One day in 950 BCE...

[gridlore]

This is something that came to me while noodling around with my "Dwarf Empire in Egypt" concept. I'm currently reading a history of Egypt, and the idea of extremely long-lived great houses and ancient blood feuds entranced me. kshandra says that Hekaib reminds her of Tyrion Lannister. Not intentional at all.


Family Ties

“Someone’s coming up the road.”

Nebo-dur-Sanin shaded his eyes as peered through the remains of the morning’s fog. “Two . . . no, three carts pulled by oxen. The front cart has some sort of tent set up. There’s a banner, but I can’t see it clearly enough to describe it.”

Hekaib tried looking south, but his poor eyesight left everything beyond their small camp a blur. He chewed on a date for a moment before calling out for his mage. Belessunu took her time, as usual, answering. “And what do you require of me this day, O mighty lord of the great Misr?” she asked with her ever-present smirk. “The great Misr is as broken as a cheap pot that’s been dropped off a cliff; and I’m no mighty lord. I would ask that you describe to me, in detail, the banner on the first ox-cart heading towards us. Please.”

Without a word Belessunu stepped up next to the towering form of Nebo, who helpfully pointed the way. From a pouch on her hip, the Babylonian witch pulled forth some feathers and a glass bead. She began chanting in a language that was older than the tomb of Menes, possibly older than the Great River itself. It gave Hekaib chills just listening to the sounds. As she chanted, Belessunu’s voice grew deeper and more harsh. Nebo and Hekaib both shifted uncomfortably in the presence of the powers being wielded. There was a sudden snapping sound and the chanting stopped. The glass pebble was now floating a hand’s width in front of Belessunu’s eyes. In a flat monotone, she spoke. “The banner is of cotton. It is blue on the bottom, white on top. The blue rises from the bottom left to midway up the right side. There are three grey marks, like spearheads, on the bottom. All but the rightmost pierce the blue and into the white.” Belessunu sagged and the glass bead fell to the ground. “That . . . that was difficult without preparation. I require beer and bread. Without your permission, Hekaib?” She began moving to her own tent without waiting for a response.

In truth, Hekaib had barely heard her. To himself, he muttered “House of the First Cataract? Here? How delightfully odd!” To Nebo, he gave orders. “Gather the guards and have them at arms. Tell the servers to have beer and the good foodstuffs ready. Have my box of guest-gifts brought to me. Do this all at once, or I shall chop your legs off so I might spit in your eye!” The big Assyrian just laughed. “My knees tremble in fear, dwarf. I flee to do my duties!” Nebo walked off laughing in between shouts to the camp. Hekaib laughed as well; he was many years past his prime, and even then he was no great dwarf warrior of legend. Wincing a bit at the pain in his leg, he resumed nibbling his dates while waiting for the caravan to arrive.

--

The tent on the first cart was preposterous, the sort of thing you expected to see on a royal barge on the Nile. The ones handling the carts were humans, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the number of dwarfs, all armed, riding the second of the three carts. Although they all had the proper house sigils on their shields, they had the look of veterans from a dozen different splinter states along the empire’s length.

Nebo stepped forward. In Akkadian he spoke in a clear booming voice. “My master, Hekaib, son of Thuity, vizier to the Nomen of the Great House of the Seven Streams, Sixth House of the Lower Kemet, known in this land as Hekaib Grayeyes, begs a word with the fine master of this powerful caravan!”

For long seconds there was no response. The human teamsters kept their eyes fixed on the road, while the dwarf mercenaries looked on the scene with a mixture of boredom and contempt. Nebo began speaking again, this time in Dwarvish. That brought an immediate response. A dwarf burst from the tent, shouting for Nebo to stop speaking in that tongue.

“It is an outrage for a lesser to speak the language of the Builders!” The newcomer was wearing a fine linen tunic with gold thread throughout. His beard was tightly coiled and held in place with gold wire, and his head was shaved. He had even painted his eyes, something not common to those who traveled much. The noble effect was ruined by the screaming rage he was working himself into. The humans still sat like statues, while the mercenaries were now watching with interest.

Finally the dwarf noticed Hekaib. Pointing a shaking finger at him, the stranger demanded of Nebo, “Was it him? Did this caste-less, House-less vagabond teach you the speech of the Masters of the World?”

“Actually, I hired him because he speaks several languages. In addition, he’s kin to death himself in a fight, and as curious as I am. He’s been of great value and a good friend. As he said, I am Hekaib, son of Thuity, vizier to the Nomen of the Great House of the Seven Streams, Sixth House of the Lower Kemet. And you are?”

It took a moment for the dwarf to control himself. He offered no apologies. “I am Rekhmire', son of Nanefer-ka-ptah, Nomen of the House of the First Cataract, First House of Upper Kemet, and rightful heir to the White and Red Crowns.”

“Forgive me for not rising Rekhmire'; I was recently injured, you see. My party and I are heading for Tyre to seek healing. May I ask where you are heading?”

“My plans are of no concern to you.”

Hekaib was growing weary of ignoring insults. “Then perhaps you’d care to share a meal, and stories of the road? The day promises to be miserable and food and beer always help, in my experience.”

Rekhmire' just stood there with a distant look on his face. “Seven Streams, Sixth House of the Lower Kemet . . . I don’t believe I’ve ever dealt with your house. Your grandfather was?”

Hekaib’s jaw dropped. “My grandfather? Are we really going to go through this? I offer you food and drink, and you want to compare family histories? Fine! My grandfather was Amenken the Younger, son of Amenken the Elder.”
 Rekhmire' quickly replied. “Mine was the glorious Wenisankh, son of Pawah, the Slayer of Thousands!” Both dwarves looked at each other expectantly then shook their heads.

Hekaib sighed. “You might as well sit and have some beer; this might take some time.”

--

The sun was sliding towards the sea, its long journey nearly over, but Hekaib and Rekhmire' were still comparing genealogies. Hekaib had offered to pay the annoying dwarf to go away, but Rekhmire' had seen that as an insult and only burrowed deeper into a pile of scrolls containing his family history.

It was Hekaib’s turn. His head throbbing as badly as his leg, he rubbed his temples as if he was trying to knock loose pieces of family lore.

“Oh, cruel gods, why was I not born a bastard. . . all right, before that it was . . . Khenemsu? Yes, Khenemsu. Son of nobody because I’ve gone all the way back to the creation of the world.”

Rekhmire' looked shocked. “Khenemsu?” he asked slowly. “Khenemsu of Bubastis?” Hekaib nodded. Rekhmire' dove into his scrolls, searching until he read one from near the bottom of the pile.

Instantly the rage was back. “That man betrayed my house! In battle he took many lords of the First Cataract prisoner, and charged exorbitant ransom for them! This insult from a lesser house has never been forgotten!”

Hekaib gestured towards the small heap of papyrus scrolls. “You had to look it up,” he pointed out, "It was 1,200 years ago, after all."

“That means nothing! I demand combat to settle the feud!” he turned and yelled to his human teamsters. “Bring me my axe and armor at once!” Rekhmire's face was twisted in anger.

“I accept.” Hekaib held up a hand before Rekhmire' could speak again. “However, I am unable to fight due to my wounded leg. Therefore, I shall use a champion. Per law, it shall be one in service to my house. Meet Nebo-dur-Sanin, my champion. You called him a lesser being this morning, you might recall. Nebo, show Lord Rekhmire' your sword.”

Without a word Nebo drew the blade from the scabbard hanging over his back. The blade was near four feet long and shimmered with an unearthly gleam in the fading sunlight. Hekaib continued. “We found it in a forgotten tomb far to the north. Very, very old. Might even date to the time of the God Kings before the flood. Nebo has killed five men with a single stroke, and he disemboweled a giant before my very eyes. He’s named it ‘Forge’s Fire.’ Tell him why, Nebo.”

Nebo grinned and loomed over the now pale Rekhmire'. “Because it reduces metal to soft cheese, like a forge. Go, little dwarf, send for your armor. It may save you . . . for a heartbeat.” Nebo’s laugh was unsettling.

“I, I take back my challenge. Hekaib, I apologize for any offense.”

“You take it back?” Now Hekaib was grinning. “That’s not the law. You made me waste a day playing foolish games to satisfy your honor, and now you want to take it back? Never.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll just leave!” With that, Rekhmire' turned towards his wagon. “After all, who will ever even know we met?”

“Oh, your entire house, I expect.” Belessunu stepped forward from the shadows. Perched on one hand was a large raven. “I heard how this was going, and had time to prepare. This raven will take news of your challenge and cowardice to your house in Swenett, spreading word to all the birds on the way. All of the Misr will know of you, Lord of the House of the First Cataract.” She made as if to set the bird to flight.

“Wait!” cried Rekhmire'. “I’m sure we can settle this somehow. He tried to smile. It was, Hekaib thought, the most disturbing thing he’d seen in years.

“Of course. I’m certain we can settle this. No need to destroy you.”

Rekhmire's eyes kept shifting between the bird held by Belessunu and where Hekaib still sat beneath his tree. “Name your price, Lord Hekaib of the House of Seven Streams. I am at your mercy. Just spare me this dishonor.”

Hekaib named the price. Rekhmire's face went whiter than his fine linen tunic.

--

The city of Tyre gleamed in the sun as the party waited for the ferry over. Belessunu was sitting next to Hekaib. Behind them in their new cart Rekhmire's former mercenaries were busy scraping the old sigil off their shields. Belessunu watched them for a time before speaking. “How did you know to take the second wagon?”

“Magic.”  Belessunu snorted in derision. “All right, the truth? You’ve never traveled up the Nile. Upper Kemet lacks trees. Normally, that would be something my house would handle; we’re traders after all. But with the wars and factions, First Cataract wouldn’t trust anyone. So the Domen sent his son to deal with it.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Hekaib laughed. “He put all the guards in the second cart. All of them. Obvious, really. So I simply asked for that cart and its contents. Just lucky it was filled with his gold for purchasing cedar wood. With the gold gone, his guards realized he couldn’t pay them, and they signed with me. But you want to know the funny thing? Khenemsu of Bubastis isn’t my ancestor. At least I don’t think he is. I was pulling names out of my head just to keep the moron from doing something stupid.”

“Which he did anyway.”

“That he did. Pure luck.”

Belessunu thought for a few moments. “I shall make an offering at the temple tonight to your not-ancestor. Then drink to his spirit.”

Hekaib laughed. “Gods know we can afford it!”

I like these characters. I may do more with them.

There is an unintentional pun. Hekaib has very poor eyesight and is known as Grayeyes. His antagonist is from the House of the First Cataract.