Chapter Six
Gathering Clouds
Egypt, 1068 B.C.
Keeahn, sat on a small embankment, 200 yards or so beyond the camps guarded perimeter, watching the vast wheel of the sun as it continued it's final descent to the horizon. He'd watched it every evening since they'd taken him from the labour gang. He could never get over how big the sun was here, and once again his attention was fixed upon it.
At home the sun shone like a torch in the sky, here it was more like a Bealtaine bonfire. It would be pitch dark soon, he knew. Blazing sun, then out came the moon and the stars. At home the evenings stretched on forever in the summer, with ever changing subtle shades of twilight before finally night settled on the countryside. Here it jumped out at you, the sun, huge as it was, swallowed quickly like a salmon swallows a worm.
It was one of the many strange things about this place, how bright and hot one minute and so cold and dark the next. Again, for more times than he cared to count, he wished he was at home at the hearth fires of his clann.
A tiny movement of loose sand tickled his lower thighs, and he tugged at the new kilt he wore. The clothes they had given him were clean and light and comfortable, perfect for the hot days. But, he felt uncomfortably exposed by their sheerness and their length. Men, and indeed women, here did not leave much to the imagination, his startled stares at earned him several beatings back in the city port. Now he was dressed similarly to many of those he had seen. A black kilt with gold motifs he did not recognise, good strong leather sandals, a light robe made of the same material as the kilt, what he learned was called 'linen', and a heavier black wool one, which sat on the ground behind him.
For the millionth time since it happened, he ran his hand almost absently over the back of his hair to the now naked neck exposed to the air for the first time since he was a babe, and done so in the most embarrassing experience of his life.
He had been taken and bathed like a child by full grown men. He was shaved, not just of his whiskers but all over, despite his protestations. The whole process had been overseen by the small bald man he had learned was called Sekhnet. A priest of some sort. He had only just barely escaped with his head of hair intact. He had kicked and struggled when they had approached him with a shears to turn him as bald as they.
Sekhnet had explained that it was all being done so that he would be more comfortable, that there were insects here that would enjoy the home he was inadvertently providing for them, and that he would most certainly be cooler without his long russet hair. The idea of the insects had worried him and given him pause, but in the end he had refused point blank to let them cut it all off. After a while the priest had relented, thinking that maybe the fair skin of his head would fair better under cover than exposed. Still he insisted on having it trimmed, as no one with such a savage haircut would be allowed in the palace.
For 27 days and nights now, almost 3 weeks, by these peoples 10 days a week reckoning, he had been under the watchful eye of the vigilant Sekhnet, who worked tirelessly with him on a range of topics. He was a fast learner by nature and already he felt his grasp of the language had improved consderably. Sekhnet had combined language learning with teaching him about the places he would see, the people he would encounter, how he must act around them, and why.
He had learned much of this strange world he now inhabited. He had learned that the man whose servant he now was, was the eldest son of the High King of this place. Indeed the only King. And this place, this country was huge, far greater a kingdom than he had ever imagined. That it was dotted with great cities and great monuments built by great kings so that they might be remembered. He was told he would see wonders the like of which he would have never seen. He was told that he would see wealth beyond his wildest imaginings and he was told he would see a Living God, a bridge between heaven and earth.
He kept his council on all this. Not least the last part.
His father had taught him, as had the Druids, that Gods and Men did not dwell together, at least not physically. They were part of the air, the earth, the sky, the sun, the trees, rivers, lochs and mountains. They granted their blessings and occasionally appeared in mortal form, but they never dwelled as one. Once early on in the life of mankind they had dwelled and nothing but trouble had come of it. Now they lived beyond the sea, dreaming of the humans while the humans dreamed of them.
Still, his Gods weren't their Gods, so maybe what Sekhnet said was true. The idea of a Living God both intrigued and confused him. After all how could he be a God if he bled and died at the hands of a mere man? And more, how could this man, his master, be not a God now, and yet a God after he was King? It did not make sense, but then, the pragmatic part of him pointed out, neither did raising these points, not when your aim was getting your freedom.
In the approaching brief twilight, Keeahn could see in the distance a billowing cloud of red gold dust blossoming up from the desert ground. He'd been warned of many of the dangers of the desert apart from the obvious ones of sun, heat and lack of water. There were the huge black insect like creatures, scorpions, that had a bite like fire when they struck with their tail. The huge spiders, the likes and size of which he had never seen, and which could kill a man. And the snakes. Far different from the few small harmless dull grass snakes of home, these were often vividly coloured and deadly. The very idea of them made him feel uncomfortable sitting there.
But, with the cloud in the distance, it was of the sand storms he currently thought.
His tuath, the land of his father, had been a coastal one and he had seen huge storms blow across the massive ocean it bordered. Storms that shook the very earth. He had watched as a child as men in their fishing currachs were swept out to sea by sudden gales, despite all the best efforts of their kinsmen to save them. He never once thought back then, safe on the land, that the earth too could provide a similar threat.
Sekhnet had described in detail the awesome effects of a storm where sand not rain fell and whipped around you, blinding, choking and burying you. A storm that could rise and boil out of nothing, blue skies and clear air one minute and a few minutes later a wall of blasting sand. He shuddered at the thoughts of being buried out here in this wasteland and his longing for home grew, even as he watched the distant cloud of dust.
Reaching down to where he sat, he took up a handful of the sand, and ran it through his fingers. Even the texture of the sand compared to the beaches of his home felt different, the forces of water and wind providing differing effects. And still, if you looked at the giant mounds of sand through which they passed you could see the eddys and waves of the sea or loch as clearly as if it were water and not the that wind blew over it. Different but the same.
While he had been working, slaving in the city port, his mind had been occupied. The work, the whips of the guards, the huge pyramid monuments beyond the city and the teeming mass of existence around him. With all that around him, it had been easier there not to think of home and family. But out here, in this wasteland that seemed to hold nothing but death at every corner, everything here, either through it's similarities or differences was almost designed to make you think of home.
He tried to work out how long he had been gone.
They had left on their trading mission to the Celtaigh tribes of Bretagne, before moving further south along the coastline, trading their furs and artworks, and arranging deals for shipments of lumber and stone. In one port in Galacia they had come across a strangely shaped ship, which, the harbour master had told them had come from the dark land beyond the sea at the southernmost tip of that land.
Why it was named the dark land was soon abundantly clear. While the men of Galacia were often dark of countenance and generally sallow skinned compared to the more northerly Celtaigh, the men of this ship were darker even than they. Deep brown skin the colour of bark, jet black hair, dark eyes and hawkish noses they were well dressed in distinctive flowing black and white robes. They were well armed too, with ornately decorated swords, which were first straight and then curved like a druid's sickle.
They had not participated in the sporting events organised by the host tribe for the conclave of traders there, but had watched from the sidelines as he and his foster brother Aengus had competed for the honour of their tribe. He had been particularly successful, winning the footraces and the spear toss, and showing well in the hand to hand combat. He only wished he had his horse to compete with the local tribesmen, he fancied his mare, Gaire Laidir, against any of the animals there. Still, his clann had been proud of him that night, and he had celebrated mightily supping deeply from the stock of uisce beatha they had brought with them, and which was their contribution to the feast.
While he had celebrated, his father struck a deal with the dark men. Only one of their number spoke their language, and he was an amiable old fellow with a shock of white beard which contrasted startlingly with his dark skin. He sat with his father and discussed their respective lands. They had even struck a bargain, gold ore in exchange for the hard woods that grew in the forests beside their Rath. Maps were exchanged. His father, Concobhair, had told him as they struck out at last for home, some 3 moons after they had sailed, that the Ri, who had been desirous of a new gold torc to show his increasing prosperity, would be more than pleased with the deal.
They were only out of sight of the port, and he was struggling from the after effects of the drink, when they spotted the dark men's sail nearby. Their ship was large with a prow you could slice beef on. They sailed closer and his father had gone forward to wave them on their way and wish them good health home.
He'd received a long shafted white fletched arrow in his chest for his pains.
The next thing he had known the men in Black and White were on top of them, their sharp prow slicing through the timbers of their boat and sending them flying. In trying to reach his father he lost his balance and cracked his head on the side rail. His limbs had failed him and then there was nothing but the brief sound of battle cries, the clash of weapons and darkness.
When he awoke, he found his limbs still failed him, but after a moment he realised it was due to the fetters around them. He and two of his shipmates had been taken, one was Aengus the other Aengus's half brother Fergus, alongside them in the hold was the precious cargo they had worked so hard to collect. The others of their clann, Aengus and Fergus had told him, were dead, his father included. Before he could begin to keen for their loss, the white haired leader of the dark men had come down, all trace of friendliness long gone, and told them in harsh tones that they were still alive only because they were young and strong and fair and would fetch a good price at the slave markets, either because of their size or their skin.
It was hard to tell how many days went by, locked in the hold of the ship, 4 maybe 5. But they reached some port and the men came to take them away to be sold, or rather they took Aengus and Fergus, but left him. He waited for his turn, all that day and into the next, but the next thing he knew he felt the ship move and they were leaving port again.
When they came to bring him his food he tried to ask them why he had been left, they would not or could not answer him, and the leader never came near him again. He estimated, as best he could, that a further 4 days later they docked and finally he was dragged out into the light of day into a small town made up of strange square stone houses, that seemed exclusively set up as a trading post for slavers, as most of those stone houses, were holding quarters for the slaves.
He was bought by the darkest man he had ever seen. So dark as to be almost jet black His teeth shone like polished white marble in his neatly whiskered face, his white robe and cape were flecked with gold and the purse of gold he pulled out for his purchase was immense. His retinue was large and armed to the teeth, as if they would have to escort a lot of unruly slaves, though in the end he had been the man's only purchase.
They had stripped him of his woollen jerkin, and draped him in a ragged cloth cape, then tethered him to the back of a huge pale brown animal that seemed to carry a mountain on it's back and smelled like the pigsties of the Rath after Caomhin Mac Art had failed to clean them out for the fifth day running.
Tethered to this mountainous creature he know knew as a 'camel', he got his first real taste of the hot burning sun and had spent the first two nights of this life in agony as his uncovered head felt like it would explode.
Knowing the fate of useless slaves, he had dragged himself along, but he could hardly stand, let alone walk by the end of the third day due to the pounding in his head. He'd collapsed, just as the sun started to set, convinced it would the last sunset he would ever see.
But strangely they had not left him, they had placed a head dress on his head and put him on top of the camel and covered him up. He lost track of time then, and once he was well enough they had him walking again. His woollen trousers were soaked with sweat every day, and his feet swollen and blistered by the long trek across the sand and stones.
3 days of walking later and on the crest of a small hill of sand he saw the biggest city he had ever seen in his life. Giza. There, he wasn't so much sold as handed over to another man, who placed him in the labour gang. His clothes were taken away and he was handed the uniform of the slaves the leather skirt, the hard sandals and a head dress that was too small for him.
He'd been there for 2 more waxing and wanings of the moon, his hair lightening, his skin burning gradually turning brown under the sun, but still a pale shadow compared to those about him.
All told he estimated that he had left home maybe 7 moons ago.
They would be just about getting ready for the Samhain festival, and the tribes would gather for the celebration. His mother and sisters would finish the new clothes for the family to wear and his brothers would bring in the best of their crops and cattle for the feast, only neither he nor his father would be there with them. His brothers were young, and while his mother could tear any man to pieces with words that a trained file or bard would be hard pressed to use as well, there would be no full man to protect the family. Still, the land they owned was prosperous and the Ri, would see them safe, as was traditional amongst the clan for the families who lost members on missions for the tuath.. And there were many this time.
He wished they knew he was alive at least.
His depression deepened, and he looked out once again at the desert around him. Even if he was the sort to break his word and dishonour himself, where would he go from here? He would not last 3 days alone out here. But it was a moot point, as he would not dishonour himself by breaking his bargain. His father, with the Gods now, would not greet him kindly the day he arrived, if he broke his bargain with this Prince Rameses just to gain his own freedom.
He shivered a little as the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and the first cold of the desert evening set in. He reached behind him and pulled the woollen robe towards him, shaking it out well as he had been taught, and placing his arms through. He stood as he did so, and as he pulled the robe up onto his shoulders, he caught sight of the cloud of dust again. It was closer than before, much much closer.
In fact it seemed to be travelling towards him. A gust of wind blew at him, and he realised then that the wind was blowing in a different direction from the destination of the cloud. No mere gust or eddy could maintain such a straight line. He knelt quickly and placed his hand on a flat piece of sun baked earth.
He felt the tremors immediately, and a moment later recognised the distinctive pattern. Hoof beats. Horses, lots of them. He looked at the ever growing cloud again. In this climate it was unlikely that horses roamed free in packs. Camels maybe? But then the pattern didn't feel right, it was too heavy and rapid, not the padded lope of the desert animals. No. It was horses. And that meant they were being ridden.
He looked behind him at the encampment, he was not being watched, they knew he couldn't leave without perishing, and the Prince seemed to trust him enough not to have him followed. Something he appreciated. It was quiet and peaceful and the cooking fires and talk of the men drifted on the breeze. While perimeters had been set up at every stage along their journey, with each passing day, they became more and more relaxed and at ease. Careless. He could see the two guards nearest to him, talking casually together.
He would seem foolish if he ran back yelling about the approaching cloud and it turned out to be nothing. And so he hesitated, and turned back to check again.
When the riders burst out of the cloud, he suddenly realised that his depth perception had been distorted by the size and shape of the cloud and the heat haze rising up from the still baking ground. They were a lot closer than they appeared. Close enough that his hesitation could prove costly. He saw the first glint of metal and he ran.
The 2 Medjai guards at the perimeter, having lost a bet with the 2 army regulars who would normally be standing watch and were now unfortunately taking their watch for them, blinked as they saw the fair skinned mountain run towards them waving his arms and screaming "Attack! Attack!" in their language.
The new slave's arrival amongst them and been the topic of much discussion in the Medjai's ranks. To say that none of them trusted this strangely coloured man with the eyes of the blue Nile was to put it mildly. His sheer size and strength put them on edge, and the shaggy appearance of him hadn't helped. He looked part man part animal.
He was cleaned up now and far more presentable, but while their master, the Prince might seem to trust him so readily, they were far from convinced that he wasn't going to try and escape and take one or two of them down as he did so.
This, however, wasn't quite what they had expected.
A quick broken neck or brief flurry of swords before he ran or was cut down was one thing, but right now it looked as if he was running unarmed, to attack the entire encampment. And so they blinked. Blinked and looked at each other and started to laugh.
Then they heard his words more clearly as he got closer.
"Riders! Attack! Riders!" they looked beyond him at the distant embankment where he had been sitting, and saw the dust rising up in the air. One reached for his horn, even as Keeahn passed him at full pelt, and blasted a warning into the air.
Keeahn ran, he could hear the approaching thunder of the horses behind him. The blast of the horn was a signal that moved the camp still another 100 yards beyond him into a frenzy of sudden activity. But it also signalled to the approaching riders that they had at last been noticed. A battle cry went up behind him, and a few moments later the riders poured over the area he had before been so peacefully sitting on.
Another few moments later he heard a whoosh behind him that sped past him, and an arrow embedded itself in the ground ahead of him. Another blast of the horn rang out, from near his ear, and he realised that the 2 Medjai were just behind him.
The one without the horn called out to him. "Dodge!"
He looked back at them, and realised that they were running from right to left and back again, he saw the hail of arrows in the air, and started to zig and zag madly.
Up ahead of them, at the first blast of the horn, men spilled out of their tents everywhere and stared at the oncoming runners before racing to find their weapons. He could see the Prince and the others come out of the central tent and could hear the commanding voice of Rameses shouting orders.
There was a grunt to his right and a thud, he looked around again and saw the Medjai who had called out to him go to ground, his right leg stuck with a white fletched arrow. He turned even as the second Medjai ran on, furiously blowing the horn with what breath he had left. Moving back, all too aware of the oncoming riders, he reached down and pulled up the man, who would have been considered robust by Egyptian standards and flipped him up over his shoulder, to the man's considerable surprise, turned and ran on again.
Just up ahead of them was a set of hurdles against which the shields of the army contingent escorting the prince had set their shields. With a grunt of effort, man and all, he hurdled it, and ducked down behind the shields, as another hail of arrows came in. Thankfully this hail was followed by a volley from beyond him as Rameses and his lieutenants had set up a wall of archers.
In the fall of riders and horses that followed, Keeahn picked the injured Medjai up again and ran for one of the tents. Propping him up against a chest inside, he pulled the man's sword to the Egyptian's alarm, before flipping it over and handing it to him.
"Stay." He said panting hard. "Your leg is bad. Better place to fight from in here, if you need to."
The man, one hand clamped to his injured leg, took the sword with his free hand and looked at his own weapon as if as if it was some strange foreign object, and then looked at Keeahn, doing some rapid recalculations of the man. He nodded.
"My thanks." He said.
Keeahn nodded and ran to the exit, looking around to take everything in. The stream of riders were almost upon the camp, and he could see some of the archers abandoning their bows, reaching for their swords and making for the stacks of shields. A last few arrows came in from the riders side, and a man fell in front of Keeahn an arrow through his neck, his blood spilling like wine onto the sand. He twitched rapidly and then died.
Keeahn made a dash for the man's weapon, a long spear, scooped it up and ran for the stacks of shields. Unfortunately they were all gone by the time he got there, and by the time he looked around so were the soldiers.
Unfamiliar with organised warfare of this sort, he was out of the loop as the soldiers snatched their shields turned, shields at their backs and ran back to take up formation. Lining up in 3 rows, they turned again to face the oncoming riders, their long spears poking out past their shields. The first row knelt the second came up behind them, also protruding their spears and forming a fearsome wall. The 3rd row knelt behind their shields ready to fill any breaches.
Behind them again, along the sides of the camp, more archers had taken up position, ready to pick off the riders that got through, and beyond that stood the Medjai, swords and shields at the ready.
By the time he had taken all that in, the riders were right on top of him. He dived behind the legs of the thick wooden hurdles, and trusted that horses here, behaved as they did at home, and would jump not plough through the obstacle.
As the horses leapt some of the riders took a swipe at him, but even with their long curved swords they couldn't reach him laying flat on the ground. They streamed past, over and around him like a tidal wave. When he was sure they had passed he jumped up. He estimated about 150 of them, but that wasn't what was foremost on his mind.
Their robes. They were black and white. Their fletched white arrows and their long straight and then curved swords. It was them.
With a roar of hatred, he let fly with the long heavy brass spear, and it flew straight and true and ran through from back to chest, the last rider past him. The rider slid off the horse like a straw doll, and Keeahn, ran and picked up the long sword that fell with him, even as the riders hit the soldiers wall.
The clash and collision of metal, bone and flesh, and the roars and screams of men and horses filled the air.
Keeahn ran, unheeding of the danger in the resulting scrum of man, horse, shield, sword and spear, hacking at anything in black and white that moved, screaming in his native language and in pure fury. The grief for his father, his kinsmen, and for his own predicament pouring out.
Even in his growing fury, from the corner of his eye he saw a horse and rider, who had wheeled away from the crash and was now coming at him side on. He swung around in an arc even as the rider raised his sword, and before the downward chop came he removed the riders stirrup leg whole, from the thigh down with the sword continuing through and burying itself in the horse.
Horse and rider screamed as one and toppled. Blood spurted, showering the Celt in ichor. Keeahn didn't even try to retrieve the sword, instead leapt over the dying horse onto the outstretched arm of the now one legged man, his other good leg trapped beneath the horse. The arm broke in two places, removing whatever tenuous hold the rider still had on his sword. Reaching down he picked up the sword and drove it into the man's heart like it was butter.
The soldiers were now involved in a pitched battle with the majority of the riders, but some had avoided the wall and had gone around the sides heading for the Medjai, and beyond that, the royal party. A good distance behind them, panting and afraid, stood the non-military. Helpless and doomed if those before them fell.
Behind the line of Medjai, Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose stood in their chariots, shielded by their drivers and firing arrows along with the archers now lined up on either side of the encampment, trying to pick off the approaching riders.
Maybe 40 had gotten through, but they were skilled riders and ducked low in their seats and only 10 had been cut down by their arrows. The line of Medjai was thin, maybe 20 in all. They were outnumbered and the rider's horses were a big advantage.
No one had expected this.
They were in the very heartland of Egypt, mere days away from Thebes and one of the biggest armies of men in the world. The military attachment they had had for returning home, was of course well trained, and fairly numerous. 200 men including the Medjai, but it was in essence merely for show. Something for the people to admire as they passed triumphantly through their towns and cities.
Being attacked here was the last thing that had ever crossed their minds. And yet, here they were fighting for their lives.
"Great Prince," the Medjai captain, one eye on the still advancing riders, approached Rameses "You and your honoured brethren should protect yourselves and withdraw."
Rameses barked an unpleasant laugh. "Flee, you mean?" he shook his head never moving his gaze from the enemy. "How fit a Pharaoh would I be, if I ran every time there was danger. We stand!"
With no more time to dissuade his charge, the captain bowed and returned to stand square on to his men and looked back at his Prince, waiting for orders. Rameses notched and let fly two more arrows, before pulling his sword, his brother and cousin followed suit.
"Down!" cried the captain, and the Medjai fell to one knee, their spear arms up the spears resting on their shoulders.
Rameses held and held, and then, finally as they could almost smell the horses panting breath he pointed his sword at the captain.
"Throw!" the man yelled, and 20 spears launched themselves not at the riders but at their horses.
The Medjai, were the best of the best of the warriors of Egypt and it's subject lands. Trained for years and loyal to the last drop of their blood they were the finest fighters in the known world, and it showed.
All 20 of the spears hit their marks and there was a terrible squealing as the riders mounts collapsed beneath them, bringing down half of the others with them. At the end there were just 4 riders mounted. As one the Medjai rose, and with a roar of defiance and a plea to the Gods to protect their King they drew their swords and charged at the men still struggling to extricate themselves from their fallen steeds.
The Medjai fell upon them, but in doing so, left space for the still mounted riders who had wheeled around and steadied their animals to see the gap that lead to the royal party. The archers further back could not risk firing, for the danger of hitting either the Medjai or worse, the royal party. The 4 horsemen charged the 3 men in the chariots.
As one Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose picked up their shields and ordered their drivers to advance, and the chariots plunged forward. Ramese's cartouche was clear on his chariot and the riders recognised it. Despite Akehton cleverly ordering his driver to drive across Rameses line, shielding him, 2 of the riders headed for the heir to the throne. The other 2 made to keep the lesser princes busy.
Rameses easily blocked the blow of the first rider to arrive with his shield and struck out with his spear rather than his sword to keep the rider at arms length, but succeeded only in nicking the horse. The driver prepared to take the chariot around in an arc, hoping that the blade on the wheel of the chariot might cut the lead riders mount from under him, but was stunned to find a knife hilt sticking out of his chest. His last sight in this world as he slid to the feet of his prince in the chariot was the second rider his throwing arm outstretched, beginning to reach for his sword.
The horses, no longer under control bolted, and with one hand holding a spear, the other a shield and briefly distracted by the death of his driver, the sudden jerk threw Rameses from his chariot, to the hard packed sand beneath.
"Rameses!" Akehton cried out from 20 yards away, in the thick of battle but seeing his brother fall.
Rameses, looked up at the sky stunned, every muscle jarred by the impact. A shadow obscured the azure sky and he realised it was the front hooves and body of the horse rearing up and bearing down on him. Pain coursing through him he rolled sideways between the front and back legs of the horse and raised his spear, the horse came down heavily on the spear, and with a grunt died on it's feet. He rolled again and avoided the falling body, spring to his feet.
Unfortunately for him, the rider of the horse proved just as agile, and leapt from his dead horse to land on the ground on the far side, brandishing his sword with a flourish. Even more unfortunately for Rameses he had no sword or weapon of any kind to flourish.
The battle cry of the second rider filled his ears and he only just ducked in time to avoid his royal head being removed from its royal neck. The second rider reined in his horse with a slide and Rameses was trapped.
A second battle cry sounded but this one wasn't coherent and sounded more like the cry of an animal in pain. Rameses trying to watch both attackers at once, hoping to find an opening, saw only a blur, and then the blood drenched Keeahn was upon them.
With a leap the Celt bounded up and straddled the back of the still mounted riders horse, brought the great arc of the attackers sword he carried over the man's head and, as if he held the most delicate of knives, slit his throat. The body was flung rather than pushed from the horse, and Keeahn cleanly grabbed the free reins, and dragged the horses head around to the direction he wished to go while spurring it on with his heels. The horse flew forward, and before the first attacker, had time to take in the sudden shift from near certain triumph to approaching death, Keeahn rode him down.
Rameses watched in silent amazement, before emitting an echoing cry of battle, his smile flashing at the man he had taken from the labour gang. But though Keeahn looked directly at him, his eyes were filled with something that the Prince had never seen before in battle. He watched as Keeahn spurred his horse back towards the other chariots.
Akehton, having just managed to dispatch his opponent with a well timed thrust to the belly, had just enough time to gape at Keeahn's rescue of Rameses, before turning his attention to his young cousin who was still involved in a game of cat and mouse with his attacker. Akehton reached for his bow again and ordered his driver to get him a better aim, when Keeahn sped by on the horse and on reaching Tuthmose reached out and slashed the attacking rider from his horse = with an almost casual flick of his sword and in a gentle arc turned the horse back towards the main battle.
The animal cry came again from the depths of his soul, and Akehton could only gape at the visage.
"Ra protect us." He muttered.
Rameses, watched Keeahn despatch Moses's attacker and then sprinted for Akehton's chariot. He leaped on board.
"Follow him!" he pointed at Keeahn, and ordered his brothers driver. The driver whipped the horses on. They were joined momentarily by Moses.
"What do you think of my acquisition now?" Rameses called out to him, exhilarated by his near brush with death.
"I'm glad he's on our side!" Tuthmose yelled back.
"Gods," Akehton said "Look at him!" They all turned their attention back to the fair skinned warrior slave who had leapt from his horse into the heart of the remaining battle, where Medjai and ordinary soldiers fought the remaining dismounted riders.
In the course of battles or in training all 3 of them had seen great fighters and clever fighters and those who made it look easy, but they had never seen anything like this. There was no style to it, no coherent pattern of attack, and certainly nothing defensive about his approach. He hacked and slashed like a man possessed of a demon, eyes ablaze, every sinew straining, heedless of the small wounds and nicks he was receiving. Sheer strength ripped shields from hands and plunged weapons through armour. His speed and aggressiveness made it almost impossible to get close enough to do any serious damage, weapons, including those he used himself, were bent and split in two by blows.
Rameses took Akehton's bow from his hands and took it upon himself to make sure that no enemy sword would find a lucky way into this man's body. Watching all the movement around Keeahn, he picked off any enemies that approached him without the man's knowledge.
Finally, with one final plunge of the sword into a fallen enemy, it was all over. The sword stood straight up erect from the body of his enemy and Keeahn, chest heaving, eyes ablaze whirled around in search of more. But there were none. Only a large circle of soldiers, Medjai and charioteers watching him in awe. His eyes closed slowly, his head dropped to his chest, and gasping for air, he dropped slowly to his knees, bending double.
Then came the roar.
"M'Athair!" was the cry and as he raised his head back as far as it would go, arms outstretched, it soared up into the night sky to the stars louder and longer than any sound from a human had a right to. A roar of pain and grief, of revenge and farewell, it echoed on to where his father and kinsmen, treacherously killed, now dwelled.
And then, the berserker rage departed.
Gathering Clouds
Egypt, 1068 B.C.
Keeahn, sat on a small embankment, 200 yards or so beyond the camps guarded perimeter, watching the vast wheel of the sun as it continued it's final descent to the horizon. He'd watched it every evening since they'd taken him from the labour gang. He could never get over how big the sun was here, and once again his attention was fixed upon it.
At home the sun shone like a torch in the sky, here it was more like a Bealtaine bonfire. It would be pitch dark soon, he knew. Blazing sun, then out came the moon and the stars. At home the evenings stretched on forever in the summer, with ever changing subtle shades of twilight before finally night settled on the countryside. Here it jumped out at you, the sun, huge as it was, swallowed quickly like a salmon swallows a worm.
It was one of the many strange things about this place, how bright and hot one minute and so cold and dark the next. Again, for more times than he cared to count, he wished he was at home at the hearth fires of his clann.
A tiny movement of loose sand tickled his lower thighs, and he tugged at the new kilt he wore. The clothes they had given him were clean and light and comfortable, perfect for the hot days. But, he felt uncomfortably exposed by their sheerness and their length. Men, and indeed women, here did not leave much to the imagination, his startled stares at earned him several beatings back in the city port. Now he was dressed similarly to many of those he had seen. A black kilt with gold motifs he did not recognise, good strong leather sandals, a light robe made of the same material as the kilt, what he learned was called 'linen', and a heavier black wool one, which sat on the ground behind him.
For the millionth time since it happened, he ran his hand almost absently over the back of his hair to the now naked neck exposed to the air for the first time since he was a babe, and done so in the most embarrassing experience of his life.
He had been taken and bathed like a child by full grown men. He was shaved, not just of his whiskers but all over, despite his protestations. The whole process had been overseen by the small bald man he had learned was called Sekhnet. A priest of some sort. He had only just barely escaped with his head of hair intact. He had kicked and struggled when they had approached him with a shears to turn him as bald as they.
Sekhnet had explained that it was all being done so that he would be more comfortable, that there were insects here that would enjoy the home he was inadvertently providing for them, and that he would most certainly be cooler without his long russet hair. The idea of the insects had worried him and given him pause, but in the end he had refused point blank to let them cut it all off. After a while the priest had relented, thinking that maybe the fair skin of his head would fair better under cover than exposed. Still he insisted on having it trimmed, as no one with such a savage haircut would be allowed in the palace.
For 27 days and nights now, almost 3 weeks, by these peoples 10 days a week reckoning, he had been under the watchful eye of the vigilant Sekhnet, who worked tirelessly with him on a range of topics. He was a fast learner by nature and already he felt his grasp of the language had improved consderably. Sekhnet had combined language learning with teaching him about the places he would see, the people he would encounter, how he must act around them, and why.
He had learned much of this strange world he now inhabited. He had learned that the man whose servant he now was, was the eldest son of the High King of this place. Indeed the only King. And this place, this country was huge, far greater a kingdom than he had ever imagined. That it was dotted with great cities and great monuments built by great kings so that they might be remembered. He was told he would see wonders the like of which he would have never seen. He was told that he would see wealth beyond his wildest imaginings and he was told he would see a Living God, a bridge between heaven and earth.
He kept his council on all this. Not least the last part.
His father had taught him, as had the Druids, that Gods and Men did not dwell together, at least not physically. They were part of the air, the earth, the sky, the sun, the trees, rivers, lochs and mountains. They granted their blessings and occasionally appeared in mortal form, but they never dwelled as one. Once early on in the life of mankind they had dwelled and nothing but trouble had come of it. Now they lived beyond the sea, dreaming of the humans while the humans dreamed of them.
Still, his Gods weren't their Gods, so maybe what Sekhnet said was true. The idea of a Living God both intrigued and confused him. After all how could he be a God if he bled and died at the hands of a mere man? And more, how could this man, his master, be not a God now, and yet a God after he was King? It did not make sense, but then, the pragmatic part of him pointed out, neither did raising these points, not when your aim was getting your freedom.
In the approaching brief twilight, Keeahn could see in the distance a billowing cloud of red gold dust blossoming up from the desert ground. He'd been warned of many of the dangers of the desert apart from the obvious ones of sun, heat and lack of water. There were the huge black insect like creatures, scorpions, that had a bite like fire when they struck with their tail. The huge spiders, the likes and size of which he had never seen, and which could kill a man. And the snakes. Far different from the few small harmless dull grass snakes of home, these were often vividly coloured and deadly. The very idea of them made him feel uncomfortable sitting there.
But, with the cloud in the distance, it was of the sand storms he currently thought.
His tuath, the land of his father, had been a coastal one and he had seen huge storms blow across the massive ocean it bordered. Storms that shook the very earth. He had watched as a child as men in their fishing currachs were swept out to sea by sudden gales, despite all the best efforts of their kinsmen to save them. He never once thought back then, safe on the land, that the earth too could provide a similar threat.
Sekhnet had described in detail the awesome effects of a storm where sand not rain fell and whipped around you, blinding, choking and burying you. A storm that could rise and boil out of nothing, blue skies and clear air one minute and a few minutes later a wall of blasting sand. He shuddered at the thoughts of being buried out here in this wasteland and his longing for home grew, even as he watched the distant cloud of dust.
Reaching down to where he sat, he took up a handful of the sand, and ran it through his fingers. Even the texture of the sand compared to the beaches of his home felt different, the forces of water and wind providing differing effects. And still, if you looked at the giant mounds of sand through which they passed you could see the eddys and waves of the sea or loch as clearly as if it were water and not the that wind blew over it. Different but the same.
While he had been working, slaving in the city port, his mind had been occupied. The work, the whips of the guards, the huge pyramid monuments beyond the city and the teeming mass of existence around him. With all that around him, it had been easier there not to think of home and family. But out here, in this wasteland that seemed to hold nothing but death at every corner, everything here, either through it's similarities or differences was almost designed to make you think of home.
He tried to work out how long he had been gone.
They had left on their trading mission to the Celtaigh tribes of Bretagne, before moving further south along the coastline, trading their furs and artworks, and arranging deals for shipments of lumber and stone. In one port in Galacia they had come across a strangely shaped ship, which, the harbour master had told them had come from the dark land beyond the sea at the southernmost tip of that land.
Why it was named the dark land was soon abundantly clear. While the men of Galacia were often dark of countenance and generally sallow skinned compared to the more northerly Celtaigh, the men of this ship were darker even than they. Deep brown skin the colour of bark, jet black hair, dark eyes and hawkish noses they were well dressed in distinctive flowing black and white robes. They were well armed too, with ornately decorated swords, which were first straight and then curved like a druid's sickle.
They had not participated in the sporting events organised by the host tribe for the conclave of traders there, but had watched from the sidelines as he and his foster brother Aengus had competed for the honour of their tribe. He had been particularly successful, winning the footraces and the spear toss, and showing well in the hand to hand combat. He only wished he had his horse to compete with the local tribesmen, he fancied his mare, Gaire Laidir, against any of the animals there. Still, his clann had been proud of him that night, and he had celebrated mightily supping deeply from the stock of uisce beatha they had brought with them, and which was their contribution to the feast.
While he had celebrated, his father struck a deal with the dark men. Only one of their number spoke their language, and he was an amiable old fellow with a shock of white beard which contrasted startlingly with his dark skin. He sat with his father and discussed their respective lands. They had even struck a bargain, gold ore in exchange for the hard woods that grew in the forests beside their Rath. Maps were exchanged. His father, Concobhair, had told him as they struck out at last for home, some 3 moons after they had sailed, that the Ri, who had been desirous of a new gold torc to show his increasing prosperity, would be more than pleased with the deal.
They were only out of sight of the port, and he was struggling from the after effects of the drink, when they spotted the dark men's sail nearby. Their ship was large with a prow you could slice beef on. They sailed closer and his father had gone forward to wave them on their way and wish them good health home.
He'd received a long shafted white fletched arrow in his chest for his pains.
The next thing he had known the men in Black and White were on top of them, their sharp prow slicing through the timbers of their boat and sending them flying. In trying to reach his father he lost his balance and cracked his head on the side rail. His limbs had failed him and then there was nothing but the brief sound of battle cries, the clash of weapons and darkness.
When he awoke, he found his limbs still failed him, but after a moment he realised it was due to the fetters around them. He and two of his shipmates had been taken, one was Aengus the other Aengus's half brother Fergus, alongside them in the hold was the precious cargo they had worked so hard to collect. The others of their clann, Aengus and Fergus had told him, were dead, his father included. Before he could begin to keen for their loss, the white haired leader of the dark men had come down, all trace of friendliness long gone, and told them in harsh tones that they were still alive only because they were young and strong and fair and would fetch a good price at the slave markets, either because of their size or their skin.
It was hard to tell how many days went by, locked in the hold of the ship, 4 maybe 5. But they reached some port and the men came to take them away to be sold, or rather they took Aengus and Fergus, but left him. He waited for his turn, all that day and into the next, but the next thing he knew he felt the ship move and they were leaving port again.
When they came to bring him his food he tried to ask them why he had been left, they would not or could not answer him, and the leader never came near him again. He estimated, as best he could, that a further 4 days later they docked and finally he was dragged out into the light of day into a small town made up of strange square stone houses, that seemed exclusively set up as a trading post for slavers, as most of those stone houses, were holding quarters for the slaves.
He was bought by the darkest man he had ever seen. So dark as to be almost jet black His teeth shone like polished white marble in his neatly whiskered face, his white robe and cape were flecked with gold and the purse of gold he pulled out for his purchase was immense. His retinue was large and armed to the teeth, as if they would have to escort a lot of unruly slaves, though in the end he had been the man's only purchase.
They had stripped him of his woollen jerkin, and draped him in a ragged cloth cape, then tethered him to the back of a huge pale brown animal that seemed to carry a mountain on it's back and smelled like the pigsties of the Rath after Caomhin Mac Art had failed to clean them out for the fifth day running.
Tethered to this mountainous creature he know knew as a 'camel', he got his first real taste of the hot burning sun and had spent the first two nights of this life in agony as his uncovered head felt like it would explode.
Knowing the fate of useless slaves, he had dragged himself along, but he could hardly stand, let alone walk by the end of the third day due to the pounding in his head. He'd collapsed, just as the sun started to set, convinced it would the last sunset he would ever see.
But strangely they had not left him, they had placed a head dress on his head and put him on top of the camel and covered him up. He lost track of time then, and once he was well enough they had him walking again. His woollen trousers were soaked with sweat every day, and his feet swollen and blistered by the long trek across the sand and stones.
3 days of walking later and on the crest of a small hill of sand he saw the biggest city he had ever seen in his life. Giza. There, he wasn't so much sold as handed over to another man, who placed him in the labour gang. His clothes were taken away and he was handed the uniform of the slaves the leather skirt, the hard sandals and a head dress that was too small for him.
He'd been there for 2 more waxing and wanings of the moon, his hair lightening, his skin burning gradually turning brown under the sun, but still a pale shadow compared to those about him.
All told he estimated that he had left home maybe 7 moons ago.
They would be just about getting ready for the Samhain festival, and the tribes would gather for the celebration. His mother and sisters would finish the new clothes for the family to wear and his brothers would bring in the best of their crops and cattle for the feast, only neither he nor his father would be there with them. His brothers were young, and while his mother could tear any man to pieces with words that a trained file or bard would be hard pressed to use as well, there would be no full man to protect the family. Still, the land they owned was prosperous and the Ri, would see them safe, as was traditional amongst the clan for the families who lost members on missions for the tuath.. And there were many this time.
He wished they knew he was alive at least.
His depression deepened, and he looked out once again at the desert around him. Even if he was the sort to break his word and dishonour himself, where would he go from here? He would not last 3 days alone out here. But it was a moot point, as he would not dishonour himself by breaking his bargain. His father, with the Gods now, would not greet him kindly the day he arrived, if he broke his bargain with this Prince Rameses just to gain his own freedom.
He shivered a little as the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and the first cold of the desert evening set in. He reached behind him and pulled the woollen robe towards him, shaking it out well as he had been taught, and placing his arms through. He stood as he did so, and as he pulled the robe up onto his shoulders, he caught sight of the cloud of dust again. It was closer than before, much much closer.
In fact it seemed to be travelling towards him. A gust of wind blew at him, and he realised then that the wind was blowing in a different direction from the destination of the cloud. No mere gust or eddy could maintain such a straight line. He knelt quickly and placed his hand on a flat piece of sun baked earth.
He felt the tremors immediately, and a moment later recognised the distinctive pattern. Hoof beats. Horses, lots of them. He looked at the ever growing cloud again. In this climate it was unlikely that horses roamed free in packs. Camels maybe? But then the pattern didn't feel right, it was too heavy and rapid, not the padded lope of the desert animals. No. It was horses. And that meant they were being ridden.
He looked behind him at the encampment, he was not being watched, they knew he couldn't leave without perishing, and the Prince seemed to trust him enough not to have him followed. Something he appreciated. It was quiet and peaceful and the cooking fires and talk of the men drifted on the breeze. While perimeters had been set up at every stage along their journey, with each passing day, they became more and more relaxed and at ease. Careless. He could see the two guards nearest to him, talking casually together.
He would seem foolish if he ran back yelling about the approaching cloud and it turned out to be nothing. And so he hesitated, and turned back to check again.
When the riders burst out of the cloud, he suddenly realised that his depth perception had been distorted by the size and shape of the cloud and the heat haze rising up from the still baking ground. They were a lot closer than they appeared. Close enough that his hesitation could prove costly. He saw the first glint of metal and he ran.
The 2 Medjai guards at the perimeter, having lost a bet with the 2 army regulars who would normally be standing watch and were now unfortunately taking their watch for them, blinked as they saw the fair skinned mountain run towards them waving his arms and screaming "Attack! Attack!" in their language.
The new slave's arrival amongst them and been the topic of much discussion in the Medjai's ranks. To say that none of them trusted this strangely coloured man with the eyes of the blue Nile was to put it mildly. His sheer size and strength put them on edge, and the shaggy appearance of him hadn't helped. He looked part man part animal.
He was cleaned up now and far more presentable, but while their master, the Prince might seem to trust him so readily, they were far from convinced that he wasn't going to try and escape and take one or two of them down as he did so.
This, however, wasn't quite what they had expected.
A quick broken neck or brief flurry of swords before he ran or was cut down was one thing, but right now it looked as if he was running unarmed, to attack the entire encampment. And so they blinked. Blinked and looked at each other and started to laugh.
Then they heard his words more clearly as he got closer.
"Riders! Attack! Riders!" they looked beyond him at the distant embankment where he had been sitting, and saw the dust rising up in the air. One reached for his horn, even as Keeahn passed him at full pelt, and blasted a warning into the air.
Keeahn ran, he could hear the approaching thunder of the horses behind him. The blast of the horn was a signal that moved the camp still another 100 yards beyond him into a frenzy of sudden activity. But it also signalled to the approaching riders that they had at last been noticed. A battle cry went up behind him, and a few moments later the riders poured over the area he had before been so peacefully sitting on.
Another few moments later he heard a whoosh behind him that sped past him, and an arrow embedded itself in the ground ahead of him. Another blast of the horn rang out, from near his ear, and he realised that the 2 Medjai were just behind him.
The one without the horn called out to him. "Dodge!"
He looked back at them, and realised that they were running from right to left and back again, he saw the hail of arrows in the air, and started to zig and zag madly.
Up ahead of them, at the first blast of the horn, men spilled out of their tents everywhere and stared at the oncoming runners before racing to find their weapons. He could see the Prince and the others come out of the central tent and could hear the commanding voice of Rameses shouting orders.
There was a grunt to his right and a thud, he looked around again and saw the Medjai who had called out to him go to ground, his right leg stuck with a white fletched arrow. He turned even as the second Medjai ran on, furiously blowing the horn with what breath he had left. Moving back, all too aware of the oncoming riders, he reached down and pulled up the man, who would have been considered robust by Egyptian standards and flipped him up over his shoulder, to the man's considerable surprise, turned and ran on again.
Just up ahead of them was a set of hurdles against which the shields of the army contingent escorting the prince had set their shields. With a grunt of effort, man and all, he hurdled it, and ducked down behind the shields, as another hail of arrows came in. Thankfully this hail was followed by a volley from beyond him as Rameses and his lieutenants had set up a wall of archers.
In the fall of riders and horses that followed, Keeahn picked the injured Medjai up again and ran for one of the tents. Propping him up against a chest inside, he pulled the man's sword to the Egyptian's alarm, before flipping it over and handing it to him.
"Stay." He said panting hard. "Your leg is bad. Better place to fight from in here, if you need to."
The man, one hand clamped to his injured leg, took the sword with his free hand and looked at his own weapon as if as if it was some strange foreign object, and then looked at Keeahn, doing some rapid recalculations of the man. He nodded.
"My thanks." He said.
Keeahn nodded and ran to the exit, looking around to take everything in. The stream of riders were almost upon the camp, and he could see some of the archers abandoning their bows, reaching for their swords and making for the stacks of shields. A last few arrows came in from the riders side, and a man fell in front of Keeahn an arrow through his neck, his blood spilling like wine onto the sand. He twitched rapidly and then died.
Keeahn made a dash for the man's weapon, a long spear, scooped it up and ran for the stacks of shields. Unfortunately they were all gone by the time he got there, and by the time he looked around so were the soldiers.
Unfamiliar with organised warfare of this sort, he was out of the loop as the soldiers snatched their shields turned, shields at their backs and ran back to take up formation. Lining up in 3 rows, they turned again to face the oncoming riders, their long spears poking out past their shields. The first row knelt the second came up behind them, also protruding their spears and forming a fearsome wall. The 3rd row knelt behind their shields ready to fill any breaches.
Behind them again, along the sides of the camp, more archers had taken up position, ready to pick off the riders that got through, and beyond that stood the Medjai, swords and shields at the ready.
By the time he had taken all that in, the riders were right on top of him. He dived behind the legs of the thick wooden hurdles, and trusted that horses here, behaved as they did at home, and would jump not plough through the obstacle.
As the horses leapt some of the riders took a swipe at him, but even with their long curved swords they couldn't reach him laying flat on the ground. They streamed past, over and around him like a tidal wave. When he was sure they had passed he jumped up. He estimated about 150 of them, but that wasn't what was foremost on his mind.
Their robes. They were black and white. Their fletched white arrows and their long straight and then curved swords. It was them.
With a roar of hatred, he let fly with the long heavy brass spear, and it flew straight and true and ran through from back to chest, the last rider past him. The rider slid off the horse like a straw doll, and Keeahn, ran and picked up the long sword that fell with him, even as the riders hit the soldiers wall.
The clash and collision of metal, bone and flesh, and the roars and screams of men and horses filled the air.
Keeahn ran, unheeding of the danger in the resulting scrum of man, horse, shield, sword and spear, hacking at anything in black and white that moved, screaming in his native language and in pure fury. The grief for his father, his kinsmen, and for his own predicament pouring out.
Even in his growing fury, from the corner of his eye he saw a horse and rider, who had wheeled away from the crash and was now coming at him side on. He swung around in an arc even as the rider raised his sword, and before the downward chop came he removed the riders stirrup leg whole, from the thigh down with the sword continuing through and burying itself in the horse.
Horse and rider screamed as one and toppled. Blood spurted, showering the Celt in ichor. Keeahn didn't even try to retrieve the sword, instead leapt over the dying horse onto the outstretched arm of the now one legged man, his other good leg trapped beneath the horse. The arm broke in two places, removing whatever tenuous hold the rider still had on his sword. Reaching down he picked up the sword and drove it into the man's heart like it was butter.
The soldiers were now involved in a pitched battle with the majority of the riders, but some had avoided the wall and had gone around the sides heading for the Medjai, and beyond that, the royal party. A good distance behind them, panting and afraid, stood the non-military. Helpless and doomed if those before them fell.
Behind the line of Medjai, Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose stood in their chariots, shielded by their drivers and firing arrows along with the archers now lined up on either side of the encampment, trying to pick off the approaching riders.
Maybe 40 had gotten through, but they were skilled riders and ducked low in their seats and only 10 had been cut down by their arrows. The line of Medjai was thin, maybe 20 in all. They were outnumbered and the rider's horses were a big advantage.
No one had expected this.
They were in the very heartland of Egypt, mere days away from Thebes and one of the biggest armies of men in the world. The military attachment they had had for returning home, was of course well trained, and fairly numerous. 200 men including the Medjai, but it was in essence merely for show. Something for the people to admire as they passed triumphantly through their towns and cities.
Being attacked here was the last thing that had ever crossed their minds. And yet, here they were fighting for their lives.
"Great Prince," the Medjai captain, one eye on the still advancing riders, approached Rameses "You and your honoured brethren should protect yourselves and withdraw."
Rameses barked an unpleasant laugh. "Flee, you mean?" he shook his head never moving his gaze from the enemy. "How fit a Pharaoh would I be, if I ran every time there was danger. We stand!"
With no more time to dissuade his charge, the captain bowed and returned to stand square on to his men and looked back at his Prince, waiting for orders. Rameses notched and let fly two more arrows, before pulling his sword, his brother and cousin followed suit.
"Down!" cried the captain, and the Medjai fell to one knee, their spear arms up the spears resting on their shoulders.
Rameses held and held, and then, finally as they could almost smell the horses panting breath he pointed his sword at the captain.
"Throw!" the man yelled, and 20 spears launched themselves not at the riders but at their horses.
The Medjai, were the best of the best of the warriors of Egypt and it's subject lands. Trained for years and loyal to the last drop of their blood they were the finest fighters in the known world, and it showed.
All 20 of the spears hit their marks and there was a terrible squealing as the riders mounts collapsed beneath them, bringing down half of the others with them. At the end there were just 4 riders mounted. As one the Medjai rose, and with a roar of defiance and a plea to the Gods to protect their King they drew their swords and charged at the men still struggling to extricate themselves from their fallen steeds.
The Medjai fell upon them, but in doing so, left space for the still mounted riders who had wheeled around and steadied their animals to see the gap that lead to the royal party. The archers further back could not risk firing, for the danger of hitting either the Medjai or worse, the royal party. The 4 horsemen charged the 3 men in the chariots.
As one Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose picked up their shields and ordered their drivers to advance, and the chariots plunged forward. Ramese's cartouche was clear on his chariot and the riders recognised it. Despite Akehton cleverly ordering his driver to drive across Rameses line, shielding him, 2 of the riders headed for the heir to the throne. The other 2 made to keep the lesser princes busy.
Rameses easily blocked the blow of the first rider to arrive with his shield and struck out with his spear rather than his sword to keep the rider at arms length, but succeeded only in nicking the horse. The driver prepared to take the chariot around in an arc, hoping that the blade on the wheel of the chariot might cut the lead riders mount from under him, but was stunned to find a knife hilt sticking out of his chest. His last sight in this world as he slid to the feet of his prince in the chariot was the second rider his throwing arm outstretched, beginning to reach for his sword.
The horses, no longer under control bolted, and with one hand holding a spear, the other a shield and briefly distracted by the death of his driver, the sudden jerk threw Rameses from his chariot, to the hard packed sand beneath.
"Rameses!" Akehton cried out from 20 yards away, in the thick of battle but seeing his brother fall.
Rameses, looked up at the sky stunned, every muscle jarred by the impact. A shadow obscured the azure sky and he realised it was the front hooves and body of the horse rearing up and bearing down on him. Pain coursing through him he rolled sideways between the front and back legs of the horse and raised his spear, the horse came down heavily on the spear, and with a grunt died on it's feet. He rolled again and avoided the falling body, spring to his feet.
Unfortunately for him, the rider of the horse proved just as agile, and leapt from his dead horse to land on the ground on the far side, brandishing his sword with a flourish. Even more unfortunately for Rameses he had no sword or weapon of any kind to flourish.
The battle cry of the second rider filled his ears and he only just ducked in time to avoid his royal head being removed from its royal neck. The second rider reined in his horse with a slide and Rameses was trapped.
A second battle cry sounded but this one wasn't coherent and sounded more like the cry of an animal in pain. Rameses trying to watch both attackers at once, hoping to find an opening, saw only a blur, and then the blood drenched Keeahn was upon them.
With a leap the Celt bounded up and straddled the back of the still mounted riders horse, brought the great arc of the attackers sword he carried over the man's head and, as if he held the most delicate of knives, slit his throat. The body was flung rather than pushed from the horse, and Keeahn cleanly grabbed the free reins, and dragged the horses head around to the direction he wished to go while spurring it on with his heels. The horse flew forward, and before the first attacker, had time to take in the sudden shift from near certain triumph to approaching death, Keeahn rode him down.
Rameses watched in silent amazement, before emitting an echoing cry of battle, his smile flashing at the man he had taken from the labour gang. But though Keeahn looked directly at him, his eyes were filled with something that the Prince had never seen before in battle. He watched as Keeahn spurred his horse back towards the other chariots.
Akehton, having just managed to dispatch his opponent with a well timed thrust to the belly, had just enough time to gape at Keeahn's rescue of Rameses, before turning his attention to his young cousin who was still involved in a game of cat and mouse with his attacker. Akehton reached for his bow again and ordered his driver to get him a better aim, when Keeahn sped by on the horse and on reaching Tuthmose reached out and slashed the attacking rider from his horse = with an almost casual flick of his sword and in a gentle arc turned the horse back towards the main battle.
The animal cry came again from the depths of his soul, and Akehton could only gape at the visage.
"Ra protect us." He muttered.
Rameses, watched Keeahn despatch Moses's attacker and then sprinted for Akehton's chariot. He leaped on board.
"Follow him!" he pointed at Keeahn, and ordered his brothers driver. The driver whipped the horses on. They were joined momentarily by Moses.
"What do you think of my acquisition now?" Rameses called out to him, exhilarated by his near brush with death.
"I'm glad he's on our side!" Tuthmose yelled back.
"Gods," Akehton said "Look at him!" They all turned their attention back to the fair skinned warrior slave who had leapt from his horse into the heart of the remaining battle, where Medjai and ordinary soldiers fought the remaining dismounted riders.
In the course of battles or in training all 3 of them had seen great fighters and clever fighters and those who made it look easy, but they had never seen anything like this. There was no style to it, no coherent pattern of attack, and certainly nothing defensive about his approach. He hacked and slashed like a man possessed of a demon, eyes ablaze, every sinew straining, heedless of the small wounds and nicks he was receiving. Sheer strength ripped shields from hands and plunged weapons through armour. His speed and aggressiveness made it almost impossible to get close enough to do any serious damage, weapons, including those he used himself, were bent and split in two by blows.
Rameses took Akehton's bow from his hands and took it upon himself to make sure that no enemy sword would find a lucky way into this man's body. Watching all the movement around Keeahn, he picked off any enemies that approached him without the man's knowledge.
Finally, with one final plunge of the sword into a fallen enemy, it was all over. The sword stood straight up erect from the body of his enemy and Keeahn, chest heaving, eyes ablaze whirled around in search of more. But there were none. Only a large circle of soldiers, Medjai and charioteers watching him in awe. His eyes closed slowly, his head dropped to his chest, and gasping for air, he dropped slowly to his knees, bending double.
Then came the roar.
"M'Athair!" was the cry and as he raised his head back as far as it would go, arms outstretched, it soared up into the night sky to the stars louder and longer than any sound from a human had a right to. A roar of pain and grief, of revenge and farewell, it echoed on to where his father and kinsmen, treacherously killed, now dwelled.
And then, the berserker rage departed.
