Astarte's Wrath (Kythan Guardians) Read online

  Astarte’s Wrath

  A Kythan Guardians Novel

  Trisha Wolfe

  * * *

  Copyright © 2013 Trisha Wolfe

  Cover Design: Stephanie Mooney

  Ebook Design: JW Manus

  Preface

  The truth behind the fiction.

  This novel is a work of fiction, though many of the characters, geography, settings, scenes, and events are loosely based on a real people and a real time in history. Interlaced within the fictional text is the factual history as I’ve researched it through documentation, historians, and tomb hunters who have dedicated their lives to the pursuit of discovery of these great people and this great time. I’ve taken creative liberties with the history to write a fiction that can weave seamlessly into an imagined world within my stories.

  Many of the dates of events were changed to better work for the story I wanted to tell, as well as names, actual events, measures of time, and era mechanics. The rich fodder of this era and its people is limitless. There is no end to what one can imagine within the stories they’ve left behind. I hold the highest regard, respect, and gratitude for the peoples of antiquity.

  For a guide to the people, places and things in this story, see the Appendix.

  Trisha Wolfe.

  For every joy there is a price to be paid.

  –Proverb from the Outside Temple of Luxor

  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.

  What if Octavian has sent more troops from the east?

  No one has gotten word from Heracleion or Canopus yet. Not since Cleopatra set sail for Actium to join her husband. The fight was upon us too soon. My stomach sinks. I send another prayer to Isis asking for Caesarion’s safety. If I’ve left him susceptible to an attack from the east, I’ll never forgive myself.

  My thoughts are interrupted as Habi raises his khopesh, his curved blade catching the firelight. “Defend Egypt!” he roars.

  The Shythe break formation and run full force up the dune.

  Once I reach the top, my feet stop. I’m planted in place like a wilting lotus as my eyes take in the battle below. Brown-plumed helmets merge together in a sea of amber sand. The armor of the Roman soldiers flash gold and red, the Narcos’ Flame glinting off it like violent sun flares. Spears ignite mid-throw. Smoke billows up from scorched bodies strewn across the desert.

  “Move!” Habi yells near my ear.

  He slaps my shoulder, his hand already ablaze with radiant blue. Charge zings my skin, and I’m spurred into motion by the jolt. My knees unlock their hold. I follow Habi down the dune, the balls of my feet digging into the loose sand.

  The clash of metal hitting metal rings out.

  Before I reach for my weapon, I call forth my Charge, shifting into Kythan form. My arms illume blue, spreading from the tips of my fingers to my elbows. I feel my ears point, sliding through the loose wisps of my hair. My skin tingles with the shift.

  A cry rips from my mouth as I lock gazes with a Roman. I bare my teeth at him, my lips curled back around my sharp canines. He’s on the cusp of the battle, and wavers hesitantly before raising the long blade of his spatha to meet my sword. A sneer mars his olive-toned face. I raise my shield and plow into him. Hooking his shield with my blade, I yank it out of his grasp. He’s knocked off balance, but rights himself quickly. He drives the point of his sword into my shield, and I’m thrust backward.

  “Just wait, slave,” he bites out, swiping his sword before my face. A low, shrill whistle as it cleaves the air. I know some Latin, but he says this to me in Greek as it’s the common language in Alexandria. He grunts and lunges. “Jove’s reckoning is coming.”

  I block his attack with my shield, then send a bolt of Charge into his weapon. It careens with his mid-flight, a flash of white-blue crackling energy. He trembles, shocked into silence. I swipe his legs. He falls back, my sword already coming down toward his head—but a blast of sand stings my eyes. I stumble and my khopesh slashes the ground instead. He rolls and comes up with his hands blocking the rising winds.

  “Fall back!” another Roman orders.

  My foe picks up his sword and follows the retreating soldiers. Before I can question if it was our forces that intimidated them, the swell coming off the red land intensifies, lifting strands of my hair. The sand attacks my skin, biting.

  Hunkering low, I bring up my shield to guard against the whirlwind of sand. It pelts the metal like hail. I peek above the scooped top and see the other Kythan doing the same. Where in the heavens did a sandstorm come from this time of year?

  A crack of thunder splinters the air in answer.

  Beyond the haze of swirling sand, shadowed figures emerge.

  Their eyes and arms are lit up—blinding silver-white. Draped in black flowing linen, their pale skin stands out, striking, like pearls rising out of the Nile.

  I’m trying to count . . . twenty, maybe . . . when they raise their glowing hands, and the sand stops its cyclone. Silence hums. Slowly, I stand, the other guardians moving into defense formation near me. The air is thick with sand as it hovers—motionless—mid-air.

  I turn and meet Habi’s wide, glowing eyes. “What in Mother Isis—?”

  “I don’t know, Star.” He shakes his head. “Back!”

  We start to move backward as our new foes step forward, their hands sweeping the air. They arc their arms, and the sand rains down with a thunderous crash.

  We’re covered in darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Gasping for air, I push through the sand. It’s in my mouth, nose, lungs. I cough, and it scrapes my chest and throat as my airway is cleared.

  The sound of clanking and shouting reaches my ears.

  “Arms!” Habi shouts, and I’m pulled up by a hand.

  I regain my footing just as the Roman legion launches another attack. But this time, our new enemies in black are with them.

  We form a line, our shields walling us in. The shouts come louder. We’re hit with the full impact of their attack as they slam into our resistance. We’re pressed back, and our defense is breached. I fall but take with me one of my black-clad foes. She lands on top of me, and I’m blinded by the radiant glow of her arms.

  Struggling to push her off, I squint and thrust my knee into her stomach. With an “oomph,” she releases her hold. I scramble to my feet. Sword in hand I reach down, seeking my shield, but it’s lost in the surrounding chaos.

  The white illuminated girl in black stares me down, her lips stretching to reveal mirrored, elongated canines. She
’s Kythan . . . like us, only . . . how? Where did they come from? And how can they control the land?

  She lowers her head and levels her eyes, a grin creeping up the side of her face. “I’m Candra,” she says, her voice light, like a melody, her words spoken in the Egyptian tongue of my ancestors. “But that is only my given Roman name. Soon, I will be known as Subina, my chosen Egyptian name.” She lifts her chin. “What do you go by, sister?”

  I hike my eyebrows, dumbfounded by her arrogance—enough to halt fighting in the middle of a battle to introduce herself. “Astarte. But we’re not sisters,” I say in Egyptian, and grip the hilt of my khopesh tighter.

  She cocks her head. “Astarte,” she repeats slowly. “Greek or Egyptian? A name’s origin is very important.”

  “Not to me.” I glance around at the battle, at the devastation, and raise my sword. “Enough talk. Come at me, sister.”

  She laughs. “What? You don’t trust me? We are sisters. We’re the Leymak to your Shythe—the dark to your light. We’re designed by the same magics, only stronger and better. We control the aether. You won’t defeat us, so join us, and be freed of your binds.”

  I laugh. “Free?” Taking a determined step toward her, I nod my head at the ink marking her neck. “You are no more free than any slave here or in Rome. Who made you? How did you come into existence?”

  A low growl rumbles from her throat. “You’ll regret your ignorance here today.”

  I raise my defenses, surprised by how quickly her assured demeanor is riled.

  She advances and I bring up my sword, ready to run the unarmed girl through—but she vanishes. Just as my blade reaches for her, she blinks out, wisps of black mist fading away where she once was.

  A blast hits my back. It knocks the air from my lungs, and a fire spreads over my skin. I suck in a labored breath and reach behind, grasping at my burning skin. Only there is no fire. The burn is mystical, and my body aches from the impact.