A Tale of Vultures and Wrath

By M. R. Duncan-Taylor

Nedjem Thutmosid has been raised by her godfather, Djau, in Assyria, and later the Egyptian countryside- having no idea that they were on the run from the Kings soldiers. When Nedjem discovers the truth about her parentage and a secret engagement to the future Qore of Nubia, she in unsure how to feel.
Tossed into a world of plots and warcraft, all in the faraway city of Kush, Nedjem realizes she has no idea who she really is, or even what she wants.
Torn between the call of duty- paired with a call to arms by her Aunt Ankhesenamun- and her old life on her fathers farm, Nedjem must decide what it is that she truly desires:
A crown soaked in blood, or a simple life of obscurity.
Complicated by her feelings for the fiercely intelligent Princess of Kush, and a distaste for her fiance, Nedjem risks loosing everything her Aunt has fought so hard for.
But is a legacy of death really worth fighting for?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669880714

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Copyright © 2023 by M. R. Duncan-Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/16/2023

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Glossary

DEDICATION

F OR MY GRANDMOTHER, who is bravely fighting cancer as I write this. The woman who taught me to read and to write, taught me my purpose and how words can change the world.

Your strength and bravery have inspired me, and will continue to do so even when you are gone; at which point I will have to channel some of Nedjem’s strength to get by.

I love you, forever and always.

FOREWORD

T HIS STORY CONTINUES on from ‘A Tale of Serpents and Sand’, telling the story, in an alternate timeline, of what might have happened if one of Tutankhamun’s daughters had survived into adulthood. As with ‘A Tale of Serpents and Sand’, it is a fictional story based on historical figures, and does not claim to be accurate. However, I do try and base my settings as accurately as possible, as with the first book in this series. Like it’s forefather, this book also deals with the themes of sex and sexuality, as well as sexual discrimination and feminism in the ancient world. The point of this narrative in the previous book was to make the reader ask themselves why the world is so harsh on those with homosexual or bisexual tendencies nowadays, compared to the (usually) ‘freelove’ culture of the ancient world. This book takes a slightly different approach, where while ‘freelove’ is still a theme, there are once again political factors and the patriarchal desire to obtain control over the female body which stubbornly persist to this day. As such, I would life to state a sexual manipulation trigger warning here, and advise that you use your discretion when reading. It is important to me as a woman who has been in love with other women, to show this as accurately and respectfully as possible. I try to take a ‘warts and all’ approach to love in all of it’s forms, including all the negative emotions and possessive or toxic tendencies that are experienced universally, irregardless of sexuality or gender identities. The reality of the situation is that no relationship is perfect; truly, and art imitates life.

PROLOGUE

T HE DESHRET WAS a scorched, barren wasteland. Annoyed and sweating through my linen tunic, I kicked contemptuously at the sand.

‘Bloody Hades!’ I sneer at the ground, as my toes make painful contact with something buried under the red sands. I kneel down, pushing aside the sand I had just kicked. At first I could make out only a corner, but slowly more of the object became visible. It was a carved wooden box… a locked one.

I pass my hand over the top of the box, reading the engravings. They were hieroglyphs, saying the words "we who once lived shall never die". I try not to laugh at the irony of the statement. Using what little magic I had access to on this plane of existence, I unlock the box, sprinkling the shimmering, crushed magic onto the glyphs and whispering words in my native, ancient tongue.

The box pops open, and I observe the contents. A small, golden statue of King Tutankhamun, and multiple scrolls of papyri. I know from my role as Librarian, record-keeper of the Gods, to whom the writings belong. Thus, I reseal the box, and slip back into my own dimension, ripping open the fabric of space and time with my fingertips as though it were nought but tissue paper.

The walls of my mahogany office are immense, and every shelf and nook is packed with books. The books are the stories of all beings, both mortal and immortal, that have ever existed. A series of golden ladders materialize from thin air as I walk past the shelves, inviting me to climb higher and read through the records. Honestly, I don’t know why I ever would. I am intrinsically connected to my pens. I know all the secrets of the world… except for one.

That, my friends, is a story for another time.

I trail down the long hallway, exchanging my tunic for a purple, pinstriped toga, and finally stop when I come to the segment on Amarna histories. Here, I have records of the lives of all involved in the 18th dynasty. Recently, I had re-recorded my first hand documents regarding King Nebkheperure and his Queen. It seemed fateful that I had happened to find it when returning from Caesar’s departure from Egypt. There seemed little left of the Golden Age, now. I sigh deeply, biting the tip of my thumb in disappointment. If only humans could cease their fighting and constant destruction of beautiful things- always due to greed. Removing my thumb from the vice of my teeth, I climb the ladder and peer at the spines of my books, reading the names and events inscribed in golden ink that glows with magic.

When I check my records, it appears that I already have a comprehensive record of Nedjem Thutmosid… this document would likely have no use for the Gods… but for my personal use, I always prefer when stories are told with verisimilitude. All the little biases and emotions one simply doesn’t get from my objective perspective of their lives. I run my fingers gently over the records, feeling the energies trapped inside them… life forces. My pens write in the life’s-blood of those they write about, by the end of the stories… the people are deceased. It’s almost sad, but it is also an essential part of the way things are run. With my ability to see and hear everything that happens in all of the realms, we can root out rabble rousers and those who conspire to harm the realms beyond repair- as had happened in Atlantis, all those millennia ago. Therefore, my job was important. Mortals always desire things greater than themselves, and with the slow dripping of magic into Earth, things were growing riskier and riskier. Already, the Gods had had to step in to prevent Cleopatra and Mark Antony from utilizing it to ensure victory against Rome. Not to say I didn’t agree with them, but the Gods had ensured their plan had both failed, in addition to their campaign. I thought this was unfair, but I am forbidden from interfering with the whims of mortals. I was strictly relegated to being an observer, unable to do much but record what I see. Sometimes, I was allowed to pop in and observe things, like Caesar’s departure, to ensure the accuracy of my records, and also to check that there is no magic at play, which may incur future issues for the Gods.

I climb down from my ladder, which quickly dissipates into something resembling dust particles caught in sunlight. The wooden floor creaks under my sandals as I stride toward my nook. It takes a certain amount of self control to try not to consider the fact that these flimsy wooden planks are the only thing separating me from the vacuum of space-time. Taking a deep breath in, I suck in the scent of amber and myrrh incense I constantly burn to calm myself. Never will I be accustomed to the precariousness of being a god.

Careful not to disturb my pens, which I can hear scratching away down the hall, I materialize an armchair in my nook, and when I have comfortably strewn myself across it, I unroll the papyri. The script appears jumbled for a moment, until my mind readjusts to middle Egyptian, which has not been in common use for a millenia.

I begin to read, for once in letters written in charcoal instead of blood. They do not swirl with the glow of a life lived, but somehow… The words are just as meaningful, imbued with the passion and emotion of life. I am almost jealous of this elderly woman, who recalled her life with such vigor and detail… oh, to feel the passion of love and even the pain of death just once more…

CHAPTER 1

T HE ATEN HAD set below the horizon, and the banks of Luxor were cloaked in the shadow of Nut.

Cautious not to wake my father or sister, I slipped into the cold night air, wrapping my shawl tighter around my shoulders. The task of being quiet was made especially difficult by my malformed foot, which made movement challenging. As a child, I had walked on my hands before I had even taken my first steps.

I wandered through our farm, ignoring the donkeys, goats and cows as they gathered around me, curious about where I headed every second night, after the household was asleep.

They, like my family, could never know the answer to that question.

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the swamps of the Nile, where, among the reeds and silt, a small structure was built.

It was a run down, cob and packed reed shack, which at first glance seemed abandoned. A small papyrus canoe bobbed on the water, roughly hewn oars and a handmade net were its only passenger.

As I approached the rickety wooden door, I prepared to knock, but the door swung open, and I was faced with Khonshu. He smiled as I slipped inside, shrugging off my shawl and placing it nonchalantly on a crudely carved stool.

‘I wasn’t sure if you were coming today,’ Khonshu said, his toned arms folded over his broad chest.

‘Me? Give up the chance to see you? Never.’ I smirked, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him over to the back wall, which was lined with all manner of weapons- bows, khopesh, throwing-sticks and spears. ‘Quiz me?’ I challenged, unhooking a bow from the wall.

‘Nedj, there is nothing I could teach you about archery that you don’t already know,’ Khonshu frowned, glaring at me.

‘Exactly. Which means I’ll get full marks. Come on,’ I grinned, taking his arm and leading him outside, where he had established a series of hay and papyrus dummies, hidden amongst the reeds. Black circles around their middle and heads indicated the location of vital organs in the human body.

‘What’s the point in training you if you already know the material,’ Khonshu grumped, and I rolled my eyes in response.

‘Appreciating the fruits of your labor,’ I told him, frowning as I aimed.

‘What I’d appreciate is less arrogance out of you, brat.’ Khonshu’s voice was harsh, but he was smiling, especially after I speared the target through the heart while still staring at Khonshu, one eyebrow quirked.

‘Brat, huh?’ I asked, fixing him with a stare.

‘Smelly farm girl, Assyrian snob, insufferable little girl, a bit of an ass… need I go on?’ Khonshu’s grin grew, as my expression slowly inclined towards fury. The temptation to smack him grew when he chuckled.

‘No you don’t. It’s my birthday tomorrow, and it’s almost midnight, so you’ll have to be nice to me, soon.’

‘I didn’t realize that was part of the deal,’ he joked, and I whacked his arm in response.

‘Cut the crap, Khon.’

‘Alright, here you go, insufferable Assyrian snob,’ he admitted, pulling out a small wooden box that he had clearly carved himself. The falcon of horus was inexpertly carved into the lid, which was ill fitting.

However, his attempt at an eighteenth birthday gift for me warmed my heart.

‘Thank you, Khon! You didn’t have to, I wasn’t expecting anything…’

‘You only turn eighteen once, Assyrian brat, I waited to make it count.’

I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly while he awkwardly patted my back. I also ignored his barbs about my being Assyrian. I was born in Egypt to Egyptian parents, but was raised in Assyria half my life. Both my sister and I had strong accents when we spoke in the Egyptian tongue, however our father had never learned fluent Assyrian, so it had become our secret language. I never had the heart to point out to Khonshu that he was Nubian, and also had a mild Kushite accent.

‘Well, are you going to open it, or just admire my handiwork?’ Khonshu asked, bashful about his amateur attempts at carving.

‘Of course,’ I replied, opening the lid. Inside, was a delicate necklace, carefully threaded with green and blue glass beads. It was exquisite, and one of only a few pieces of jewelry I owned. ‘Oh my gods, Khonshu, it’s beautiful…’

‘It was my mothers,’ he mumbled, smiling wistfully.

‘Then I surely cannot accept it-’

‘Yes. You can. I want you to have it. To wear it. She’s dead, and wanted me to give it to my wife.’

‘I’m not your wife, though,’ I pointed out, chuckling at the idea.

‘Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed…’ Khonshu rolled his eyes sarcastically.

‘Hey, be nice,’ I reminded him, swatting at his big arm once more.

‘Anyway, you’re probably the most special girl in my life, and we’ve been friends since you came to Egypt. Anyway… I think you should have it…’

I didn’t point out that he had repeated himself, or that his admission made little sense. Frankly, I was too overwhelmed.

‘Thank you, Khonshu. I will treasure it for all my days,’ I replied, standing on one toe to kiss his cheek.

He blushed furiously. ‘Yeah, you’re welcome I guess,’ he murmured.

He was only a year my senior, and part of the Medjay organization, which his family was born and raised in. That was, before King Horemheb had murdered them all on grounds of dissent. Khonshu hated the King almost as much as my father did.

‘Anyway… I should probably be getting back. Assuming of course, that I passed the test.’

‘Full marks… this time,’ Khonshu winked, patting me on the back.

‘Let me guess, you’ll get me next time, huh?’ I grinned, handing him back the bow.

‘I most certainly will,’ he swore, crossing his hand over his heart.

‘I’d like to see you try,’ I smirked, heading inside to retrieve my shawl.

When I returned home, I tiptoed past my fathers bedroom, peering inside to check he was still sleeping.

He slept soundly, one eye closed, the other mangled beyond recognition. A wooden stick sat beside the bed, which he needed to walk after his knee was shattered during his stint as a mercenary when we lived in Assyria. He had been tracking some bandits, who were responsible for robbing a nobleman in a nearby village. However, father had been ambushed by them, and beaten half to death. By the time he had made his way back to the village, crawling on his hands and knees, Mery and I had resigned ourselves to the fact we may have to say goodbye.

However, my father, ever the fighter, had made a miraculous recovery. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, his hair was just beginning to gray. His brown ringlets fading to silver, much to his dismay.

It was always a mystery to me that he had never remarried after our mother died. Father was handsome. Yes, he had his challenge with his knee and partial blindness, but he had raised me to never allow my own challenge, in the form of the warped bones in my foot, to define me nor prevent me from seeking things like love and passions.

The only passion he had strictly forbidden me from, was to fight. I could not join the King’s army, which had been my heart’s desire from the age of four. Well… that was until I met Khonshu. Now, my aspiration was to join him and the Medjay.

‘Nedjem? Is that you?’ My father mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

‘Yes, father,’ I replied, moving to enter his room- and I stopped dead. He wasn’t awake, not that I could see, anyhow. His eye was closed and his posture relaxed on his bed mat.

‘No! No, please, Tutankhamun, wake up! Must… wake up…’ he thrashed, screaming like a wounded animal, and I rushed to his side.

‘Father! Father, it’s okay,’ I soothed, shaking him gently to rouse him from his nightmare.

‘Nedjem?’ He said, looking up at me.

‘Yes, your daughter,’ I said, trying to smile reassuringly.

Father sniffed. ‘Was I