Astarte's Wrath (Kythan Guardians 0.50)

Chapter One

Whenever the sky bleeds, covering the once-blue pallet with crimson, I know the Narcolym Guardians are waging a battle.

The bright ball of fire burns through billowy puffs of white, staining them and the earth in hues of red-orange and amber. Ash floats on a non-existent breeze. It rains down from the heavens; scatters across the limestone and sand.

Shuttering my window, I unloose the hemp thread, and a sheer curtain veils the sand-covered horizon from my vision. My fingers trail the cream fabric, their tips tracing the darkening clouds against the light material. My other hand curls into a fist by my thigh, dousing the swirling vortex rising up at the charge in the air.

“Star . . .?”

Damn, I curse inwardly, but pinch my lips closed. I know why the general’s been sent to my apartment, but I inquire anyway out of respect. “Yes, General Habi?”

Habi’s footsteps echo throughout the stone room as he approaches. “I’ve been ordered to relay a message.” He clears his throat. “From the pharaoh. You’re to remain here and keep to your charge, not join in the battle.”

I turn and face my general, gathering the thin linen along my legs, and take in his luminous, kohl-rimmed eyes—the contrast between the blue blaze and black unearthly. They illuminate brighter, chasing the dark farther into the shadows of my room.

“You’ve been ordered,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Master Caesarion has not actually commanded me . . .” I trail off, allowing my intensions to linger in the air. The pharaoh and I fought this argument earlier this morning, when I expressed my desire to serve him in battle—to make sure the Roman legions would get nowhere near Alexandria. Nowhere near him. As his personal guardian, I feel it’s my duty to confront the most imposing threat against him, not simply stand at his side while he eats figs.

Oh, those threatening figs.

Habi presses his lips into a thin line. He’s displeased that I’m going against the pharaoh’s wishes, but again, our master didn’t command me.

He never has.

“I’ll be sure to express your thoughts on the matter to him,” Habi says. His glowing blue eyes that mirror my own sweep my form, allowing me one last chance to change my mind. I roll my shoulders back stubbornly, and he sighs. “Fine. Come on. I have a battle to win.”

A smile twitches at my lips. “I’m ready.” I march toward my khopesh hanging next to my shield along the sand-colored wall. Gripping the hilt, I lift it from the wall brackets, then weigh the weathered bronze blade of my sword. It curves outward, and a sharp, deadly point tips the crescent-shaped blade with a hook curving under one side. I slide it into my sash, and grab my shield.

Habi adjusts his own khopesh, making sure it’s secure in the belt around his linen shendyt. Next he twists the gold band around his left bicep, turning the engraved mark of the Kythan outward. The eye of Ra adorns his right armband. The god Set on his left. The same bands wrap my arms—all Kythan arms.

His smooth, fair skin reflects the glow of the granite fire pit lighting my room. Our skin is so unlike our masters’, with their silky tans, like bronzed gods. Ours resembles the sun-bleached limestone that covers most of Alexandria. Our shifted, Kythan features bear resemblance to the pre-defaced wall paintings throughout Egypt depicting Set—before he was vilified and made to look like the Typhonic beast—with sharp canines and pointed, wolf-like ears.

Though our glowing eyes and porcelain skin is our true form, we can also take on the guise of our masters, shifting into human appearance. It’s the look I choose to wear most; my preferred. We were created from the humans, after all. Centuries ago, the sorcerers were commissioned to fashion an unstoppable race to defend Egypt from her enemies.

We were unbeatable, thought of as descendants to the utmost deity at one time—long ago. But when the Persians raised an unstoppable army against us, we were defeated. Reduced to our once-lowly rank of servant, we were put back in our place: protectors of the pharaohs.

Whoever reigns over Egypt as Pharaoh, it is our bound duty to serve them. No matter the blood that courses through their veins; whether it’s Egyptian or other. Such as the Ptolemies, our newest masters, who are of Greek ancestry.

The Shythe Kythan wields Charge, like bolts of lightning from the heavens. And the Narcolym Kythan summons Flame, the fire of the earth. Together we are Kythan Guardians, keepers of the pharaohs. And the swirled ink along our necks, our power source, marks us as their protectors . . . and their slaves.

Today, the Egyptian ruler Pharaoh Cleopatra VII moves her army to the Actium shore, where she and her husband Marcus Antonius will guard against a naval invasion from Octavian, the adopted son of the late Caesar, who battles for control of Rome. The queen takes with her half the Kythan Guardians to the Greece coastline, leaving us behind to defend Alexandria from Octavian’s land legions.

But I fear the battle in Actium is only a diversion for Octavian’s true intensions: sacking Alexandria and executing Pharaoh Caesarion. As Caesarion is the only blood son of Caesar, Octavian’s fears are just. The king of Egypt is the true heir to the Roman throne. But it’s not my place to question the queen’s judgment. She’s his mother, after all. Cleopatra loves her first son, and she wouldn’t go off to war and leave him vulnerable. I grip the hilt of my sword, my purpose rising within me.

I will do everything within my bestowed powers to protect my charge—even stubbornly antagonizing him by going into battle.

Habi steps before me, interrupting my speculations. “The Narcolym have already encountered troops moving in from the red land,” he says. “We’re joining them to counter the attack.”

I nod and head for the doorway. “It wouldn’t be wise for Octavian to send all of his ground troops with our army only just leaving.” I push through the wooden door and step into the dusk. I look up at the ash swirling against the skyline. “I don’t think he’d do so. We should be able to beat them back easily enough.” I believe my words, but a sliver of doubt creeps its way in. This has to be an assessment—Octavian testing the guardians to see what he’s up against. No war will be waged today.

A pang of longing hits my chest. I say a silent prayer to Isis to keep my master safe—and the same for me for when I return. A flash of Caesarion’s stormy green eyes as we fought flickers in my mind, and I’m

ashamed we parted in anger. Goddess help me when I have to go before him again. I can already hear his rant as he scolds me.

I already miss him.

I’ll return to you.

Thirty Shythe Guardians march on Canopic Way.

Our feet pound the granite street, echoing off the massive stone colonnades lining the boulevard like rumbling thunder, low and angry. Oblong fountains stretch the center of the Canopic, and our heavy footfalls ripple the clear pools of water.

The normally packed, gridded streets are quiet. They’re usually teeming with people: slaves, nobles, Egyptians, Greeks, Nubians, Jews; mingling, debating, haggling, philosophizing. But today the diverse citizens hide away in their homes, locked behind their quarters’ gates in the different districts of the city.

As we approach the high pillars of the west gate, I look up at the elaborate capitals ornamented with acanthus leaves. Below, hieroglyphs carved in relief adorn the columns; Greek architecture blending with Egyptian. This is truly the new world.

The sun pitches its heated rays across the Moon Gate. The ball of fire is covered by fast-moving rain clouds, but its warmth still touches my pale skin through the wispy, soft haze.

“Shields down!” Habi orders.

Our shields fall to our midsection.

“Weapons up!”

Our swords salute Khonsu—the Egyptian god of the moon. He’s engraved on the right pillar, and his dark eyes stare out from his falcon head at us as we pass through the Moon Gate. Sekhmet, our warrior goddess, is on the left. The lioness protects Egypt, and the Kythan serve her dogmatically.

Habi gives the order to take up our marching position again, and we fall into line. Dust kicks up around my sandal-covered feet, bathing me in the land. On my left, Lake Mareotis stretches the southern border of Alexandria, and to my right, the island of Pharos, with its enormous god-like structure—the Pharos Lighthouse.

We march leisurely like this for nearly an hour. The deeper we head into the western desert, the darker the sky becomes. It’s tinged red, as if the Narcolym Guardians have painted it with blood in celebration of the upcoming Sekhmet feast.

Crackling rents the desert air. The scent of scorched flesh stings my nose.

Flames soar against the dark skyline, illuminating the horizon just beyond a massive sand dune. The clank of armor and blades hits my ears.

Habi holds up a fisted hand and we stop. He sends two Shythe from the front line to scope out the battle. They hunker low as they scale the dune, clawing their way to the top.

My stomach tightens, and I adjust my grip on my shield, my sweat-slicked palms causing it to slip.

One of the scouts holds up his hand; five fingers splayed out. There are fifty Roman soldiers on the other side: one legion. With the twenty Narcolym already engaged in the skirmish, our combined numbers should deplete Octavian’s legion. That is, if this is the only ground attack.