away…
Something moved behind him, a slithering through the mud. The crocodile!
How far would it chase him? How fast could it go? A croc could grab its prey with lightning speed. But he’d never seen one run further than a few cubits.
He pushed his fingers deep into the mud—anything to help pull himself along faster. His breathing was too loud now to hear anything behind him—or was that his beating heart? His leg was on fire, but at the same time colder than the flood.
He had to run.
He stood up shakily. He hopped and staggered ahead, further, further, further. How could you run when one leg dragged behind you?
Narmer didn’t know. He only knew that somehow he did it.
The night was cold. Hot. Empty, except for the beast behind him…
Along the dyke he limped. Further. Further. Further…
Then suddenly he knew that he had got away. The instinct of any hunted beast, perhaps, that knew it hadmade it to freedom. The croc had decided that there were easier meals to be had. There was an ox nearby, unwary, its muzzle in the water, drinking at the dyke…
And then Narmer fell.
This time he knew there was no rising. He reached down to touch his side. It was wet and warm—not from water, but blood.
He didn’t dare to look. He just lay there gasping, falling into blackness…
Something moved above him. It was Hawk, his smile white in the moonlight. Narmer had never really seen his brother smile before.
And then the darkness won.
CHAPTER 9
They found him in the morning.
He had known little of the night. Brief glimpses, moonlight, mud and unbearable pain, then unconsciousness again.
Then suddenly voices, yells, a scream as someone saw his wounds, his name muttered in fearful tones from person to person. Then hands, gentle, but causing pain enough for darkness to close in once more, as they took him home to die.
Then nothing.
He awoke again in the palace. He was in his rooms, but the bed was different; underneath him was a pile of furs, covered with a linen cloth. Softer, smoother than his bed. Faces swam above him. Someone was crying. And then he heard his father’s voice. There had never been anguish in his father’s voice before.
‘How did this happen? How?’
More darkness. He felt Seknut’s hands upon him, just like in his childhood. It was she who was crying. But Seknut never cried. There was more pain as someonepressed his legs. No, not pain, what he felt was beyond pain. It was more like fire, as though his leg had been shoved into an oven.
‘I can’t stop the bleeding!’ Was that Seknut’s voice, or someone else’s?
Narmer had never imagined cold could be like this. Cold that came from within him, not from the air, as his warmth and life flowed away.
He heard his father again, yelling orders to the priests, just like he shouted commands in war.
He could feel amulets pressed against his side. A voice muttered beside him, one of the priests, chanting a spell to Isis: ‘Protect him from evil-wishers who are alive, from evil that is dead, or red…’
Somehow he knew the spell had no power, not over wounds like this. He had to speak. There was something he had to say. It had come to him at some point in that endless night, in the moments between thought and blackness. His lips moved, but no sound came.
‘The Trader…’ he tried to say.
Seknut’s face bent low over his.
‘The Trader.’ How could be make her understand? Nothing in his life had been so hard. ‘The Trader knows how…’
There was no strength to say more, to tell her, ‘The Trader mended Nitho’s leg. Perhaps he can mend mine.’
Would she understand?
Now a sandstorm, instead of darkness, swept him away. He saw red and white, then nothing…
Suddenly there was agony.
It was enough to wake him, bring him back from the nothing place, the cold place, the place of endless sleep.
Someone was holding his leg. For a moment he thought it was the crocodile again. And then he opened his eyes and looked into the
Something moved behind him, a slithering through the mud. The crocodile!
How far would it chase him? How fast could it go? A croc could grab its prey with lightning speed. But he’d never seen one run further than a few cubits.
He pushed his fingers deep into the mud—anything to help pull himself along faster. His breathing was too loud now to hear anything behind him—or was that his beating heart? His leg was on fire, but at the same time colder than the flood.
He had to run.
He stood up shakily. He hopped and staggered ahead, further, further, further. How could you run when one leg dragged behind you?
Narmer didn’t know. He only knew that somehow he did it.
The night was cold. Hot. Empty, except for the beast behind him…
Along the dyke he limped. Further. Further. Further…
Then suddenly he knew that he had got away. The instinct of any hunted beast, perhaps, that knew it hadmade it to freedom. The croc had decided that there were easier meals to be had. There was an ox nearby, unwary, its muzzle in the water, drinking at the dyke…
And then Narmer fell.
This time he knew there was no rising. He reached down to touch his side. It was wet and warm—not from water, but blood.
He didn’t dare to look. He just lay there gasping, falling into blackness…
Something moved above him. It was Hawk, his smile white in the moonlight. Narmer had never really seen his brother smile before.
And then the darkness won.
CHAPTER 9
They found him in the morning.
He had known little of the night. Brief glimpses, moonlight, mud and unbearable pain, then unconsciousness again.
Then suddenly voices, yells, a scream as someone saw his wounds, his name muttered in fearful tones from person to person. Then hands, gentle, but causing pain enough for darkness to close in once more, as they took him home to die.
Then nothing.
He awoke again in the palace. He was in his rooms, but the bed was different; underneath him was a pile of furs, covered with a linen cloth. Softer, smoother than his bed. Faces swam above him. Someone was crying. And then he heard his father’s voice. There had never been anguish in his father’s voice before.
‘How did this happen? How?’
More darkness. He felt Seknut’s hands upon him, just like in his childhood. It was she who was crying. But Seknut never cried. There was more pain as someonepressed his legs. No, not pain, what he felt was beyond pain. It was more like fire, as though his leg had been shoved into an oven.
‘I can’t stop the bleeding!’ Was that Seknut’s voice, or someone else’s?
Narmer had never imagined cold could be like this. Cold that came from within him, not from the air, as his warmth and life flowed away.
He heard his father again, yelling orders to the priests, just like he shouted commands in war.
He could feel amulets pressed against his side. A voice muttered beside him, one of the priests, chanting a spell to Isis: ‘Protect him from evil-wishers who are alive, from evil that is dead, or red…’
Somehow he knew the spell had no power, not over wounds like this. He had to speak. There was something he had to say. It had come to him at some point in that endless night, in the moments between thought and blackness. His lips moved, but no sound came.
‘The Trader…’ he tried to say.
Seknut’s face bent low over his.
‘The Trader.’ How could be make her understand? Nothing in his life had been so hard. ‘The Trader knows how…’
There was no strength to say more, to tell her, ‘The Trader mended Nitho’s leg. Perhaps he can mend mine.’
Would she understand?
Now a sandstorm, instead of darkness, swept him away. He saw red and white, then nothing…
Suddenly there was agony.
It was enough to wake him, bring him back from the nothing place, the cold place, the place of endless sleep.
Someone was holding his leg. For a moment he thought it was the crocodile again. And then he opened his eyes and looked into the
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