Excerpt of Dancer of the Nile by Veronica Scott

The chariot jounced over deep, hard ruts, and Nima had to grip the railing tight with her bound hands to avoid falling. As the ride smoothed out again, she tossed her head to keep stray tendrils of hair out of her eyes and squinted, glancing behind at her fellow Egyptian prisoner. About an hour ago, a small unit had joined the bigger column that held Nima, dragging this man with them. The Hyksos had stripped him of his uniform and weapons, leaving him clad only in his loincloth and sandals as they forced him to march behind the chariot.

He was in a much worse state than she, beaten, staggering, arms bound cruelly tight behind his back. A black eye, cuts and spectacular bruises marred his tall, muscular frame, but he held his head high, cursing their captors as they prodded him to walk faster. The jaunty young officer strutted with pride as he discussed his successful capture of this soldier with the senior officer in charge of the entire column.

Taking note of the strength the Egyptian soldier showed as he strode along, she counted his old injuries and scars. A handsome face, under the bruises. How had they managed to capture such a seasoned warrior?

Nima flexed her hands, trying to ease the irritation from the ropes restraining her wrists. Angry red welts burned and itched where the hemp had chafed over the five long days of her captivity. At least I’m allowed to ride in the captain’s chariot, not trudging along in the dust and heat like the new prisoner. Raising her head, she contemplated the blazing sun. I’d have died the first day.

The column halted, the soldiers and horses resting and sharing water. Her portion was brought to her in a small mug as she sat on the edge of the chariot. The soldier who handed her the water took his chance to fondle her breast for a moment through the thin, dusty, blue fabric of her dress before striding away with a laugh.

“Son of a jackal,” she cursed as he cast another leering glance over his shoulder. Nima lifted the cup to her lips awkwardly then stopped, gazing over the edge of the unglazed mug to where the other prisoner knelt in the sand, head down, shoulders slumped. They don’t offer him water?

How far can I push my status as Amarkash’s personal prisoner? Inwardly quaking, Nima stood and took a few tentative steps in the direction of her fellow countryman. Most of the enemy soldiers were ignoring her in their own efforts to relax or drink water. The few who were facing in her direction didn’t seem to care what she did, and the captain was at the end of the column, conferring with the younger officer stationed there. Hurrying the last few paces to the prisoner, Nima tried not to spill any precious water.

“Here,” she whispered, holding the mug out to him. “Drink quickly.”

When he raised his head, she recoiled from the intensity in his eyes, an unusual hazel with glints of green. However defeated he may appear, this man isn’t giving up. Unsmiling, the warrior glanced at her bound wrists then at her face, saying nothing.

Why doesn’t he trust me? Can’t he see I’m a prisoner here, too? Nima placed the mug against his swollen, split lips and tipped it up. Swallowing in greedy gulps, he kept his eyes on her face.