Authors: Gill Harvey
The Deathstalker
Contents
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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York
First published in Great Britain in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
Text copyright © Gill Harvey 2010
Illustrations copyright © Peter Bailey 2010
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
This electronic edition published in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
All rights reserved.
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make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 1073 6
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Also by Gill Harvey
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Egyptian Chronicles
series
The Spitting Cobra
The Horned Viper
The Sacred Scarab
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Also available
Orphan of the Sun
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For Diallo
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Hopi and Isis can remember the terrible accident on the River Nile, when they lost their parents to crocodiles. Hopi still bears crocodile teethmarks on his leg. But five years have passed, and they’ve been lucky: eleven-year-old Isis is a beautiful dancer, and she’s been spotted by a dance and music troupe in the town of Waset. Now they live with the troupe, and Isis performs regularly. Meanwhile, thirteen-year-old Hopi, marked by the gods, pursues his strange connection with dangerous creatures . . .
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Join them in the world of ancient Egypt as they uncover the dark deeds happening around them. If there’s anything you don’t understand, you may find an explanation at the back of the book.
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PROLOGUE
The wind whipped under the goatskin tent, gusting the sand inside. A girl lay there, curled up on a mat. She wiped a hand over her face groggily. There was sand everywhere. Sand in her ears. Sand on her eyelashes. Even sand in her mouth, and her skin was covered with a fine, gritty layer of it. The sandstorm had been blasting for hours.
Now, at last, it was blowing itself out. A young man entered the tent holding a bowl, and shook the girl’s shoulder.
‘Neith, it’s time to get up,’ he said. ‘We must keep moving. The others are packing their tents.’
Neith barely stirred. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ she asked weakly.
‘There is a little goat’s milk. It will help with your thirst, too.’ The man crouched down beside Neith and lifted her head. ‘Here.’ He tipped the bowl to her mouth.
The milk was warm and rich, and Neith gulped it gratefully.
‘I’m sorry, Neith, that’s all there is,’ said her brother. ‘But just think. We shall soon be there, and in Egypt there is plenty of everything.’
‘Tell me about it again,’ whispered Neith. ‘Tell me, to give me strength.’
The young man stared out of the tent towards the horizon. ‘They say there is a great river there,’ he said. ‘A great, beautiful river lined with trees. There are fruits in abundance – melons and grapes and figs. And there is sweet honey, the sweetest and finest in the world.’ He stopped as his voice began to break.
‘Go on,’ Neith whispered.
‘The river is full of fish, and the air full of birds . . . the gardens are lush, and the fields are wealthy with crops. Everyone wears elegant clothes and jewels, and their houses are full of the most exquisite crafts . . .’
‘Hurry!’ cried a voice outside.
Neith gazed up at her brother. ‘Can it be true? Surely such a land does not exist.’
He stroked her hair. ‘It is what they say, Neith. Come now. We must go.’
Neith struggled to her feet and helped her brother to dismantle the goatskin shelter. The desert air was still full of sand, so that the line between land and sky was blurred. But as Neith slowly rolled up her mat, it seemed that the line was thicker, out towards the east.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
Her brother looked up from folding the goatskin covers. Together, they stared at the dense cloud of sand. It was getting bigger. Then, suddenly, it became clear what it was.
‘Chariots! Soldiers! It’s the Egyptian army!’
Neith’s brother raised the alarm, and all the men rushed for their weapons, fumbling among their belongings in haste. The army drew closer, and Neith’s heart quaked with fear. The Egyptian chariots were pulled by mighty horses; the feet of the soldiers beat a solid tattoo on the parched ground. Her companions were outnumbered two to one – they stood no chance at all.
‘Let them show mercy . . .’ she muttered under her breath.
The attackers’ war cry chilled her blood. The chariots were charging. Sunlight flashed on bronze axes and daggers. Arrows flew, and Neith saw a friend of her brother’s fall, pierced through the thigh. She watched in terror as her brother bounded forward, slashing an Egyptian with his dagger. The man fell and was trapped beneath the wheels of a chariot.
Neith gave a little cry. Her brother was fighting on, his dagger flailing wildly . . . she could no longer bear to watch. She sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands. They had come so far in the hope of reaching Egypt. Was it really going to end like this?
The men’s battle raged. And then a cry rose up above the clash of swords.
‘We must surrender!’ called her brother. ‘Or we shall surely die!’
The Egyptians were rampaging through the encampment. Neith looked up in time to see a soldier approaching her. She was yanked to her feet and dragged towards the other women, who screamed and wailed in terror.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Neith scanned the camp for her brother. The men’s hands were being tied behind their backs, and she just glimpsed him, shouting at his captors. One of them slapped him and she flinched, then bowed her head in grief. In all his tales of Egypt, her brother had never mentioned the army, or the possibility of capture. She had always imagined that they would arrive free and happy, as welcome arrivals in a plentiful land. Instead, they were prisoners of war.
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