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.
Bak swung his shield up and ducked sideways. The arrow struck the wooden frame and dropped into the water.
Glimpsing Userhet seating a second missile, he dived in among the reeds. Dirt swirled up from the bottom, clouding water that reached to his waist. The long, tough stems grabbed his spear and shield, entangling them. He freed the spear, though the weapon was close to useless in the thick tangle of vegetation.
A man with a scythe peered out from among the trees. Userhet swung the bow toward the new target, and the farmer slipped out of sight. The overseer swung back and released the arrow, which thunked into the shield, piercing the cowhide half a hand’s breadth from the grip. Bak jerked his hand away and ducked lower. A third arrow and a fourth struck within moments of each other, forcing the shield deeper into the thicket.
With Userhet’s attention diverted to the shield, Bak decided the time had come to even the odds a bit. The spear would hamper his mission, so he found a suitable spot an arm’s length from where he stood and rammed the point into the mud, letting the shaft rise among the tall reeds. Visible to him, invisible to anyone unaware of its presence. Near enough to the shallows that he could reach it should he need it.
Crouching low, he struck off for deeper water, slipping through the reeds, trying not to set their crowns to waving any more than normal in the breeze. The mud squished up between his toes, a root caught at an ankle, tiny water creatures tickled his legs. He edged past the last of the reeds, the bottom fell away, and he was in open water. An arrow sped past his head so close he heard its whisper. He dived beneath the surface.
A dozen swift strokes propelled him to Userhet’s skiff.
Taking care to keep his head down, he waded in among the reeds and alongside to the prow. An arrow sped over him, slicing through the vegetation and into the water. He crouched lower. A second missile thudded into the skiff, a hairsbreadth from his face. He ducked beneath the prow and came up on the far side, placing the skiff between himself and Userhet. Pulling his dagger free, he sawed through the rope holding the boat in place. He hated to release it-it looked to be a fine vessel-but he dared not leave it for Userhet. Clinging to the skiff, using it as a shield, he walked it out to deep water. A final hard shove sent the boat into the current, its prow swung around, and it floated downstream.
“Spawn of Set!” Userhet bellowed, and he fired off an arrow that sped across the water’s surface an arm’s length from Bak’s head.
Bak spotted Imsiba standing in the shallows some distance beyond Userhet, bow in hand. Men, women, and children, half-hidden among the branches, stood all along the shore, watching the contest. They barred the overseer from the open desert, but they also prevented Imsiba from using his weapon.
“Give up, Userhet!” Bak called.
“Never!”
With a defiant sneer, the overseer waded downstream, 264 / Lauren Haney keeping close to the reeds and far enough from the farmers to evade a sudden attack. His golden flesh gleamed in the last rays of the setting sun. It took Bak a moment to realize he was heading toward the shield-and the spear he must have spotted among the reeds.
Bak drew in air, dived underwater, and sped upriver. He surfaced to look for the path he had made on his outbound journey through the thicket. Userhet fired off another arrow.
The missile sliced through the flesh of Bak’s lower arm. The blood flowing from the shallow wound washed away when he dived once again. His feet struck bottom and he plunged headlong into the vague line of bent and broken reeds already falling back into place.
Userhet saw him coming and dived toward the shield.
Jerking it free, he slapped at the surrounding reeds, searching for the spear. Bak reached out, grabbed. He felt the cool, wet flesh of an arm, but lost it an instant later. Userhet ducked away and splashed back toward shallow water. Bak reached out a second time, and stumbled. His hand closed on Userhet’s bow. The overseer tried to hold onto the weapon, but Bak wrenched it away. Regaining his balance, he flung the bow, useless without arrows, toward the water beyond the reeds.
Userhet looked around frantically for a weapon. He located Bak’s spear and jerked it from the mud where it stood. Bak ran at him, caught the weapon a hand’s breadth from the point. Userhet held the spear in both hands, twisting, jerking, trying to pull it free, while Bak held on with only a single hand. The wooden shaft was slick and muddy, hard to hang onto. Bak’s fingers slid along the wood; he could feel the sharpened edge of the blade against his wrist. He was close to losing the weapon and he knew it. He lunged forward and caught the shaft with his free hand.
The two men stood facing each other, ankle deep in muck and tangled roots, holding the shaft vertically between them, the sharp blade at head level. They pulled and twisted and shoved. The long shaft caught among the roots, became entangled in reeds, making it hard to move in any useful way-almost as if it had taken on a life of its own.
Userhet shoved the blade toward Bak’s face. Cursing the overseer, the weapon, the muck, Bak ducked backward and twisted the shaft. Userhet, his face grim and determined, his neck muscles taut with strain, forced the blade back toward his opponent’s face. Again Bak ducked backward. He could feel himself tiring, the muscles in his arms and legs aching, a reminder of the effort expended in digging open the tomb.
He knew he must soon free the spear or Userhet’s greater store of strength would win the battle.
Userhet must have sensed his opponent’s weakness. A stiff, mean smile touched his lips and abruptly he shoved the spear at Bak. Bak stumbled back, tripping on a root. Userhet pressed harder. Bak dropped to a knee, regaining his balance, and at the same time pulled the spear over his head-in the same direction Userhet was pushing. Stumbling forward, the overseer reached out to catch himself. Bak jerked the weapon away and scrambled backwards, giving himself room. Userhet, eyes blazing with fury charged. Bak struggled to his feet and, holding the weapon much too close to the blade, swung it up and around.