Page 9 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Massive columns of dark wood framed the space, each carved with figures from civilizations erased by conquest and time. The obsidian bust of a Nubian queen rested in silent judgment near the entrance, her ageless eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight.

At the far end of the room sat his desk—a hulking beast of carved ebony, its surface littered with journals, ledgers, and maps inked by his own hand over the centuries.

Quills shared space with fountain pens and modern Montblancs.

An untouched glass of bourbon gleamed in the lamplight, its ice long melted.

Above the desk, an oil painting dominated the wall—his wife and son, captured from memory, staring out at him with eyes that no brush had ever truly matched.

Abeni’s smile was soft, her hands resting on little Malik’s shoulders, the boy mid-laugh.

Harlem stared at them for a long moment, his jaw tightening as the memories, even after countless lifetimes, seemed almost as strong as if it had all happened today.

Niger River Valley – Over Three Thousand Years Ago

The sun burned low over the water, gilding the river in blood-red light. Harlem—though he hadn’t been called that then—lashed the last bundle of goods to his pack. Ivory. Spices. Gold. He’d bartered for months to prepare for this journey.

“Abeni!” he called, smiling. “Come. I leave soon.”

His wife’s laughter drifted from the hut. “Your son is chasing fireflies. Let him play.”

Hakeem chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. “The world is waiting. He must see it.”

He turned away and ducked back into the lean-to to check another bundle.

He knelt on one knee on the ground, and the low snicker of the mules he had purchased a few months before caused him to look up.

He frowned when he saw the two beasts moving uneasily.

Picking up his long, heavy sword, he stood just as Abeni’s scream ripped through the air.

The sound was high –pitched. Terrified.

Twisting around, he bent low as he exited. Around him, the trees exploded with shadows—raiders, faces painted in ochre and blood. One had his hand wrapped around Abeni’s arm and was dragging her away from the hut. Her eyes found his.

“Protect Malik!” she screamed, struggling to break free.

“No!”

Hakeem swung his sword, but it was too late.

Abeni’s scream splintered the sky as a blade slashed her down.

Tiny Malik surged out of the darkened hut where he had taken refuge, the sharp knife Abeni used for cutting meat in his hand.

Malik drove the knife into the man’s side.

Hakeem watched in horror as the man turned and sliced through his son’s slender body.

“Abeni! Malik!” Hakeem roared, surging forward.

A club caught him from behind. He crumpled, vision blurring. The last thing he saw was blood. So much blood.

His fingers curled into the dirt, reaching for his wife and son as the man who had taken everything smiled down at him before darkness swallowed the world.

Harlem breathed deep and uncurled his fingers.

Lifting them, he stared at his clean palm and manicured nails.

The faint lines of scars could still be seen, but the blood and red soil had long ago been washed away.

He pulled his gaze away from the portrait and walked over to the tray set in a small alcove.

He picked up a heavy crystal glass, bent and opened the small refrigerator/freezer he had brought down a few years ago, and retrieved a few ice cubes.

The clink of the ice against the glass sent a shiver down his spine.

He closed the freezer compartment of the refrigerator before he poured a fresh glass of bourbon.

Swirling the liquid, his mind drifted. His life had not ended with Abeni and Malik’s deaths.

No, I was not given that reprieve, he thought as he lifted the glass to his lips and remembered what followed.

Egypt – Old Kingdom – Three Years Later

Chains dug into Hakeem’s wrists as his bare feet kicked up the dust of the Egyptian sands. The soil was no longer red. It was almost white in some places.

Sweat ran in rivulets over his dark skin. He kept his eyes down, his mind blank, as he followed the chained man in front of him. The successful Nubian trader that he had once been was long dead. What remained was a slave.

The Pharaoh Khufu’s city sprawled around him, brilliant and cruel.

The first weeks had been brutal. He had hauled stones until his hands, legs, and back bled from the hard work and stinging whips.

His spirit had withered—until the night the assassins came as the pharaoh arrived to inspect his shrine.

“The work is moving ahead,” the builder explained.

Hakeem tried not to stare at the man who had arrived.

The ruler of the lands that stretched as far as he could see was little more than a boy!

While the cloth that Hakeem wore barely protected his skin from the harsh sands and blistering sun, this boy-man wore a tunic of the finest cotton, encrusted with enough jewels and gold to feed all his slaves for a year.

Resentment burned in Hakeem when he felt the sting from the tip of the whip bite into the scarred tissue on his back. He turned, loading more rocks into the basket at his feet.

“The work needs to move faster,” Khufu demanded.

“We have lost nearly one hundred slaves in the past month alone,” the builder protested.

Hakeem’s mouth tightened to keep from growling at the man-boy that if he fed and allowed the workers to rest, they could achieve more.

The more he listened, the angrier he got at the callous way the two discussed the lives of the thousands of workers.

He was about to say something when the trickle of rocks across the ground drew his attention.

His eyes narrowed when he saw a movement in the shadows. His snarl of warning came a fraction of a second too late. A group of close to thirty assassins spilled out from behind the thick slabs of stone with their curved swords raised.

Something snapped inside him, and he reacted with a berserker rage. All he could see was Abeni and Malik. He picked up a large stone and hurled it at the two men before surging forward.

The stone caught the two men in the chest, sending them back onto a slab.

The sickening sound of bones crunching under the force fed his rage.

Turning swiftly, he noticed that the Pharaoh’s guards were vastly outnumbered.

He stretched out his hand and caught a blade in mid-air as it flew towards Khufu.

His breaths came fast as he struck one assailant after another, clearing a path to the Pharaoh.

Khufu pulled the builder in front of him, backing up against a slab of stone almost as tall as he was. Hakeem pulled his sword out of the stomach of another assailant and turned, placing his broad body between any who would dare try to get between him and the two men cowering behind him.

Within minutes, the battle was over. Only then did he turn, dazed and coated in the blood of the attackers toward the two men staring up at him with a combination of fear and awe.

He dropped the sword in his hand, staring down into the painted eyes of the man who was responsible for much of his suffering these past three years, before he turned away.

“Wait!”

Hakeem stiffened at Khufu’s commanding voice. He said nothing. What could he say? That he had hoped to die and hadn’t been given that reward for his gallantry?

“You saved me. Why?”

Hakeem breathed deeply and tilted his head to stare up at the sky. Stars glittered, casting enough light that torches weren’t needed. Why had he saved the life of a man who had bound him in chains and who cared so little for the life of others?

“I don’t know,” he finally replied.

“Where are you from, man of shadows?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. I was a trader before I was chained,” he said.

“See that he is cleaned up and sent to the palace,” Khufu ordered.

“But… who will replace him?” the builder asked.

“ You , for your insolence. See that he is clean, clothed as one of my personal guards, and fed.”

Hakeem turned, watching with confusion as Khufu strode away. His eyes moved to the builder who was staring in the same direction. The man swayed. A dry, coarse chuckle slipped from Hakeem at the distress on the builder’s face.

Yes… fate is a fickle beast, he thought.

Harlem swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Fate, indeed, had been fickle. He walked through the collection of glass display cases, eventually pausing to stare down at the gold artifacts that had once been in the tomb of a three-thousand-year old mummy.

A tomb he alone had known, centuries before its ‘rediscovery’ in the late 1800s. He hadn’t taken everything. Only enough to remember the face of the man he’d died to protect and who had tried to kill him.

The night was beautiful. It had been over a year since he had become Khufu’s personal guard. Hakeem moved through the rooms of the palace, checking that everything was in order. There was going to be a feast this evening.

His words of caution, sharp and clear, had been dismissed by Khufu, who felt impatient with the warnings.

Hakeem was passing a set of ornately carved wooden doors when they opened.

He pursed his lips, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, as he saw the slender woman in the entrance, her beauty renowned.

Henutsen lifted her chin, an inviting smile on her lips. Hakeem ignored the invitation.

“You should be more receptive to me,” she said.

“I have work to do, Your Majesty. If you need assistance, I will summon one of your ladies,” he replied.

“What I need, my ladies cannot supply,” she purred.

“Then perhaps I should summon his majesty for you,” he stiffly retorted.

Her eyes flashed with resentment. “I could order you,” she said.