Amunira didn't care if the second assault was going to be late. Muwatallis might be a god, but even he could not control the rising waters of a river. Despite his efforts to save them, Amunira had lost twelve men, though, thank Baalat, they were not his own. Muwatallis's suspicious, untrusting nature had dispersed the men of Kadesh across both assaults, leaving Amunira to lead men who hated him.

The driver struck the horses again. One of them stumbled. Amunira gripped the driver's forearm and shook his head. There was no point in whipping the horses; they were already done. The man from Hakpis shot him a look filled with loathing before lifting the reins from the horses' bloodied flanks, yelling colorful insults against Kadesh at the laboring animals instead. Ignoring him, Amunira glanced back at the five hundred chariots pounding past the western walls of his torchlit city, impatient to join the battle. Only one hundred of the two thousand men behind him were his.

The horses turned, cutting across the plain toward the goat track. Above the plateau, the leaden sky glowed orange. White flurries of ash drifted down, light and gentle, settling on the horses' backs like the first soft fall of winter snow. Amunira gritted his teeth. Soon, the dishonor would begin.

❃

Ahmen shoved aside a spear and gutted the man in front of him, enduring the screams of his horses as they lashed out, trying to escape the sharp points of the leg burrs. Several thuds followed as three more of the enemy fell, struck by the horses' hooves. Khu cursed, his arms shaking as he fought to control the horses.

Another Hittite staggered toward Ahmen, his eyes glazed. No reinforcements had come. They could not last much longer. For every Hittite they felled, two more emerged from the darkness, pushing the soldiers of Amun back step by bloody step into the soaring flames of the burning camp.

His arm aching, Ahmen lifted his khopesh, preparing to defend himself, but the man fell to his knees, already dying, a spear protruding from his back. Afraid, he looked up at Ahmen and reached out, his hand, bloody, trembling. Ahmen lowered his khopesh, understanding. He held his enemy's gaze until the light in the other man's eyes flickered out and died. The man toppled over. His heart tight, Ahmen turned and killed another, then another, and another. All the while, the eyes of the one below looked up at him, silent, empty, alone.

❃

A line of Amurrite chariots thundered across the plateau toward Amunira's men. He bellowed for the archers to release. A mere few dozen arrows flew past him. He turned. Only fifty chariots remained with him, those driven by his own loyal men. The rest had dispersed into the flames of the camp, hungry for the spoils, the wheels of their abandoned chariots tangled in the support ropes of the tents. Trapped between the fires, the horses squealed in terror, struggling to escape.

Amunira slammed his fist against the chariot's box and pulled his sword free, shouting new orders. The drivers called to their horses, forming up on either side of him, a solid line. Pounding across the muddy plateau they plunged into the Amurrites, smashing into flesh and bone.

He parried a strike and cut his attacker down. Their eyes met. Amunira staggered, recognizing him--Lanarta, vizier of Byblos. When Amunira had been Crown Prince of Kadesh, Prince Lanarta had visited with his father, the King of Byblos. Over long evenings spent playing games of strategy, they had become friends.

He stared at his dying friend, panting, maddened. His driver roared, fevered with battle lust, driving the horses over Lanarta, malicious. The vizier's agonized cries clawed into Amunira, tearing him apart. He tightened his grip on his sword. He had been a coward for too long. No more.

He brought up his bloody sword and drove it into the Hittite's back, ending his laughter. He leapt from the chariot, cutting low, hamstringing the Hittite in front of him, dispatching him as he fell. He knew he would not last long, but until he was cut down, he would take as many of Muwatallis's whoresons with him as he could. Kadesh would not be a part of this. If he could not live with honor, he would die with honor.

His men rallied to him, their swords no longer used for Hatti but against it. They stood with him against the greater number of Hittites, valiant in the face of their oppressors. One by one, his men fell. He stood alone. Four Hittites closed in on him.

A blade pierced his armor. Its point emerged from his torso, glistening red-black in the firelight. He fell to his knees. The blade withdrew, the pain exquisite, unbearable. He pressed his hands against the opening. Blood coated his fingers. He looked up, another sword hurtled toward his neck.

He closed his eyes. Azfara's image filled his mind. The blade struck, sharp, fast. Excruciating pain. Silence.

In the darkness, an opening, filled with white light. Warm. Beckoning. Bright. He shed the weight of his body and fled, free.

❃

Istara scrambled through the camp's turmoil, searching for a place to hide, desperate to escape the horror surrounding her. In every open space, soldiers fought, looted, and raped. Hidden in the shadows, she crept past a group of Hittites surrounding a man coupling with a dead woman. The woman's vacant eyes met Istara's. Beside the woman, a dismembered child spasmed in his death throes.

Horrified, Istara stumbled away, scrabbling over the wreckage of a fallen tent. She felt the shape of a head, still warm. Recoiling, she scuttled over the body, aiming for an overturned chariot. A soldier approached. She slid around the chariot and pressed herself against the belly of a dead horse, holding her breath. The soldier staggered past, his eyes glazed, a bloody sword in one hand and a small golden statue in the other. Paser was right. She would die out here. Pushing away from the fallen horse, she darted into the shadows, moving from one tent to the next, avoiding the knots of soldiers locked in conflict. A wave of panic washed over her, almost submerging her. Nowhere was safe. It was an unending nightmare.

Her eyes fell to the dagger, her knuckles taut and white around its hilt. If they caught her, she would not die like the others. She came to halt in the shadow of a tent, searching for a way forward. The way ahead was far too bright, lit by fires burning all around. There had to be a way through--

A scream, close by. She peered around the tent's edge. A soldier dragged a weeping woman from a tent and threw her down into the mud. Kneeling over her, he reached up under his leather kilt and freed himself. He tore her gown away, the rending of the fabric loud in the enclosed space. Her breasts spilled out. She cried out, pleading, begging, weeping, struggling. He laughed, smashing his fist into her face. She spasmed and went limp. He mounted her, grunting like an animal, his face savage as he took his pleasure.

Further down, others searched tents. Finding new victims, they hauled them out, mocking their pleas for mercy. Istara pulled back, panting, behind her the shadows had vanished, lost in the light of the spreading fires. She had nowhere left to run. She would be next, raped by soldiers who would have been her subjects had she become their queen.

Huddled against the tent, she brought the dagger's point to her chest. Her hand trembling, she positioned it against her heart. A hand touched her arm. She flinched and scuttled backwards, the dagger held up before her, defensive. The tent flap moved, easing back a fraction. The frightened kohl-lined eyes of an Egyptian woman met hers. She beckoned to Istara.

"Hurry," she whispered, urgent.

Her feet sliding in the mud, Istara slipped inside, scrambling past the woman to the center of the tent. Shaking, she huddled into herself. Her fingers cramped. She let go of the dagger.

The Egyptian woman's eyes darted toward the escalating screams. "I could not leave you out there to face the unspeakable actions of those men." Fresh screams tore into the air, frantic, pleading. One by one their cries ended, silenced by the soldiers' blades. Despite the heat of the fires, Istara shivered.

The other woman's gaze fell to the dagger. "Do you know how to use that?"

"Only to find my own heart," Istara answered, low.

"May I use it after you, should the time come?"

Stricken, Istara nodded.

Screams. Close by. The woman cut a look at the tent's flap, her hands clenching into fists, catching the thin material of her dirty gown between her fingers. Without taking her eyes off the flap, she whispered, as though to reassure herself, "I am Meresamun."

Her gaze flicked back. Istara caught her breath. Blue eyes, how rare. Meresamun had good reason to be afraid, they would keep her alive until every last one of them had used her.

The sound of soldiers drew near, closing in on their tent. The blood drained from Meresamun's face. The soldiers pressed on, toward the glut of plundering Hittites. Swords clashed, men screamed. Istara pulled the dagger closer and prayed.

❃

At Sethi's signal, over one thousand of his men streamed out of the woods and sprinted across the dark plain heading for the goat path. The remaining thousand would stay and fight with Pre's commander, cutting into Hatti's rear lines, tearing a swathe up the slope to the pharaoh. Sethi glanced behind him, sensing rather than seeing the men of Pre, spread out in the darkness. They were ready. Now, the Hittites would pay.

Across the plain, the last of his men's shadowed forms slipped out of sight. It was time. He stood up and threw his arms wide, his battle cry so fierce he tasted blood.

"For Egypt!"

Pre thundered his cry in return, bursting out from the undergrowth into the startled Hittites, hacking and slashing. As he dispatched the men in the chariot before him, Sethi heard the satisfying sound of bodies hitting the ground all around him.

He dragged the corpses from the chariot and grabbed hold of the reins, driving into the melee. Behind him, his men took their own chariots. In the darkness and confusion, unable to separate friend from foe, the men of Hatti panicked and began to attack each other.

His sword slick with blood, Sethi smiled, cold, and butchered the butchers.

❃

In the distance, Ahmen heard a single cry rise into the heavens.

For Egypt!

A Hittite rushed at him. He struck him down, straining to hear over the grunts and thuds of men deep in the act of killing. Had he imagined it? A heartbeat later he heard it again, not a solitary voice, but the roar of a thousand men, cutting across the smoky air.

His khopesh drenched with the blood of the dead, Ramesses met Ahmen's eyes and grinned, triumphant.

Lifting up his spear, Ahmen screamed back the cry.

The soldiers of Amun bellowed in return. The Hittites wavered, uncertain. Then, as the roar faded, from behind the stricken camp the cry repeated, by a thousand voices more.

Pre had arrived.