Path of Shadows lb-8 Page 10

  “I must speak with you, Wensu.” Bak lifted the young man’s waterbag, inadvertently trailing sand along the youth’s leg, and moved it into the sun so he could sit in its place.

  Clearly annoyed, Wensu brushed away the sand and moved the waterbag back into the shade, placing it on top of a basket of clothing and toiletries. “I’m not accustomed to rising so early in the morning, Lieutenant, nor am I used to walking so far. I’m tired and need to rest.”

  Unimpressed, lacking in sympathy, Bak said, “I never had the good fortune to meet Minnakht. If I’m to find him, I must know how he looks. Can you describe him for me?”

  Wensu appeared torn, reluctant to give up his petulant atti tude but eager to speak of the man he had admired above all others. The latter won out. “He’s an admirable man, one who lives a life of adventure and excitement. A brave man, who daily risks his life so our sovereign and the noble ladies of our kingdom can bedeck themselves as befits their lofty sta tions in life.”

  Bak wondered if Wensu’s father had risen through the scribal ranks by spouting similar trite phrases to his superi ors. “I seek Minnakht’s physical description, not your assess ment of his character.”

  If Wensu noticed the cynicism, he gave no hint. “I see.”

  The wrinkled brow, the slight frown, made Bak wonder ex actly how well the youth remembered the man he professed to admire so much. “He’s a fine figure of a man, much taller than average and broad shouldered, as well formed as a statue of our sovereign’s deceased husband, the Osiris Akheperenre

  Thutmose. He has short dark hair, piercing eyes as black as night, and the sun-darkened skin of an outdoorsman.”

  “What was he wearing when last you saw him?”

  “A thigh-length linen kilt. A very fine broad beaded collar and bracelets. A lovely gold chain from which hung amulets representing the ibex, gazelle, and falcon.” Wensu gave Bak a supercilious look. “You’ll not find him adorned like that out here, Lieutenant.”

  No, Bak agreed. What Wensu had described was finery one would expect a young man of substance to wear in

  Waset. He wondered if the gold chain was the same as the bronze chain Ani had noticed, the lesser metal turned to gold under the uncritical eye of the young admirer. “Did he reveal anything of himself to you?”

  “He told me a few of his many exploits. He spoke of the time he climbed the red mountain, which he said was the tallest in the Eastern Desert. And the time he got caught up in a flash flood and…”

  “Did he speak his innermost thoughts?” Bak cut in. “Did he tell you of his dreams, his fears, his failures?”

  “Failures? Fears?” Wensu looked shocked at the very idea.

  “I doubt he fails at anything he attempts. I’m certain he fears nothing.”

  Bak prayed to the lord Amon for patience. The youth was so blinded by admiration that he refused to see Minnakht as an ordinary man with ordinary feelings and dreams. “Other than his love of adventure, did he give any reason for spend ing so much time in the desert and so little time at home in the capital?”

  “His father is a commander in the army, assigned to the garrison at Waset.” A look of contempt fell upon Wensu’s face. “An overbearing man, he is, one who wants Minnakht to walk in his footsteps. Where he should support his son’s explorations, he never ceases to argue in favor of the army.”

  Interesting, Bak thought. Inebny’s every word and action had made him seem a doting father, inordinately proud of his son and the young man’s journeys into the desert. Had Min nakht truly believed his father disapproved of him? Or had he created an image that would appeal to Wensu, one whose fa ther pushed him to rise through the ranks of the scribal hier archy. Or had Wensu heard what he wished to hear?

  As the sun moved westward, the shade widened, shelter ing both men and animals from the burning heat. A light breeze blew up the wadi, stirring the air but offering no relief.

  Everyone slept except Rona and Nebre, who each took a turn standing watch. When Bak relieved Rona at midafternoon, the Medjay reported that all was quiet, the wadi deserted. A couple of times, he had heard pebbles fall down the cliff face, but had seen nothing on the rim above.

  Seated alone in the sparse shade of an acacia, Bak mulled over the inconsistent and ofttimes contradictory descriptions of Minnakht. He tried to blend them together to recreate the man in his thoughts. A dozen images came and went, none in which he had any confidence.

  They were slow to leave the shade. A donkey had stepped on a stone early in the day, but had given no sign. After walk ing on it for several hours and embedding it deeper in his hoof, it had begun to bother him. When the drover began to load him, he favored the one leg. The drover tried to dig out the stone, but succeeded only in hurting the animal and mak ing it fractious. User finally ordered the man away, ap proached the donkey with gentle words and hands, and performed the task, exercising an unexpected gentleness and patience.

  By this time, Bak had begun to worry about Kaha and

  Minmose. He had heard nothing from them since they had walked up the wadi before daybreak. As if to justify his fears, he more than once saw Nebre and Rona looking up or down the wadi and at the clifftops to either side, their faces clouded by worry.

  With the lord Re an hour above the western horizon, preparing to descend into the netherworld, and the caravan already on the move, the two Medjays appeared far up the wadi. Instead of walking down the dry watercourse to meet the caravan, as they normally would have done, the pair sat down in the first patch of shade they found and waited. Their decision to rest told Bak truer than words how tired they were.

  He grabbed a goatskin waterbag and hurried on ahead of the caravan. The pair made motions of rising as he ap proached, but he signaled them to remain where they were.

  He handed the waterbag to Kaha, who drank from it greedily.

  As he had suspected, after so many hours walking the hot and barren land, their waterbag was empty.

  “What kept you?” he asked.

  Kaha wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bag to Minmose. “Where yesterday we found a few isolated footprints at widespread points overlooking the wadi, today we found a multitude of tracks. Not here, but far ther upstream. We spent much of the day following them.”

  “They were fresh?”

  “Each print was distinct, not blurred by time. I’d guess a day or two at most.”

  Bak imagined the rough terrain to either side of the wadi.

  No man would choose the much more difficult path over the sandy floor of the dry watercourse without good reason. He did not like the implication. “You say a multitude. Can you be more specific?”

  “Fifteen to twenty men,” Minmose said. “Possibly more.”

  Kaha’s expression was grim. “Men alone, with no women or children.”

  Bak muttered an oath. “Warriors, do you think?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Nomads?”

  Minmose nodded. “Most were barefooted. A few wore sandals that were old and worn.”

  “Was the watching man among them?”

  “No, sir,” Kaha said. “I looked specifically for the print of his sandal, but never found it.”

  “Our caravan is small,” Bak said, thinking aloud. “Fifteen men total, with just six of us equipped and trained to fight.

  Why did they not wait for our approach? I wonder.”

  “They may have thought our force stronger than it is,”

  Minmose said. “Maybe they went off to get more men.

  Kaha broke the long silence that followed that dire predic tion. “We thought to follow them, to find their camp, but af ter leaving this wadi, they scattered. None took the same path as any other, but in general they went in a northeasterly di rection. Heeding your orders not to go too far afield, we fol lowed none for longer than an hour. Each time we had to return to this wadi to pick up another trail. With so much go ing and coming, we were able to follow five men, no more.”


  “No wonder you came back exhausted.”

  “One thing we know for a fact: not a man among them re mained behind.”

  Bak thought of the falling pebbles Rona had heard and was not so confident.

  The wadi narrowed further. The pale glow of sunset faded from the sky, replaced by the light of the moon and a magnif icent display of stars. Bak, walking with Senna at the head of the caravan, felt as if he were traveling up a river of silvery sand running between high walls of sandstone whose stria tions had lost their color with the setting sun, turning to shades of gray. Boulders and stones fallen from above were islets rising from the streambed, and wind-formed ripples in the sand had become minute swells whose form was fixed in time. The soft plop-plop of the donkeys’ hooves were like bubbles bursting in water.

  The section of wadi through which they were walking was beautiful, magical almost, but he looked forward to a safer stretch of landscape. The men who had left the footprints

  Kaha and Minmose had found had come to the wadi for a reason. That reason had to be the caravan. Since they had not shown themselves, he had to assume the worst.

  “We must camp tonight well out in the open,” he said,

  “where alert guards can spot in the moonlight any approach ing men and where boulders can’t fall from above. How long must we travel to find such a place?”

  He had earlier told his Medjays, User, and both nomad guides of all Kaha and Minmose had seen. Senna had evi dently given some thought to their situation:

  “In a half hour or so, we’ll reach a long bend in the wadi. It gradually widens out until we come upon a line of trees.

  They grow along the latest channel to be cut through the an cient streambed, near the center of the wadi. We’ll sleep there, where…”

  The guide’s words were lost to the rumble of a falling boulder and a smattering of smaller stones. A huge rock struck the wadi floor not ten paces ahead of the two men, sending a burst of dust and shards into the air. Other rocks began to fall, thundering down the cliffside and crashing onto the wadi floor. Senna froze. Bak grabbed his arm and hustled him toward the opposing cliff. The foremost donkey, not far behind, cried out in fear and tried to jerk away from

  Minmose, who was leading the string of animals. The Med jay whacked it on the shoulder with his short whip, frighten ing it further.

  Shoving Senna forward, Bak grabbed the rope halter and shouted at Minmose to use the whip on the animal’s flank. As the lash snapped against its flesh, the donkey shot across the sand, nearly running Bak down and half-dragging the six an 100

  Lauren Haney imals roped together in a line behind. Rona grabbed the hal ter of the last donkey, urging it forward, and screamed a blood-curdling cry to keep the string moving. Within mo ments, they reached the center of the wadi and safety.

  By this time, boulders and rocks were falling all along the southern rim of the cliff above the strung-out caravan. The larger missiles struck the earth with a solid thud, settling into the deep carpet of sand. Others fell with a clatter, striking the boulders among which they fell and the stones scattered along the wadi floor. Many burst upon impact, sending sharp bits of stone flying in all directions. The donkeys in User’s string brayed and snorted and squealed, terrified by the noise, by the heavy boulders crashing down and the bursts of shards. Guide and drovers cursed and yelled at the animals, pulling and shoving and whipping them toward the opposite side of the wadi, away from the danger. Psuro, Nebre, and

  Kaha ran to help.

  Bak looked upward toward the top of the cliff down which the stones were plummeting. He glimpsed men standing on the rim, pushing the rocks over the edge. The nomads Kaha and Minmose had tried all day to find, he felt sure. They must have come a day or so before to seek out the best place from which to attack. They had gone away, leaving conspicuous and confusing tracks for the Medjays to follow, and had re turned by way of a circuitous route to await the caravan. Were they all above, shoving rocks over the rim? Or were a goodly number waiting around the bend to set upon the caravan?

  Fearing another attack from the opposing cliff, Bak yelled at Rona and Minmose to hold the frightened donkeys in the middle of the wadi. Senna ran to help. Bak swung around, thinking to offer aid to User, but the other, larger string of an imals had been brought under control and the nomad drovers and Medjays were hustling them well away from the cliff and the stones plummeting down.

  With nothing left below to hurt or destroy, the number of rocks falling from above gradually lessened, and the sounds of impact grew sporadic.

  “Help! Help!”

  Bak glanced quickly around, fearing someone had been caught in the barrage. The men and donkeys strung along the wadi floor were tense and uneasy, but none were missing and none seemed to be hurt.

  “Help!”

  Rona, Minmose, and Senna flung him a startled look.

  They, too, had heard the call. It had come from up the wadi in the direction they had been traveling.

  Bak ran toward the sound and Senna followed close be hind. A third cry for help drew them to a steep and narrow cut in the northern wall of the wadi. The moon beamed down from the far end, throwing its light on the rocky floor of the ravine and pockets of sand that had collected in the low spots.

  About midway, a man half-crouched on a strip of sand. He looked to be injured and appeared to be trying to get away.

  “I’ll see what I can do for him,” Bak said. “Go tell Psuro where I’ve gone.”

  While Senna hurried to obey, Bak climbed upward. The floor of the cut was steep, and a tumble of craggy rocks slowed him down to a hard, fast scramble. He had a vague impression of rough walls to either side and the moon hang ing dead center of the opening at the top. A vague thought struck that this man might be Minnakht, but as he neared the figure, he realized he was a nomad.

  He knelt beside the man. “You called for help. What…?”

  A blow struck him on the side of the head and the world around him went black.

  Chapter 7

  Bak heard voices, men speaking softly in a tongue he did not understand. He opened his eyes but could see no one. His head throbbed, the pain radiating out from a spot above his left ear. He had no memory, could not imagine where he was or how he had gotten there. He lay on his stomach on a warm bed of sand, his right cheek pressed against the grit. The world around him was dark and he faced a stone wall. His hands were behind him tied at the wrists.

  He tried to roll onto his side. A sharp voice-a reprimand or an order-cut through the murmurs. He heard the rustle of movement and a strong hand clutched his shoulder to hold him down. He tried to struggle free. A sharp blow brought him up short, sending agonies of pain through his head, ex tracting a moan from him.

  He lay unmoving, letting the pain ebb. Bits and pieces of his life began to creep into his thoughts. The desert. The

  Eastern Desert. Walking at the head of a caravan up a gradu ally narrowing wadi. Rocks falling all along the wall of the watercourse. Men and donkeys scrambling for safety.

  Afraid for them, he struggled to rise, to go to them. A spat out warning and another clout, a fresh wave of pain so sharp it took his breath away. He lay as if paralyzed, waiting for the torment to subside, wondering how he had gotten himself into such a dreadful situation.

  He thought he heard the hoof of a horse strike stone.

  Surely not. Not out here. Not in this desert where the lowly donkey served man’s needs. Not… Memory came flooding back: a man calling for help, running up the wadi with

  Senna, the man in the ravine. He cursed himself for a fool.

  How could he have let himself be led into what had clearly been a trap?

  What had happened to the caravan? To his Medjays? To the other men and the donkeys? Had they all been slain? Or had the falling stones been a distraction, giving these men the chance to snare him?

  Was this what had happened to Minnakht? To the man who vanished almost a year ago?

  A man hissed, silencing the murmurs
. Bak felt the tension around him and strained to hear. Other than soft breathing and the thud of a hoof in the sand, the world was silent. He had a feeling they were hiding, allowing other men to pass them by. His Medjays searching for him. Praying fervently to the lord Amon that such was the case, that his men were alive and well, he tried to roll over, to call out. A callused hand came down hard on his mouth, muffling him. Another man dropped onto his thighs, pinning him to the ground.

  How long they remained so still and quiet, he had no idea.

  A long time, long enough for his legs to grow numb. Gradu ally the tension eased and the voice of the man Bak took to be the leader issued a quiet but firm order. The man on Bak’s legs stood up and he and the one who had silenced him moved away.

  Bak rolled from his stomach to his side. No one seemed to notice. From his improved position, he could see that he was in a rough, natural enclosure of boulders, with an overhang forming a roof of sorts. Three men stood at the far side, look ing out toward the starry sky and what Bak supposed was a wadi. Nomads, he took them to be.

  A donkey stood deep inside the enclosure, held there by a fourth man. No, the creature was too big to be a donkey. A horse? Out here in the Eastern Desert? A horse wouldn’t sur vive a month in so hot and dry a place, with forage too rough for all but the hardiest of animals.

  No sooner had he rejected the possibility than the creature turned its head and flicked its long ears. In other, better cir cumstances, he would have laughed. It was neither donkey nor horse, yet it carried the blood of both. It was a mule. A creature of which Bak had little knowledge. It would be stur dier and hardier than a horse, he assumed, but not much bet ter adapted to this barren land. What were these nomads doing with a mule?

  The man in charge barked out a command to the others, who abandoned their observation spot to gather together goatskin waterbags and weapons, preparing to move on.

  Eyeing Bak, the leader took from a ragged bundle a pottery container much like a beer jar and removed a hardened mud plug held tight by a square of fabric. He crossed the rough floor of the enclosure, knelt, held the jar to his prisoner’s mouth, and signaled him to drink. Thirst vying with mistrust,