Cold drove away the last vestiges of sleep as the first vague fingers of light breached the eastern horizon. An archer had already brought to life the fire contained within the rough mudbrick hearth and was sitting beside it, ab sorbing its warmth. Lying close were the two dogs that had accompanied Bak and Pashenuro to Rona’s village. Bak knelt with them and held his hands over the heat. How
Nebwa and the others could dream on, he had no idea.
He was almost warm when the dogs looked up, ears erect and tails brushing arcs on the sand. He turned to see a smiling Pashenuro and Pawah weaving their way through the sleeping caravan. Both wore leather kilts and, over their shoulders for warmth, the woolly hides of sheep discolored with dirt so they would be less visible in the dark. Relief swept through him. He offered a silent prayer of thanks and stood to greet them.
While the archer brought a bowl of milk and food left over from the evening meal, Bak awakened Nebwa. Ar ranging themselves around the hearth, they shared hard flat tish loaves of bread and cold boiled fish.
“The encampment was easy to find,” Pashenuro said.
“It’s in the desert west of Shelfak, as Rona said, encircled by low sand hills. Everyone along the river knows its whereabouts. The campfires can be seen from any good sized knoll. No one would dare attack so big a force, so they take few precautions.”
“Don’t they have sentries?” Nebwa asked, his voice gruff from sleep and the ill-humor of being awakened too fast.
“Yes, sir, but men too innocent to be wary. The one I spoke with was a good, honest soul drawn into a fight for which he has no enthusiasm.”
Bak tried to look stern, an effort not entirely successful.
“Did I not tell you to watch from afar, not infiltrate their ranks?”
“We practically stumbled over him, sir. I thought it safer not to run.” The Medjay grinned at Pawah. “He thought me a man who couldn’t speak and my son slow-witted and harmless.”
Pawah, unable to contain himself, burst in, “I could un derstand him, sir. Not every word, but enough.”
“You must thank the lord Amon,” Bak said, winking at
Nebwa. “The troop captain and I spent half the night on our knees before Amonked’s personal shrine.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Did you really?”
Nebwa laughed, making a lie of the tale. “You did well,
I’ll wager. Now what did you learn?”
Pashenuro tore apart a chunk of bread, dunked both pieces in the milk, and threw them at the dogs, who gobbled them up in a bite and looked to him for more. “We spoke first with the sentry, making him believe we had no special curiosity, no place in particular to go, nothing of note to do.” The Medjay would not be rushed, as Bak had long ago learned. “After he let us go on our way, we sneaked around the encampment in the dark. Approaching from an other direction, taking care not to be discovered a second time, we crept as close as we could. We wished to see them for ourselves, to hear their talk of the battle they face.”
“Go on,” Nebwa growled, picking bones from a chunk of fish.
“We couldn’t see much,” Pashenuro admitted. “The fires burned bright, but the men were shadows walking hither and yon with no special purpose. We couldn’t begin to count their numbers. If the sentry is to be believed, they’ve a fighting force of over four hundred men.”
Bak sat quite still, a piece of soggy bread poised halfway between the bowl of milk and his mouth. “That’s twice the size of our force, including the soldiers from Askut.”
The Medjay spread his hands wide and shrugged, a silent reminder that he was only repeating what he had been told.
“He claimed he heard Hor-pen-Deshret utter the number with his own lips, speaking to a tribal chieftain of note.”
“We’d best pray he was exaggerating,” Bak said, his face grim.
“We mean to go back after midday, when we can see for ourselves.” Pashenuro spoke as casually as if he and the boy were going down to the river to fish.
Bak could not reject the offer; knowing the size of the enemy force was crucial. “This time you’ll tell Amonked,” he told Pawah, his tone severe. “He was very annoyed last night when he learned you’d slipped away without a word.”
“Could you tell how well they’re armed?” Nebwa asked.
“We know only what the sentry told us.” Pashenuro spat out a fish bone. “He claimed never to have seen so many spears, bows and arrows, shields, and small weapons, all in good condition.”
“Humph.”
“How do they feel about the upcoming clash?” Bak asked.
“They talk a lot to bolster their own courage.” The Med jay glanced up as two archers came close for warmth and to listen. “Pawah heard a half-dozen dialects. My guess is they’re a motley crowd, with nothing in common but the lure of wealth. I doubt any have thought of the small por tion they’ll get when divided among so many men, with
Hor-pen-Deshret getting the greater share.”
Bak swallowed a bite of fish and threw what was left to the dogs. “If they’ve been pulled together from many dif ferent locations and they’ve had no time for training, they’ll not fight as an organized unit, as a true army must.”
“Such is my feeling, sir.”
“We’ve been talking around the real question,” Nebwa said. “When do they plan to attack?”
“They meant at first to wait until the caravan neared
Shelfak, striking when we were spread out along the desert trail.” A smile flitted across Pashenuro’s face. “However, a rumor has reached them about a treasure to be placed on a ship soon to reach Askut. Hor-pen-Deshret wants to march north today and set upon us here in the valley, while the older and wiser chieftains urge patience. They were arguing when we left. If they do come today-and I believe greed will win out-they’ll strike an hour or two before sunset.
They must, for they know we’d hear of their coming and they’d be open to attack if they camp nearby overnight.”
“They’ll be tired after a long day’s march,” Nebwa said,
“and we’ve a trick or two we think will even the odds.”
“So a clash is imminent.” Amonked dropped onto a stool next to his disheveled sleeping pallet, located beside Nef ret’s tent. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
The young woman peered out from the shelter, her face pale and frightened. “We’ll all die,” she whimpered un heeded. “I know we will.”
“I’ve known of Hor-pen-Deshret for a long time, sir.”
Seshu, his face clouded with worry, stood before the in spector with Bak, Nebwa, and Pashenuro. “He doesn’t give up easily, especially when he feels the goal to be of suffi cient worth.”
“I know, Seshu, I know.” Amonked spoke with a sharp edge of impatience. “You warned me in Buhen that I should travel with fewer amenities, and I failed to listen.”
Horhotep, standing beside the tent, scowled at the quartet from Buhen. “I simply can’t believe a petty tribal chieftain would have the audacity to face off against the royal house of the land of Kemet.”
“Believe it, Lieutenant!” Nebwa waved off three ap proaching drovers carrying flint chips, leather thongs, and other bits and pieces with which to continue their weapons making effort. He pointed them toward Sennefer, who had moved his makeshift armory some distance away.
“We must take shelter within the walls of Askut,” the adviser said, “taking with us the animals and all they carry, leaving nothing behind for those wretched tribesmen to steal.”
“And let Hor-pen-Deshret besiege us?” Nebwa laughed, harsh and cynical. “I think not. The fortress has been un dermanned and poorly equipped for many years. They store sufficient supplies for only their own men and animals, with barely enough extra to help out the rare caravan in need.
We’d get exceedingly hungry awaiting relief, even if for merely a few days.”