THE DREAM OF ANCIENT EGYPT A Novel CHAPTER I:THE DISCOVERY IN THE PYRAMID The year of Our Lord 1887 found me, Professor Edmund Blackwell of Oxford University, standing at the entrance of a newly uncovered burial chamber beneath the shadow of the Great Pyramid of Giza. The desert wind howled like some ancient spirit awakened from its slumber, carrying with it the scent of sand and secrets that had remained hidden for three thousand years. I was forty years of age, a man of science and reason, or so I believed myself to be. My colleagues at the Royal Archaeological Society had long considered me one of the foremost authorities on Ancient Egyptian civilisation, yet I confess that standing there, at the threshold of that dark aperture carved into the living rock, I felt something I had not experienced since childhood—the peculiar sensation that the world was far larger and stranger than the boundaries of our understanding permitted. "Professor Blackwell," called my assistant, young Thomas Hartley, his voice trembling with excitement and the chill of the desert evening. "The torches are lit. We may proceed when you are ready." I adjusted my pith helmet and checked the revolver at my belt—a precaution that had saved my life more than once in these lawless lands. The Egyptian government, under British protection though it was, exercised little control over the remote corners of this ancient land where bandits and treasure hunters prowled like jackals. "Very well, Hartley. Let us see what wonders the ancients have preserved for us." We descended into the darkness, our torches casting flickering shadows upon walls adorned with hieroglyphs that told stories of gods and kings, of battles fought and kingdoms won. The air grew thick with the scent of age—dust and dried herbs and something else, something I could not name but which stirred in me a curious mixture of dread and anticipation. The passage led downward, far deeper than any tomb I had previously explored. My compass spun wildly in my hand, the needle dancing like a dervish unable to find its true north. I marked this anomaly in my notebook, attributing it to some magnetic mineral in the rock, though even then a part of my mind whispered that such explanations were insufficient. At last we came to a chamber unlike any I had seen. It was circular, its domed ceiling painted with stars that matched no constellation known to modern astronomy. In the center stood a sarcophagus of black granite, its surface covered with inscriptions in a script that was neither hieroglyphic nor demotic nor any form of writing I had ever encountered in my twenty years of study. "Good Lord," Hartley breathed. "What manner of tomb is this?" I approached the sarcophagus with the reverence due to anything that had survived the millennia. The lid was slightly ajar, as if someone—or something—had recently emerged from within. My scientific mind rebelled against such fancies, yet I could not deny what my eyes beheld. Upon the sarcophagus lay a pectoral of gold and lapis lazuli, depicting a scarab beetle with wings outstretched. I reached for it, my fingers trembling despite my efforts at self-control. The moment my skin touched the cold metal, the world seemed to tilt upon its axis. I heard a sound like the rushing of mighty waters, though we were deep underground and far from the Nile. The stars painted upon the ceiling began to move, tracing paths across the dome that hurt my eyes to follow. Hartley shouted something, but his voice came to me as if from a great distance, distorted and strange. Then came the darkness. When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the tomb. I lay upon a bed of linen sheets, in a room whose walls were covered with frescoes of lotus flowers and papyrus reeds. Sunlight streamed through windows screened with woven reeds, casting striped shadows across the floor. The air was warm and carried the scent of the river—water and mud and growing things. I sat up, my head spinning. I was dressed in a linen kilt of the style I had seen depicted in countless tomb paintings, my chest bare, my feet sandaled. My hands were younger than I remembered, the skin smooth, the veins less prominent. A mirror of polished bronze stood upon a nearby table, and when I looked into it, I saw a face that was mine and yet not mine—my own features, but unlined by age, the hair dark without a trace of grey. "My lord?" A voice called from beyond a curtain. "You are awake. The Princess Nefertari awaits you in the garden." I opened my mouth to speak, to demand an explanation, but the words that emerged were not English. They flowed from my tongue in a language I had never learned, yet understood perfectly—the tongue of Ancient Egypt, the language I had spent decades deciphering from stone and papyrus. "Tell the Princess I shall attend her presently," I heard myself say. The servant withdrew, and I was left alone with my bewilderment. I was Edmund Blackwell, Professor of Egyptology at Oxford University, born in the year 1847 in the county of Yorkshire. I had a sister in London, a house in Oxford, students who depended upon my lectures, colleagues who would wonder at my disappearance. Yet I was also someone else. Memories that were not my own floated in my mind like fragments of a dream—memories of a childhood in Thebes, of training in the temple of Amun, of a father who had served as scribe to the great Pharaoh himself. I knew this place. I knew these people. I knew that I was called Senenmut, a nobleman of the court, favored of the god-king Thutmose III. I rose from the bed and walked to the window. Beyond the garden walls, I could see the great temples of Karnak rising against the blue sky, their pylons and obelisks gleaming in the sun. The Nile flowed past, broad and brown and eternal, carrying the lifeblood of Egypt from the distant south to the sea. I was in Ancient Egypt. Not as a visitor, not as a scholar observing from the safe distance of time, but as a participant, a living man in a living world. The knowledge should have driven me to madness, yet somehow I accepted it. Perhaps the touch of that strange pectoral had altered my mind as well as my circumstances. Or perhaps there are truths about the nature of reality that our modern science has not yet begun to suspect. I dressed in the fine linen robes that lay ready for me, my fingers moving with practiced ease to arrange the pleats and fasten the jeweled collar about my neck. As I did so, I examined my situation with the analytical mind that had made me a respected scholar. I was Senenmut, a nobleman of high rank. The Princess Nefertari awaited me, and from the tone of the servant's voice, this was no casual summons. I searched my borrowed memories and found what I sought—Nefertari, daughter of Pharaoh Thutmose III, beautiful as the dawn, wise as the goddess Seshat. And I, Senenmut, was to be her husband. The wedding was to take place in three days' time. I descended to the garden, my heart pounding with a mixture of terror and wonder. What had become of Hartley? What had become of my body in that underground tomb? Would I ever return to my own time, or was I condemned to live out this other life until death claimed me? Such questions would have to wait. For now, I had a role to play, and I would play it to the best of my ability. If this was to be my reality, then I would embrace it fully. The garden was a paradise of flowers and fountains, date palms and sycamores providing shade from the fierce sun. And there, seated beside a lotus pool, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Nefertari was perhaps twenty years of age, her skin the color of honey, her eyes lined with kohl that made them appear enormous and mysterious. Her hair was black as the night, arranged in elaborate braids adorned with golden beads. She wore a gown of sheer linen that revealed the contours of her slender body, and about her neck hung a collar of gold and turquoise that must have been worth a king's ransom. She rose as I approached, and her smile was like the rising of the sun. "Senenmut," she said, her voice musical and low. "I feared you would sleep the day away. The priests say the gods send prophetic dreams to those they favor. Did you dream, my love?" "I dreamed," I said, and the words were true enough. "I dreamed of distant lands and strange customs, of a world very different from our own." "And was it a pleasant dream?" I looked at her—this princess of ancient Egypt who had lived and died three thousand years before my birth—and felt something stir in my heart that had nothing to do with scholarship or reason. "It was a dream that taught me the value of what I have," I said. "You, my princess, are more precious to me than all the treasures of the earth." She laughed, a sound like silver bells. "You speak like a poet, Senenmut. Come, walk with me. My father wishes to speak with you before the ceremony, and there are matters of state that concern us both." We walked through the garden, and she spoke of the court and its intrigues, of the great Pharaoh's campaigns in the north and east, of the growing threat posed by the kingdom of Assyria whose armies were said to be the most terrible in all the world. "My father grows old," Nefertari said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And there are those who would take advantage of his weakness. The priests of Amun grow powerful, too powerful. They speak of the god's will, but they serve their own interests." "And what of the crown prince?" I asked, drawing upon my borrowed memories. "Amenhotep is a man of wisdom and strength." "Amenhotep is a dreamer," Nefertari said with a shake of her head. "He spends his days in the temple, communing with the gods, while the priests amass wealth and power. When my father passes to the West, who will rule Egypt? The Pharaoh, or the priests who claim to speak for the gods?" I listened with growing understanding. This was the eternal struggle of ancient Egypt—the tension between the secular power of the Pharaoh and the religious authority of the priesthood. In my own time, I had studied this conflict in the abstract, reading of the rise and fall of dynasties, of religious revolutions and political upheavals. Now I was to be a participant in it, my fate intertwined with that of this princess and her kingdom. "You wish me to help you," I said. "To use my position to counter the priests' influence." "I wish you to be my eyes and ears," she said, turning to face me. Her eyes were serious now, the laughter gone. "I wish you to be the sword that defends my father's throne and, when the time comes, my brother's. The priests fear you, Senenmut. They fear your wisdom and your connection to the old ways." "The old ways?" She touched the amulet that hung at my throat—a scarab of green stone, ancient even by the standards of this age. "You were trained in the mysteries of Thoth, the god of wisdom. You know the secrets that the priests of Amun have forgotten or choose to ignore. In the days to come, that knowledge may be all that stands between Egypt and chaos." I looked down at the scarab, and memory stirred within me—memory of long nights in the temple library, of papyrus scrolls that spoke of mysteries beyond the understanding of common men, of a time when the gods themselves walked upon the earth. "I will do what I can," I said. "I swear it by all that I hold sacred." She took my hand, and her touch was warm and real. "Then let us go to my father. There is much to discuss, and little time." We walked together toward the palace, and I felt the weight of history pressing upon me. I, Edmund Blackwell, a man of the nineteenth century, was about to enter the court of Thutmose III, one of the greatest Pharaohs in the long history of Egypt. I would become his son-in-law, a prince of the blood, with all the privileges and dangers that position entailed. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I felt a strange exhilaration. Whatever force had brought me to this time and place, whatever purpose lay behind this impossible journey, I would meet it with all the courage and cunning I possessed. For I was no longer merely a scholar observing the past. I was living it, breathing it, becoming part of the very history I had spent my life studying. And somewhere, in the darkest corners of my mind, a voice whispered that this was only the beginning—that the greatest trials and the most terrible wonders were yet to come. CHAPTER II:THE COURT OF THE GOD-KING The palace of Thutmose III was a marvel of architecture that made the grandest buildings of Victorian London seem like crude hovels by comparison. Its walls were faced with white limestone that blazed in the sun, its columns carved with lotus and papyrus designs so delicate that they seemed to sway in an unfelt breeze. Guards in bronze armor stood at every doorway, their eyes watchful, their spears sharp. I followed Nefertari through corridors that echoed with the footsteps of servants and courtiers, past chambers where scribes bent over their papyrus, recording the affairs of the greatest empire the world had ever known. The air was thick with the scent of incense and flowers, with the murmur of voices speaking in the musical tongue that I now understood as easily as my native English. At last we came to the throne room, and there I saw him—the Pharaoh Thutmose III, son of Amun, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, the Napoleon of Ancient Egypt as modern scholars would one day call him. He was an old man now, his hair white, his face lined with the marks of age and campaign. Yet his eyes were still sharp, still alive with the intelligence that had led Egyptian armies to victory after victory, extending the empire from the fourth cataract of the Nile to the banks of the Euphrates. He sat upon his throne of gold and electrum, the double crown of Egypt upon his head, the crook and flail in his hands. About him stood his court—the great nobles of Egypt, the generals who had fought beside him in a hundred battles, the priests in their leopard-skin robes, their faces painted with the sacred markings of their office. And among them, I saw the ones Nefertari had warned me of—the High Priest of Amun, a man called Menkheperre, whose eyes were cold as stone and whose smile never reached his gaze. "Daughter," the Pharaoh said, his voice still strong despite his years. "You bring your betrothed." "I do, Father." Nefertari knelt, and I knelt beside her, touching my forehead to the cool floor. "Senenmut awaits your blessing." "Rise, Senenmut," the Pharaoh commanded. "Let me look upon the man who is to be my son." I rose and met his gaze. For a long moment, he studied me, and I felt that those ancient eyes saw more than I wished to reveal—that they peered into the deepest corners of my soul and found there something unexpected. "You have the look of a man who has traveled far," Thutmose said at last. "Not in body, but in spirit. The priests tell me you spent three days in the temple of Thoth, fasting and praying. They say you emerged with the light of knowledge in your eyes." "I sought wisdom, Divine Father," I said, choosing my words with care. "And I believe I found it, though not in the form I expected." The Pharaoh nodded slowly. "Wisdom rarely comes in the form we expect. I have learned that lesson many times, often at the cost of blood and treasure." He turned to the High Priest Menkheperre. "What say you, priest? Does the god Amun smile upon this union?" Menkheperre stepped forward, his robes rustling like dry leaves. "The god speaks through the oracle, Divine One. The signs are... ambiguous." "Ambiguous?" The Pharaoh's voice hardened. "I asked for a blessing, not a riddle." "The will of the gods is not always clear to mortal men," Menkheperre said, his voice smooth as oil. "Yet I have consulted the sacred texts, and I find that the marriage of a princess to one trained in the mysteries of Thoth is... unusual. The god Amun is the king of gods, Divine One. His priests have always been the guardians of the royal bloodline." I felt Nefertari tense beside me, and I understood the game being played. Menkheperre sought to block our marriage, to prevent me from gaining the influence that would come with being the Pharaoh's son-in-law. The priests of Amun had grown powerful during the long reign of Thutmose's predecessor, the female Pharaoh Hatshepsut, and they feared any threat to their authority. "The mysteries of Thoth are older than the cult of Amun," I said, the words coming to me from my borrowed memories. "When the first Pharaohs built their tombs, it was Thoth who guided their hands, Thoth who taught them the arts of writing and measurement. I mean no disrespect to the great god Amun, but I serve a tradition that stretches back to the dawn of time." Menkheperre's eyes narrowed. "You speak boldly for one who stands before the god-king." "I speak truthfully," I replied. "For what value has a son-in-law who speaks only what others wish to hear?" The Pharaoh laughed—a dry, rasping sound that nonetheless held genuine amusement. "Well said, Senenmut. I have had my fill of flatterers and yes-men. My daughter has chosen wisely." He raised his hand in blessing. "The marriage shall proceed as planned. Let the priests of Amun prepare their ceremonies, and let the priests of Thoth prepare theirs. Both gods shall be honored, and Egypt shall be strengthened by this union." Menkheperre bowed, but I saw the hatred in his eyes. I had made an enemy this day, a powerful enemy who would not rest until he had destroyed me. Yet I had also won the Pharaoh's favor, and that was worth any risk. The audience continued, with Thutmose questioning me about my knowledge of statecraft and warfare, of the administration of temples and the management of estates. I answered as best I could, drawing upon my borrowed memories and my own understanding of Egyptian history. The Pharaoh seemed satisfied, though at times I caught him looking at me with an expression I could not read—something between curiosity and recognition. When at last we were dismissed, Nefertari squeezed my hand. "You did well," she whispered. "My father is not easily impressed, yet I saw that he likes you." "The High Priest Menkheperre does not," I replied. "Menkheperre likes no one who threatens his power. But he is only one man, and my father is still Pharaoh." She led me through a side door into a private garden. "Come, there is someone I wish you to meet." In the garden's shade, a young man sat upon a stone bench, his head bowed in meditation or prayer. He was perhaps thirty years of age, dressed in the simple linen robe of a temple initiate, his head shaved in the manner of priests. Yet there was something about him—an air of quiet authority, a serenity that seemed to radiate from his very being. "Brother," Nefertari called. "I have brought him." The young man raised his head, and I found myself looking into eyes that were ancient beyond their years. This was Amenhotep, Crown Prince of Egypt, the man who would one day succeed his father upon the throne. "Senenmut," the prince said, rising to greet me. "I have heard much about you. My sister speaks of little else." "Your Highness," I said, bowing deeply. "No titles between us, please. We are to be brothers, are we not?" Amenhotep smiled, and in that smile I saw both warmth and sadness. "I welcome you to our family, though I warn you—we are a troublesome lot. Our father is a warrior who cannot accept the limitations of age. Our sister is a schemer who sees plots in every shadow. And I... I am a dreamer who would rather contemplate the mysteries of the gods than govern a kingdom." "You sell yourself short, brother," Nefertari said. "You have wisdom that our father lacks." "Wisdom without strength is useless," Amenhotep replied. "And strength without wisdom is dangerous. Egypt needs both, and I fear I possess only one." He turned to me, his gaze piercing. "But you, Senenmut—you have traveled far, have you not? Farther than any man of this age?" I felt a chill run down my spine. "What do you mean, Highness?" "I mean that you are not what you appear to be." Amenhotep's voice was low, barely above a whisper. "I have studied the ancient texts, the ones the priests of Amun keep hidden from common view. There are doors between the worlds, passages that allow the soul to travel through time and space. You have passed through such a door, have you not?" I stared at him, unable to speak. How could he know? How could anyone in this age suspect the truth of my origin? "Do not fear," Amenhotep said gently. "Your secret is safe with me. I recognize you because I too have walked paths that others cannot imagine. In my meditations, I have seen visions of other times, other places—worlds so strange that I cannot describe them in any language known to man." "You are the Crown Prince of Egypt," I said at last. "Why would you concern yourself with such... fantasies?" "Because they are not fantasies." Amenhotep's eyes blazed with sudden intensity. "And because Egypt is in danger—not from any human enemy, but from forces that operate beyond the veil of ordinary reality. The priests of Amun have awakened something, something that should have remained sleeping. They seek power, and in their seeking they have opened doors that cannot easily be closed." "What kind of danger?" "The Assyrians are coming," Amenhotep said. "Not merely their armies, but something older and more terrible that marches with them. The priests of Amun believe they can control this force, use it to destroy their enemies and rule Egypt unchallenged. They are fools. No mortal can control what they have summoned." I thought of the history I knew—the rise of Assyria, the conquest of Egypt, the fall of ancient kingdoms. But the history I had studied spoke only of human ambitions and human failures. It said nothing of supernatural forces, of ancient powers awakening from long slumber. "What can be done?" I asked. "That is why I am glad you are here," Amenhotep said. "You have knowledge that no man of this age possesses. You know what is to come—you have read the future in your world's books, have you not?" I nodded slowly. "I know something of what is to come. But history can be changed. The future is not fixed." "No, it is not. And that is our hope." Amenhotep took my hands in his. "Help me, Senenmut. Help me save Egypt from the doom that approaches. Together, we may yet turn aside the darkness." I looked at this prince of ancient Egypt, this man who would be remembered by history as Amenhotep II, and felt the weight of destiny pressing upon me. I had come to this time by accident or design—I still did not know which—and now I was being asked to play a role in the great drama of history. "I will help you," I said. "I swear it." Nefertari embraced me, and in her arms I felt both the warmth of human love and the cold touch of fate. Whatever came, I would face it. For I was no longer merely Edmund Blackwell, scholar and observer. I was Senenmut, prince of Egypt, and the future of this ancient kingdom rested partly in my hands. The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation for the wedding, of meetings with court officials and military commanders, of secret conferences with Amenhotep and his few trusted allies. I learned much about the state of Egypt—the vast empire that stretched from Nubia in the south to Syria in the north, the rich temples and prosperous cities, the complex bureaucracy that managed the flow of grain and gold. But I also learned of the shadows that threatened this prosperity. The priests of Amun controlled vast wealth and land, more than the Pharaoh himself. They had their own armies, their own spies, their own network of influence that reached into every corner of the kingdom. And they were not content with spiritual authority—they sought temporal power as well, the power to name Pharaohs and depose them, to dictate policy and control the succession. Menkheperre was the architect of this ambition, a man of brilliant intellect and absolutely no conscience. He spoke of the will of the gods, but his true god was power. And he saw in me a threat that must be eliminated. The attempts on my life began three days before the wedding. First, a servant brought me wine that I recognized as poisoned—the knowledge came from my borrowed memories, from training in the temple of Thoth that included the identification of dangerous substances. I poured the wine onto the floor and watched it hiss and steam upon the tiles. Next, an assassin entered my chambers in the night. I woke to find a figure bending over my bed, a bronze knife raised to strike. I rolled aside, seized the weapon I kept beneath my pillow, and struck back. The assassin fled, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, and was never found. After that, I took precautions. I ate only food prepared by my own servants, slept with guards at my door, varied my routines so that no enemy could predict my movements. Nefertari worried for me, but I reassured her as best I could. "The priests will not rest until I am dead or discredited," I told her. "But I have faced worse dangers than this." "What dangers?" she asked. "You have spent your life in temples and libraries." If only she knew, I thought. If only I could tell her of the world I came from, of the wars and revolutions that had shaped my century, of the scientific discoveries that had transformed human understanding of the universe. "I have faced dangers of the spirit," I said, which was true enough. "The path of wisdom is not without its perils." The wedding day dawned bright and clear, the sky a flawless blue, the Nile flowing peacefully past the city walls. I dressed in the ceremonial robes of a bridegroom—fine white linen adorned with gold and jewels—and made my way to the temple where the ceremony would take place. The temple of Amun at Karnak was the largest religious complex in the world, a vast maze of pylons and courtyards, halls and chapels, that covered more ground than many cities. Thousands of priests served here, maintaining the cult of the king of gods, performing the daily rituals that ensured the continued prosperity of Egypt. Today, the great hypostyle hall was filled with the nobility of the kingdom, all come to witness the marriage of the princess to her chosen husband. I walked between rows of painted columns, each one thicker than three men, toward the sanctuary where Nefertari waited. She was more beautiful than I had ever seen her, dressed in a gown of gold-threaded linen, her face veiled in the manner of brides since time immemorial. The High Priest Menkheperre stood before the statue of Amun, his face expressionless as he prepared to perform the ceremony. The ritual was long and complex, involving prayers and offerings, the exchange of rings and the signing of contracts. I spoke my vows in a voice that did not tremble, and Nefertari spoke hers with a clear conviction that moved all who heard. At last, Menkheperre pronounced us husband and wife, and the crowd erupted in cheers. We processed through the temple and out into the sunlight, where the common people of Thebes had gathered to celebrate. Flowers rained down upon us, and music filled the air. But as I looked up at the great pylons of the temple, I saw Menkheperre standing in the shadows, watching us with eyes that burned with hatred. And I knew that this was not the end of our conflict, but only the beginning. That night, in the palace chambers that were now ours, Nefertari and I lay together as husband and wife. She slept in my arms, her breathing soft and regular, while I stared at the ceiling and contemplated the strange path my life had taken. I was married. I was a prince of Egypt. I had wealth and power and the love of a beautiful woman. By any ordinary measure, I was the most fortunate of men. Yet I could not forget who I truly was. I could not forget Oxford and London, the world of steam engines and telegraphs, of scientific inquiry and industrial progress. I could not forget Hartley, my faithful assistant, who had witnessed my disappearance and would surely be searching for me even now. And I could not forget the warning Amenhotep had given me—the threat that approached from the east, the darkness that the priests of Amun had awakened. What was I to do? I was one man, displaced in time, armed only with knowledge that no one would believe and abilities that were not truly my own. How could I stand against the power of the priesthood, against the might of Assyria, against forces that I did not even understand? Yet even as these doubts assailed me, I felt a strange certainty growing in my heart. I had been brought to this time for a purpose. Whether by the will of the gods or the operation of some natural law I could not comprehend, I was here, and I had work to do. I would defend Egypt against its enemies, both human and supernatural. I would protect Nefertari and Amenhotep and all those who had shown me kindness. And perhaps, in doing so, I would find the way back to my own time—or discover that I no longer wished to return. Sleep came at last, and with it dreams—dreams of pyramids and tombs, of ancient gods and modern cities, of a world where past and future intertwined like the strands of a rope. And somewhere, in the darkness beyond the veil of sleep, something ancient stirred and turned its attention toward the land of Egypt. CHAPTER III:THE WHISPERS OF WAR The months that followed my marriage were among the happiest of my life, in any of my existences. Nefertari and I grew close, our bond deepening with each passing day. She was intelligent and curious, eager to learn about the world beyond Egypt's borders, and I found in her a willing student for the knowledge I possessed. Of course, I could not tell her the truth of my origin. Instead, I presented my knowledge of geography and history, of astronomy and medicine, as the fruits of my studies in the temple of Thoth. She accepted this explanation without question, for in her world the temples were repositories of ancient wisdom, and it was not impossible that they might contain secrets unknown to the wider world. Together, we worked to strengthen the position of the crown prince against the growing power of the priesthood. Amenhotep was grateful for our support, though he remained absorbed in his spiritual pursuits, spending hours each day in meditation and prayer. I worried for him—he was a good man, perhaps too good for the ruthless world of Egyptian politics—but I respected his dedication to the divine. The Pharaoh Thutmose, meanwhile, grew weaker with each passing month. His campaigns had taken their toll on his body, and now age did the rest. He still held court, still made decisions of state, but increasingly he relied upon his advisors, and increasingly those advisors were priests of Amun. Menkheperre was everywhere, his influence growing like a cancer. He controlled access to the Pharaoh, filtering information to serve his own purposes. He placed his supporters in key positions throughout the administration, ensuring that the will of the priesthood would prevail even after Thutmose's death. And he continued to plot against me. The attempts on my life became more frequent and more sophisticated. A cobra hidden in my bedchamber. A chariot whose axle had been partially sawn through. A scroll bearing a curse that would have driven me mad had I not recognized the signs and destroyed it before reading the words. Each time, I survived through a combination of luck, vigilance, and the knowledge I possessed. I knew things that no man of this age should know—about poisons and their antidotes, about the principles of engineering that allowed me to inspect my chariot and find the damage, about psychology that helped me recognize the patterns of my enemies. But I knew that luck could not last forever. Sooner or later, Menkheperre would find a way to destroy me, unless I found a way to destroy him first. It was Amenhotep who provided the opportunity. "My father is dying," the prince told me one evening, as we walked in the palace gardens beneath the light of a full moon. "The physicians give him no more than a few months. And when he dies, the priests will move to seize power." "What can be done?" I asked. "There is a way to break their power, but it is dangerous." Amenhotep looked around to ensure we were not overheard. "The priesthood of Amun draws its strength from the temples, from the vast estates and treasures they control. But their true power comes from the oracle—the voice of the god that speaks through the High Priest and guides the decisions of Pharaoh." "You wish to challenge the oracle?" "I wish to expose it as a fraud." Amenhotep's voice was hard, unlike his usual gentle tone. "The oracle does not speak for Amun. It speaks for Menkheperre and his ambitions. If I can prove this, if I can show the people that the priests have been deceiving them, their power will crumble." "How would you prove such a thing?" "There is a ritual," Amenhotep said. "An ancient ceremony, older than the cult of Amun, that allows a man to speak directly with the gods. Not through an intermediary, not through the filtered words of a priest, but face to face, as one speaks to another." "You have performed this ritual?" "I have tried. But I lack the strength, the knowledge, the... otherness that it requires." He turned to me, his eyes burning in the moonlight. "But you, Senenmut—you are different. You have walked between worlds. You have seen what no man of this age has seen. If anyone can perform the ritual and survive, it is you." I felt a chill run through me. "What would this ritual require?" "Three days of fasting and purification. Three days of prayer and meditation. And then, on the third night, a journey into the deepest part of the temple, to a place where the veil between worlds grows thin." Amenhotep took my hands. "If you succeed, you will gain the power to see through all deception, to know the truth of any matter. You will be able to expose Menkheperre and his lies. But if you fail..." "If I fail?" "The journey between worlds is not without peril. Many who have attempted it have never returned. Their bodies remain, living but empty, while their spirits wander lost in the spaces between reality." I thought of my own journey, the passage from my world to this one. Had that been a similar ritual, performed unconsciously? And if so, did that mean I had some natural aptitude for such travel? "I will do it," I said. "Tell me what I must do." The preparations took a week. I told Nefertari that I was undertaking a spiritual retreat, and she accepted this with the understanding of a woman raised in a culture that valued such pursuits. She kissed me goodbye and made me promise to return safely. "I have a feeling," she said, her eyes troubled, "that great things are coming. Great and terrible. Promise me you will be careful." "I promise," I said, and prayed that I could keep that promise. The temple of Thoth was an ancient structure, far older than the grand edifices of Karnak. It stood on the west bank of the Nile, in the city of the dead where the great nobles built their tombs. Its walls were covered with inscriptions in scripts that even the priests of Amun could not read, symbols from a time before Egypt existed as a unified kingdom. The priests who served here were few in number, remnants of an ancient tradition that had been eclipsed by the cult of Amun. They welcomed me with grave courtesy, providing the chamber where I would perform my retreat and instructing me in the practices I must follow. For three days, I ate nothing and drank only water. I spent my hours in meditation, clearing my mind of all distraction, preparing myself for the journey to come. The priests taught me chants and visualizations, techniques for separating the spirit from the body and guiding it through the spaces between worlds. On the third night, they led me deep into the temple, down passages carved from the living rock, to a chamber that had not seen sunlight in thousands of years. In the center of the chamber stood a stone sarcophagus, its lid carved with the image of a man with the head of an ibis—the god Thoth himself. "Lie within," the high priest of Thoth instructed me. "Close your eyes and recite the words we have taught you. If the god favors you, he will guide you through the veil. If not... we will return in three days to retrieve your body." I climbed into the sarcophagus, lying upon the cold stone. The lid was lowered into place, sealing me in darkness absolute. I could hear my own heartbeat, the sound of my breathing, the rush of blood in my ears. I began to chant. The words were ancient, older than Egyptian civilization, perhaps older than human language itself. They resonated in my chest, vibrating through my bones, until I felt myself dissolving into sound and vibration. Then came the familiar sensation—the rushing of waters, the spinning of stars, the sense of falling through infinite space. But this time, I was not a passive passenger. This time, I was the pilot, guiding my spirit through the chaos, seeking the path that would lead me to my destination. I emerged into light. I stood in a landscape that defied description. The ground beneath my feet was solid and yet fluid, changing color and texture with every step. The sky above was not blue but a shifting kaleidoscope of hues, filled with shapes that might have been clouds or might have been living things. In the distance, I saw structures that resembled buildings, but buildings designed by minds utterly alien to human thought. "Welcome, traveler." I turned to find a figure standing beside me—a man, or something like a man, dressed in robes of white linen that seemed to glow with their own light. His face was ageless, neither young nor old, and his eyes held depths of wisdom that made me feel like a child. "Who are you?" I asked. "I am called many names in many worlds. In yours, I am known as Thoth." I stared at him, unable to speak. Before me stood one of the greatest gods of ancient Egypt, the deity of wisdom and writing, the measurer of time and the keeper of knowledge. And he was speaking to me as one man speaks to another. "You are not what I expected," I managed to say. The god—if god he was—smiled. "No one ever is. We gods are reflections of human belief, shaped by the prayers and expectations of our worshippers. You expected an ibis head, perhaps? Or a baboon? Those are my symbols, my masks. But here, in this place between worlds, I may show you my true face." "Why have you brought me here?" "I have brought you nowhere. You brought yourself, through the ritual your prince taught you. I merely awaited your arrival." He gestured, and the landscape shifted around us, resolving into something more familiar—a garden, not unlike the ones in the palace at Thebes, with flowers and fountains and the sound of birdsong. "But I am glad you have come. There are matters we must discuss, you and I." We walked through the garden, and Thoth spoke of things that made my head spin—of the nature of reality, of the infinite branches of time, of the forces that moved through the universe like currents in a vast ocean. "You come from a future age," he said. "A time when the gods of Egypt are forgotten, when new beliefs have taken their place. Is this not so?" "It is," I admitted. "In my time, your temples lie in ruins. Your name is known only to scholars and historians." "And yet here you are, in the age when I am worshipped by millions. How do you explain this paradox?" "I cannot. I do not understand how I came to be here. One moment I was in a tomb beneath the Great Pyramid, touching an artifact. The next, I was in Thebes, in a body that was not my own, with memories that were not mine." Thoth nodded. "The artifact you touched was a key, a tool created in ancient times for travel between worlds. It was hidden in that tomb to prevent its misuse, but the passage of millennia weakened the wards that protected it. When you touched it, you activated its power, and your spirit was drawn through the veil to this time and place." "Can I return? To my own time, my own body?" "You can. The key remains active, waiting for you to use it again. But I would advise against haste. You were brought here for a purpose, Edmund Blackwell. There is work for you to do, a role for you to play in the great drama of history." "What purpose? What role?" Thoth stopped walking and turned to face me. His eyes were no longer merely wise—they were terrible, filled with the light of stars and the darkness between them. "A great evil approaches. The priests of Amun, in their arrogance, have opened a door that should have remained closed. They have made alliance with powers that predate the gods themselves, beings of chaos and destruction that seek to unmake the order of the world." "The Assyrians," I said. "The Assyrians are merely the tool, the instrument through which these powers work. Their king, Shalmaneser, is possessed by an entity that has worn many names in many ages—Apep, the serpent of chaos; Set, the murderer of Osiris; in your time, you might call it by other names. But whatever its guise, its purpose remains the same: to destroy, to devour, to return the universe to the primordial void from which it emerged." I thought of the history I knew, of the rise of Assyria and its brutal conquests. The Assyrians had been feared throughout the ancient world for their cruelty, their practice of mass deportation and torture, their dedication to the art of war. Could there be truth in what Thoth was saying? Could their evil have been more than human? "What can I do?" I asked. "I am one man, displaced in time, with no army of my own." "You have knowledge," Thoth said. "Knowledge of the future, of strategies and technologies that do not yet exist in this age. You have courage, and you have allies—the prince Amenhotep, your wife Nefertari, others who will rally to your cause. And you have this." He reached into his robe and withdrew an object that glowed with golden light. It was a scarab, carved from a material I could not identify, covered with inscriptions in a script that seemed to shift and change even as I looked at it. "This is the Seal of Thoth," the god said. "It grants protection against the powers of chaos, and authority over those who serve them. Use it wisely, and it will serve you well. Use it foolishly, and it will destroy you." I took the scarab, feeling its warmth against my palm. "What must I do?" "Return to your body. Prepare for war. The Assyrians are marching even now, their armies swollen with the power of the entity that guides them. They will reach Egypt within the year, and when they come, they will bring destruction such as this world has never seen." "And the priests of Amun? Menkheperre?" "They believe they can control what they have summoned. They are wrong. When the time comes, they will learn the price of their arrogance." Thoth's voice grew sad. "Many will die, Edmund Blackwell. Good people, innocent people. But if you act wisely, if you use the knowledge and the power you have been given, Egypt may yet survive. And if Egypt survives, the light of civilization will continue to burn, illuminating the darkness for future generations." He raised his hand in blessing. "Go now. And remember—time is both more and less flexible than you imagine. The future you know is not fixed. Your actions here, in this age, will shape the world that is to come. Choose wisely, act bravely, and trust in the wisdom that has been given you." The light grew blinding, and I felt myself falling, spinning, rushing through the spaces between worlds. Then came darkness, and after darkness, the sensation of stone beneath my back and air in my lungs. The lid of the sarcophagus was lifted away, and I looked up into the faces of the priests of Thoth. Their expressions were awed, as if they were looking at something that transcended ordinary understanding. "You have returned," the high priest said, his voice trembling. "The god favored you. You have seen him, spoken with him." "I have," I said, sitting up. My body was weak from the fast, but my spirit was stronger than it had ever been. "And I have much to do. The god has shown me what is coming, and I must prepare." They helped me from the sarcophagus and brought me food and water. As I ate, I told them what I had learned—not everything, for some knowledge is too dangerous to share, but enough to make them understand the magnitude of the threat. "The Assyrians are coming," I said. "And they bring with them powers that no ordinary army can defeat. We must prepare, not only with swords and chariots, but with the weapons of the spirit as well." "What would you have us do?" the high priest asked. "Send word to the prince Amenhotep. Tell him I have returned, and that I bring news he must hear. And begin preparations for war. The time of peace is ending. The time of trial is at hand." I returned to Thebes to find the city in turmoil. The Pharaoh Thutmose had suffered a stroke, and his physicians despaired of his recovery. The court was divided, factions forming around different claimants to power. And everywhere, the priests of Amun were active, using the crisis to advance their own interests. Nefertari met me at the palace gates, her face pale with worry. "Thank the gods you have returned," she said, embracing me. "I feared... I do not know what I feared. But something terrible is happening, Senenmut. My father lies dying, and the vultures are gathering." "I know," I said, holding her close. "But we are not without resources. Take me to your brother. There is much we must discuss, and little time." Amenhotep received me in his private chambers, his face haggard with worry and lack of sleep. "You have returned," he said. "And I see in your eyes that you have learned what we needed to know." "I have learned much," I said. "And all of it confirms your fears. The Assyrians are coming, and they bring with them powers that no ordinary army can defeat." I told him of my vision, of my meeting with Thoth, of the threat that approached from the east. He listened in silence, his expression growing graver with each word. "Then we are doomed," he said when I had finished. "If what you say is true, if the Assyrians are truly guided by powers of chaos, how can mere mortals stand against them?" "We are not mere mortals," I said. "We have knowledge, and we have the blessing of the gods. Thoth himself has given me this." I showed him the Seal of Thoth, and his eyes widened at the sight of it. "The Seal," he breathed. "I have read of it in the ancient texts, but I never believed I would see it. With such a weapon, we might indeed have a chance." "But we must act quickly," I said. "Your father is dying. The priests of Amun will move to seize power as soon as he passes. We must be ready to counter them, to take control of the government and prepare Egypt for war." "War," Amenhotep said, the word heavy on his tongue. "I have spent my life seeking peace, communion with the divine. And now I must become a warrior, a killer of men." "You must become what Egypt needs you to be," I said. "The gods do not ask us to be what we wish, but what the world requires. Your father understood this. He spent his life in battle, not because he loved war, but because he loved Egypt. Now it is your turn." He was silent for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You are right. I have avoided my responsibilities for too long, hiding behind my spiritual pursuits while others did the work of governing. No more. I will be the Pharaoh Egypt needs, or I will die trying." We spent the night planning, mapping out the steps we must take to secure power and prepare for the coming conflict. It would not be easy—the priests of Amun were deeply entrenched, their influence extending into every corner of the administration. But we had advantages they did not expect: the Seal of Thoth, the knowledge of the future that I possessed, and the determination of men who had nothing left to lose. Three days later, Pharaoh Thutmose III passed into the West, joining his ancestors in the eternal fields of the afterlife. The court gathered to mourn, and Menkheperre stepped forward to pronounce the oracle's judgment on the succession. "The god Amun has spoken," the High Priest announced, his voice ringing through the hall. "He declares that Amenhotep is unworthy of the throne, that his devotion to foreign gods has angered the divine patron of Egypt. The god demands a new Pharaoh, one who will restore the true faith and purge the land of impurity." "And who might that be?" Amenhotep asked, his voice calm despite the provocation. Menkheperre smiled, a gesture of triumph. "The god has chosen me. I, Menkheperre, High Priest of Amun, am to be the next Pharaoh of Egypt." The court erupted in confusion, nobles shouting protests and questions. I stepped forward, raising my hand for silence. "The god Thoth has also spoken," I said, my voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "And he has given me the means to test the truth of any claim." I held up the Seal of Thoth, and it blazed with light that filled the hall, driving back the shadows. Menkheperre stumbled backward, his hand raised to shield his eyes. "What... what trickery is this?" he demanded. "No trickery," I said. "The Seal reveals truth and exposes falsehood. It shows us what is real and what is illusion. And it shows me, Menkheperre, that you are a liar." The light from the Seal intensified, and in its radiance, I saw something that made my blood run cold. The High Priest's form was not entirely human. Something moved beneath his skin, something dark and serpentine that twisted and coiled like a living thing. "You have made alliance with Apep," I said, my voice ringing with the authority the Seal gave me. "You have opened yourself to the serpent of chaos, thinking to use its power for your own advancement. But you are its tool, not its master. And now all the court can see what you have become." The nobles gasped and drew back, their faces pale with horror. In the light of the Seal, Menkheperre's true nature was revealed—the darkness that had taken root in his soul, the evil that had consumed him from within. "Kill them!" Menkheperre screamed, and his supporters rushed forward, drawing their weapons. But we were prepared. Amenhotep's loyal guards emerged from the shadows, surrounding the conspirators. The battle was brief and brutal—Menkheperre's followers fought with the desperation of men who knew they had nothing to lose, but they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered. In the end, Menkheperre himself was captured, his body writhing as the darkness within him fought against the light of the Seal. I approached him, looking down at the man who had tried so hard to destroy me. "What will become of him?" Amenhotep asked. "The darkness must be driven out," I said. "But the process may destroy him." "Then let it destroy him. He chose his path." I placed the Seal upon Menkheperre's forehead, and he screamed—a sound that was not human, that seemed to come from the depths of some abyss. Black smoke poured from his mouth and eyes, coalescing into a shape that was serpentine and terrible, before dissolving into nothingness. When it was over, Menkheperre lay still, his body empty, his spirit fled to whatever fate awaits those who serve the forces of chaos. The court was silent, shocked by what they had witnessed. Then, one by one, the nobles knelt before Amenhotep, acknowledging him as their rightful king. "Hail Amenhotep, Pharaoh of Egypt!" I proclaimed. "Son of Amun, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, beloved of the gods!" The cry was taken up by all present, echoing through the hall. Amenhotep—now Amenhotep II, Pharaoh of Egypt—raised his hands in blessing, accepting the allegiance of his subjects. But even as we celebrated our victory, I knew that the true test was still to come. The Assyrians were marching, and with them came powers that made Menkheperre's corruption seem like child's play. The war for Egypt's survival was about to begin. CHAPTER IV:THE GATHERING STORM The months that followed were a frenzy of preparation. Amenhotep II proved to be a more capable ruler than anyone had expected, throwing himself into the work of government with the same dedication he had once devoted to his spiritual pursuits. Under his direction, and with my assistance, Egypt began to mobilize for war. I used my knowledge of history to guide our preparations. I knew that the Assyrian army was the most formidable military force of the ancient world, renowned for its discipline, its siegecraft, and its ruthless efficiency. Their infantry fought in tight formations, protected by heavy shields and armed with iron weapons that outmatched the bronze of their enemies. Their cavalry, though still in its infancy, was already a force to be reckoned with. And their siege engines could reduce even the strongest walls to rubble. But I also knew their weaknesses. The Assyrian empire was vast, its lines of communication stretched thin. Their army depended upon a complex supply system that was vulnerable to disruption. And their very ruthlessness, which made them feared, also made them hated—creating enemies behind their lines who could be exploited. More importantly, I knew something that no man of this age should know: the future. I knew which strategies would succeed and which would fail. I knew the names of commanders who would prove capable and those who would prove incompetent. I knew, in broad outline, how the campaigns of the next few decades would unfold. This knowledge was dangerous. History was not fixed—my very presence here was proof of that. Every action I took, every decision I influenced, changed the pattern of events in ways I could not fully predict. But the broad currents of history, the clash of civilizations and the rise and fall of empires, moved with a momentum that individual actions could only modify, not reverse. So I planned, and I advised, and I prepared Egypt for the storm that was coming. The army was reorganized along lines that would not be seen in the ancient world for centuries. I introduced the concept of combined arms—coordinating infantry, chariots, and archers in ways that multiplied their effectiveness. I established a corps of engineers to build fortifications and siege engines. I created a system of scouts and messengers that would give our commanders better intelligence than their enemies. Nefertari worked tirelessly by my side, managing the logistics of supply, coordinating with the temples and the provincial governors, ensuring that the vast machine of war functioned smoothly. She was a marvel of efficiency and determination, and I thanked the gods daily for the gift of her love. But even as we prepared, news came from the east that chilled our hearts. The Assyrians were not merely conquering—they were destroying. City after city fell before their advance, their populations massacred or deported, their temples desecrated, their treasures carried off to Nineveh. The kingdom of Mitanni, once a powerful state, was wiped from the map. The Hittites, Egypt's ancient rivals, were driven back to their mountain strongholds. Even the distant kingdom of Babylon had fallen, its last king dying in chains. And behind the human conquerors, something darker moved. Refugees spoke of terrors in the night, of armies that fought with inhuman ferocity, of shadows that moved against the natural order of things. The power that Thoth had warned me about was manifesting, growing stronger with each victory, feeding on the death and destruction it caused. "We cannot defeat this with swords alone," Amenhotep said to me one evening, as we studied the latest reports from the front. "The force that guides the Assyrians is not of this world." "No," I agreed. "But it manifests through human agents, through the Assyrian king and his commanders. If we can defeat them, we can weaken its hold on this world." "And the Seal? The power Thoth gave you?" "It protects against the direct influence of chaos. But it is not infinite. Each use drains its power, and when that power is exhausted..." I did not finish the sentence. We both knew what would happen then. The Assyrian army crossed the Euphrates in the spring of the following year, entering the Egyptian sphere of influence in Syria. The local vassals, terrified by reports of Assyrian might, surrendered without a fight or fled south to seek Egypt's protection. Amenhotep gathered his army at the city of Megiddo, the same place where his father had won one of his greatest victories. It was a symbolic choice, meant to remind both our soldiers and our enemies of Egypt's martial glory. But I knew that symbolism would not be enough. This battle would be unlike any that had come before. The Egyptian army was vast—chariots numbering in the thousands, infantry beyond counting, archers and slingers and all the other arms of war. But the Assyrian force was larger still, swollen by conscripts from the conquered peoples and by something else, something that made the very air feel heavy with menace. I rode through our camp on the eve of battle, speaking with the soldiers, offering encouragement and answering questions. They knew who I was—the foreign-born prince who had exposed the corruption of the High Priest, who carried the blessing of the god Thoth. Some regarded me with awe, others with suspicion, but all listened when I spoke. "Tomorrow we face the greatest test in Egypt's long history," I told them. "Not merely a battle for territory or treasure, but a battle for the soul of the world. The enemy we face serves powers that would unmake all that the gods have created. If we fail, darkness falls upon the earth. But we will not fail. We are Egyptians, children of the Nile, heirs to the oldest civilization the world has known. We fight not only for ourselves, but for all who would live in peace and order." They cheered me, raising their weapons to the sky. But I saw the fear in their eyes, the knowledge that they faced something beyond ordinary warfare. I shared that fear. I had seen what the powers of chaos could do, and I knew that victory was far from certain. That night, I could not sleep. I walked the perimeter of the camp, gazing out at the fires of the Assyrian army that stretched to the horizon like a second night sky. Somewhere in that mass of humanity, the entity that Thoth had called Apep directed its servants, guiding them toward the destruction of everything I had come to love. "You should rest," Nefertari said, appearing at my side. She had refused to remain in Thebes, insisting on accompanying the army to provide logistical support. "Tomorrow will be a long day." "I cannot rest," I said. "My mind is too full of what might happen, of all the ways this could go wrong." "You have done everything possible. No commander in history has been better prepared." "Preparation is not enough. The enemy we face... it is not subject to the normal rules of war." She took my hand, her touch warm and grounding. "Then trust in the gods. They brought you here for a purpose. They will not abandon you now." I looked at her, this woman who had become the center of my world, and felt a pang of sorrow. If I fell tomorrow, what would become of her? What would become of Egypt, of all the people who depended upon me? "I love you," I said, the words inadequate to express what I felt. "Whatever happens tomorrow, know that." "I know," she said, and kissed me. "And I love you. Now come to bed. We will face tomorrow together, as we have faced everything else." The morning dawned red and angry, as if the sky itself bled in anticipation of the slaughter to come. The armies formed their lines, the Egyptian forces drawn up on the plain before Megiddo, the Assyrians approaching from the north in a vast column of dust and glittering steel. Amenhotep commanded the center, his golden chariot conspicuous among the mass of vehicles. I commanded the right wing, with orders to attempt a flanking maneuver once the battle was joined. The left wing was led by a veteran general named Penre, a capable man who had served under Thutmose III. The Assyrian king, Shalmaneser, was visible in their center, his chariot larger and more ornate than any other. Even at this distance, I could feel the wrongness of him, the sense that something unnatural moved within his flesh. The battle began with the blast of trumpets, the two armies surging forward like waves crashing against each other. The sound was deafening—the clash of weapons, the screams of the dying, the thunder of chariot wheels. I led my wing in a sweeping arc, trying to get around the Assyrian flank. But they were ready for us, their cavalry moving to intercept. We fought desperately, my chariots against their horsemen, the air thick with arrows and dust. The Seal of Thoth hung at my throat, warm against my skin. I could feel its power, a reservoir of light that held back the darkness pressing in from all sides. But I could also feel it draining, each moment of battle consuming a little more of its energy. For hours, the battle raged, neither side gaining a decisive advantage. The Egyptian infantry held their ground against the Assyrian assault, their shields forming a wall that the enemy could not break. Our chariots harried the Assyrian flanks, preventing them from bringing their full strength to bear. But we could not break through, could not reach the enemy king who directed the battle from his position in the center. Then came the moment that decided everything. I saw Shalmaneser raise his hand, and the air seemed to ripple around him. Darkness poured from his form, spreading across the battlefield like a stain. Where it touched our soldiers, they faltered, their courage draining away, their limbs growing heavy with despair. "The power of Apep!" I heard someone scream. "He summons the serpent!" I knew then that I had no choice. The Seal was our only hope, and I must use it now or see our army destroyed. I raised the scarab high, calling upon the power that Thoth had entrusted to me. Light blazed from the artifact, driving back the darkness, restoring courage to our faltering troops. But I could feel the cost—the Seal growing hot in my hand, its energy burning away with terrifying speed. I urged my chariot forward, toward the enemy king. If I could reach him, if I could confront the entity that possessed him directly, perhaps I could end this. The path was blocked by enemies, by warriors who fought with inhuman ferocity, their eyes empty of all save the will of their master. I cut through them, my soldiers following, forming a wedge that drove deeper and deeper into the Assyrian lines. At last, I reached him. Shalmaneser turned to face me, and I saw that his eyes were not human—they were pits of darkness, windows into a void that had no end. "You are the one," he said, and his voice was not one voice but many, a chorus of whispers that made my skin crawl. "The traveler. The one who does not belong." "I am Senenmut, prince of Egypt," I said, though my voice shook. "And I serve the forces of order." "Order. Chaos. Words. Meaningless." The thing wearing Shalmaneser's face smiled, and it was the most terrible thing I had ever seen. "All returns to the void in the end. Stars die. Worlds freeze. The light goes out. Why do you fight what cannot be stopped?" "Because the fight itself has meaning," I said. "Because while light exists, it is our duty to defend it." I raised the Seal and unleashed its full power. The light that erupted from the scarab was blinding, a pillar of radiance that pierced the sky. It struck Shalmaneser full in the chest, and he screamed—a sound that seemed to come from the depths of the earth itself. The darkness that surrounded him recoiled, writhing like a living thing in its death throes. For a moment, I saw the true form of the entity that had possessed the Assyrian king—a serpent of shadow and starlight, coiled around the world, its mouth open to devour the sun. Then the light intensified, and the vision faded, and Shalmaneser fell from his chariot, his body empty, the darkness driven out. The Seal crumbled in my hand, its power exhausted, its purpose fulfilled. I held only dust and fragments of gold. But the battle was not over. The Assyrian army, deprived of their king's guidance, did not break. They fought on, driven by discipline and desperation, an