Thick black smoke drifted over Paser. He looked up at the sky. The heavy, low-slung clouds glowed a dull orange, their roiling surfaces flickering, turbulent, as the tents across the northern edge of the camp succumbed to flames. He glanced over his remaining men, bloodied, gripping their khopeshes, their eyes moving back and forth, searching the shadows, wary. The group of soldiers he had been tracking continued to move through the camp, determined, uninterested in rape or pillage. Paser listened: at least fifty by the sound of them, their language guttural and discordant. One voice cut across the others, commanding, giving orders. The Hittites fell silent and pressed on, organizing, changing their course, veering away from the fires toward the center of the camp and the royal enclosure.

His throat tight, Paser motioned to his men. They fell back, leaving the wives and children of the followers to the rest of the Hittites that had come from the north; the women's desperate cries for help going unanswered, just so he could save one.

Hastening through the opening into the royal enclave, Paser looked over his remaining men--fifty, left from five hundred--panting from their flight through the camp. The Hittites had moved fast, staying hard on their heels, his men had only just made it in time. His chest constricting, he eyed Nefertari's tent, his long-suppressed love for her threatening to undo him. She would not go to the gods this day. To lose her. No. The thought was unbearable. Outside the enclosure's linen wall, the creak of leather, and the hiss of swords sliding from scabbards, stealthy. He gave his men hand signals. They surrounded Nefertari's tent in total silence, a wall of flesh and bone.

He turned to face the enemy, alone. Crossing his arms in front of him, he pulled his khopeshes free. He breathed, once, twice, calming himself, finding his focus. Movement at enclosure's opening. A shadow coalesced from within the thick drifts of smoke, forming into the bulk of a powerful warrior: leather tunic, leather kilt, a pair of daggers on his hips, the hilt of two-handed sword over his left shoulder. Breathing a prayer to Horus, Paser narrowed his eyes, smoke-burned and gritty, and waited.

❃

Urhi-Teshub eyed the man wielding the pair of hateful sickle swords, standing between him and his destiny. Motioning for his men to remain hidden in the shadows, he stepped into the enclosure, smoke wreathing around him. "We are Urhi-Teshub, Crown Prince of Hatti," he called out to the man in Egyptian. He paced closer, cautious, closing the distance between them. "Submit and live, or meet our blade and die with honor."

His black-lined eyes hostile, the Egyptian said nothing. He lifted his swords, angling them up in front of him, taking the defensive stance.

Urhi-Teshub waited but the man remained silent, refusing to give his name and title in return. Pulling his sword free, he eyed the Egyptian. Two khopeshes. Unusual. And deadly. They were well matched at least. He would enjoy the challenge.

Pulling his sword free, he moved forward, hefting his blade, preparing to engage. A sharp cry came from the queen's tent. He glanced up, wary. The material over its entrance yanked open. A woman staggered out, shoved from behind, her wrists bound. She tripped and fell onto her knees, her once elegant gown torn, dirty and bloodstained. She raised her head, her eyes meeting his. His grip on his sword slackened. Disbelief, then rage poured through him. He glared at the Egyptian.

"I will skin you alive for this."

The Egyptian didn't answer. He stared at Istara, watching, horrified as a warrior followed after her, his skin dark as night, carrying a dagger, its hilt laden with gems. The warrior grabbed a fistful of Istara's hair and pulled her head back, rough, baring her throat. He lay the blade against her neck and looked at Urhi-Teshub, his eyes glittering, cold. The warrior flicked the dagger, a tight movement, contained. Istara cried out. A trickle of blood slid down her neck.

"Crown Prince of Hatti," a voice, cold, calm, imperial, called from the tent, "we are Queen Nefertari, first queen of Pharaoh Ramesses. If you do not take your men and retreat from our camp we will send your wife to the gods."

Urhi-Teshub tore his eyes from Istara and glared at the tent, seething. How dare she threaten him. He glanced back at Istara, bound, bleeding, trembling, separated from him by a distance of no more than two strides. She caught his eye and shook her head, warning him not to save her. His heart clenched, fierce, proud of her courage.

"I will only agree if Istara comes with me," he shouted back, tightening his grip on his sword.

Silence. A tear slid down Istara's face.

"Princess Istara stays until the battle ends," Nefertari answered, speaking as though from her throne and not in the midst of a battlefield. "Pull your men from the camp and you shall have her returned to you as you see her now. Fail, and she will not see the light of another day."

He scoffed at Nefertari's impossible request; he had lost control of most of his men the moment they entered the camp. He called out a terse command. An arrow snapped out from the shadows and sliced through the smoke, just missing his shoulder. A dull thud. The Nubian gurgled, clutching at the shaft in his throat. The Egyptian rallied, rushing at him, his blades raised. Urhi-Teshub slammed his sword against them, using his weight to shove the Egyptian back, granting a mere heartbeat of time.

Dropping the weight of his sword into one hand, he reached down and pulled Istara to her feet, putting her behind him, keeping one hand on her, unwilling to let her go. The Egyptian bolted back at him, baring his teeth, savage, intent, ruthlessly exploiting Urhi-Teshub's handicap. He was fast, like a viper. A complex feint and one of the Egyptian's khopeshes carved into Urhi-Teshub's upper arm, biting deep. Bellowing an oath, Urhi-Teshub let go of Istara and hefted his sword with both hands. Two more Nubians burst from the tent, aiming their spears.

He screamed Hatti's battle cry. His men roared back, bursting out from the shadows into the enclave, falling onto the soldiers surrounding the queen's tent. A dozen arrows slammed into the Nubians; they staggered, their spears sliding from their fingers, tumbling, useless, into the mud. The Egyptian's eyes darted to the tent, his concentration wavering as the Egyptian soldiers struggled to hold against the onslaught of Urhi-Teshub's men. Grim, Urhi-Teshub pounded him backward, forcing his way through the melee to the queen's tent.

A strangled cry. Something struck Urhi-Teshub from behind. Shoving aside a brutal slash, he glanced down. Istara lay at his feet, senseless. He bellowed and slammed the flat of his sword against the Egyptian's kneecap. The Egyptian reeled, his swords flailing. Urhi-Teshub balled up his fist and punched him in the face. Hard. The Egyptian stumbled, struggling to remain upright. Urhi-Teshub punched him again, harder. This time, the Egyptian fell.

Panting, Urhi-Teshub staggered, leaning on his sword, watching as his men dispatched the last of the Queen of Egypt's defenders. The enclosure was his. He glared at Nefertari's tent, furious. He longed to end her for what she had done--

Istara moaned. He dropped to his knee and cut her bindings. His men gathered around him, putting their backs to him, giving him time and what little privacy could be afforded.

Her eyelids fluttered open. He caught his breath. It had been so long.

"Istara," he murmured, reverent, bringing his hand, bruised and bloody to her face. He brushed a tendril of her hair away, tender. Smoke burned his eyes, but his tears were real. Almost a year had passed since he had had no choice but to leave her side. He had missed her so much. His wife. His love. He drank in the sight of her, safe. Alive.

"How can you be here?" he breathed. "No. It does not matter. I have you now."

"It does matter," she answered, quiet, sitting up and rubbing her wrists where the bindings had dug into them. "I betrayed your father to save thousands. I can never return."

Urhi-Teshub stared at her, incredulous. His wife was the reason for Ramesses's preparedness? A wild thrill of pride cascaded through him. Taking her face between his hands, he pressed his forehead against hers, intimate, possessive. "Even so, I will die defending you."

"I beg you, do not," she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "There can be no future for us."

"Do not say such things," Urhi-Teshub cried out, anguished. He grasped her shoulders. "Let me protect you from my father. I will send you to Babylon, tonight. You will be safe there until I am crowned. Istara you are mine, you will always be mine. We have been bound together in blood. Only the gods can take you from me."

"My lord," one of his men said into the dense silence that followed, "we are not alone."

Reluctant, Urhi-Teshub let Istara go and rose to his feet. He listened. Horns pealed, faint with distance. "Amurru comes," he said, abrupt, "from the mountain pass." He took up his sword. "It is time to capture Egypt's queen--and him, take him as well--our brave defender of the queen. Whoever he is, he will be more valuable to us alive than dead. Bind his hands, and see if you can wake him up. It will be better if we don't have to carry him."

He turned back to Istara, bringing her to her feet. "I must finish this. Once I have captured Nefertari, my sword and my life will be yours." He brushed his lips against her brow, savoring the nearness of her. "I swear to see you safe from this. From all of it."

She pulled away, distancing herself from him. "May the gods protect you," she said, hollow.

Uneasy, he backed away. She met his gaze, her remoteness robbing him of the last of his hope. No. He could not lose her again. Tonight he would earn his second chance. He would prove himself by spilling his blood to keep her alive, by seeing her safe to Babylon, away from his father. The horns blew again, from the plateau. He strode to Nefertari's tent, its white linen walls splattered with the blood of her last defenders.

Within, all was silent. He plunged his sword into the tent's fabric and tore it open. Nefertari stood surrounded by her five remaining guards, her dagger poised in readiness to impale her breast.

"Queen of Egypt," he said, seething with hate, "you are now a hostage of the empire of Hatti. You will remain our hostage until the King of Egypt accepts Hatti's terms and his defeat. Egypt has lost. Lower your dagger and submit."

"We will not submit," she answered, defiant, "we will die first."

"As you wish," Urhi-Teshub muttered as he lifted his sword.

The horns sounded again, from within the camp. Nefertari's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "My husband has yet to lose a battle, Prince of Hatti. Tonight will be no exception."

Her arrogant look provoked him. His blood boiling, Urhi-Teshub lunged into the tent, skewering the nearest guard onto her ridiculous dressing table, sending her perfume jars and cosmetics scattering. He stood on one of the jars, felt its thin structure collapsing under his weight. An overpowering scent of lilies filled the air, sickly-sweet. His sword lost to the table, he pulled his daggers free. From behind, the shaft of a spear came over his head, slamming down against his throat.

He shoved his daggers behind him, feeling the drag as they sliced across flesh. His captor grunted and yanked on the spear, pulling Urhi-Teshub backward. Pain mushroomed, jagged, blinding him. Hands caught his wrists, their grips vicious. They twisted his arms back and up behind him, rough. The daggers fell, one after the other, thudding against the thick rug. The pressure on his throat increased. He couldn't breathe. Black spots encroached, filling his vision. The shaft dug deeper, he jerked backward, gagging, saliva flying from his lips.

Someone kicked him in his back, hard. He staggered, choking, desperate for air. They kicked him again. He tumbled to his knees, struggling as leather bindings slid around his arms, tightening. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, darkness beckoned, soft, welcoming. The pressure on his throat eased. Pinpoints of white light burst into his skull. He sucked at the air, starving, his chest and throat on fire, his lungs screaming. His vision cleared. The roar of sound returned, deafening. Small, light chariots overran the enclosure, emblazoned with the sigils of the allied kings of Amurru. Strewn across the space, the butchered bodies of his men.

Frantic, he strained to see past the melee of men, horses, and chariots to the place where he had left Istara. There. The bodies of two of his men, beheaded. Panic filled him. He screamed her name, tasting blood. A rain of violent blows fell onto him. He felt nothing. He cried out for her again, searching, desperate, struggling against his bonds, even as the blows continued, relentless.

She would not survive long without him. He had to protect her. Summoning all his strength, he rose and shoved his oppressors aside. One step, two steps. Pain exploded from the back of his skull, so intense it blinded him. His legs crumpled.

He breathed her name, a prayer. He hit the ground.

Another blow.

Oblivion.

❃

Hidden in the shadows, Istara watched Urhi-Teshub fall. They tied him up, like a beast, and left him lying in the mud. A voice called her name, quiet. She turned, defensive. His hands bound before him, Paser pulled himself up, wincing.

"Do not go to him," he said, lifting his muddied kilt to inspect his swollen kneecap. "I cannot protect you if you do."

She moved toward him, keeping to the shadows, cold mud seeping into her bandages. Her fingers brushed against the hilt of a fallen dagger, buried in the slick earth. She pulled it free and gestured at his bound wrists. Wary, he held out his arms. Shaking the mud from the blade, she sawed at the leather straps.

She met his eyes, watching her, intrigued. "Muwatallis may be his father," she said as she pulled away the bindings, "but Urhi-Teshub is nothing like him. He wanted no part of this."

Paser said nothing. He rubbed his wrists, his expression unreadable. She turned to leave. His fingers came around her arm, holding her back.

"You will die out there, unprotected," he said, his grip tightening. "You must remain here. It is Pharaoh's command."

Istara glanced at the queen in her ruined tent, taking her seat, rigid, icy, murder in her eyes. "If I stay, I am certain to die."

His gaze slid to Nefertari. His grip loosened, uncertain. Istara pulled free, darting through a rent in the enclosure's wall, ignoring his cry of dismay. She hesitated outside the fluttering opening, her gaze lingering on Urhi-Teshub for the last time, her heart clenching. Her name had been the last thing he had said.

Paser's voice rose over the tumult. A soldier rushed over and helped the vizier to his feet. Limping, Paser turned and gestured at the torn barrier, ordering the soldier to find her. Pulling his sword free, the soldier moved to the opening, cautious. Her heart pounding, she drew back and slipped across the open space separating the enclosure from the rest of the camp.

Where the shadows were darkest, she plunged into the smoke-filled night, the dagger tight in her hand.