Angels at the Gate by T. K. Thorne Page B

priests’ business to determine what such things mean or if they mean anything at all. Lot, however, has decided it meant Mika was El’s angel, but if blue fire has played on rams’ horns—I will wait and decide my own mind.
    I T IS DUSK when Nami alerts us to trouble. We left the city later than planned, and our pace has not been swift, so Danel has decided we will camp for the night and reach Lot’s tents in the cool of morning. I lie my pallet against the back of one of the kneeling camels. Through the night,her body will give off the heat she has soaked up during the day. Because there is plenty of dried food for a meal, we make a fire only for warmth. When fresh, pellets of camel dung make an excellent fuel, as their bodies suck all the moisture out before making the deposit. When we travel through the desert, I will collect it with the other boys … or perhaps not, if I announce myself as a woman. Collecting camel dung is not my favorite task. This is a compensation, I suddenly realize, for giving up my boyish disguise.
    Nami, who had curled beside me, is suddenly on her feet, a low growl in her throat. Raph and Mika have noticed and come to stand on either side of her, staring into the darkening landscape. I am not concerned. Raiders do not come into the Vale. It is when we brave the desert, their land, that we must have guards and wrap ourselves in wariness.
    With that thought comes the rumble of hooves out of the gloaming, and my heart rises to my throat. I am wrong. There is just enough time for me to grab Nami when a raiding party of armed men erupt from the dark beyond our fire and surround us. Small horses with arched necks and wide, flaring nostrils pull four chariots.
    I am stunned to see such here. A horse this far south is rare and a chariot rarer still. All are dressed for war, three men to each chariot. The drivers keep their attention on the horses, but the black eyes of the bowmen and shield bearers glare from beneath their pointed helms. Drawn arrows menace our hearts. I have examined such bows in Egypt and Mira. Made of horn, wood, and sinew, they have extraordinary power. At this range, one might pierce me completely. I gape at the arrows’ bronze tips. These are not the people of the desert with whom we normally trade. They are warriors and somewhat familiar, yet I cannot place them. What are they doing here? And, more importantly, what do they want?
    Raph slowly releases the hilt of his dagger. Resistance in the face of such numbers would be a foolish gesture … and certain death. When the chariots halt, Raph steps forward.
    Two men ride their horses, one a gray mare and the other a black mare. These men do not carry bows because they cannot easily shoot arrows from horseback. From their dress and the easy skill with which they guide their horses, I know them to be Hurrians, horsemen of the north. When I was eight summers, my father engaged a Hurrian to teach me to ride.I begged him for a horse of my own, and he purchased Dune, despite Chiram’s complaint that the horse was clumsy compared to the donkeys and ate too much.
    Casually, the man riding the black swings a leg over and jumps down. Unlike the charioteers who are clad in a heavy linen shirt sewn with metal disks, he wears the lighter robes of a desert nomad. A curved sword and axe hang at his belt, but he touches neither weapon, well aware of the arrows ready to spring should we pose a threat.
    â€œWhat you do want?” Raph asks. He seems calm. I fear for him and admire him for posing as our leader and putting himself at risk for us.
    The man looks Raph over with a steady eye. “What do you have?”
    Danel steps forward then and shrugs. “Only what you see, a few camels, a few worthless items, but know they belong to Zakiti, son of Yakud, a friend to the desert people.”
    â€œI do not know this man or care whom he calls friend.” The warrior turns his attention back to Raph, but the