Libyan Border, Early Autumn. Reign of Ramesses, Year 7

Sethi pulled on the reins of his horses, slowing them, eyeing the way ahead, wary. Though his scouts had returned an hour earlier, reassuring him the ravine was clear, he cut his eyes over the angles and edges of the last obstacle standing between his division and the beginning of the road to Pi-Ramesses, considering sending the scouts out again.

The campaign had been easy. Too easy. Not once had he drawn his sword. For the last five months, the entire border lay empty, silent. Not a single raid upon any of the villages, no ambushes of his men, nothing but the occasional cry of a falcon soaring across the vast, empty skies. Not every campaign ended with blood. Some campaigns were nothing more than a show of force, reminding enemies of their presence. And yet, his senses prickled.

He eyed the rocky path--an ancient riverbed, long-dried--a gorge enclosed by cliffs, the striated red and brown stone rising up higher than the highest obelisk in Iunu, the space between the overhanging ridges reducing the sky to a blue strip no wider than the front of a modest villa. His instincts hauled on him. They weren't alone, he could feel it. He pulled the horses to a halt and called for his scouts.

They emerged from the depths of the division and knelt before him, their fists against their chests.

"Go again," he ordered. They departed, two stealthing into the ravine, and two clambering up the cliff's ledges, one to each side. He waited while the horses fretted, tossing their heads and sweeping their tails over their flanks, tormented by the relentless flies. Above, Re-Atum's barque transited the sky, a blistering disk of fire, its heat slamming into the ravine, hot, dry, suffocating.

An hour passed. The men in the ravine returned first. They shook their heads. Nothing. Soon after, the remaining scouts reached the cliff's edge and began their long, slow descent. They came to him, wiping their bloodied hands against their kilts.

"My lord commander," the first one panted, pointing to the Libyan side of the ravine, "a short iter distant from the ridge, there is a cliff with what appears to be a series of caves. They could be empty. They could not."

"A short iter," Sethi repeated. "You are sure it isn't less?"

The scout glanced at his companion. "What do you say?"

His companion nodded. "A short iter, no less."

Sethi considered. Half a short iter and his men would be through the ravine. Even if the Libyans were in the caves, they would have to run hard to catch them by the time they reached the opposite end of the ravine. They had time. They would make it. They were so close to home, he could almost taste the air of his villa--the welcoming scents of baking bread and roasting meat, the gardens sweet with the fragrance of jasmine, roses and lilies. Half a short iter and the desert sands would give way to verdant fields, irrigated by the mighty Nile; the fields' furrows plowed by placid teams of oxen. Three days of easy, peaceful marching and he would be home, Istara safe in his arms once more. Though the temptation to press on called to him, his instincts prickled anew. He tilted his head at the ram's horn hanging from the side of his chariot.

"Take the horn and go back up," he said to the first scout, "if you see movement, warn us. I will not have my men walk into a trap."

The scout pressed his fist to his chest and backed away, the horn's strap slung over his shoulder. Sethi waited until he reached the top. The scout turned, slow, shading his kohled eyes against Re-Atum's glare. He caught Sethi's eye and rotated his arm, taking in the length of the ravine, pointing in the direction of Pi-Ramesses. He nodded his head, once.

Sethi eased back on the reins and turned his horses. He drove back to his men, spread out in lines five abreast, one hundred lines deep across the shallow, rocky gully facing the ravine.

"Shields up," he bellowed. The gully's dense quiet erupted with the sound of leather straps being unfastened, his men pulling their shields from their shoulders and strapping them to their forearms. One by one, they lifted their shields up, a solid roof of ox-hides stretched taut on wooden frames. He nodded, satisfied. He would take no chances. His men would return home safe. Still, his instincts prickled. He looked up at the scout at the top of the ravine. The scout nodded again. All clear.

Kneeing the brake into position, he stripped the reins from his arms and re-wrapped them around his right forearm. Pulling his shield free, he lifted it over his head, and kicked off the brake, giving the order to move out.

He entered the mouth of the ravine, slow, cautious, listening for the warning bellow of the ram's horn. Stagnant heat surrounded him. He shifted his weight, steering the horses around a fallen boulder, their leather-clad hooves thudding against the dusty stones of the ancient riverbed. The stones clattered away, harsh in the funereal quiet across the rocky surface, skittering against the ravine's walls. Behind, the oncoming tread of five hundred men, their sandaled feet scraping over the rough, dry ground; steady, disciplined, almost but not quite hiding their eagerness to surpass this, the final hurdle. To be home.

A horsefly zigzagged toward Sethi, circling him twice, examining him. It buzzed away, lazy and indolent in the merciless heat. In the distance, the ravine's walls shimmered, the air broiling, so hot Sethi was certain flatbread could be baked on the rocks.

Halfway through, his instincts flared, so strong, he looked up, his eyes scouring the ravine's ridge for the scout. He couldn't see him, swallowed by a curve. He cursed, his skin prickling, prescience crushing him. A faint cry rose from the back of the division, followed by another, then another. Shouts followed, the clamor spreading, sweeping toward him.

He turned. A thunder of arrows slammed into his men, brutal, relentless. His men wavered, struggling to hold their shields steady against the pounding from above. The soldiers trapped at the edges under the least cover succumbed first; the breach in the roof of the shields widening, a gouge, ugly, bloody, his men's agonized cries tearing into him.

He shouted to one of the soldiers nearest to him, bellowing a message for him to carry to the pharaoh. The man ran. Just as he reached a turn in the ravine, an arrow slammed into the back of his thigh. He faltered but kept on, disappearing around the ravine's cut. Sethi turned. Why had there been no warning? How had they arrived so fast? They had to have been right there all along, waiting. Realization careened into him. Pits. They had dug pits. Above, in the searing light of Re-Atum's barque, hundreds of Libyans moved into his line of vision, crammed together along the ravine's ridge, their ululations deafening.

He raked his eyes over the impassable walls. No way out. No shelter. Nothing. A perfect ambush. He had failed. Behind him, his men tumbled to the rocky ground, the violent force of the barbed arrows breaching the leather of the shields, driving into his men's necks, torsos, arms and legs. Lambs to the slaughter.

A thud, followed by a half dozen more in quick succession. His horses bolted, shrieking in agony. Biting back a curse, Sethi eyed the bloody arrow shafts protruding from their shoulders and flanks. The reins tightened, cutting into him, opening his flesh. He roared and shook his arm, desperate to free himself as the horses careened, blinded by pain, toward the ravine's wall. They swerved past a boulder, sending his chariot skidding sideways. The ravine's wall came at him, fast. He braced himself, struggling to keep his shield up. Arrows clattered against it, hungry, a rain of death. His chariot slammed against rock, and he hit the wall, hard. Pain rammed into his shoulder, raw, black. Wood splintered. A sickening crunch from the axle. Sethi staggered into the front of the box as the floor sagged, the chariot's wheels angling inward, scraping against the box's sides.

Leveraging his weight against the reins, he hauled himself back up, ignoring the burning sear of leather sawing deep into muscle. An arrow screamed past and buried itself in the eye of one of his horses. It collapsed, already dead. The chariot juddered to a halt. The surviving horse whinnied, terrified, scrabbling at the dusty ravine floor, desperate to pull free of its dead companion. Another arrow sheared past. A sickening thud. The horse convulsed and slumped to its knees, its cries silenced.

A heavy thud struck Sethi. He staggered from the brute force of it, feeling as though he had been pummeled by a slinger's rock. A brutal arc of pain sheared through him. He ground his teeth, willing himself to bear it. The pain deepened, heating up, spreading. He looked down. An arrow stuck out from his torso just above his right hip, its bloody point sticking out of his back, glistening, dripping, pieces of his viscera clinging to it. The chariot's shattered floor buckled, and he staggered, the movement sending a fresh spasm of pain slicing its way up his torso and down his leg. Blood blossomed from the wound, oozing out in heavy, hot gouts, saturating his kilt with the heat of his life.

Trapped within the ruins of the chariot, his arm still entangled in the reins, he struggled to keep his shield up against the arrows hammering against it, insatiable, determined. The ululations echoing from above rising, triumphant, deafening. After what felt an age, the arrows slowed, then ceased. He lowered his shield long enough to pull his dagger free and cut the reins. He shot a look over his shoulder. His division had become a charnel pit. Those who still remained staggered, aimless, wounded, defenseless. Rage juddered through him.

"To me!" he cried. He would defend them to his last breath. A thud, followed by another, then another, answered his call. Pain slammed into him, searing hot. Unforgiving shafts of wood plunged through him, tearing his organs asunder. He roared, primal, refusing to accept defeat. He would not die this day. He stumbled from the chariot, the arrows gripping him, sawing him apart. White stars exploded within his eyes, blinding him. He staggered, clawing at his eyes, desperate to see.

From out of his remaining men, Seru burst free, holding aloft two shields, crouching under their inadequate cover, his torso bloody and torn. He slammed into Sethi, and dragged him up against the ravine's wall beside a cluster of fallen boulders. Sethi roared, enduring the agony of the arrows tearing into his flesh anew. Drowning in pain, he panted, gulping at the suffocating air, the heat of the ravine's wall burning his flesh. He had to live. He had to return. Istara was waiting.

He tried to get up. Seru pushed him back down, fierce, shaking his head. He pointed to his khopesh then up to the top of the ravine.

"Wait," he panted, taut with pain. "When they come we will take as many of them with us before we go."

Sethi nodded, his heart turning cold. It was over, he could see it in his captain's eyes. Between the crack of the two shields, Sethi looked up at the ribbon of blue sky. A wake of vultures slid into view. Seru shifted his weight with a soft groan. The shields moved, and Re-Atum's barque stole into the ribbon of blue sky, eclipsing the waiting scavengers. Sethi blinked, blinded by brilliant light. He lowered his gaze and eyed his injuries, his torso impaled by four arrows, all of them fatal shots. He coughed, and a fresh path of agony treaded its way through him. He spat the metallic taste of blood from his mouth, catching the light of Re-Atum sliding across his flesh, highlighting the blood stains on his kilt, the rivulets of blood sliding down the contours of his torso into the white dust of the riverbed, staining it the color of life. The pain was less now, the air not so hot. He could feel the pull of oblivion calling to him. He touched his fingers to the blood pooling beneath him, willing Istara to hear his last thoughts; of his heart always being hers; of his love never dying; a flame, burning for eternity.

He closed his eyes. An image blazed across his mind, of Re-Atum's barque returning to Egypt, the Creator once more walking among men, sharing his knowledge and his secrets. He stopped before Sethi, and smiled, gentle, beckoning to Sethi to join him. He took Sethi's hand and helped him to his feet. They walked away, peaceful, content. And beside Sethi, her hand in his, bathed in the light of Re-Atum: Istara. Always, Istara.