“Yes, ‘Lord,’” said Ashtarta, softly.
Khai immediately rounded on her. “And shall I call you parrot?” he cried. “I owe no allegiance to your father. If anything, he owes me!”
Ashtarta’s mouth fell open at Khai’s audacity and her eyes went wide. “Ephrais’s clout has addled the boy’s brains!” she gasped.
Melembrin’s face was now black as thunder. “By all that’s merciful!” he roared at his daughter. “You take a lot of interest in this fellow, Sh’tarra. Can’t I talk to him in my own tent without your interference?”
“But he’s only a boy,” she protested, “an ill-mannered, stupid—”
“—And he saved your life, girl!” the king roared. “In my eyes, that makes him a man—and by the same token, it makes you an ungrateful little witch! Damn it all, I don’t know whether to thank him for your life or curse him for it! And you—” he turned his wrathful eyes upon Khai. “Be more respectful or I’ll knock your head off!”
Khai hardly heard him. His ears were still ringing to the sound of the pet name by which the king had addressed his daughter. Sh’tarra!
Sh’tarra ... where had he heard that name before?
“Listen to me, Khai Ibizin, or whatever your name is,” Melembrin continued. “There’s room for marksmen in my army. Since you’re fleeing from Pharaoh and we’re heading for home—and since Nubia’s a long way off and lots of dangers in between—I suggest that you forget Nubia and come along with us. That way you will eventually owe me some allegiance, and sooner or later you may even learn to call me ‘Lord!’ Well, what do you say? Haven’t you been listening to me, lad?”
Dazedly, Khai shook his head, not in answer but as if to clear it. He staggered a little. His ears kept echoing to that name—Sh’tarra!—Sh’tarra!—Sh’tarra!—and each echo made his hair tingle at its roots. There was something important here, something he should know, something he should remember. But what?
He swayed again and put his hand to his head. Ashtarta was up off her cushion in a second, her face full of concern. She sprang to Khai’s side, taking his arm and lowering him to the floor.
He pulled free of her and struggled to his feet. “It’s all right,” he said. “I was dizzy, that’s all.”
Melembrin, too, had climbed to his feet. “All right, lad, take it easy now,” he said in softer tone. “You’ve taken a few clouts, sure enough; you’ve run too far and eaten too little. I reckon I can wait for your answer until you’re feeling more yourself. Meanwhile, Sh’tarra will show you where you can rest.”
“You can have my answer now ... Lord,” Khai answered. “And if you’re worried that I can’t kill Khemites as easily as I can kill Arabbans and Theraens, then you’ve no need to be. I can destroy anything that belongs to Pharaoh, anything! And I can kill anyone who works for him.”
Hearing the sudden savagery in Khai’s voice, a grim smile came to play about the mouth of the Kushite king. “I believe you, Khai,” he said, “and we shall talk again—later. Until then—” he turned to his daughter. “Sh’tarra, take him away. Feed him and see he’s well rested. When someone hates the Pharaoh as much as this one…. Well, that’s the sort of hate we need to nurture!”
Khai slept through the rest of that day and did not awaken until late in the evening. His “tent” was a travois propped against a tree, forming a sloping shelter over his head, and he had been given a blanket to sleep on. At that, he considered himself lucky and was well satisfied. He had left Khem a fugitive, with only the clothes he wore, a bow, arrows and a knife. Now, in addition to these things, he had a job in the army of Melembrin, a blanket, and he seemed to have made a friend in the king himself. And so for the first time in a long while, Khai had managed to sleep a completely restful sleep.
Now, with the night creeping in, he found himself hungry. Since the sky was rapidly darkening over and smoke from the fires was unlikely to be seen, meat was already turning on spits and filling the air with its aroma. Khai drank deep of the evening air and got up. He stretched his limbs and felt good, then groaned as he heard a voice from the shadow of his tree:
“Khai? Are you awake?” Ashtarta stepped out from the darkness and came up to him. “There’s meat for you and a seat by the fire. You can listen to the men talking and learn the ways of the camp. Tomorrow you’ll have to start working for a living, and there’s much you’ll need to learn. The younger men are bound to bully you for a little while, but you’ll have to put up with that.”
“I can put up with a great deal,” he retorted, “but not the prattling of a mere girl—even if she is a princess!”
“You ungrateful—” She stepped up close to him, her blue-shaded eyes flashing fire to match the blaze of the cooking-fires close by. And indeed she looked more like a princess now—a warrior princess! She wore black knee-length trousers of leather and a high-necked shirt of finest green linen tucked loosely in at the waist. Her hair fell in ropes almost to her waist, and in her hand, she carried a small, loosely-coiled whip. It was a horsewhip, whose dark color matched that of her roughly-stitched calf-length boots. Her ears were hung with golden disks and a third disk glowed in her forehead.
Now she thrust her face at Khai and stared at him through the darkness. “You drive my friendship too far, Khemite!”
“And you drive me too far, Princess!” and he spat out the last word as if it were poison. There was something about the girl that got right under his skin, making it impossible for him to treat her cordially. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” he asked.
Her jaw fell open. “How dare you!”
“No!” he cried. “How dare you! I save your life, and now I’ve dedicated my own life to the destruction of your father’s enemies. All I ask in return is food for my stomach and a measure of privacy. Why, if necessary I’ll even catch my own food, for the meat doesn’t walk or fly that I can’t bring down. But I’ll not be pestered continually by a quarrelsome girl!”
Ashtarta couldn’t believe her ears. “Why, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? You say I’m to suffer some bullying? Good! Better that than be followed around by a spoilt child of a princess with the temper of a crocodile and manners to match!”
“Temper?” she screamed. “Temper? You think you’ve seen the measure of my temper?” Tears flew from her eyes as she shook her head in rage. “I’ll show you temper, you son of a Khemite bitch!” And before he could guess what she was about, her hand flicked back and forward and the metal tipped thong of her whip cracked across his cheek, stinging him but failing to fetch blood.
Off balance, Khai stumbled backward, tripped and fell, and Ashtarta moved to follow him. Again her arm drew back, but before she could use her whip a second time, he put his left foot behind her ankle and lifted his right to plant it firmly in her midriff. She was still coming forward and he took her full weight on his leg—then straightened that leg and drove her into the air with all the strength he could muster. She flew high and fell hard, flat on her back with all the wind knocked out of her.
By now their scuffling had attracted the attention of the men at the fire. A young man who was Khai’s senior by at least two years got up and came over to them. Khai stayed where he was on the ground but the princess got her breath back and struggled to her feet. As she sprang at Khai, the young warrior caught her round the waist and put her behind him.
“Mind your business, Manek Thotak!” she cried. “I’ll fight my own fights.”
“What?” he said. “I should let you soil your hands on Khemish filth? No, Princess, your father would not thank me for that. If your little lash can’t curb this cur, then we’ll see how he answers to a real whip!” As he spoke, the young warrior took a coiled whip from his belt and shook it down like some fantastic snake on the ground. But Khai had not been idle.