Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Stephen Sommers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

THE DAMNED

Chapter One
Death’s Dominion

Chest heaving and eyes wild, Ardeth ducked for cover behind his fallen horse as a bullet grazed his arm. Holding back the groan of pain, he crouched in the blood-soaked sand, more bullets whizzing over his head, bullets of the remaining Medjai returning fire on the invaders.

Raising the Thompson, he peeked over the saddle, only to be greeted with the sight of one of them running towards him, gun cocked and eyes wild. He was close – too close. So close that Ardeth could see the whites of his eyes bulging as he ran, his sunburnt face contorted with rage, almost as red as the as the armband on the sleeve of his unfamiliar uniform. Ardeth ducked back behind the saddle for cover and unsheathed the scimitar from his side, taking care not to move his grazed shoulder too much. Although the Thompson’s blanket fire was excellent for cutting down hordes of mummies, the submachine gun was useless for close-range fighting.

The Medjai chose his moment carefully. His hand fisted in the fine grains of sand and waited for the blond soldier to come close enough for a clear view and aim. Ardeth flung the sand into his attacker’s face. The man growled inhumanely, spat out a Germanic curse and staggered a little, both hands coming up to rub the sand from his eyes. Ardeth took advantage of the reaction and grabbed the soldier’s wrist, knocking the gun from his hand and wrenching him forwards. The soldier tripped over the dead horse and crashed into the dust beside him, and before he had time to react, Ardeth’s scimitar was buried in the base of his neck.

Wiping the specks of blood from his face, Ardeth sprung to his feet and wrenched the scimitar from the soldier’s motionless body. Scanning the dusty plain, he could see the invaders’ numbers dwindling; no doubt the Medjai’s superior knowledge of the desert terrain and hand-to-hand combat proved to be too much for them. Although they were regretting it now, their dawn ambush had been well-planned and costly for the Medjai who rallied to defend their camp. The sun was not yet halfway across the sky and he had already lost more men than he could count.

But the invaders would lose all of theirs.

Cocking the Thompson, Ardeth let off a volley towards some rocks where the last few German soldiers had taken cover, the rounds exploding in puffs of pale rock-dust on the valley walls above their heads. They were too distracted returning fire to notice the two dark-robed figures slipping down behind them.

The firing abruptly ceased. The shouts and gunshots that had echoed throughout the valley were silent, carried away on the wind that whistled down the dry crevices to join the ghosts of old battles on the plain.

Clutching his grazed arm, Ardeth let the faithful but now empty Thompson gun fall to the sand. Poking at the wound cautiously, he determined that it was not nearly as bad as it looked – and felt. Rather than attempt to fashion a field dressing from his torn sleeve, he let the blood trickle freely down his arm to join his men’s blood already staining the sand.

Fighting back the guilt that always threatened to make him doubt his leadership at times like these, he tore his gaze away from the bodies littering the plain.

This battle had been too different from his other battles – so different, that it actually frightened Ardeth. Instead of charging at some unsuspecting exploration party, guns blazing and swords drawn, the Medjai had instead been embroiled in a battle against their will. What did he truly know about fighting against humans, against violently racist German Nazis? What did the Medjai have to do with the war raging in Europe, or the psychotic ambitions of some anti-Semitic dictator? His eyes caught sight of the distinctive swastika insignias littered on the sand with the countless bodies, and the more he stared at them the more he hated them.

Closing his eyes he expelled a deep sigh, then jumped as warm breath tickled the back of his neck. Ardeth turned slowly to see two horses standing behind him, nudging him with their tasselled nosebands.

“Na’am?” Ardeth acknowledged softly to the man riding one horse and leading the other. “What is it you want from me now, Zahir?”

His brother stared at him with dislike. “You need to get home, that’s what I want,” he said coldly, “before you lead more men to their pointless deaths.”

Ardeth grasped the spare horse’s reins. “Would you rather I had waited until they were upon the camp, murdering and massacring as they went?”

“An all out massacre might have been avoided altogether if you had waited, like I suggested!” Zahir shot back. “They might have passed us by, so we could have planned our attack and met them on chosen ground. But as soon as the scouts reported the sighting you were all in favour of going off half-cocked and taking on an unknown foe of superior numbers, prudence be damned!”

The words stung Ardeth. Perhaps if they had been less truthful he would not have minded, but his brother had always possessed an uncanny ability to make him feel ashamed of everything he did. “I did what needed to be done,” Ardeth said finally. “The camp’s protection is of vital importance – the women, children. You know that. I did what needed to be done. It is one of our sacred oaths.”

His voice was detached, emotionless, as if he was trying to convince himself – and failing – of what he had just said. Zahir shook his head and jumped off his horse. “No, you fool,” he hissed, “you did what you thought needed to be done. Take a look around you, brother, and see what devastation you have wreaked upon the Tribes. At least eighty men dead. Eighty men who will never return home. Eighty families to grieve. Well done. You should be proud of yourself.”

The biting sarcasm was not lost on Ardeth, despite his frequent trouble with picking up on it. “Do not make me the enemy here, Zahir!” he snapped. “Their deaths have protected the camps – honourable deaths! What more could they have wanted than the reassurance that their families were safe?”

“Their lives!” Zahir shouted. “Their lives, you fool! Yallah, Ardeth, if only you had listened to me. Look, around you! Good men, men with families, all dead! Deaths which could have been prevented had you listened to me!”

“And have them instead attack the camps, the women and children directly?”

“They might have bypassed the camps!”

“They might not have!”

Zahir growled and gave up, realising the argument was repeating itself. Instead, he prodded his brother’s arm wound disdainfully. A ripple of pain caught Ardeth unaware, but he managed to stop the strangled yelp before it left his mouth, instead letting out a muffled grunt. If he could have nothing else in front of his cynical brother, he would try to retain his dignity, both as a man and a Medjai warrior.

“You lead eighty men to their deaths and all you receive is this pathetic little graze?” Zahir laughed humourlessly. “I’ve had much worse.”

Ardeth’s eyes narrowed. “As have I. From cultists and resurrected mummies with supernatural powers trying to take over the world.”

Zahir frowned. “Are these Nazis not trying to take over the world?”

“Just Europe,” Ardeth corrected bitterly as Zahir knotted the bandage in place tightly, ignoring Ardeth’s wince as a spasm of pain shot through his arm.

“Then why are the scum over here?”

Ardeth shrugged as Zahir mounted the horse. He followed the suit.

“Treasure hunting. Temple looting. There is no other reason. They scoff at the supernatural, and there are no Jews for them to kill here in this desert.” This battle was an accident. Wrong place at the wrong time. He refused to voice his thoughts, fearing it would make everything Zahir had said cruelly and damnably true. “Perhaps they got lost.”

Zahir snorted and kicked the horse roughly, making the poor creature lurch forwards to lead the rest of the Medjai home. “Of course they did, Ardeth. On their way to England, they took a wrong turn at France and ended up in Egypt.”

* * *

He slowed the horse down to a trot as he and another thirty or so Medjai warriors neared the hidden camp. The camp was in the middle of nowhere, as it was supposed to be – completely shut off from the outside world, protected by the vast sea of desert surrounding it from all sides. The nomadic tribe would have a hard time being found, even by their own people sometimes.

And yet, the voice in the back of his mind said, the Germans found us.

Or rather, another voice countered spitefully, sounding suspiciously like Zahir, you went out and found them.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. What was done was done. He dismounted his horse and tied the creature up to the wooden pole outside the two tents he called home. They were somewhat distanced from the other tents littering the area, and a little larger, symbolic of his status as leader of the Twelve Tribes.

It was times like these, alone, that he allowed a gentle smile to touch his face. He moved around frequently, yes, but it was still nice to have a residence of some sort.

A tent flap was pushed open and a young woman emerged, her slender figure bent and her shoulders hunched, head tilted forwards casting her free-flowing hair over her face, obscuring the youthful features.

“Sairah.”

He spoke softly yet clearly enough to catch her attention. The girl lifted her head and met Ardeth’s gaze. A smile spread across her face and she immediately straightened, pushing her hair away from her eyes. Her bare feet sunk into the warm sand as she walked over to greet him. Almost hesitantly, as if in want of his approval, she hugged him, her head barely reaching his shoulders.

“You’re back,” she said quietly, and dared not move or relax until Ardeth returned the embrace. He pressed a light, chaste kiss to her unmarked forehead.

“Did I not tell you I would be?”

The girl pulled away from him and his arms fell to his side. Ardeth shrugged off his battle robes, and the girl immediately held out her arms to take them.

“I –”

She stopped, but at Ardeth’s inquisitive look, she continued.

“I…I wish I could have gone with you. To fight.”

Ardeth shook his head and sighed wearily, turning from his young daughter to remove the saddle from his horse. “Sairah…” he began, “I have spoken to you of this. The battlefield is no place for a woman, least of all a girl of sixteen.”

Sairah fiddled with the torn and bloodied battle robes. “I know.”

He suppressed another sigh. “I should hope to save you from ever seeing the true horrors of a battlefield, daughter.”

“I know,” she repeated. “But I…I don’t like it when you go off like that. I just…I never know if you’ll be coming home alive or dead. You are all I have left, and at least – at least, if I go with you, I’d be able to know –”

Ardeth turned on her again, his eyes flaring. “You will never stray upon the battlefield willingly. I will never allow you to follow me. A woman’s place is in the home. You must not speak so radically, Sairah.”

The passive aggression in his voice was scarier to Sairah than it would have been if he had shouted. She looked away and tried to take a step backwards, but Ardeth grasped her shoulders tightly and pulled her back, hugging her fiercely. His bloodied robe was pressed between them like the permanent barrier which seemed to separate them, but this time it slipped from Sairah’s hands as she wrapped her arms around him.

“I will always try to return to you, Sairah,” Ardeth whispered. “I will always try to return.”

She could not answer, too overcome for words to even form in her mouth.

“You must never accompany me to the battlefield, not while I live. While I live, it is my duty to protect you, and mine alone. I will do…whatever I must do, for your safety. If it means you will remain unharmed, I will kill, murder – even sacrifice others.”

There was a tense pause, a horrified silence that hung between father and daughter for a long moment, as if in awe, and fear, of the Medjai’s confession.

“I would die for you.”

A strangled sob escaped her throat. “Oh, don’t – don’t say that, father, please – you –”

“I would.”

She wept. “I don’t – I don’t want you to die for me, I want you to live for me!”

For this, Ardeth had no words. Throat closed and jaw strained, he just held her more tightly, and let her cry. Had she quietened and looked up, she would have seen a few tears escape from the closed eyes of her stoic father.