passing through that hostile gathering.
“Stay out of the fields,” he shouted, praying his men, whose lust for battle had grown to major proportions with their success in the wadi, would choose to hear him.
A second shouted order sent his archers running, hunched low, toward a jagged finger of land that projected from the escarpment. Eight or ten enemy archers stood atop the rise, their backs to the approaching men, firing arrows into the caravan encampment.
Bak ran on across the trampled grass and weeds, leading his spearmen to battle. Though he tried to remain rational, he was as exhilarated as they.
Ahead, the tribesmen who had swarmed out of the wadi rushed full tilt in among Hor-pen-Deshret’s main force, which appeared from a distance poised to charge the bar ricaded caravan. Excited and boastful shouts wavered and died. A wave of consternation and dismay rose, crested, waned. An angry voice speaking a tongue of the desert rose above all the rest, haranguing the men. Hor-pen-Deshret,
Bak guessed, urging his army to look forward toward vic tory, not back to a partial defeat.
He had expected them to have long ago charged the car avan, to be in the heat of battle. They must have awaited the remainder of their force coming through the wadi. Or had they re-formed after being rebuffed?
He glanced quickly toward the elevation where the en emy archers had stood. None remained. His own archers were climbing the slope to replace them. They had dis patched the others while he looked elsewhere. Satisfied that that source of danger no longer threatened, he scanned the fields to the north, beyond the enemy force. A white cloth draped over an acacia branch told him Lieutenant Ahmose and his troops were in position and waiting.
To the west, the lord Re hovered above the horizon, leav ing the caravan in the shadow of the escarpment. About an hour of daylight remained. The battle in the wadi had lasted less than an hour, yet had seemed as long as a day. The men of the desert must shortly make their move, before the light began to fail, forcing them to retreat.
Bak whistled, signaling his men to charge. Ready, wait ing, eager for action, they raced along in his wake. To the north, a trumpet blasted, Ahmose ordering his troops to battle. Soldiers rose from a grain field as if lifted from the earth by the gods and dashed toward the enemy.
A harsh yell ahead and the desert warriors surged for ward, screaming like wild men to make themselves seem fiercer. They were halted momentarily by the wall of shields, which bristled with spears, felling many among the first wave of men. Those behind pressed the leaders on, forcing them through the barrier. Shields fell or were swept aside, and Nebwa’s small force pulled back to regroup, to face the enemy again among the high stacks of jars, sacks, bags, and baskets of foodstuffs and gear, Amonked’s fur niture, piles of sheaved hay, every object the donkeys had carried upriver.
With more than half the enemy among and beyond the fallen shields, with their blood-curdling savage yells spo radic and individual, many voices silenced by the fierce fighting, Bak and his men fell upon their rear left flank while the troops from Askut struck the right flank. Sounds of the melee filled the air. The thud of wood against wood.
The grunting of struggling men. The thunk of weapons striking tough, tight-stretched cowhide. Growled oaths and loud, excited shouting. The clang of bronze spearpoints.
Screaming and moaning. The thump of something solid striking softer matter.
Stirred by the excitement, the action, the dogs ran in among the contestants, teeth bared, hackles raised. Bak feared at first they would mistake friend for foe, and some times they did, but the vast majority set upon the enemy, nipping heels and buttocks and hands. Harassment, not a bold confrontation.
Thin dust rose in puffs around the feet of the struggling men. The stench of blood and sweat was strong. Forgetting the stinging in his thigh, the blood seeping from beneath the makeshift bandage, Bak parried thrusts with spear and shield, downed one man, disarmed another.
He fought hard, sweat dripping in spite of the evening chill. His spearmen, spread out among the enemy with Ah mose’s soldiers, were battling with a skill and enthusiasm none would have dreamed of a few days before. He was proud of them. They could return to the capital with Amon ked, holding their heads high.
Bak heard something behind him, a man’s harsh breathing. He pivoted, striking an enemy warrior at waist level with the long shaft of his spear, knocking him off balance, deflecting the blade of a dagger. The tribesman grabbed the shaft to steady himself and held on. Bak jerked one way and another, trying to wrest the weapon free.
Abruptly the man released his hold and crumpled to the ground. Seshu, standing over him, raised his mace in a tri umphant salute and swung away to face a fresh conflict.
Muttering a hasty prayer of thanks, Bak pressed forward.
Inside the fallen wall of shields, he found his long spear ungainly, his thrusts hampered by the narrow, twisting aisles between the high stacks of equipment and supplies.
Most of Nebwa’s troops had already abandoned their spears to fight on with smaller weapons. The tribesmen had been forced to follow suit. The congestion had been Nebwa’s idea, and a good one. What hampered the men of the car avan in a mild way was bound to confuse the men of the desert-and distract them with innumerable desirable ob jects.
Bak rammed his spearpoint into the ground beside a pile of fodder and drew the staff from his belt. He had always found a shield awkward to manage, but since he had no armor, he dared not give it up.
Using the staff as a club, he knocked an ax from the hand of one man, broke the arm of another, clouted a third on the head. As they fell back, others replaced them, men more wary of drawing close. One threw a dagger, whose flight Bak stopped with the shield. A yell-Horhotep’s voice-swiveled him around and he knocked a mace from a warrior’s hand. As he downed the man with a second blow, another leaped at Horhotep, meaning to lay him open with a scimitar. Bak lunged, knocked the scimitar away, breaking the man’s hand, and hit him hard across the lower legs, felling him like a tree.
Horhotep raised a hand in thanks and an instant later sank his dagger into the side of a man raising his mace to brain a drover. Blood gushed. The adviser bent double, vomited, and dived back into the fray. Bak was surprised and pleased. Under duress, Horhotep was proving himself a worthy officer.
He glanced quickly toward the sun. Close to a half-hour of daylight left. How could time pass so slowly? His arms and legs felt weighted with lead, his breathing was labored.
Sweat poured.
A shout drew him to Sergeant Dedu and a drover re claiming a half-dozen vats of newly made beer from tribes men who had dropped their weapons so they could carry off the brew. An easy victory.
Among the shifting, struggling throng, he spotted Mery mose, side-by-side with Sennefer and Thaneny. They were fending off a small but concentrated attack by a half-dozen tribesmen led by a painted and befeathered warrior intent on reaching-and most likely taking as personal trophies Amonked’s and Nefret’s carrying chairs. He offered a quick prayer of thanks to the lord Amon that the nobleman had arrived unhurt, added a plea that he and the young officer and the scribe would survive the battle. Thaneny was awk ward in his movements, slower than he should be, but he thrust the harpoon he carried with deadly accuracy.
A tribesman plunged through a tangle of men and rushed
Bak with a spear. He sidestepped the weapon, knocked it from the man’s hand, and shoved him toward Sergeant Roy, who tapped the man on the head with his mace, gave Bak a quick grin, and leaped aside to fend off a man with an ax. Roy also was showing brave colors.
“Bak! Behind you!” Nebwa bellowed.
Bak pivoted, deflected a harpoon aimed at his midsec tion, and raised his staff to clout the tribesman. His foot came down on something wet and slid out from under him.
He fell hard on his back, his shield half beneath him. The force of the impact knocked the staff from his fingers. A vicious smile spread across his attacker’s face and he leaped forward to finish the task he had begun. As he raised the weapon above Bak’s breast, his mouth and eyes opened wide, the harpoon slipped from his fingers, and he toppled forward, falling on Bak with such force he knocked the breath from him. A long dagger protruded from his back.
Minkheper stepped close and jerked the weapon free.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
Bak nodded. “I owe you a debt I doubt I can ever repay.”
