Servant of the Gods Read online

“Days, priestess,” the woman said, her dark eyes worried and frightened. “I put poultices on them, my lady, but they didn’t help.”

  Lifting her head, Irisi looked across the grounds to where Saini stood washing his hands at a basin. They all washed their hands and arms after touching each patient.

  “Saini,” she called, “would you come look at this?”

  He glanced at her, his face darkening at her summons, but he came as she’d known he would. Courtesy demanded no less of him.

  Once she’d been fond of Saini and he of her, but his increasing displeasure at Banafrit’s preference in a successor had become obvious and it had made things between them difficult.

  “What caused this?” she asked the woman as Saini joined them. “Do you know?”

  Clearly terrified, the woman shook her head. “It came from darkness that was not night. We heard the screams of the others and saw the darkness like a black cloud, like smoke come to earth, come toward us. Something was in it, was in that cloud. We gathered everything we could and ran. The screams of the others were terrible. Ashai fell behind, burdened. He cried out…the darkness was close behind him…”

  Her voice trailed off, her eyes wide.

  “Saini,” Irisi said to the older healer, “have you ever seen anything like this?”

  The wound was terribly infected, yet the cuts appeared clean.

  Frowning a little, looking carefully at the gouges but he was clearly as puzzled as she. Saini shook his head.

  Irisi looked out over the plaza. Far more people sought aid than usual.

  Something out of the darkness…a cloud come to earth… Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

  “Would you take care of him for me?” she asked Saini. “You’re the better healer.”

  It cost her little to say so. It was no more than the truth and gave him less to complain of her.

  Even so, she went in search of Banafrit, finding her in her quarters with her husband Awan, the High Priest of Osiris. As befitted the Gods they served, they were also devoted husband and wife.

  With a small bow to each, Irisi asked, “Have you heard the tales from the south and west?”

  Banafrit said, “We were just speaking of that. All of the temples are seeing it, and hearing the stories.”

  “Why hasn’t the King responded?” Irisi asked.

  “That,” Banafrit said tersely, with a glance toward Awan, “is a very good question.”

  One to which she had as yet no answer.

  Her own requests to meet with the King had gone unanswered. Kamenwati simply stated the King had other matters on his mind.

  What matters other than the welfare of Egypt? Banafrit wondered.

  The assassination attempt had been some weeks past now. No other attacks had been forthcoming.

  Banafrit’s gaze went to Awan.

  The bodies of the acrobats had been revealing. All had suffered some form of abuse before their deaths and they’d stunk of dark magic.

  Despite all the Gods did for humankind, there were those who always wanted more, sought more, some who were drawn to darkness and some who reveled in it.

  None so much as Kamenwati.

  Banafrit sighed.

  It wasn’t proof, though, and no one who knew from whence the acrobats had come. They’d appeared in Thebes, but no one knew from where, and they’d performed in the streets for coins. Thus Kamenwati was said to have found them.

  The question remained, though.

  Why hadn’t the King responded?

  Khai, too, wanted an answer to that question. Why hadn’t he been ordered southwest in response to the reports they heard? Enough came from there to have him concerned. If he was hearing it, then so were others. Why hadn’t the King responded?

  Akhom wouldn’t move without orders from the King and, as he was chief among the Generals, if he wouldn’t move Khai couldn’t either.

  Pacing his tent, Khai considered all he’d heard.

  There were enough reports to demand some kind of action. If he couldn’t send the entire army without the order of the King, he could certainly send a unit to investigate. Even Akhom with his protocols and procedures couldn’t quarrel with that.

  He summoned one of his captains.

  “Adjo,” he said, “I want you to go south and west.”

  He saw the relief on the man’s face.

  It was clear the rumors had reached him as well; so much that even the common soldiers had heard them. They’d probably known before Khai had. So be it.

  “I need information to take to the King,” Khai said, “go quickly and go quietly. Return and speak only to me.”

  With a salute, Adjo ran out, calling for his men.

  Now, Khai had only to wait until Adjo returned.

  Once upon a time, it would have been he who rode out to investigate. He found at times like these that he missed those days. Everything had been simpler then. And he wouldn’t have to wait, he would know.

  Those days hadn’t been so long ago.

  He longed now and then for someone to talk to as he had those nights years ago when Irisi had been with him, her all unknowing of what he said. Or so he’d thought.

  Another memory of those days came to him, of a warrior who’d become the lovely golden-haired priestess but before she’d become that priestess, her skin pale against his. He remembered her touch on his skin, the look on her face and in her eyes when she’d lifted them and her body to meet his, and smiled…

  So beautiful...

  They’d fought well together that night in the King’s palace.

  He looked out into the night and wondered if she dreamed of him as well?

  The ring of metal, the thunder of hooves and the rumble of wheels on the sand going south drew his attention south and westward, to what lay out in the gathering night…

  Chapter Thirteen

  South and west to the very edges of the broad flood plain of the Nile, Adjo and his charioteers rode, passing the steadily growing stream of refugees. They asked no questions of the folk they passed. It was enough that they saw the wounds, the weariness and strain on the faces of those who stumbled to the east and north. Whatever they needed to know was etched on those faces. Soon they would learn it for themselves, see it with their own eyes. As it was they made better time than the army could have, not being restricted to the pace of the foot soldiers. It felt good to let the horses stretch their legs and to ride with the wind in their hair.

  They camped that night at the edge of the desert.

  To their shock, the refugees didn’t. Many staggered onward although they were clearly on their last legs. Some looked back over their shoulders with dread, seeming to fear the very night itself as it gathered and settled over them. They rushed to put distance between themselves and what lay behind them. Some few, too exhausted to continue, huddled at the outer reaches of the small encampment Adjo and his men set, clinging to the reassurance of the light of the campfire, but ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

  It was a little unnerving and more than a little unsettling.

  Even so, the night passed without incident.

  By daylight, with their night fears vanished. Adjo and his men rode on with confidence.

  The southwestern fort with its towering walls appeared on their horizon. They lifted their hands in greeting to those who manned the walls as they skirted the massive structure. It was no surprise, though, to see the gate closed and the people who defended the fort armed, archers standing with their bows at ready.

  They would certainly have heard the tales the refugees told, Adjo had no doubt. It was there in their stance, in the tautness of their bows.

  From the walls of the fort, a great shout went up to see men of the Kind’s army going south and west. At last, by all appearances, the King had responded.

  Adjo hadn’t the heart to disabuse them of the notion, to tell them it was General Khai and not the King who’d sent them. Instead, he lifted his hand in salute as he and his men passed.
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  They circled the fort, following the train of refugees south and west as those unfortunates streamed east-northeast toward Thebes.

  Slowly the sun lowered toward the horizon.

  It was only then Adjo noticed a strange dark cloud in the far distance where no dark cloud should be.

  It lay too low to the ground and seemed to move counter to the wind. The sun was setting though, settling low on the horizon, so perhaps it was only a trick of the eye, an illusion, an odd shadow cast by a hill or mountain or by the strange, slanted light of the setting sun. Perhaps it was only his imagination that forged a darkness where none existed.

  It was enough explanation for Adjo. He thought.

  Even so, it was distracting… He found that his eyes were drawn to it. It made him uneasy.

  Still, they weren’t close to the villages that had suffered the most so there was still plenty of time before he had something to worry him. He and his men would stay the night in the next village and then ride to their destination in the morning when it was light. The thought comforted him. Despite himself, he found himself infected with the fear of the refugees and the thought of the darkness to come made him uncomfortable.

  The folk of the village, too, seemed more than happy to see them, finding a place for them for the night. The headman and his wife gave up their own home so Adjo and his men might find rest. To have men of the King’s army among them appeared to ease some of their fears.

  Some, but not all.

  They’d built up their walls, and every piece of wood, bundle of papyrus or reeds they could spare had been dipped in pitch and lit against the coming darkness, wasting precious fuel these folk couldn’t easily spare. Dung fires burned everywhere pitch did not. Doors were barred at night as they never had been in the past.

  These people were afraid.

  Despite that, Adjo and his men settled in for the night, Adjo confident they had until the morrow before they had to concern themselves with conflict.

  The first outcry in the night woke them and swiftly disabused him of that notion.

  Accustomed to battle, they reached automatically for their weapons, bewildered but alert as alarm shot through them at the sounds that came from beyond the doorway.

  A woman screamed in mortal terror, the sound bone-chilling. Another voice cried out in horror. Men and women wailed in grief, fear and dread.

  Leaping to his feet, Adjo flung open the door to watch shadows stream out of the night like fire-less smoke. Things with teeth and claws were half-seen amidst the darkness but not imagined. It was as if lightning-lit thunderclouds had settled to the earth, to roil and boil there. Nightmarish figures were glimpsed within those shadows – things shaped like men but with skin like the coals of a fire, hyena-faced creatures, and men of dark beauty whose savage smiles revealed maws of pointed teeth.

  That terrible cloud flowed swiftly toward Adjo, his men and the frantic villagers.

  Claws raked out from the darkness at a man who in panic fled his cottage too late. Those claws snatched him back as that terrible darkness swept into the cottage behind the man. Screams and cries of abject terror arose from within as the shadows boiled in a torrent through the entrance.

  More darkness reached for the villagers…and Adjo and his people.

  “Bari,” Adjo said, his stomach clenching at the terrible sight. “Go! Ride to Lord Khai, tell him what you’ve seen here. Go, now!”

  It said much of Adjo that he ran toward that terrible darkness and not away, and that his men followed him, putting themselves in the way of it as the villagers fled in terror.

  All of Adjo’s men but Bari watched in horror as Adjo brought up his leather shield to defend himself, slashing at what clawed at him from the shadows. Spurred by his courage the others drew their bows, their swords, to do battle with the creatures that emerged from that terrible darkness to ravage them.

  Bari fled as ordered and the darkness followed, reaching its long claws for him as well.

  He set whip to his horses that drew his chariot.

  Once only did he glance back.

  Behind him, he heard Adjo scream in rage, fury and defiance as the terrible Darkness fell over him.

  Bari nearly wept with relief at his own escape.

  After a time, nearly exhausted, he allowed the horses to slow. His head nodded as he leaned against the chariot and fought sleep.

  A great wind came up from behind them.

  The horses threw up their heads and tossed their manes as they fought the constricting reins in his hands.

  To his horror, as he looked back over his shoulder in the moonlit night he could see spurts of wind catch up the sand to blow past him, spattering against him as the breeze pressed against his skin.

  He whimpered.

  Darkness gathered, blotting out the stars.

  Fear knotted his stomach, drew his balls up close. He gave the horses their head, snapping the reins.

  They surged from a nervous canter into a full gallop in one leap, nearly toppling him from his perch in the chariot.

  He screamed in horror at the thought and snatched at the reins of the chariot to keep his place.

  Fire seemed to burn down his back as the tendrils of the darkness clawed at him…then fell behind.

  Few missed the sight of the charioteer who galloped into encampment, both horses and rider battered and bloody. Scores decorated both the charioteer’s back and the horses flanks. The animals were lathered in sweat, their lungs blown, blood staining their nostrils as their eyes rolled in pain. All those he passed recognized Bari by his hair, his bearing. They came to alert as he rode in unaccompanied, his body braced against his chariot in pain, his sweat-damp hair falling over his bowed head to conceal his face. Exhaustion showed in every line of his frame.

  He barely glanced at them, focused on one mission only.

  The commotion drew Khai from his tent.

  One look was all it took. At the sight of both horses and driver, Khai knew he needed Healers, and now.

  “Send to the temples,” Khai shouted to a messenger as he ran to intercept the pain-maddened horses, their foam-flecked sides heaving, the poor creatures nearly spent.

  A messenger sped away on fleet feet.

  The man in the chariot was nearly unrecognizable as Bari for the blood that trailed over his face. His features were a rictus of fear, pain, and dread.

  Catching the reins, Khai snared the horses on the fly, pulling their heads down, circling to keep them from running over him as others leaped to his aid.

  They eased Bari from his chariot, lowered him to the ground.

  Khai looked at the man, shaking his head in astonishment that Bari had even survived.

  The man’s back was a mass of cuts, some deep enough to make Khai flinch in reflexive pain. It was as if something had clawed at him, tried to catch him, but he’d been just out of reach.

  What of the others? Where were Adjo and the rest of the troop of soldiers he’d sent?

  The others eased him over, one cradling him in the curve of his arm while another ran for water.

  “What happened, man?” Khai demanded, kneeling beside his wounded soldier.

  Pain and fever-hazed eyes looked up at him. That gaze was terrible – wide, bewildered and horrified. Bari’s voice when he answered was a choked whisper.

  “They came out of the desert, my Lord Khai, terrible things. They came out of the darkness. Some were like hyenas, some not. Other things came out of the darkness, out of the smoke, with teeth and claws…”

  “What of Adjo, the others…?”

  Bari looked up at him, his eyes grieving and horrified. “Gone. Dead, my Lord. They’re all dead. It came in the night and it was terrible. I heard such screams as I never thought to hear…”

  He shuddered.

  Khai could feel the heat, the infection that burned within the man.

  Only days had passed since they’d left. How could he have become so ill so quickly?

  Khai looked at the woun
ds and saw them become more enflamed as he watched. Bari shivered with the fever that burned in him. In dismay, Khai sat back on his heels as the man convulsed in his arms.

  By the time Sekhmet’s priest reached them, it was too late, Bari was dead.

  A whole squad had been wiped out and Khai still didn’t know what killed them.

  Something from the darkness, Bari had said.

  It made no sense. A product of Bari’s fever? Or something else?

  Khai’s petitions to the King went unanswered.

  Akhom would do nothing without the King’s consent but Akhom was in the north where he saw and heard none of this.

  Khai looked at his dead soldier. He’d been a good man.

  Adjo had been, too.

  If he hadn’t returned, then that much of Bari’s story was true. Adjo was dead and the others with him. Good men, all.

  What could he do? Pray to the Gods of Egypt for help?

  Perhaps. But not where there was a chance that those of the Temples might be of more assistance. Perhaps they had the King’s ear in ways he did not.

  All he could do was try. He wouldn’t sacrifice any more of his men for anything less.

  Frowning, Awan, Kahotep, Djeserit and Banafrit listened as General Khai spoke, Banafrit looking out from the veranda on the upper floor of Isis’s temple. Her eyes turned toward the southwestern sky, seeing the far distant shadow that gathered there. It was less a shadow, though, than a lack of light or perhaps a growth of darkness, a thing more of spirit than the world.

  Khai spoke nothing less than the truth.

  In the courtyard below her were the pallets of the refugees who had managed to reach them so far. More arrived with each passing day.

  She let out a sigh, looking at Djeserit, who stood in the shadows nearby.

  Being Sekhmet’s priestess, Djeserit had seen the cloud of darkness for some time, she had spoken of it.

  Now she simply nodded, saying nothing, her heart heavy.

  All of them could see it now, as Djeserit did, as Banafrit did, a darkness that stained the far horizon.

  Banafrit took a breath, her gaze turning to Kahotep, High Priest of Horus. He had the clearest Sight. His was the prophecy.