Simon was floating, his mind somewhere on the borderline between conscious and unconscious, a swaying movement that reminded him on one time they had been on a boat together, Avrak, Morgan and him. They had been what, nine and seven years old? But thinking about Morgan hurt his already aching brain, so he didn't. Instead, he focused on what was going on around him. Why was it that he felt as though he were being thrown around by turbulent waters?

  His back was pleasantly warm, and a lot of blood seemed to have accumulated in his head, which was irritatingly hot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered a blue-striped bush-hat, but that was another thought he connected with Morgan, and he promised himself not to go there. Nonetheless, it would have been pleasant enough to have the hat on his head right now – the heat was really annoying.

  There was a strangely sweet, irony smell too, not unlike blood, and that tangy, musty scent of horse. Now that couldn't be right. They hadn't had a horse last time he checked. On the other hand, though, he was definitely moving, and not on his own. Was Horus carrying him again? He could feel himself being swung from side to side, sliding, apparently, on his belly on top of something slick, and there also was a balmy breeze blowing into his face, ruffling his hair and knocking his –

  Why wasn't he wearing his glasses? Simon raised his hand to probe the bridge of his nose for the spectacles, his eyes still firmly closed in an attempt to ward off all the unpleasant feelings threatening to flood back into his brain once he was fully awake.

  Next moment, however, he was swaying to and fro more wildly, slipping downward something steep, still on his belly...

  Simon's eyes opened an inch, blinking drowsily into the surroundings. He felt as though he had been asleep for a very long time. His gaze drifted downward, and next moment his brain reeled: There was something moving under him, something alive, a blur of colour. He could make out sleek, shiny black fur and a coarse, tangled mane, and, at the same time, felt smooth fur on his arm, where his shirt had ridden up to his elbow.

  His eyes flew open fully now, and, as he attempted to blink away some of the fuzziness, immediately fell onto the scaly, flat, palish green head of a human serpent, whose outline rose against a cool, yellow moon hanging lowly on the firmament.

  Simon gasped in fright and twitched backward, though most of his body remained motionless and stationary. It seemed as though he were stuck in some sort of harness...

  “Do you not like my slaves?” said a soft voice directly above him.

  Are you kidding me? thought Simon exasperatedly as the events of the evening came back to him upon haring the familiar tone. This was just his luck: Unlike normal people, who would have, perhaps, been kidnapped once, this was the second time someone was carrying him away against his will. It was rather ridiculous.

  He craned his neck to get a better picture of the speaker, though he had already recognized that sinister, silken tone and the sardonic manner in which the words had been spoken. Surely enough, he caught a glimpse of vibrantly red and silver armoured boots, but then he began to slide head first off the beast underneath, his grip shaken by the abrupt movement. He grunted, shuffled away from the fall, trying to grab the animal's mane, but his wrists were pinioned together, making it impossible to hold on.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Next moment he was grabbed roughly by his shirt, jerked back onto the horse's broad back, and held in place by what felt like an iron glove.

  Much more carefully than on the first try, he risked another look at the figure above him once he was secure: More red and silver plates, the hilt of a black sword shot with bloody arteries and veins, and, above an ornate breastplate, unhealthily pale, sallow skin on a gaunt face with a sarcastic smile on its thin lips.

  This close, Set's eyes were unsettlingly uneven, as though their piercing scarlet colour was constantly mutating and morphing, like the glowing plasma inside a lava lamp. Set's gaze was fixed directly on his, Simon's, as though the god were attempting to read his mind. He looked away. He didn't like other people getting into his head, especially not those whom he mistrusted, and he had seen too much of Set in those past few days already.

  “We will be rid of them shortly,” Set promised.

  “I demand to be let go at once,” Simon snapped back irritably. He had about had it with people dragging him about in ancient Egypt, and he didn't feel like being taken hostage twice within the very short span of three days, or, in fact, ever.

  “Afraid that is not an option,” said Set, his lip curling.

  Simon was liking the god less every second, though that didn't seem to bother his new captor very much. Muttering angrily to himself, he tried to determine where they were going. The last traces of daylight were fading rapidly now, the moon, now accompanied by an entourage of stars, was ascending higher into the sky, and, somewhere nearby, he could see the various pinpricks of light reflected on the surface of a velvety body of water, which he assumed to be the Nile river. Once again he tried to determine their position by observation of the stars.

  A moment later, this became redundant, for he realized that they were approaching a settlement, a very familiar one, one which he had left less than twenty-four hours ago, with sculptures of Anubis on either side of the gates and a magnificent temple (as dedicated to the funerary deity) in the middle. Zawte rose before him once more.

  There was, however, something strikingly different about the settlement. In only a day, Set had completely transformed it into a war camp: Tent canvas flapped and waved at them from every direction as they passed; flags and banners in the same bright shades of red and silver as Set's armour fluttered in the evening wind; Set's own army, a mixture of apophi and human mercenaries, was patrolling through streets and aisles, their presence causing an atmosphere of unease among the citizens; weapons glimmered were they reflected the shine of innumerable campfires; slaves and servants in frayed rags were running this way and that; and a whipping post had been erected on the main square, in front of the temple's entrance, which people were now skirting anxiously.

  “Beautiful, isn't it?” inquired Set softly, noticing Simon's astonished look.

  Privately, Simon had to agree, though he wouldn't admit it out loud any time soon: There was indeed something thrilling about looking down onto an assembled army, something to quicken a pulse and hitch a breath; the flickering heat of the fires throwing mutable shadows; the weathered, hardened looks on the warriors scarred faces; the sound of metal clanking where they polished their weapons, talking in short, raucous grunts; the shouts and chants where they were moving smoothly and in unison; and the almost tangible spirit of solidarity and unity.

  Simon shuddered with fascination and awe at the sight, trying not to let the sensation get to his head.