Chapter 6 - The Boy
"Why are you still up at this hour?"
Sam looked up blearily, leaning on his spear rather heavily. He grinned in recognition. "Heru! Is that not a question you should be answering? It is my night to keep watch, after all, and I am sure we will require your assistance in the morning."
Harry shrugged. "I put protections around the entire campsite, so nobody gets in here without my knowledge. There really is no need to have a night watch with me around. You should go catch a few hours of sleep yourself. Who knows what we might find in this new city?"
Spending two months on the road with the same small group of people, Harry had finally figured out that on some things, people wouldn't budge. They would not call him by his actual name, they wouldn't raise their voices even when they wanted to, and most of all they were always under the impression that he disliked helping out. He supposed it was unsurprising, given that they usually seemed to think he was a nobleman of some sort, but it had gotten a bit annoying. Sam, at least, spoke to Harry like an equal, and he much appreciated it.
"You know that not having a lookout wouldn't be proper while escorting such highly-placed people in a foreign land," Sam said, raising an eyebrow. "Between yourself and Priest Wosret, it is remarkable that we have so few people here as we do."
"The Pharaoh knows that I am here, that's why," Harry muttered tiredly, transfiguring a rotten old log into a sturdy bench and dropping onto it with a deep sigh. "Come, have a seat."
Sam hesitantly stepped closer, joining him on the long wooden furniture, though he thankfully didn't seem as spooked about magic anymore. Harry had learned not to conjure things that were too out there for the time period – like his bed, back at the palace, or a luxurious fluffy couch – and went with the basics instead. The first time he'd used his spells in the presence of his travel companions, right when they were setting up their first camp and having dinner, three of the soldiers had outright choked on their food while Wosret had studied him with intense eyes, though he'd not commented at all. He hadn't really thought about it – he'd just cooked his meat without the fire. Wosret had refrained from mentioning magic thereafter, and Harry figured that he was probably trying to act as if he'd already known about it.
"You're still uncomfortable about this whole trip, aren't you?" Harry wondered, slipping his wand back in his pocket. "Being on escort duty so far from home is probably a new thing for you."
"I admit, I am uncomfortable with the distance," Sam said softly, staring out over the thinly wooded area with a frown. They were only a short distance away from an arid region that could rival the deserts of Egypt itself, and seeing any trees at all was unusual. Most of them were crooked and rather short, a testament to the poor soil here. Perhaps the city would have better ground, since they needed to grow their plants somewhere. Sam turned back, distractedly plucking at his slight beard; Harry figured he could offer to cut it again, later. A shave without effort or risk of wounds understandably appealed to the soldiers that were along. "Like all of us, I am unfamiliar with this land, and I do not know what dangers there might lie. Beasts, wildmen, perhaps even our hosts may come after us. We are with so few to counter any troubles."
"Well, I'm here," Harry said. "I might only be one guy, but I can take care of a couple bandits if I have to. You know I can, you've seen me practicing often enough..."
Sam nodded. "It is not the attack that we see coming that worries me. What if poison is put into our water, or into our food, even by our very guests here in Ka-na-na? What if an assassin sneaks upon us in the night, so that we may face the judge far sooner than we hope? I shudder to think of what might happen in that case, or what the Pharaoh might do."
"Don't worry too much about it," Harry answered confidently, picking up a thin stick and idly twirling it in his hand, poking into the soil with it. "Tomorrow we'll reach the city, and we will see what we can do there. Perhaps we'll make a treaty, or see what they are like, and then we can return home. It took only eight weeks to get here, it should not take much longer to reach Tjenu." He smiled knowingly. "You will see your wife soon enough."
Sam looked at him with wide eyes. "You know about that?"
"Wosret knew, of course," Harry said. As a priest of the temple, he heard a lot of things, and a wedding was a pretty involved affair, even in this time. "If the gods are kind you will have your child in four months, I've heard."
Sam blushed, nodding. "I hope to return before the birth. I believe that the child will be a son, so that he may pick up his father's profession. Perhaps, in time, he will serve as palace guard to the Pharaoh himself, and fulfill the dream of his parents. Perhaps he will serve you, one day."
"I intend to be around to see that," Harry commented, and he only caught himself after a few moments. He ignored the thought of returning back to his own time, to his home, focusing instead on Sam. "Do you remember the messenger that I commanded to travel to Tjenu? I met with him after we reached the first town, before the camels were fully loaded."
"Yes?"
"I sent it back to the capital with a few notes, after I'd heard from Wosret," Harry said. "They're just notes on a few plants that I learned about years ago. Basic stuff, plants that can be found growing in many places, sometimes considered weeds. I saw quite a few of them in the royal garden, actually." He smiled thinly. "I asked the Queen to send someone to your wife with the herbs I picked out, to make a tea with them. It should keep her and the child healthy."
Harry smiled as Sam perked up at the news. He'd done a little more than just dig into his Herbology lessons and identify some Muggle plants that would help. He'd had one of his enchanted necklaces delivered as well, and it was one of his latest, containing a small collection of protective charms he'd been toying with, including one that should, at least once, allow one to walk away from a serious wound. True, Sam was only a casual acquiantance, but he couldn't bear the thought of any of this group coming back home and having lost their family. He knew the number of deaths at childbirth was uncomfortably high especially in this time before antibiotics. Unfortunately, he knew next to nothing about Muggle medicine, and had no clue where to start finding some of those; he had to row with the oars he had. Perhaps, when he got back, he could consider expanding his herbology lessons, since that would be something he could actually mass-produce, by putting the royal gardens to use as something other than a place that looked pretty. He thought the idea of on-demand potions to deal with common diseases was a rather splendid idea.
Harry stared out at the dark silhouettes of trees, thinking about the past few weeks. He'd been doing a lot of magic on this trip, more so than he's honestly expected when he left. Among other things he'd been keeping everyone comfortable by softening their saddles when they travelled on camel-back, by cleaning up the road before they even got to obstructions, and, repairing anything that broke. One thing he'd patched together more times than he could count was Wosret's walking staff that seemingly got stuck in holes every third step. Besides that he'd spent an inordinate amount of time just casting various spells or spell variations while he walked, since talking with the soldiers was next to impossible while they were on the move. They seemed to have a sort of established code that they only lightened up when dinner time came around, and his attempts to get them into conversation had just been met with silence. Wosret spent most of his time pontificating on things that Harry cared rather little about, which meant their discussions were infrequent. He was well-read, that Harry was certain about, but it seemed that the things he read mostly concerned the many, many variations of worship within and around Egypt, a topic that Harry was rather skeptical about for many reasons. It didn't help that he'd been mistaken for a god already, and he rather wanted to avoid furthering that connection.
Training his magic had been something he'd been doing for years now, back in the past, mostly while experimenting with new spells. He'd never really gone for learning combat spells, though, or for figuring out how to use his other spells offensively. Cooped up in Per-Bastet or Tjenu he'd mostly just used spells to make Muggle things easier, or transfigured things that he could use. Surrounded with people without any magic, a single Stupefy would be enough to drop opposition like a sack of sand. Now that he was out here, though, where bandits might lurk around and half a dozen other people were right beside him, simply stunning someone might be impractical as a solution, since other people would quickly get the idea when the first person went down.
Besides all that, he'd gotten a bit nervous about the stories he heard of this nation's conjurers of storms, and of other things that sounded very magical. If there were wizards here, he'd probably meet them soon enough if he didn't keep his own a secret. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to figure out what kind of wizards they were – for all he knew they could be dark wizards – without facing them, and that meant risking a confrontation. Harry wished he'd paid attention in History of Magic, now; the many goblin rebellions aside, he'd never really learned much about ancient Wizarding cultures, and he had no clue where the first ones even appeared, beyond that Egypt was one of the first. Few writings from this early period were preserved at all, which made such studies difficult. Harry supposed he might be the one to find out – just centuries before he could actually pass that information on to the generation that would be interested in it.
Thinking of other wizards had Harry thinking about his skill at magical fighting. He knew well enough that if he did nothing, he might eventually meet someone nasty and end up getting killed; he could use his knowledge as an advantage, though. He knew a lot of spells that hadn't been invented yet, that were snapshots of a future that was yet to be. Those, perhaps, could serve as his aces in the hole.
Hogwarts hadn't really taught magical combat beyond a bit of duelling and a few spells in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Most of that had been taught so ineptly that it wasn't worth the time anyway. The D.A. had been much more helpful in that regard, but since his illegal little study group had mostly been covering fifth-year magic aside from the Patronus charm, it wasn't exactly the most exciting stuff. That left him with the few spells he'd read about but never actually cast, including a few nasty ones that would probably be considered dark magic themselves, mostly because he'd wanted to know what to expect from the more common dark curses and spells. He was going to be an Auror, after all. What he ended up with after going through his combat skills was a hodgepodge of stunning spells, a few ways to make stuff explode, Expelliarmus, and tying someone up. There were a few others that he considered but that weren't really that useful; conjuring fire might be occasionally useful, but he doubted he'd ever want to burn someone alive. The problem was, his skill with his spells was not good enough to hit more than one person, which meant he might as well be throwing Stunners and be done with it.
He'd decided on the third day of travel that he'd spend his down-time just playing with his spells, trying to get an actual tactic down. He'd had no luck in trying to stun more than one person at the time, and he didn't want to keep testing it on the poor guards while they were trying to rest up from a day's worth of marching. Bigger explosions were probably possible if he really wanted to, but the blasts had sent everyone scurrying away so quickly that he'd thought twice about testing that again in view of everyone. Disarming more than one person – that's where he'd gotten somewhere, finally. He'd always been a fair shot with Expelliarmus, and he did end the fight with Voldemort using that spell. It worked for him here, too. He'd managed to disarm three of the guards with only one charm, and he'd done so repeatedly. A fourth felt his weapon try to rip itself out of his hands, but managed to hold on to it with his fingertips. A week or two later when he'd tried again, using the bits and pieces he'd learned through trial and error, he'd managed to disarm all six, and he'd removed Wosret's walking stick as well, right before a step, for which he'd apologized profusely to the annoyed priest.
That really only left him spells for keeping people busy. Conjuring ropes, impeding movement, even basic hexes and jinxes counted. Perhaps he'd get to those on the way back.
Harry sat up suddenly when he realized he'd been dozing off as he let his mind wander, and his neck was aching from his uncomfortable slumped position on the bench. He glanced to his side. Sam leaned against the side, his head on his arm and eyes closed. Harry smiled as he stood up, tapping the bench softly. Very slowly the bench changed into a comfortable little bed, if rather primitive by his own standards, and a cloth blanket covered Sam on its own. Harry briefly wondered why it had taken so long before it was done, then shrugged tiredly.
"Sleep well," he murmured as he walked towards his own place nearer to the centre of camp. Sam would be fine, since his spells would wake Harry long before anyone got close to the camp. It was about time he'd go to bed himself, since he could feel his eyes protesting against being used. As he walked, he yawned, and something slipped from his fingers as he stretched out. He didn't even notice that as he dropped down on his own makeshift bedspread.
What he'd left behind was just a dead twig.
Mot ran like he'd never done before, his heart hammering in his chest so loudly that it almost blocked out any other sound. He'd stormed out of his cell with such speed that the one guard that noticed him had just stood there for a few moments in utter surprise, incapable of doing anything but stare. In those few moments Mot had gone to the door, wrenched it open, and jumped right up the stairs behind them to the next level, to ground level. He panted wildly as he kept going, running through the decorated halls. Yells behind him sounded distant, but angry. It wouldn't be long before they were onto him, and he needed to slip away before that time.
"I won't go back," Mot muttered to himself. He looked around sharply, trying to figure out what to do. The man that had been at his side so very often had died, but there'd been nobody there. A spirit had slit his throat, perhaps, or the gods had looked out for him, even all the way out here. It took him only a moment to figure out why.
His captor had mentioned a foreign emissary, here to conduct diplomacy. When Mot had figured out it had to be Egyptians, the man hadn't contradicted him at all. The Egyptians had arrived, after years and years, and with them came the eyes of the gods themselves. One of them had to have seen his plight so very far from his home, and they had freed him from his bonds. He couldn't suppress a smile from ear to ear as he dashed through the streets of the dark city, leaving the temple far behind. If the gods themselves had spared his life, then he had been kept alive in this place for a reason! He had not been taken for all those years just to be a slave to a foreign master. He felt lighter than he'd done in years, as if he could run on the very air.
Mot wished almost desperately that he'd see an Egyptian banner, or a great armada before the gates, as a sign of their presence. The city was large, and even if he reached the shoddily-built outer reaches and hid among the garbage, they'd find him. Even with the many little huts that were placed so close together that there were an infinite amount of child-sized alleyways, he wouldn't get out when the temple wanted him. The only reason there weren't a hundred guards scouring every inch of the city right now was that very few had found out about his escape. He had to take this chance, he didn't have a choice. He'd have to figure out a way to leave the city entirely.
He'd never found out what the city was called. If it had a name, it was never used in common parlance. Most of the people that he'd met just called it the city of the storm, after the huge temple that dominated the centre of the city, the very temple that held the prisons. Below those prisons, buried in the earth, were the secret chambers, and he only knew about them through stories, though he'd seen many a priest passing by his cell before, passing by to their destination. Nobody knew what the priests did down there, but it involved blood, a lot of blood. Cows were brought down to be drained, and perhaps the same was true of people.
Around the tall temple that housed these horrors was a vast conglomeration of people that both worshipped and feared whatever unholy deity held sway here. Mot was certain that his faith in his homeland's gods was the reason they'd kept him here for so long. These foreigners couldn't break his spirit, and therefore they'd tried to break his body instead. As his steps kept taking him closer to the distant gates with a steady gait that surprised him after being only barely mobile for so long, he smiled. They had failed in this, too.
The main gate was guarded by many soldiers on both sides, and Mot was tempted to stop, to try and find a way around the huge entrance that would get him killed. He knew the wall around the city was taller than he could climb, and many soldiers stood atop it with great spears. They would certainly kill him if he tried reaching their level. The doors were open, as it was a trading day, but there were perhaps even more guards than usual. There were other gates, but the were smaller and more easily defended. He only had one option here, that gave him a shot. Perhaps, with a little help from above, he could do this.
"Hemsut, guide me today," He said at last, and despite his urge to run as far away from the soldiers as he could, he wrenched the last of his energy into a desperate flight, speeding past the first few of the gate's guards before they even noticed him, sliding past a donkey that had just been let into the city, and ripping the spear right out of the next guard's hands before throwing it in his face and dashing off. The man looked incredulous as the boy half his size cleared the gate, and just kept going.
"Put him to the spear!" Someone yelled over the sudden din, and Mot paled. "He's escaped the temple! Kill him!"
Mot kept going despite the yelling, trying to run in erratic patterns to avoid spears. He heard the thudding of boots behind him, and realized that someone was following him. In the distance he could see pinpricks of light on the ground, though the early morning sun already peeked over the horizon; soon the darkness would not be any sort of cover anymore. The yells of the guards echoed far around. He didn't have any plans; he was just running because he had to, because there was nowhere else he could go. If there's been water he might have tried swimming for his life, as he was certainly one of the few here who had ever paddled in the Nile. Unfortunately, all he saw was arid wastelands and sparse trees.
A spear slashed past his shoulder, tearing a long bloody line through his skin as it did. Mot shuddered in pain, and he grimaced, turning his eyes up to the sky. The spears were poisoned, he knew that. Poisoned, right when he was about to escape. Was this all he was meant for, in the end? To die senselessly as he escaped from his captors?
His legs were beginning to feel heavier, his head thudding painfully. He couldn't go on much longer – he'd collapse from sheer exhaustion before the others gave up, and they would be merciless. Mot chanced a glance behind him and almost tripped when he realized four guards were after him – four heavily armed guards, one of which was wearing a shiny helmet with a lightning bolt painted on it. It was a guard from the temple.
"Stop running, or we will kill you!" the man called out.
Mot knew that if he stopped they'd kill him too. They weren't even trying to hide it – three viciously gleaming spears were already aimed towards him. Desperately he threw his hand up. "Hemsut, if it is your will that I die here today, so be it. If not, I require your help!"
The temple guard snorted. "Your false gods will not serve you, thief! This is the land of Ba'al Hadad, and he and his priests demands subservience!"
"Do not speak ill about the gods of Egypt," Mot snarled back, panting as he almost tripped. "They will bring their wrath upon you for your blasphemy!"
The guard smiled viciously, and in a sudden burst of speed he reached Mot, slashing at his leg with his spear and managing to trip him on the next step. Mot smacked to the ground, hitting his head against the ground so hard that he saw stars. Before he'd regained his senses, the guard grabbed him by the hair, dragging him upright, though his knees buckled briefly until he kicked one. The man smiled viciously as he pulled a knife from his side, a wickedly curved thing. "So, you thought you could just escape the temple, did you, foreigner? For that, your death will be slow and painful. In the end you will scream for Ba'al to release you from torment."
The man cut Mot in the shoulder with a single thrust, and he screamed. It was the same shoulder that the spear had hit, and blood poured down his arm as he cried in pain, staring up at his new tormentor with something rawer than fear. He felt light-headed, and intense pain radiated from the shoulder to all the parts of his body, and all he could think about was how to get his revenge. He knew what was coming – they had him now.
"The poison will not kill you," the guard of the temple said. "Much of it will be bled out by the other wound. Oh, you will certainly die, but not before I am done." He shook his head as he wiped off his knife against Mot's loincloth, raising it again. He gazed speculatively at the boy's face, then grinned toothily. "I wonder, does one survive without an eye to see with? Would the pain be enough to end someone like you?"
Mot tried to back away in terror, tried to rip free. In the distance more guards were approaching, and he doubted they'd come to help him. The guard's knife looked very sharp and terrifying, with blood still dotting the edge from his last attack. Desperately Mot closed his eyes, thinking of home, thinking of the family he'd lost. Perhaps he'd see them again, at last, and he liked the idea of them being the last he thought of, or see in his mind's eye. Perhaps the gods had intended him to die free, instead of executed publically before the monsters of foreign lands, and here was the moment it would happen.
"Let the boy go!" Someone yelled, and Mot's eyes snapped open wide. That hadn't been the language he'd learned here, the language that everyone had spoken since he'd gotten here. That had been Egyptian.
The guard lashed out with his knife, and Mot screamed in terror. In the same moment that the knife went flying, leaving the guard's hand forcefully, the man that held it gasped while bringing his hands to his throat in sudden fear. He couldn't take a single breath. He glanced at Mot with hate in his eyes, his hands grasping for the boy's neck when he froze entirely, toppling onto his back and finally releasing Mot's hair, along with a long, difficult sigh.
The other guards weren't looking at Mot. They stared behind him. Mot turned around in an instant, to find a dark-haired man staring back at the guards, some kind of wooden rod raised in his hand. Around his neck he wore a golden collar, gleaming in the sun. It was very similar to the one a Pharaoh wore, and for a moment Mot considered the unthinkable. On the front of the impressive ornament was a symbol: A snake biting its own tail.
The new arrival stepped towards the collapsed guard, and the three others backed away carefully. They'd probably figured out that they were dealing with an Egyptian official too. Mot could only come to one conclusion. It had to be the emissary from Egypt that his torturer had mentioned. He'd found the man, he'd actually found him. The gods were smiling on him, today.
"Are you alright?" the man asked, looking over Mot's injury with a frown as he crouched by the unconscious guard, nodding as he put his fingers to the man's neck. Mot tried to answer, but he didn't know what to say. He sank to his knees as they gave out on him, and sighed in relief and wonder. After all these years, someone had come for him. The man stared at him and nodded to himself. "Right. You all speak another language. I really need to figure out how to learn more of them without doing it the old-fashioned way again."
"I can speak Egyptian," Mot quickly said, wincing as his hoarse voice came out sounding even worse than he remembered. "I – I am Egyptian. I was taken, taken from home years ago. They've kept me here, and when they knew Egyptians were coming, they tried to kill me."
The man scowled darkly as he glanced at the guards that kept a safe distance. "Are there any others?"
"I don't know," Mot said softly. "I've never seen any others…"
The man nodded, narrowing his eyes. "I will protect you, should it be necessary. These people would not be foolish enough to go against me when Egyptian citizens are concerned." He shook his head. "They call me Heru, by the way. What about you?"
Mot looked nervously at the guards. "Mot – my name is Mot."
"Well, Mot… how about we get you out of here?" Heru smiled, then looked at him with a peculiar look. "I could've sworn I just disarmed him. The choking thing… Stay with me, all right? I want to talk to you after this is done with."
"Of course," Mot said weakly. "I'd be dead if I didn't."
"Right." Heru nodded, rising to his feet. His friendly expression got decidedly less so when he faced the guards. "Translate this for me, will you?"
"Ah, yes," Mot flustered as he quickly went to stand beside Heru, nursing his wounded arm but trying not to show how much it hurt. He'd been saved, a few scars didn't matter.
"I am Heru, Advisor to the Pharaoh of Egypt, on a diplomatic mission to his land," he started, and Mot stuttered a little as he translated. Heru seemed to notice and just smiled indulgently. "I want an immediate and thorough explanation for what's happened here. Why was an Egyptian boy being chased and nearly killed by guards of the city, and who ordered this?" He stood up straight, frowning darkly. "They had better have a very good explanation, for all your sakes."
Mot translated the rest haltingly, glancing worriedly between the unarmed man and the guards with sharp spears and knives. Though, he did mention he'd disarmed that last man, and he hadn't even seen how he'd done it. Then, there was something even bigger: He was advisor to the Pharaoh. Mot had never even heard of the position, but it sounded very important. That had to be why his collar was so similar to that of the Pharaoh, as well.
"The priests lay claim to his soul," one of the guards said, glancing at the unconscious guard that lay flat before Mot with a frown, then turning his fiery gaze to Mot. "The boy was to be condemned to death for continued blasphemy against Ba'al Hadad, Lord of the Storms."
"Lord of the storms," Heru muttered. "I should have guessed, that's why this one has a mockery of my scar on his head, I suppose." He frowned. "Former scar. That's weird to think about, actually."
"…S-Should I translate that?" Mot wondered.
"Tell them that since you are clearly not a native to this country, you are not subject to whatever demands their deity might make." Heru raised his wooden stick threateningly, though Mot wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. "Tell them that I represent Egypt's ruling class, and with me is a representative of the priestly class as well, as is one of the soldiers, who speaks for the armies."
"Egypt has no power here," the guard retorted boldly. "This is Ba'al Hadad's terrain, and all those who live under his dominion will serve. This city honours him above all others, and your Egyptian gods have no place in his presence."
"Don't they?" Heru asked, turning to Mot. "Trust me," He muttered in Egyptian. Heru smiled as he put the carved wooden stick against Mot's wounded shoulder, and drew the tip over the knife wound. Mot gasped in amazement as before his very eyes the wound began closing, stitching itself together where the object had passed. Blood stopped pouring, his very skin melding together until the wound had vanished entirely. The spear's wound followed quickly, and Mot could only stare in disbelief. That had been divine power, channelled through a mere piece of wood. It had to have been cut from a blessed tree, a living piece of a god's power in the hands of a man. Heru smiled as he stepped aside. "A good thing I ended up learning that one…"
"Impossible! It must be trickery!" one of the guards exclaimed, and Mot quickly translated, running a hand over his wound in elation.
"The Gods of Egypt take care of those who belong to Egypt," Harry explained, smiling. "I lay claim to this boy, in their names, and in the name of the Pharaoh himself, who is blessed by Heru, the god who is my name-sake. Ba'al Hadad can be content with the people that are his already."
A few of the guards muttered to each other and the first that had spoken seemed uncertain. For the first time they seemed genuinely worried about the advisor, who stood so very casually before them with nothing but a stick of wood to protect himself. Mot looked at his arm in awe, and realized that the gods had more than interceded, this time.
"A priest should speak to you," the first guard said after a moment. "We cannot make such decisions. The boy is to be put to death, as it is the punishment written into law for blasphemy. We cannot change such things on the word of an outsider, much less another worshipper of false gods."
"If you wish to arrest me, feel free to make an attempt," Heru said, smiling wryly. "I believe you would find it difficult. We will go into your city, and speak with your priests directly. I will arrange the boy's release with them." He glanced at Mot, then. "You will not harm the boy while I am in your presence, or I will leave and speak most unfavourably about your nation to the Pharaoh. I will also leave it burned to the ground. Killing the subjects of my country is considered quite rude."
"Please don't make me go back," Mot said after he translated, leaving out the rather outlandish threat. He glanced at Heru worriedly. "They have already tried to kill me once, in there. They will try again."
"You won't have to worry about being attacked."
Mot blinked. "Why not?"
"You are with me," Harry said simply. He removed something from his neck, a shimmering necklace. "I am giving these out a lot, it seems. Now I understand why Dumbledore kept so many knick-knacks lying around. Never know when they might come in handy." He smiled as he clicked it closed around Mot's neck. "Keep it on you at all times, it'll keep you safe from harm." At the end of the necklace was a small charm with several jewels in it, a falcon carved into the front. It was a charm of Heru.
"You did what?"
"I sort of threatened to burn their city down if they didn't let us in," Harry said tightly. Behind him the three guards had followed him, with three more approaching. Mot glanced nervously back at them, one hand clasped around his new necklace until his knuckles turned white. He smiled down at the boy with what he thought was an expression that didn't betray how uncertain he was about most of what he'd done in the last hour.
The yelling had awakened him, and with the sun just peeking over the horizon, Harry hadn't really thought it a good idea to crawl back in bed only to be woken up half an hour later by an irate Wosret. He'd just walked over to figure out what was going on, and before he knew he'd been running, since even if he didn't understand a word of the shouts, they sounded positively enraged to him. Due to echoes, the actual origin of the sounds turned out to be only a stone's throw away from the city, almost half an hour's trip from the camp if he'd headed over at the usual pace. The group had chosen to camp this close to the city so they could arrive early the next morning. He realized now that it had been a lucky choice - for the boy would've been out of reach if they'd been anywhere else.
Mot, as he was called, turned out to be a fugitive. When Harry had first seen him the boy had been running like his life depended on it – Harry had later found out it actually did – and was fleeing from no less than four heavily armed guards, with one of them carrying particularly official-looking paraphernalia including a fancy helmet with the symbol for a lightning bolt engraved right on the front. When the man had cut the boy with his spear to trip him up and then proceeded to try and do worse things, Harry had finally reached them. What happened next was almost a blur to him. He'd called on the little information he had picked up from Wosret, from the few times he'd actually listened to the man's lengthy theological discussions, and had essentially drawn a line in the sand that very few would disagree with, here. Now, the idea of distinct nations and their peoples seemed to be a bit different from his own time's, but where religions were concerned, there was a staggering array of rules and precepts and beliefs. Perhaps it would work; perhaps he could use the very subdivisions that made international treaties so difficult, and use them for his own purposes.
He didn't really know where Mot came from, except that he not just spoke Egyptian, but even had a decidedly darker skin-tone and hair colour than anyone else around. He looked rather like a younger Sam, if you took away the latter's rather bushy eyebrows. Harry was inclined to believe his claims that he'd been kidnapped from Egypt, since raids on smaller towns were hardly unheard of, thought he last had been a year or two before he'd arrived. That would mean that Mot had been here for at least five years. How old was he, anyway? Ten? Eleven? He would've guessed fourteen, if he hadn't known that children grew up a lot faster in these parts, and that a few years in prison could hardly have been an enjoyable experience.
As he thought of that, he decided to put his cards on the table. "When we're heading out to negotiate with these people, I'm going to arrange the freeing of Egyptian prisoners," he said after a few moments, and he definitely caught Sam's attention with that comment.
"Egyptian prisoners? How many?"
"At least the one," Harry said, tapping Mot on the shoulder. "There might be more, we'll have to figure that out when we get there. The prisons are in the temple building, so if worse comes to worse, we go down there ourselves and check every cell."
"We don't have the supplies to take many of them with us," Sam said worriedly. "If these people have been taking Egyptians as captives, should we even consider making deals with them? Perhaps we should free them and leave with as many as we can, since our supplies will only dwindle the longer we stay here."
Harry wasn't too concerned with supplies - he could enlarge and multiply food where needed, and the rest could be arranged with some ease if he really felt the need. "I've arranged a meeting with the priests of the city. They seem to run it. I suppose this place i sun by a cult, and I'm not entirely sure if there's anyone in charge over the temple that can actually do something." Harry wondered worriedly what the 'god of storms' might have in store. Were there wizards in this city? Why then had they not tripped up Mot? Even a simple levitation spell could have stopped him from fleeing. Had they simply been too slow, or absent for a while?
"A cult, you say?" Wosret raised an eyebrow. "Which god holds sway?"
"They go on about a Ba'al Hadad," Harry muttered, shrugging. Several of the city guards chattered to each other when they recognized the name. "Some kind of weather deity, I guess."
"How interesting," Wosret breathed. "Shall I lead in the meeting, then?"
"I will meet them myself," Harry said quickly. "I believe that they will respond more favourably to a demonstration than to your words, eloquent as they are." Harry tried not to show that what he really meant was that Wosret would probably say something horribly offensive when talking about their god, and Mot would probably repeat it word for word, as he certainly had no sympathy for these people judging by his constant fearful expressions. Granted, he'd probably end up doing something similar if he ended up actually facing them, but at least he had the magic to back it up.
"Savages," Wosret muttered. "The fine art of the word is so easily maligned."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Sam, get all your men ready – in an hour, we will reach the gates, probably sooner. Mot, you will stay by my side." He glanced at Wosret and paused. "Have you heard their language, by the way? It's fascinatingly different from the Egyptian one…"
"Really?" the man perked up, turning to one of the guards in excitement. "I have learned many tongues, but I'm not sure that this one would be similar to any of them, given that they're from the north…" He wandered off to speak to the locals then, and Harry sighed in relief. Mot even smiled, briefly, and Harry counted that as a victory. It was the first he'd seen since he'd stopped the knife that was to maim him and had stood up for the boy. Mostly Mot seemed to just be in a daze, often not even responding to questions. And there was a question he wanted an answer to rather badly.
Back when he'd saved Mot, when he'd ripped that knife right out of the attacker's hand, the man had collapsed due to breathing problems: Quite suddenly he'd started grabbing at his throat. It had taken Harry only moments to realize that a single coin, flat and made of some kind of uneven metal, was lodged solidly in his oesophagus. He could have sworn that it hadn't been there a moment before, which meant that it had to have come from somewhere, and a small collection of similar coins in a pouch tied to the guard's makeshift belt had told the rest of his story. If the coin hadn't found itself spontaneously from the closed pouch to the man's mouth, and he hadn't willingly swallowed it, then there was really only one possibility that made sense to him.
Magic.
The boy was the right age. Harry himself had already had quite a few accidental mishaps at the time, and certainly in much less gruelling situations. Being chased by bullies, however terrifying, didn't hold much of a candle to being chased by four people who are actually trying to kill you.
Harry was reminded, though, that this bout of accidental magic could have become very lethal if Harry hadn't been around to make the coin vanish. Instead of escaping, like his own accidental magic with the bullies, in this case Mot must have wanted on some level that his attacker be hurt; it was all about intent, after all. He remembered all too well the history of another wizard that started his career with magic that was all about hurting people, and he hadn't turned out well.
If Mot was a wizard in the making, then he'd have to make sure that he was taught well, and not left to develop ever more deadly ways to use magic. He knew what he'd achieved in a few years of experimentation, and though it wasn't a staggering array of new spells, he certainly did know a thing or two about casting them now, even without books to guide him. Someone had to have written the first spell books, the first generation of wizards and witches. If Mot was one of them – he certainly hadn't heard of any others – then he had a chance to make things better, here.
He didn't know if he could change the future, but he knew how to change the present. When he was done in this city, when they headed back, he would see if his guess about Mot was right. Then, if he was, he'd think long and hard about the consequences, and what he'd do.
And after that, perhaps, there would be two wizards.
Harry looked on in boredom as three priests went through an extensive and pointlessly ostentatious ritual to welcome the new guests. Mot stopped translating their chants mid-way through, probably more so because they started getting so slurred and indistinct that he couldn't understand them anymore than that he got tired of it. Indeed, Mot seemed rather tense around the many armed guards that lined the perimeter of the hall which was on the second floor of the large temple that he'd been a captive in. Harry was already mildly annoyed by the fact that all the priests were smiling and chatting happily, even after he'd asked Mot to tell them that there were certain issues that needed to be resolved first.
"We welcome you, Heru of Tjenu, Advisor." The head priest stood, bowing. "The city of the storms is open to you."
Harry grumbled something under his breath. "I am not interested in your politics or posturing, priest." Several gasps ran through the hall as Mot translated it, and Harry could see that the head priest was already preparing for a reply, probably as hostile as his own. He didn't give him the chance. "I arrived to your city this morning, hoping for a productive meeting. Do you know what I found? You must have, for he sits here with us now, translating my words." He nodded at Mot. "This boy, a citizen of Egypt and a captive of your city, had escaped his own death. He was to be executed before I arrived, perhaps to prevent me from finding out that despite your claim to wish for a peaceful diplomatic meeting, you would gladly imprison the subjects of the Pharaoh."
"That is preposterous!" one of the priests yelled, and the other nodded emphatically. The head priest sighed, shaking his head.
"The boy has been in the city for many years, and his captivity pains us greatly. He is a blasphemer and a rebel, speaking out against Ba'al Hadad's supremacy." The man glared darkly. "Death is too light for such crimes, but we are merciful."
Harry snorted, shaking his head. "Mot has been in your city for years, you say, and you were well aware that he is an Egyptian child, were you not? It does not matter to me how he came here, merely that you held a child of a foreign power within your walls and told nobody, going so far as to try and hide what you had done before those who might uncover your plots arrived here. How many more Egyptians are in your prisons, priest?"
"We should not speak in such haste about only a single boy," the head priest tried, and Harry Silenced him from below the table.
"That was not an answer to my question. If you cannot speak about the crimes you have committed, do not speak at all." He stared darkly at the man as he tried to talk a few times, and failed every time. Fearful eyes went to Harry who kept himself steady. He'd done this before in his role as Advisor, and in the past it had greatly unnerved the foreign representatives. A hush broke out among the guards, and the head priest held up a hand, scowling at Harry with narrowed eyes.
"A single boy is more than enough to question your integrity," Harry finally said. "Egypt does not hold captive anyone from your nation, and we would not do so unless we were in active state of war. We are not – not yet. We will release all the unlawful prisoners you keep here, those who do not come originally from this city, who are not subject to your god's whims. If some have died here, as seems likely, then we will take their bones to be buried honourably. If you do not follow this very simple instruction, then I will have no choice but to apply force."
"With what?" the head priest asked in exasperation, and found that his voice had suddenly returned. Harry was tempted to laugh at the man's befuddled expression as his far too loud exclamation echoed through the room.
"Bring every Egyptian prisoner out of your prison. I will find out if you kept any, believe me. If you do not do so, wel..." He glanced at the two priests that flanked the one he spoke to, and smiled. At once, both the staves they held transformed into serpents, and they dropped them to the table with a yell. Both of them were actually just really lifelike similes of the creatures, since without Parseltongue he couldn't really hope to control ones with actual minds. The two serpents quickly make their way over to Harry under his careful insistence, and he distractedly patted one on the head, keeping his wand under the table again.
"You dare to use these blasphemies here? In the Hall of Hadad?" the head priest said sharply.
Harry smiled dangerously. "Tell me, priest. Do you even have any power here? Does your Ba'al Hadad even manifest himself?" Harry figured that he wasn't doing miracles any more than a priest here might, but he was speaking on behalf of Egypt, and his magic certainly counted for a lot more than what he'd surmised was going on. He hadn't seen a single wand, and the shock from the two priests had been genuine, and they still seemed surprised to this minute. They'd never seen such magic before.
"Ba'al does not lower himself to such parlour tricks," the head priest said, and he sniffed disparagingly. "He gathers storms to him and brings lightning to the earth in great flashes of divine power. He is lord of all the sky, governing the rain and the fertile ground."
"Yes, yes, nice words," Harry winked at Mot. "Yet, as the god of storms, he seems unwilling to show himself when it would be helpful, does he not?" He frowned. "Mot, tell them to open the window up there."
High above them, almost twice as high as Harry could have reached, was a small window. Probably it was meant for ventilation, and it was the only one in the entire room. It would serve his purposes, for now. Clearly these people needed a proper demonstration, and he knew of one way to get them to submit. To beat their god at his own game.
"To open… the window?" The head priest glanced up and shrugged idly. "So be it."
Harry waved his wand and the window unlatched itself, swinging open. Ignoring the renewed gasps, he turned to the opening and raised his wand, making sure to keep it covered mostly by his hand. "Tell your god to show himself. Rain or lightning will do. Let him strike me down where I sit, perhaps." Harry had seen the clear skies outside; there would be storm in days, and without a wizard they couldn't hope to make it happen. Perhaps, if there was one here, he would show himself now.
The head priest muttered to the other priests. "What are you attempting to prove, foreigner?"
Harry smiled. "Merely that, if I wish, I can be particularly dangerous to you. Ba'al Hadad will not answer your prayers, will he? Like so many gods, he is capricious, untrustworthy." Harry thrust his hand up and hoping dearly that his spell would work. He'd only figured out how to make the Aguamenti spell more versatile than a simple stream a few weeks before, and adding a few bells and whistles wasn't too difficult if he was quick with his wand.
The window exploded in a rain of wooden shards, and a sudden cold storm of water roared into the room, thunder flashing and thundering alongside with such ferocity that Mot hid under the table and even Wosret threw himself to the ground in fright, even though he'd seen Harry use explosive spells before. It lasted only a few moments, before the window lightened once more, and the flashes stopped. The last of the thunderous rumbles took longer to subside.
Harry lowered his wand at last, turning back to the high priest who was utterly drenched and dripping streams of water onto the floor with an expression halfway between terror and fury.
"Not all the gods are so unreliable," Harry said at last, raising an eyebrow. "Release the Egyptians, or more than a mere window will suffer this fate."
"Slay the blasphemer!" the head priest finally yelled, and Harry sighed in defeat as he ran a hand through his hair. Mot looked up at the destroyed window in awe, barely even noticing that all the guards suddenly clasped their hands tight around their spears.
"Well, that went horribly wrong," Harry muttered,, though he wasn't surprised. He should have guessed, really: Though a good old threat usually worked, he might have gone a little far, here. There were no wizards among these priests - just old men with titles, old men who claim to speak for a deity that either didn't exist or didn't care enough to show up. He hadn't intended to make his demonstration quite as spectacular as he did, but it didn't really matter. If this threat didn't do it, then these priests simply wouldn't roll over. He'd have to get the Egyptian prisoners himself. They had casually skipped answering his question about others beside Mot, and that was suspicious enough. He glared dangerously as he put a protection charm on Mot, Wosret, and himself; Sam and the others were sheltered behind them well enough.
The head priest had calmed down a little, and found that he once again couldn't speak. This time, none of the priests could.
Harry collected himself, hoping that what he'd done would actually help, rather than just do more harm. He sighed as he looked across the table. "Murder seems an unwise reaction to this demand, or to the force displayed. I will allow you to think about the consequences of your choice here, in light of the evidence on your wall." He looked down tiredly. "When you have reconsidered, we will continue our negotiations."
Author's Note: Took a while, but here we go again. No timeskips in this one, and this thread will be finished in the next chapter. We will be heading towards the end of this particular chunk of the story and skipping a bunch of years ahead, to a late adolescent Mot, Harry's troubles with Khnurn, and so forth. It will be a matter of time before the comfy job has to make way again for something else.