’s shout, a reassurance that all was well. Another time he glimpsed two men carrying him, walking rapidly along a narrow lane, his body swinging from the pole be 224
Lauren Haney tween them. He saw a dog nipping at the heels of a stranger, who threw a rock to frighten it away. He saw the swarthy man standing on the deck of a ship, ordering its mooring ropes released. He felt himself lying on the ground, the pole on top of him, hearing the loud laughter of a dozen or more revelers passing by. He saw his father, standing with Hori and Commandant Thuty on a ship bound for Mennufer. He saw a woman’s back, knew she was the one he had vowed to love forever, but when she turned around to smile, her face was that of mistress Meret.
The visions ended and for a while he must have slept. Or perhaps he fell into a deeper unconsciousness.
When Bak came to, or awakened-he knew not which he felt better. He lay motionless in the dark, letting his thoughts pull themselves together. His head throbbed, but no longer felt as if it would burst. His side ached as if he had been kicked, but a cautious intake of breath did not bring about the sharp pain of a broken rib. He was groggy and confused. His tongue felt thick and was so dry he could not moisten his lips.
He sensed he was alone. Knew it for a fact when he heard the tiny noises vermin make when they seek out sustenance undisturbed. He was lying on a sloping wooden bed of some kind. He tried to move his arms from behind his back, but was unable to do so. Burning wrists awakened a hazy mem ory of being bound hand and foot.
He wondered where his captors had left him. The dark ness was total. The world around him felt unstable, as if it might be moving, swaying. Or were his thoughts playing tricks on him? He could smell stagnant water and rotting wood, the leavings of small creatures. He tasted grit between his teeth and something else. Blood. His own, he felt sure.
He heard the soft whisper of… Of what? Running water.
He was very close to the river. Or on a ship.
Yes, a ship. His feet were in a shallow pool, his body on a slightly curving incline. Not a breath of air stirred around him. As muddled as his thoughts were, he knew exactly what those facts signified. He had been dropped down the hatch of a ship and lay in the hull beneath the deck in the space normally filled with ballast. The water bathing his feet was sloshing back and forth, probably along the center board, while he must be reclining between two ribs. Thanks to the lord Amon, he had fallen with his head well out of the water.
He could hear no voices, no sound of rowing, no flapping sails, nothing but the tired, sporadic groan of the wooden hull. The vessel had to be moored against the riverbank.
Most likely in Waset or not far from the city. Had his captors meant to leave him alive, thinking he would be found and rescued? Or were they planning to come back and slay him?
Was there something about his situation that he had not yet begun to understand?
Water inside a hull was normal, common to all ships.
Only time would tell how much was seeping inside. The musty smell of rotting wood was strong, indicating that the vessel was old, its condition questionable. As far as he could tell, the rats had left him alone, but that did not mean they were not skulking somewhere in the dark, waiting for him to die. Or waiting to abandon ship, should it begin to sink.
He sat up abruptly, awakening the demon in his head. He had to get off the vessel. Fast.
The pain, the dizziness, a hint of nausea forced him to wait, to sit quietly until the throbbing eased and the world around him stopped spinning. When at last he could think clearly, he realized he had a decision to make. Should he try to find a hatch and attempt to climb out, bound as he was?