Khu: A Tale of Ancient Egypt (25 page)

Time stood still then.

It came to a screeching halt before reversing backwards with a jarring force. For a few moments Khu stood riveted to the spot as images of his mother’s and sister’s deaths flashed in his mind. In that instant he was transported back to the bloody room in his old village, on the night of the terrible massacre that had annihilated the small agricultural settlement.

Every detail
of that cursed night tore through his mind with the vivid clarity of lightning striking through a blackened sky, wrenching his heart in two.

One of the two children who were thought to be dead
on the street next to their mother, made a mewing sound then. She twitched awkwardly as her little hand opened and closed next to her bloodied face. Ankhtifi grabbed his mace, swinging it over the child’s head, delivering the final death blow that forever silenced the girl with a low crushing thud.

It
was all that was needed to jolt Khu from his riveted trance. He leaped out of the shadows and ran towards the men, howling like a raging bull out of the darkness.

For a moment the men panicked and dispersed
, wondering what wicked fiend had been unleashed from the bowels of the Netherworld. It was an inhuman, ghastly cry that struck a terrible fear into the men who touched their amulets for protection. Even Ankhtifi panicked and stepped away looking for cover.

Nakhti
took full advantage of the element of surprise, catching up with two of the men as they were running away from Khu. The thugs staggered off balance in their haste, parrying as Nakhti lunged, but their efforts were weak and ineffectual against the adrenaline-induced fury that suffused Nakhti’s blood with a godly strength. Nakhti screamed as he ran his blade into the belly of one opponent, gutting him open like a fish, then twisting the blade free before driving it into the second man’s back, stabbing ferociously with a hulking strength, then pulling it from the bloodied flesh.

Khety had immediately taken cover in the shadows of another courtyard
when he heard Khu scream. Nakhti ran after the third guard who had fled before the others. The man turned to face him, dagger in hand, as he swept the blade toward Nakhti’s belly. Nakhti blocked the assault and lunged furiously at the man who sidestepped out of reach. Nakhti swung again, hacking at the air as the man ducked away each time. Then the man feigned a thrust, but Nakhti did not take the bait. He twisted to the right, bending low as he stepped forward with an uppercut of his dagger, catching the man below the jaw. Blood spurted out into the darkness as Nakhti drove the blade deeper. The man stumbled and fell, dropping his weapon. Nakhti kicked the fallen blade away, and then withdrew his dagger, pulling hard at the blade, as more blood drenched the night. He wiped its crimson edge on the dead man’s cloak.

Khu was about twenty paces behind Nakhti
, locked in battle with Ankhtifi. He had pounced on Ankhtifi’s back, screaming like a demon, and startling the larger man into dropping his dagger as he reached up to grab Khu. Ankhtifi twisted around, ducked, and then rolled to the ground in an attempt to throw Khu off his back. It was only when Khety stepped out from the shadows that Khu got distracted and released Ankhtifi.

Nakhti caught up to his brother, lunging at Khety as the Nen-nesian king joined in the fray. But Khety kicked Nakhti
with a powerful force, and Nakhti skidded away on his bare back. A small group of people passing nearby screamed when they saw the men fighting, and they took off in alarm, scattering like a flock of birds flushed from a thicket. Khety’s eyes flashed as he glanced at the pilgrims running away. It was all the time Nakhti needed to jump back on his feet, his dagger in hand.

“
Ankhtifi! Let’s go!” Khety called out to Ankhtifi when he saw an opportunity to flee after Nakhti retreated. He wanted to rush to their ship before it was too late.

But Ankhtifi crouched low,
growling as he faced Khu with the mace in his hand. He did not recognize the young man standing before him as being the same little boy who had been hiding under a blood-soaked sheet, in a shadow-shrouded room that stank of death. He had never seen him, nor had he even suspected that the boy had been hiding inside the room on that fateful night, when death fell upon the village like a plague.

But Khu
remembered Ankhtifi.

Every detail of Ankhtifi’s lupine face
had been seared into Khu’s soul before it was buried and forgotten with the amnesia he had suffered. Every single nuance, from his predatory sneer, to his dark sunken eyes, and even to the tic that made one side of Ankhtifi’s jaw twitch. Khu shuddered once again as he faced the malevolent beast with the blackened soul who had butchered his family and village.

Ankhtifi sneered and turned to flee with Khety, but not before Khu ran after him once more. Khu
dove at Ankhtifi, lunging low at his legs, driving his dagger deep into the back of Ankhtifi’s left thigh.

Ankhtifi shouted
angrily in pain as he twisted free of the blade, kicking Khu hard with his good leg.

Khu rolled on the ground
, putting distance between him and Ankhtifi, but two of his ribs had broken from the force of the kick. Khu winced as he got up, wobbling a little from the pain, wrapping a protective arm about his ribcage. He was bent over with his eyes fixed on Ankhtifi, panting with the effort of breathing through the stabbing sensation in his side.

Then a glowering Ankhtifi swung
his mace, twirling it high in the air as he edged closer to Khu, who was backing away from the wounded wolf-man.

“KHU!!!”
Nakhti yelled.

But the warning was wasted, for Khu had
been watching Ankhtifi all along. He was unable to tear his gaze away as he stared, transfixed, at the man who moved with the calculated precision of a predator readying to pounce.

Khu ducked
but not fast enough. The mace glanced hard off the side of his head. He stumbled and fell as the men fled, and Nakhti ran to his side.

The
blow did not kill Khu, but it stunned him badly, and blood ran freely from the jagged cut in his smooth-shaven scalp, spilling down his face and neck.

Nakhti kneeled down on the ground,
placing a supportive arm under Khu’s bleeding head, and another under his back, holding his brother closely as a violent trembling assailed Khu’s body.

“It’s alright Khu,”
Nakhti whispered worriedly. “They have fled. It’s alright.”

“N
o,” Khu uttered between breaths, “he… he k-killed them…”

Nakh
ti watched his brother intently, not sure who he was referring to. “They fled,” he repeated in a calming voice. “They are gone. It is safe now. You are safe.”

“He k-killed my f-family
.”

“Who?” Nakhti asked,
utterly confused.

“
Ankhtifi.”

A
nd then Khu closed his eyes.

Khu’s last thoughts before succumbing to the darkness enveloping him were with his father, his mother, and his little sister who waited for him in the Afterlife—in the Field of Reeds. He saw their beautiful faces smiling to him, as they stood together, holding hands, side by side, in an open field, under a limpid sky, warmed by a golden sun.

Hot
tears rolled slowly down from the outer corners of Khu’s reddened eyes. Hot, bitter tears that bled from the raw, biting wound in his soul, whose thick protective scar had been savagely ripped open after all these years. His tears mingled with the blood and dirt staining his skin, and then dripped, one by one, to the ground, as he finally lost consciousness in Nakhti’s arms.

A
smoky haze hung over Abdju. It was deathly quiet, and the eerie hush stifled the city that had been ravaged by King Khety’s insurrection. The sun shone through a mass of clouds that stretched thin over the large settlement.

The
last of the revolt had been quickly crushed, though it took days to drive away the crowds, and clear out the last of the pilgrims, who had arrived on foot or by boat. But Abdju had suffered extensive ruin. Mentuhotep left troops stationed at the ancient cult center, placing the city under guard to keep away looters from descending upon the settlement, whose many temples, shrines, and vast necropolis had been charred and partially crumbled in the fires.

The T
emple of Osiris was among those structures which remained standing. It was as though the blood drenching the floor of the sanctuary had deflected the ravenous flames from consuming it. The price of peace is innocent blood spilled on the altar of death. But the Avenue of Sphinxes and the pylon of the great temple had not been entirely spared. Many of the human-headed monsters were blackened by the fires, and now resembled something fiendish out of the Netherworld, like hulking, soot-smeared, crouching beasts ready to pounce on passersby, and drag them to the depths of their fiery dens.

Khu lay on a
bed inside the lower hall in the home of an official who had remained loyal to King Mentuhotep. Although the ground floors of the upper class homes were usually reserved for the household servants, Khu had been placed there so he would not have to walk up and down the stairs leading to the family’s living quarters, on the second floor of the home. The gash on his head had been stitched and bandaged, but nothing much could be done about his broken ribs, other than wrapping a linen cloth around his torso to help immobilize him, and provide a small measure of comfort. He lay still, keeping his breathing even so as not to exacerbate the pain in his side. Several days had passed since his fight with Ankhtifi and his head still throbbed from the pounding gash he had received.

“I want to go with you Father,” he told King Mentuhotep
, after a moment of silence.

Qeb and Nakhti were pacing in the
hall of the house where Khu’s bed had been laid, but they stopped their pacing to look at Khu, and frowned.

Mentuhotep sighed, shaking his head as he rel
eased a long, frustrated breath. He had gotten very little sleep in the last days, and it showed. Stubble had grown over his smooth scalp and face, shadowing his features with fatigue, while the black
kohl
lining his eyes was smudged, making the circles underneath his eyes appear darker.

Yesterday he had assembled a large group of his men to devise a plan to defeat Khety and Ankhtifi once and for all. He knew that the northern king had a powerful influence which commanded people’s respect. But it was a grudging respect, for many people did Khety’s bidding out of fear rather than faithfulness. And those who rule through intimidation end up commanding a legion of cowards, who are quick to turn and scatter like the sands of the desert when facing a shift in the wind.

Mentuhotep had met with an assortment of advisors
, warlords, generals, and other officials and leaders from various regional settlements, in the pavilion of one of the noble’s homes, near the temple complex of the city. With the help of Qeb, he had delineated his plans and instructed the men to gather more troops for the assault that was planned to happen as soon as possible. They wanted to strike the iron while it was hot, and use the momentum from their victory in Abdju to continue pushing north after Khety and Ankhtifi.

Ankhtifi was a fugitive now.
The chieftain of Nekhen had no choice but to abandon his settlement after their defeat. He would not dare show himself near Thebes for fear of retribution. It was well that he hid, for Mentuhotep had already sent spies all along the Nile as far south as Kush, and up north by the Nile Delta.

After
options were discussed, details ironed out, and questions were answered, the king had dismissed the men so that they could make their preparations and raise more troops. Men and boys of fighting age would be conscripted into Mentuhotep’s growing army, alongside the household troops of the various chieftains who were loyal to the Theban king. With proper planning and training, they would move forward in hopes of defeating all remaining obstacles including Khety, before capturing the throne of Lower Egypt once and for all.

A deep vertical line etched
Mentuhotep’s forehead as he drew his brows together. He was staring at Khu with a look of worry. “If something had happened to you…” the king cast a disapproving look at Nakhti and Khu. “You attacked three men—”

“Five,” Nakhti corrected
, as he walked over to the king’s side.

“Five,” Mentuhotep
nodded with a snort. “Five seasoned warriors!” He had gone to sit by Khu’s side, but got up suddenly, upset. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the strain he felt. Part of him admired the courage of his sons. They had gone after King Khety and Ankhtifi without a second thought for their own welfare. But the other part of him was furious at their impulsiveness.

“You are too impulsive Nakhti,” the king
scolded his other son. “How many times have I told you to think first before acting? How many times has Qeb said the same?” Mentuhotep knew that the boys could have been killed. “Whatever gave you the idea that you could possibly attack Khety and Ankhtifi and survive?”