Servant of the Gods (22 page)

Their eyes met, his and Irisi’s.

Even as Khai saw her, he saw who it was she cradled in her arms. Grief and relief warred within him. It hadn’t been Irisi who’d fallen but calm, sensible Banafrit, an icon of his life who’d been among those few Khai called friend.

He remembered their meal of only a few hours before and Banafrit’s blatant matchmaking. The memory made him smile even as his heart ached.

Khai saw an even greater grief and sorrow in Irisi’s eyes and relief as she watched him walk toward her.

Looking toward Akhom’s tent he saw the old man was also among the fallen. One of Akhom’s adjutants crouched by the body, the younger man’s face a mask of shock and horror. The bodies of two Djinn lay nearby. Akhom had died a soldier’s death, though, taking some of the enemy with him. It was as Akhom would have wished. Although they’d never been close, Khai had respected the older man and he mourned his loss. Egypt had lost a steadfast warrior.

He and Irisi both had their griefs, it seemed.

Banafrit, though… His soul cried out. She should’ve been allowed to stay among her people, at peace in her temple to the great Goddess, not fighting out here on the plain…

After the deafening clamor of battle, a silence had fallen. Sound returned slowly. With it came the soft cries of the wounded, a reminder of their responsibilities, not just his, but Irisi’s, and the other priests and priestesses.

He saw that knowledge in her pale eyes.

That knowledge was reflected in the eyes of the others.

Djeserit straightened carefully as Kahotep turned to walk toward them.

Kneeling down beside Irisi, Khai gathered Banafrit into his arms.

“If she’d let me bring my swords…” Irisi whispered helplessly. “I might have saved her. I couldn’t conjure them quickly enough.”

Khai didn’t need to say the words, they were both warriors. She knew. It had, perhaps, been simply fate. He looked at Irisi, understanding.

A soft cry of denial escaped Kahotep as he watched, his heart wrenching. He hurried to join them as Djeserit, also bereft, lifted the tent flap aside to allow Khai and Irisi to pass within.

Irisi joined Khai at Banafrit’s cot as he laid her on it, covering Banafrit’s face with a corner of her kalasaris.

Kahotep burst into the tent behind them. And stopped, looking at Banafrit, at how still she lay. She who’d always been so vital, so strong. Seeing all the blood.

Grief struck him, hard.

And there was Awan. He would be shattered by this. They’d been devoted to each other, Awan and Banafrit, one to the other.

Outside the tent, life returned with the rising of the sun.

Bowing her head, Irisi offered up a quick prayer to the Goddess for Banafrit’s soul. It would have to suffice, have to hold until they could return her to the temple and prepare her for her journey to the Afterlife properly. She wanted to weep, to cry out her grief, but there was no time.

This was all the time any of them could take, this brief moment. Duty called. There were wounded to tend…and little time for grief, with so much yet to be done for the living.

Khai touched her hand, a small gesture of comfort.

Irisi looked up, seeing in Khai’s dark eyes what she knew was in her own, grateful for the gesture.

Then she nodded, turning to Djeserit and Kahotep. They had work to do.

Girding herself, straightening her shoulders, Isis’s new High Priestess and High Priestess to all the Gods took a breath and went to do what needed to be done.

Darkness settled softly over Thebes. Kamenwati looked back over his shoulder. He was hardly afraid as the Djinn stepped from the gathering shadows. Half a dozen slaves and three of his best men stood between himself and the dark Djinn – a Marid in the form of a particularly beautiful man. Had he been a lover of men, even Kamenwati might have found himself drawn. As it was one of the women slaves swayed involuntarily toward the creature, compelled by the beauty of it. Taking a handful of her hair, Kamenwati brought her to her feet by it and propelled her toward the thing with a quick thrust.

“A gift,” he said, smiling.

The Djinn caught the woman, little more than a girl, and sniffed around her like a dog.

“Sweet,” it said, its voice harsh.

Catching the girl by the scruff of the neck as one would a kitten the Marid lifted her. He, it, breathed in the girl’s scent again. It looked at the others cringing against the floor, one beginning to weep as the slave realized his fate.

“All? For me?”

Kamenwati said, “Yes.”

Its gaze on those who awaited, the creature opened its maw and buried its teeth in the girl’s throat. Slowly, it bit down. And suckled.

 As Kamenwati watched the slave’s eyes widened in a kind of hideous ecstasy, her hands clutching wildly at the thing as it fed on her. Far too late her hands beat at its shoulders as wet sucking sounds filled the room. Her eyes rolled like those of a goat at the slaughter. A few drops of her blood pattered to the floor. Her hands scrabbled, but those movements weakened swiftly then fell away as her body convulsed, quivering wildly in mixed pleasure and horror.

The sounds that came from the Djinn were unspeakable, yet Kamenwati found them oddly exciting.

Lifting its head, the Djinn smiled and let the body drop carelessly aside. What little blood remained soaked into the floor, joining that of many others.

The remaining slaves whimpered in terror.

The Marid Djinn’s eyes hardened as it looked to Kamenwati.

“Djinn are now scattered to the ends of the earth.”

Kamenwati shrugged. “Those that joined you. They will be called back.”

He was calm, unconcerned. Now he understood. Once the army returned, with Baraka at its head, even Narmer would have to bow before him.

“You have a plan,” the Djinn said, eyeing him.

Kamenwati smiled as he stepped away from Set’s altar and the protection it had offered as the Djinn fed.

He’d called up the dark power of the God and now he basked in it. He’d seen what was to come, a dream, a prophecy of his own making, of a great and terrible Darkness that rose to sweep across Egypt, to own it and to master it. His Darkness. He smiled. Kahotep’s dream, his prophecy, but now it was Kamenwati’s.

It had come to him in a dream and in that dream, in his Vision, he’d seen it all, seen this Darkness rise at his command…

This was only the beginning. Now he knew it could be done. And how.

There simply hadn’t been enough Djinn, only those that this Marid Djinn and the one within him could call. It wasn’t enough, but there were many, many more dark Djinn. And they were weak. He needed a way to summon them, to bind them to his will.

Now he had it.

In his dream, his vision, he’d seen it, envisioned it…

The army would be his, once it returned and Baraka was named chief General, all the armies of Egypt would be Kamenwati’s.

“It will take time,” he said, “and a great deal of power. There will be sacrifices…”

He looked at the Marid Djinn. If the creature had a name, Kamenwati didn’t know it. He didn’t need that knowledge.

Smiling, the Djinn looked at the slaves and hostages, mistaking Kamenwati’s intent, and Kamenwati allowed it.

Knowing what the Djinn wanted, Kamenwati reached for another of the women, who whined, mewled and shrieked as Kamenwati tossed her to the creatures.

One look into the Djinn’s beautiful, unfathomable eyes, though, and all her resistance faded. The woman melted into the creature’s embrace, slid down to settle by his feet like a faithful dog, waiting until it was ready for her, although she quivered with fear.

“Fear not,” it said, “I have other uses for you.”

The Djinn reached down to pet the cowering woman at its feet.

“Power can be obtained,” Kamenwati said, “even from one such this. I will need your help, though.”

The Djinn exposed its teeth in what passed for a smile.

“I am yours to command,” it said, stroking the woman’s hair.

It looked down at her, then at Kamenwati.

Settling back in his chair, Kamenwati waved his consent. He watched in pleasure as the Djinn made proper use of his offering and that of the others.

It was late in the night before the screams stopped and the Djinn was sated. Then it was time to work.

It took all morning to get the encampment set to rights, to arrange care for the wounded and transportation for the dead. No one would be left behind in this place even though this, too, was technically Egypt. Khai couldn’t bring himself to leave those who had fallen here where that darkness had touched. Even with all the priests and priestesses in attendance, they couldn’t be adequately prepared for the Afterlife here. He would return the dead to their families, as was right and proper.

Their losses had been staggering.

If the Djinn had hit them again, Khai wasn’t certain they would have survived the assault. All he could hope was that they wouldn’t come again soon.

With Akhom gone it was Khai who was now the most experienced General in the army. Pending the King’s approval, the responsibility for the Army as a whole lay now on his shoulders. That he was now the ranking general was a difficult concept for him to grasp, nor was there time for him to do so. All he could do was keep doing what needed to be done, setting one foot in front of the other until the next demand was made and met.

That Baraka intended to contest him for the position was obvious and unavoidable but few could argue that it had been Khai who’d brought order once again to the camp and not his fellow General.

Surrounded by Akhom’s adjutants, Khai looked out across the camp as Irisi straightened from tending to the last of the wounded. Her golden hair streamed in the wind, her hand going to her lower back as she listened to Djeserit, Kahotep standing nearby. Even at this distance and with blood on her clothing she was still beautiful to his eyes. He wished he could join them but there were things yet to be done.

Irisi listened as Djeserit spoke.

“I’ve lost three of my people,” Djeserit said, wearily. As well as Banafrit, the closest to anyone that Djeserit could call friend.

All but one were clearly dead on the battlefield. For that alone, Djeserit was bitterly grateful. At least those two were truly gone, and although she grieved for them it was a better fate than that of some.

“One, though, is missing.”

Rami, who’d come so close to losing himself to blood fever the previous day. He hadn’t answered her call when Djeserit summoned them back. Either he’d been swept up in the Great Wind Banafrit had called up just before she died, or the blood fever had taken him finally, and he’d fled into the desert as the madness drowned him.

It was that last she feared most.

“Is there anything we can do?” Irisi asked, gently.

Slowly Djeserit shook her head with a sigh, her eyes on the distant desert.

“We hope he’ll return to us,” Djeserit said, but a part of her feared that as much as the other.

Some few of her people went mad from blood-fever and returned to take vengeance on their brethren for what they’d become, or simply returned, mindless, after the desert and starvation had taken their toll.

All she dared do was hope.

Irisi put an arm around her, giving her a small tight hug. “I’m sorry for your losses, Djeserit.”

The gesture was simple and a surprise, yet Djeserit welcomed and was grateful for it. It was something Banafrit, too, would have done. Her heart ached for the loss of her old friend and for Awan, who’d lost even more and didn’t yet know it.

“Banafrit will be sorely missed.”

Irisi nodded, sighing, her own heart still hurting from the loss. “Yes, she will.”

She’d put a spell on Banafrit’s body to preserve it so she could be returned to Awan as he remembered her and to keep her for proper burial.

Tears burned at the thought.

Kahotep laid a hand on her shoulder in comfort and shared grief, seeing the shadows in Irisi’s eyes. His old friend had chosen well.

Turning her head into his hand, Irisi brushed her cheek against the back of it in consolation. It was all she could offer, he knew.

Irisi drew strength from the simple gesture, and then she patted Kahotep’s hand.

She watched Khai retreat into Akhom’s tent with two officers at his heels.

There would be little or no rest for either of them until they reached Thebes, not with their new responsibilities, and even then there would be very little for a time as they had yet to report to the King.

She was Isis’s High Priestess now, Banafrit’s chosen successor. The truth of that still hadn’t quite penetrated but the weight lay as heavily on her shoulders as a wool blanket.

It would be she now who would speak to the King. High Priestess of all the Gods.

So much.

Irisi sighed. Someone had to do it, though, and they all looked to her.

Like Khai, she had her responsibilities. Not least of which was the wounded.

What little sleep she or Khai had that night before would have to suffice until it was all done. Whenever that was or would be.

Only the lions had gotten any rest; they lolled limply in the sand, asleep.

Irisi envied them. Weariness weighed on her heavily. Healing, with or without magic, was exhausting work by itself, much less after all that had been done and happened the previous night.

So much information rattled around her mind, too, none of it assimilated. There just wasn’t time.

“My lord Kahotep,” she began until Kahotep gave her a gently chiding look.

They were equals now. She didn’t have to use his title. She’d forgotten. It was a fact she would have to get used to, along with the knowledge that now crowded her mind.

Rolling her eyes in exasperation at herself, she said, “Kahotep, will you and Djeserit see to the preparation of Banafrit’s body for her return to Thebes. I need to speak to General Khai and tell him the wounded are ready to be moved.”

She wished she could do that duty herself, a last honor to her friend and mentor but there was no time.

They both nodded.

“It would be an honor,” Kahotep said, gently. One final duty he could do for his old friend before they prepared her for her final rest and for her passage to the afterlife.

Irisi bowed her head gratefully, grief in her eyes.

With a squeeze of her shoulder from each of them, Kahotep and Djeserit left.

Making her way through the breaking camp, Irisi went to Akhom’s tent, finding Khai still there as his men gave their reports.

He looked tired and worn, as much so as she knew she did, spattered as she was with the blood and dirt of battle. Neither had had the chance to get clean.

“My lord General,” she said, softly, to let him know she was there.

Khai turned his head to look at her.

Just seeing her standing there, her sky-blue eyes warm and soft, eased something within him. In the soft thin light that pierced the sides of the tent she looked ephemeral, her golden hair glowing softly in the thin light within the tent. She looked as tired as he felt but she was still lovely to his eyes.

“My Lady,” he said formally, in front of his officers. He glanced at the men. “Dismissed.”

As soon as the tent flaps closed behind them, Khai drew Irisi into his arms, resting his head on top of hers.

He needed it, as no doubt they both did. This was all the time he dared to take for himself and her, these few moments of comfort and peace. That was what he found in the scent of her hair, the feel of her as her arms slipped around him and her cheek came to rest against his chest. She smelled of sweat, blood, and Irisi. It didn’t matter.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she asked.

“For caring for my men,” Khai said. “Living and dead. Mine and yours.”

So, he’d seen.

Her chin quivered and she bowed her head against the strong muscles of his chest, remembering…

Here she wasn’t the new High Priestess Irisi. In Khai’s arms, she was simply Irisi. Tears stung her eyes, tears she dared not shed, for once begun they would be difficult to stop. It had been a terrible duty, one she couldn’t bear to ask another to do, determining which had been wounded how and what needed to be done for them. To fold the arms of the dead across their chests or to give peace to those who were apparently, but not truly, alive.

Leaning gratefully against him, she simply laid her head against the solid muscles of his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, his skin warm against her cheek. Solid, warm, and alive.

A solitary tear slipped down her cheek. It was all she would allow herself. She took a breath. She dared not stay here too long or people would talk, they would wonder. Kamenwati awaited, in Thebes.

“The wounded are safe to be moved,” she said, finally, lifting her head to look up at him, cupping his cheek in her hand to look into his eyes. “And you?”

Khai loved the color of her eyes, they were like the finest lapis.

He smiled a little. “Thanks to my four-footed guardian, I took only a few scratches.”

She smiled a little as she extended her senses and eyed him. There was a scrape across his ribs that she could see, another across the back of one shoulder but neither gave sign of wound fever.

Irisi gave him a chiding look all the same and gestured for him to show her.

Obediently he stepped back, let his kalasaris drop from his shoulders.

As always she sucked in her breath just to look at him, really look at him.

He was so beautiful in face, body and in spirit. She would never grow accustomed to it. Never. Almost involuntarily, battling her own attraction to him, she skimmed a hand lightly across the strong muscles of his chest just for the pleasure the gesture gave her, before she gathered her wits about her once more.

She couldn’t get enough of looking at him, brushing her thumb lightly across his lips. He kissed it. Beneath her fingers she could feel the contrast between the wiry hair of his beard and his smooth skin.

Khai’s body grew taut as she touched him. The look in her eyes was more than gratifying as her fingers drifted over his skin, sending a shiver through him. He caught her hand beneath his, pressed it over his heart.  He was completely unaware of the stinging of his ribs or the pain in his shoulder. There was only her touch. She lifted her free hand to his jaw once again, her fingers skimming over the line of his beard.

“If there were more time,” Khai said, quietly, as he caught a lock of her silky hair in his fingers.

He would have taken her right then and there on the sleeping pillows in the other section of the tent. So he could hold her, touch her…affirming life. Both his heart and his body tightened at the thought.

Irisi quivered at his words and the intensity that lay behind them. She needed this as well, his touch…the comfort it would give both her and him.

There was the pain in him; she could feel the sting of it.

Her gaze flicked up to his for only a moment but Khai caught a glimpse of the heat in them before she mastered herself once again and turned to the task at hand. She curled her fingers carefully around the scrapes over his ribs. Healing warmth flowed into him, including the one in his heart, the grief and sorrow for the people he’d lost.

Irisi forced herself to concentrate. Khai’s wounds weren’t deep, but they would be painful with each and every movement of his arm, every twist of his torso.

It took only a little magic to Heal them.

Khai admired her profile with his lips, keeping them soft on her cheekbone by her eye. Her lashes brushed against his own cheek before he ran a trail of kisses along the line of her jaw.

The light touches sent a flood of warmth through her, even as she moved around behind him to address the wounds on his back.

Irisi was standing behind him working on his shoulder when Baraka burst into the tent unannounced, his expression furious at the request Khai had sent for him to join Khai in Akhom’s command tent when he had a moment.

It was poor timing.

Khai felt Irisi go still and then the warmth of her Healing began to flow once again.

It was clear she knew of Baraka’s ties to Kamenwati.

Only Khai knew the light caress that drifted down his back as she finished, Baraka couldn’t see it from where he stood.