Simon was famished and rather moody a few hours later, and his stomach kept cramping painfully. He was almost certain now that the fourteen days myth was a lie. What was even worse, somewhere deep in his mind he thought he deserved this treatment and no rescue.

  An apophis soldier checked up on him occasionally, flicked its split tongue into the air, as if trying to decide if he'd go better with tubers or roots, but that was much communication as he got.

  It was not until the break of dawn (although Simon didn't know this, as he couldn't see the sky) when something happened: Simon, bleary eyed and with a very bad taste in his mouth, was woken by a commotion upstairs.

  “– don't care what you have to say,” bellowed Set's angry voice, “saddle my mares and get ready to leave!”

  Simon held his breath, gazing around the dark cell. As soon as he was sure he was alone, he turned his ear toward the staircase, and brought it close to the cold metal of the cell, intent on catching every word. He needn't have done so, however, for Set was shouting so loudly it was a miracle he'd only just woken.

  What was going on? Had Set finally caught Horus or Nefertari? Simon hoped against hope he hadn't, even if that would have meant they had come for him at last.

  Heavy, iron-clad footsteps came charging down the staircase a moment later, and Simon considered feigning sleep just to annoy Set, but decided against it. If he was going to die now, he would do it standing, or at least sitting, the latter of which seemed much more likely seeing how he couldn't even straighten his back under the sloping ceiling of the birdcage, never mind stretching his legs fully; in any case, he would look death in the eye.

  “Get up,” snapped Set, who was carrying a whip and looking excited, before he had even come to a halt and, to Simon's great surprise, he inserted a key into the lock of the cage, unlocked the door, and pulled him out harshly.

  With much shoving and pushing, falling and scratching his knees open on the staircase, Simon was finally back outside a few minutes later, where bright morning sunlight assaulted his retinas. He blinked as his eyes watered, then stumbled ahead in Set's merciless, bruising grip, until they came to the temple square. A variety of fully loaded carriages and a chariot, two black mares strapped into the harness in front of it, stood at the ready there, with slaves working on them as though their lives depended on it. Simon thought they probably did.

  “Where are we going?” croaked Simon, his voice rough from disuse.

  “Camping,” answered Set, his tone betraying a sort of cruel delight. “I'm making it easier for your friends.”

  Of course, thought Simon, after days of his former companions not showing up, the logical solution was to place him somewhere more visible. Like a fisherman trying another spot if the first was depleted of fish.

  Set fastened his manacles onto a long chain hanging from the chariot, then climbed on its standing platform.

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  “We'll see now how powerful you really are, won't we?” he jeered.

  Simon eyed the chain warily, a horrible sense of foreboding rising inside of him. He could guess where this was going, and he didn't like it already. Before he could so much as consider this disturbing turn of events, however, the chariot, followed by two equipment-laden carriages, began to move, forcing him to walk very fast to keep up with its momentum. His legs were weak from their days spent unused, and his balance was off as well, both of which kept him in constant fear of keeling over. Now more than ever he wished he hadn't thrown away the food; he would need sustenance before long if this was going where he thought it was.

  It was easy to follow the chariot at first, the chain rattling along across the sandy ground as they moved. They made their way from the temple of Anubis, approaching the southern gates at a slow trot. But as soon as they were out of the township and at the riverside Set spurred on the mares.

  Simon, sprinting now, watched in horror as the distance between him and the chariot became greater and greater and the chain connecting them pulled taut until it was parallel to the ground, jerking him forward forcefully. He ran harder, staring at Set's broad back, hating every inch of the evil god. The slipstream of the wild ride whipping Set's cloak back and into his face continuously, as he tripped over his feet in the anke-deep sand, trying to keep up with the vehicle. The carriage behind them had long vanished from sight.

  Set turned around to watch him struggle, the god's face alive with some sort of perverse delight.

  “Faster! Faster!” Set cried gleefully, now positively panting with insanity, his voice punctuated by frequent cracks of his whip, which sent the horses into a frenzy, and his eyes gleaming fanatically. “Show me your might, as Lord Apep has promised! Faster, faster, FASTER!”

  Simon was drenched in sweat by late morning, his heart hammered wildly in his ears, and his body was feverish with heat from the prolonged exposure to the violent sun, almost like Horus', and a sunburn was blistering his skin, as though he were about to burst into flame. Any second now his legs would give in and he would be dragged through the desert behind the wagon, or his dizzy brain might fail from dehydration and exhaustion. He didn't dare contemplate what would happen if he gave in to the darkness luring him with sweet promises of relief either, though the thought tickled through nonetheless; a display of weakness right now would surely mean his death, for he doubted Set would show any mercy...

  A shadow flit over the ground in front of his feet at that moment, the outline of an enormous bird. He took a quick glance at Set, who was facing front again, then raised his head to the sky. A falcon was riding the currents above them, circled once, and then fell back and vanished over the horizon.

  Simon took a deep breath. Although it had been too high up to see its markings, he was sure it was the same animal he's seen several times already; someone was watching out for him, he was certain of it, and the thought gave him hope that all wasn't lost yet.

  He sped up again behind the chariot, running harder than ever, paying no attention to his screaming legs and lungs. It would not do to die before he was rescued, and if he died now, he would never see Morgan again, never find out what was going on, and it was vital that he should; too many things would go unsaid and unknown if he didn't.

  But no matter how hard he believed that the falcon would bring rescue, the later in the day it became the more difficult it was to convince himself that somebody would come for him. The certainty he had felt at the sight of the bird slowly leaked away as the day progressed into evening. Perhaps it hadn't been his falcon after all. There had to be thousands of peregrine falcons around, and he'd probably just misread the signs, or the light had played a trick on his eyes, enhanced by wishful thinking, as it so often did nowadays.