Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [167]
“Looks as if they have beaten their plowshares into swords,” said Emerson.
“Apparently there weren’t many iron plowshares,” Ramses muttered. “The rest of them have only clubs. Make it fast and forceful, Father; I’ll translate when necessary.”
Emerson was still being forceful when they reached the village square with their proud escort. The entire population poured out of their houses, the men and some of the women armed with those pitiful clubs or with stones.
Emerson, who was in a hurry, quelled the uproar of welcome with one of his loudest bellows.
“Talk to the women,” Ramses urged. “Or to—Khat! Good, you made it home safely. Where is your mother?”
The boy was holding a stone he couldn’t possibly have thrown farther than a foot. Inarticulate with excitement and with pride at being on such familiar terms with the Great Ones, he gaped at Emerson, whose stern face dissolved into a mask of sentimental tenderness.
“Got to stop this,” he said to Ramses, patting the boy’s head. “Where…Good Gad, what’s that?”
“The village wisewoman,” said Ramses, as the untidy bundle tottered toward them. “Tell her.”
Emerson only got out a few sentences before her clawlike hands drew the wrappings away from her face.
“Yes, Father of Curses, I read your thoughts. They are good. Tell the people. They will obey.”
Emerson was twitching with impatience, so he made it short, barking out sentence after sentence, which Ramses translated. If the soldiers came, the villagers were not to resist. The shedding of their blood would not be necessary. The battle was already as good as won. His magic, the magic of the Father of Curses, would conquer for Tarek.
“Have I got my point across?” Emerson inquired. “Some of the little chaps still look bellicose.”
“They won’t dare disobey you, sir. And if one of them is tempted to do so, his wife or his mother will stop him. The women agree with you wholeheartedly. Look at them.”
“Your mother always says women have better sense than men. All right, let’s go. Er—where?”
The fields beyond the village were lush and green with some variety of grain, high enough to provide cover when they encountered troops of soldiers heading toward the pass. Zekare must know what Tarek planned; he was mustering his men to resist an attack. Emerson kept mumbling to himself. He was rehearsing his speech; he kept asking Ramses to supply words he didn’t know. Remembering the steep climb ahead of them, Ramses ventured a suggestion.
“Father, it will take quite some time to climb up and over the cliffs. Couldn’t we reach the wall from this side?”
“No, no.” Emerson spat out a mouthful of greenery. “That would be poor psychology—er—you know what I mean. We’ll do it my way. I have it all worked out.”
“At least let me go ahead. I’ve been this way before.”
When Ramses raised a cautious head over the edge of the road he was pleasantly surprised to find no one in sight. The absence of hostile presences there and on the upper slope puzzled him until they reached the ledge and found a man waiting to help them up. He dropped to his knees before Emerson.
“Does the Father of Curses remember his servant?”
“Good to see you, Harsetef, old chap,” said Emerson, too out of breath to remember his scanty Meroitic. “On we go, on we go. There’s no time to waste.”
With the help of two other scouts they got Emerson up the cliff at record speed. As they climbed, Harsetef explained why they had encountered no opposition. “We made sure the way was clear. I knew you would come today.”
“Didn’t you hear that Merasen’s men had taken me prisoner?”
“Yes, but we knew you would escape. We did not expect the Father of Curses himself!” Harsetef’s eyes shone with the fearful glow of belief. “With him to lead the assault we cannot lose!”
The sun hung low over the western cliffs when they reached the top of the cliff. Emerson looked up, looked down, said, “Hell and damnation!” and plunged down the slope, his arms waving like windmills to keep his balance. Before he