Movement ran through the crowd again as the citizens of Khmun scurried away from him, bumping against each other in their haste to disassociate themselves. And yet, several of them remained behind, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps agreement and solidarity with the proclaimed sentiment.

  Set's lips twitched again. A wave of heat seemed to emanate from him as his anger built, though there was no real warmth in it.

  One of the soldiers holding the challenger raised a blunt axe overhead, undoubtedly to finish the offender, and Simon shut his eyes tightly. The sight of blood never failed to make him nauseous, and then there were those other feelings, that tiny voice erasing every last bit of excitement, the lump of lead inside him stomach, which seemed suddenly heavier … He waited with his eyes closed, expecting any moment to hear the soldier's blade cutting through flesh, splintering bone...

  “No,” Set's voice cut sharply through the air on his right, and although the god had not raised his voice, speaking in a soft whisper, the silken words seemed to carry, eliciting a shudder in those nearest. “Let him speak … Let us hear what he has to say about his master...”

  The man hesitated, then gesticulated toward the apophi, all of which were staring at him unblinkingly, their split tongues darting out from between their white lips, as though they were tasting his desperation.

  “What have you done with our families?” the man demanded. “Where are our children, our partners? Did they join your army too?”

  He jabbed his finger at the apophi again, and Simon remembered what Nefertari had once told him … They used to be different creatures, good ones, the Pharaoh's soldiers, but now Apep corrupted them … Could that mean what Simon thought it meant? That Apep had somehow bewitched humans to become apophi?

  The chariot gave a small bounce as Set, smiling more coldly now than ever, descended from it and walked evenly toward his challenger. He had barely reached the man, however, when the man's hand slipped into the waistband of his trousers for a moment and then launched himself onto him, the glinting of a weapon just visible in his fist.

  “DEATH FOR THE TRAITOR!”

  Simon, whose eyes had snapped open in spite of himself at the shout, knew what would happen before it did: In the fraction of a second that it took the man to reach him, Set lithely drew the jagged black sword from his belt, a movement so fast it was visibly imperceptible, except for the glimmer of a momentary reflection of the bloodied metal, much too late for the challenger to stop. The man ran straight into the outstretched weapon, his eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and then he stood quite still, impaled, the tip of the blade piercing through him, protruding bizarrely from his back.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Simon watched in horror as the dagger fell from the man's fingers and landed on the sandy ground with a thud, though its owner, albeit skewered by a several foot long blade, was still alive. It was as though Set had missed his challenger's organs on purpose, denying the man a quick death.

  Grunting with pain, the man now man grabbed the blade with both of his hands, trying to pull himself free, achieving only in slitting inch deep gashes across his palms, from which a cascade of blood rained down on the sandy ground. A terrible gurgling noise tore from the man's throat and a spray of blood oozed from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin and onto his chest.

  While Simon felt his stomach turn again and pressed his mouth shut firmly to keep his breakfast inside, Set was smiling with a sort of cruel, perverted pleasure, relishing in the slow death.

  “Where are your gods now, foolish little man?” Set asked softly, caressingly, watching greedily as the man on his blade writhed in agony.

  At his words, the challenger's gaze focused back onto him, staring at him with loathing.

  “Better off … dead than … serving … a false god …” came the rasped response.

  More blood came bubbling out of trembling lips, its sickly iron scent hit Simon's nostrils, who held his breath, fighting the urge to retch. His eyelids wouldn't close either, resisting the command to shut, the scene in front of him mesmerizing like an accident, rendering him unable to avert his eyes, burning itself onto his retinas.

  “So be it,” Set's smile became more disquieting and unpleasant. He turned his sword once, then twisted its jagged edge upwards. A fresh stream of dark red liquid to ran down the shining blade, staining his knuckles.

  Simon could hear Set's victim groan, saw the man flail hopelessly on the blade for a moment, then, with a last shudder, become still.

  “Refreshing...”

  Set withdrew his blade with a swift pull, then, eyes rolling and bulging, spit flying, shouted into the crowd for everyone in the township to hear, “Anyone else would like to speak up? Anyone else who wants to refute that Thutmose is not the rightful Pharaoh? Anyone else wanting to reject the great lord Apep as their divine master? And is there – one – more – foolish – peasant – dimwit – to – question – my – own – authority?”

  The silence that fell was absolute.