The Reckoning: Quantum Prophecy Book 3 (31 page)

An enormous, enraged, armored rhinoceros was set loose. Krodin stood his ground, waited until the beast was almost on him, then dodged to the right. His swords pierced its armor-plated headgear and the rhinoceros crashed roaring to the ground. Krodin, still holding on to the swords’ hilts, vaulted onto the beast’s back and jerked the swords free.

The Egyptian slaves—promised freedom if they could stop the Assyrian—launched themselves at him with daggers and clubs. Krodin knew that they were not warriors, neither bred nor trained to fight. They were weak, terrified, and clumsy. Even a moderately experienced fighter would be able to disarm them without issuing a single fatal wound. They did not deserve death, certainly not like this.

Still Krodin killed them all.

Then a deep, powerful voice bellowed, “Enough!”

Krodin stopped. His breathing was heavy now, his body drenched in sweat and spattered with blood.

The voice boomed out once more. “We yield, Assyrian! Enough!”

Krodin finally opened his eyes, and turned in a slow circle. The scene was much as he had pictured it in his mind. So much destruction and death that the desert floor looked like a dense field of scarlet flowers.

The remaining Egyptians encircled him, their weapons at the ready. They were out of reach of his swords, four or five men deep.

But Krodin knew that they would not attack.

Then a parting appeared in the crowd, and a tall, thin man
strode through. He had coal-black hair and bronzed skin, and wore a long, spotless white tunic. There was a simple gold loop around his forehead.

“I am Imkhamun, first general of the royal guard of the palace of his sacred majesty—”

“Kneel,” Krodin said, his teeth bared. “Kneel before the might of the Assyrian empire.”

Without hesitation the Egyptian dropped to his knees, lowered his head. Then Krodin looked around at Imkhamun’s men. “Drop your weapons.”

The sound of spears and swords hitting the ground was almost deafening. Krodin pointed to one man at random, an archer. “You. Water. Now.”

The archer stumbled backward into his colleagues, then pushed through them and ran.

“Raise your right hand, Egyptian,” Krodin said to Imkhamun. “Spread your fingers.”

Trembling, the thin man did as he was told. Krodin’s sword flashed, and Imkhamun’s right thumb dropped to the ground. The Egyptian screamed and doubled over, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. A crimson blossom appeared on his tunic and grew rapidly.

The archer pushed his way through his fellows, carrying a skin of water. He slowed almost to a crawl as he approached Krodin.

Krodin snatched the skin from his hands, passed it to Imkhamun. “Drink, so that I know it is not poisoned.”

Fumbling, hindered by the loss of his right thumb and his shaking, blood-slicked hands, the Egyptian pulled the
stopper from the skin, took a long drink, thin streams of water spilling from the corners of his mouth.

Krodin watched him for a moment, then, satisfied, took back the skin and sipped from it.

“You are mine,” Krodin said. “All of you. Every man in your army now belongs to Assyria. You will move through the battlefield. Scavenge the dead for weapons and supplies. Any Assyrian you find who still lives, tend his wounds. Any Egyptian too badly wounded to march, you will kill.”

Half-whimpering, Imkhamun asked, “You… you would take us to Assyria?”

“No. We will march on Memphis. Your king will be put to the sword, your vaults plundered.” Krodin leaned closer. “And you will burn your crops, salt the land so that nothing will ever grow again. Before the week is out, Egypt’s lush fields will be a desert. Your kingdom will fall. This is the price you pay for attacking Assyria.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Imkhamun climbed to his feet. “This will not happen.”

Krodin grinned. “Earlier I thought you a coward, for only a coward attacks without reason or warning. But… you are not a coward, Egyptian. You stand up to me even though you have seen me devastate your army. There are many humans I would call brave, but surely you are among the bravest.” He raised his left sword, pressed its point against Imkhamun’s throat. “Or the most stupid.”

“Then strike me down, Assyrian. I have lived well and served King Sahure with unwavering loyalty, and I am ready to walk the fields of Aaru. But before you extinguish my light,
tell me your name that I might warn Osiris and Ammit of your eventual coming.”

“Oh, I have had many names, Egyptian. I have called myself Krodin these past two centuries.”

Despite his fear, despite the sword at his throat, Imkhamun frowned. “Two centuries? Impossible. No man can live so long.”

“I have lived that, and longer. And I will live longer still. The gods of your afterlife have no need to fear me, Egyptian, for I cannot die. I am immortal, ageless, indestructible. Already I have walked this Earth for more than five hundred years. I have seen many empires rise and fall, and I have no doubt that I will see many more. I ally myself with Assyria simply because it suits me to do so. But make no mistake: I am not Assyrian.”

“You… you are a god?”

“No. I am not a god. Nor am I human.”