It was over. Khu slumped face down, dead, over the front of the chariot's box, a spear buried deep in his back. Ahmen staggered. A sharp pain lanced through his thigh. He looked down. An arrow impaled it, the shaft snapped off. He stared at it, unable to remember being hit, or breaking off the arrow. He grasped the stub, and pulled, bellowing as the barbed arrow tore away from his flesh. Lifting the arrowhead up, he frowned at it, making sure he had pulled it out intact. Its point glistened, black in the firelight.

He tossed it aside, smearing a fistful of mud over the gouge. Limping to his fretting horses, he released the leg burrs, their legs soaked in blood. Guilt sliced through him. They had suffered much for Egypt. He loathed the burrs: their purpose to turn horses into weapons--a relic of the barbaric inventiveness of the hekau khaswet, who had once overrun Egypt in her time of weakness. The burr hung between the horses' front legs, harmless until they moved. When they did, the burr would cut into them, making them strike out. In close fighting against striking horses even a spear was useless, the horses always connected first. Ahmen wondered how many men had fallen to their maddened striking. He looked around. Many, by the look of it.

Stumbling full circle, he caught sight of Muwatallis--brought back from his confinement--and Hattusilis being taken away, subdued, their arms bound.

Ahmen watched them go, recalling how abrupt the end had been. With the arrival of Pre and the chariots of the Na'arn from Amurru, the disorganized and exhausted Hittites panicked. Some ran into the darkness, fleeing for the city of Kadesh, others threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Horns had blared, and Ramesses, bathed in a pool of torchlight, had shouted in triumph. Beneath the pharaoh, Muwatallis had knelt, bristling with defiance. Ramesses brought his khopesh high, his eyes cold, aiming for Muwatallis's neck. A man cried out Hatti's surrender. Hattusilis, the king's brother, emerged from the darkness, bloodied and battered. He fell to his knees and dropped his weapons. His eyes narrowed, Ramesses had lowered his sword, sparing Muwatallis, and in a heartbeat, it was done. Horns blared once more, sounding the triple staccato pulse: the end of battle. After hours of combat, men stumbled, disoriented, dazed. Many had blacked out.

Ahmen gazed over the firelit plateau covered with the bodies of the fallen, so thick in places, men lay piled one on top of the other. Blinking a trickle of blood out of his eyes, he tried to estimate the number of the dead. He lost count and tried again. No. There were too many. He tasted bile. He coughed and tried to spit. He couldn't, his mouth was dry as desert sand. He needed water.

Down on the slope, hyenas cackled. He shivered, he hadn't realized it was so cold. He heard the hyenas again, closer this time. Sounds of distress rose up from the injured Hittites on the slope. They would have to be brought up to the plateau for their safety, it was the honorable thing to do.

He picked up a fallen dagger and salvaged a burning torch from a toppled chariot. Dropping over the plateau's edge, he moved, wary, onto the slope, toward one of the men trapped under a fallen chariot. He walked a little past the Hittite, and swept the flame in a circle. In the burst of firelight, a pair of eyes gleamed back at him. Startled, Ahmen shoved the torch at the beast with a grunt. The hyena moved further back into the shadows, giggling as it went.

Turning back to the Hittite, Ahmen heaved on the chariot, it was so much heavier than any of his own. He bellowed, cursing, and threw all his weight against it. It slid to the side, enough for him to pull the man free. The Hittite met Ahmen's eyes, his gratitude plain. Uncomfortable, Ahmen looked away.

Together, they stumbled toward the firelit plateau, clambering over broken chariots, shattered weapons, and the still-warm bodies of fallen men and horses. The hyenas' snickers edged nearer, growing in confidence, closing in on their little pool of torchlight. Uneasy, Ahmen glanced back, his foot catching between the spokes of a wheel. He staggered, slamming into something hard. Pain lanced across his shin as he tumbled forward. The Hittite grabbed his arm, jerking him back. He pointed. Ahmen looked down. An upturned chariot shaft, its splintered point deadly, aimed straight at his heart. The man had saved his life. Ahmen nodded to him, grateful.

They reached the plateau's rocky edge. Ahmen climbed up onto an overturned chariot and stepped onto the firelit safety of the plateau. The Hittite followed, clambering up onto the box. A snap, and the chariot's floor gave way. The Hittite tumbled, chest deep into the gap. He cried out. Ahmen leaned over the edge, bringing the torch closer. Blood gushed from the man's leg. Ahmen reached down, and took hold of the Hittite's forearms, pulling, then dragging the soldier toward him, his muscles screaming with exertion. Finding purchase against a rock, he braced his foot against it. With a final, shuddering heave, the Hittite emerged. Ahmen tumbled backward, slamming against the blood-soaked ground. He tried to get to his feet, but the last of his strength had been spent. The Hittite rose and offered Ahmen his hand. Ahmen joined him. Panting, they stood and looked at the plateau's carnage.

The Hittite scoffed. "We deserved to lose this battle."

Ahmen looked at him in surprise. The man spoke Egyptian. "You are not a Hittite."

"I am not."

"You are no common soldier either."

The man shook his head again. "That is also true."

Intrigued, Ahmen blundered on. "I would know your name."

"If you will do me the same honor," the older man answered, "and allow me to know yours."

Ahmen nodded, terse.

"I am Commander Hasurna of Kadesh," he continued, his voice worn from shouting, its edges rasping and harsh. "Yesterday, my men numbered seven hundred, though after this, I suspect almost none are left. We were separated, told not to worry. It would be a slaughter. Plenty of spoils for every--" He spit. A bloody molar landed on the ground, the top cracked almost in half, the pain must have been agonizing. He rubbed his jaw, grunting.

"Commander Hasurna of Kadesh," Ahmen said, pressing his palm against his chest, struck anew by the ruthless machinations of Hatti's king, "I am Ahmen-om-onet, son of Wennefer, First Prophet of Amun, Pharaoh's Royal Charioteer and Chief of the Archers."

Hasurna tilted his head. "Should I have known I would be rescued by so illustrious a person, I would have put on my best armor."

Unable to stop himself, Ahmen's lips quirked into a half-smile. Taking Kadesh's commander by his arm, Ahmen led him to the prisoners, surrounded by a circle of torches.

Ahmen cleared his throat. "I will not forget you."

"Nor I you, for what you have done for me this night."

"Perhaps one day, we might meet as--"

Hasurna shook his head, a look of warning in his eyes. Ahmen blinked, hardly believing what he had almost said. The words were treason. He stumbled away, back to the top of the slope, exhaustion slamming into him, thickening his movements. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurring vision. There would be others waiting for help.

At the plateau's edge, he waved his torch. The slope teemed with packs of hyenas climbing over the dead, frantic from the scent of blood. Their blood-curdling cries, dripping with savagery, echoed up the slope's rocky walls. Deep within the darkness, agonized screams sliced through the air. The hyenas turned, swarming as one toward those still living. The escalating cries of those left behind spread down the slope, their shrieks brutal, primal. Sickened, Ahmen stumbled backward, his feet sliding in the mud. The desperate screams of the dying men haunting him.

He lurched toward the burning camp, his steps leaden, numb with fatigue. It began to rain, hard. He couldn't see. He staggered, pummeled by the rain, and tripped on a body. His legs gave out. He fell, shuddering, into the mud, succumbing to senselessness, dreaming of the battle, of his horses, and as always, of Meresamun, safe within his arms.