A tribesman spotted them, shouted to his mates, pointed.
Others looked up the slope, not overly concerned about what they evidently believed to be a lone soldier and his servant, out on a hunting trip. Two or three raised their bows as if to strike. Bak knelt, making himself smaller, and pulled Pawah down beside him, thinking to project a pose of innocent curiosity. The tribesmen chose in the end to save their arrows for game more formidable.
“Tell Sennefer, Nebwa, and Amonked to say nothing to
Minkheper. I myself will face him after the battle.” Bak, keyed up and eager to get on with the contest, rubbed the mirror on his kilt, brightening its already shiny surface. “As you and Sennefer make your way to the caravan, stay at the top of the slope, close to the cliff face. Keep yourselves safe from the men of the desert. Now move!”
“But…”
“Pawah! Men who disobey on the field of battle are sent to the desert mines, a fate I’d not wish on anyone.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth swallowed hard, taking the threat seriously, but he could not conceal his pleasure at being treated as a man. Pivoting on a heel, he raced diagonally up the slope to the boulder behind which Sennefer hid.
As the boy ducked out of sight, Bak signaled the archers across the wadi. Pashenuro repeated the signal for the men on the north slope, where Bak stood. Archers rose to their feet, appearing as if from nowhere, and let fly their arrows.
Several men fell on the trail below. A tribesman shouted an alarm.
Bak raised his weapon and sent an arrow speeding down ward. A man’s knees buckled and he dropped, the missile protruding from his back. The archers rearmed and arrows again rained down on the enemy, dropping a dozen or more men. Those slow to realize they were under attack yelled out in anger and dismay. They all scattered, too many men seeking shelter behind the too few boulders fallen from the cliffsides. A third wave of arrows flew and a fourth, drop ping more men to the earth.
Bak glanced toward Sennefer’s hiding place. The noble man, peering out from behind the boulder, signaled that he understood what he must do. An instant later, he and Pawah darted up the rocky slope and vanished in the shadow of a crevice in the cliff.
Confident they would carry out their mission or die try ing, Bak focused on the tribesmen below. He had never considered himself much of a bowman, but standing high above the wadi floor, he dropped one man and another and another. The archers, more expert than he, felled the enemy as if they were cutting down grain in a ripe field. With missiles flying from both sides of the wadi and a minimum of shelter, with their shields an inadequate defense, the tribesmen could not protect themselves. Fallen men moaned and whimpered and pleaded for help, some injured, some dying, and no one to aid them.
The enemy bowmen fought a losing but valiant battle, running, ducking, dodging, providing no firm target while firing off their weapons. Bak saw two of his archers struck, one in the side, another in the arm, neither wound serious enough to force them from the battle.
Someone below, a man with a red cloth braided into his hair, a tribal chief most likely, shouted an order in a tongue
Bak did not understand. Twenty or more tribesmen grouped around to form a block. Some of the men encircled the group with shields; those safely inside the ring fired back at the men on the slopes.
One of Bak’s archers fell, an enemy arrow protruding from his breast, and lay still and quiet. Another dropped to his knees, an arm hanging useless. A third felled man pulled himself behind a fallen rock, dragging a leg. Though he had to be in pain, he turned his bow horizontal to the ground and continued to fire until he emptied his quiver.
He dropped two men, one who fell with a yelp of pain, the second in silence.
Three archers down out of twenty. Far too many in too short a time. The deadly barrage must be stopped. Bak raced across the slope to where his best archer stood, his quiver almost empty. “Slay the leader, Huy, the man with red showing in his hair.”
Huy eyed the block of men, looking doubtful. “I’ll try, sir.”
Bak ran on, snatched up the quiver of the dead man, and sped toward the man with the shattered arm. Realizing his purpose, the wounded archer held up his quiver, offering missiles he could no longer use. Bak thanked him with a quick smile and raced back toward Huy, who had taken shelter in a waist-high gouge in the earth, cut by runoff water from the infrequent rainstorms in the area.
As Bak reached the cut, an arrow sped by, slicing the flesh of his left thigh. Dropping awkwardly into the ditch, he flung the two quivers at the archer. Blood gushed from his leg, but a quick check revealed a flesh wound too shal low to cause concern. As fast as he could, he tore the hem from his kilt, made a pad, and tied it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Each movement of the leg irritated it, making it burn-a small price to pay, he decided, and thanked the lord Amon for sparing him from worse.
The number of arrows in the donated quiver dropped to a dozen, a half-dozen. As Huy robbed it of its contents, he spat out oaths in a slow and regular manner, an incantation of sorts that followed the rhythm of his effort.
Pashenuro flashed a signal, letting Bak know the last stragglers had come down off the desert. The time had come to close the gap behind them, cutting them off from the sandy wastes they knew so well. Bak relayed the mes sage, this time whistling a signal so loud and clear it echoed the length of the watercourse.
As the sound died away, Huy armed his bow and held it steady, glaring at the block of men below. Suddenly he released the string, launching an arrow. It sped straight and true, striking a man who scarcely showed himself. The man stumbled, briefly splitting apart the barrier of shields. Snap ping out a curse that may also have been a prayer, Huy let fly the last arrow his dead comrade had bequeathed him.
One head vanished from among the others, a body crum pled to the ground. Red showed in the hair. The wall of shields wavered and the block broke apart, leaving each man to his own resources. They ran down the wadi, leaving behind their fallen chief.
Huy wiped his brow, vastly relieved. Bak clapped him on the shoulder and climbed out of the ditch. The tribesmen were retreating in earnest, he saw, heading toward the val ley, trying to escape the deadly shower of arrows and reach the main body of the desert force where they could stand and fight with some chance of success. They fought as best they could, firing on the run at those who had ambushed them. Men who were injured but mobile staggered along with them. The more seriously hurt and the dead were left behind. Lying on the wadi floor, the wounded men moaned or cried out for help or struggled to get up and away so they would not be taken prisoner.
A trickling stream of tribesmen turned their backs on their fellows and headed up the wadi, seeking safety and freedom on the open desert. They promptly fell into the arms of Sergeant Dedu and the archers who had blocked the trail, ending all hope of escape.
Bak whistled again. His spearmen-about half of Amon ked’s guards-came out of hiding, joining the archers on the slopes, more than doubling the size of Bak’s small army. Other than the few men who remained behind to round up enemy deserters and the walking wounded, they pressed the enemy hard, harrying them, rushing them into the valley.
Where, if all went well, they would charge in among
Hor-pen-Deshret’s forces, disrupting the fighting and caus ing consternation among the men attacking the caravan encampment.
Bak led his troops out of the wadi and onto the valley floor. Many of the men they chased were loping across the higher ground where animals normally grazed. Others ran through fields knee-deep in ripening vegetables and wheat, partly trampled by the raiders who had preceded them.
Grim-faced men were pouring out of the village and across the fields from nearby farms and hamlets. A large pack of dogs accompanied them, those from the village and the fe ral animals that had traveled so long with the caravan.
Each of the men carried a spear or scythe or some other tool that could be used as a weapon. Bak had no delusions.
These men had not come to help the caravan. They had come to save as much of the year’s crop as they could. Any tribesmen wishing to wade out to the island to steal the donkeys would have serious reservations about
