The galley slipped out into the current, turning slowly as it drifted downstream. The firepot swung gently, the amber light shifting the shadows across the deck.

Sakir pushed himself back until he was balancing on his toes and then he levelled the sword again.

‘Seth is with me,’ he said with the strange sibilance. ‘Seth is always with me and he has promised me victory.’

‘Then the god of the desert whispers lies.’ Piay moved his blade from side to side. His rage burned in his heart. ‘Those lies have stripped everything from you. Your status, your men, your face, and now this land you conquered. Egypt will be back in the hands of the Pharaoh. Seth has ensured you have lost everything.’

Piay and Sakir leaped forwards in the same moment, bounding from bench to bench with immaculate timing. Sakir swung his blade in an arc as they passed. Piay ducked beneath the flashing weapon and lashed out with his own sword. The Red Hawk danced a whisker away from the tip and crashed on to the boards. He threw himself to his feet in an instant, as calm and relentless as death. He was hurtling back before Piay had even turned.

Piay felt sluggish, his reactions too slow. His head was filled with his fury, the overwhelming compulsion for vengeance for Myssa’s murder. His heart ached for what he had lost. But the strength of his emotions had blunted him, dulling the precision he needed as a skilled swordsman.

In the light of the swinging firepot, Sakir’s good eye glowed. His teeth were bared in a victorious grin. He knew what torment raged in his opponent. He knew he had the upper hand.

Piay retreated towards the prow. Stay calm, he urged himself, but his fury was out of control.

The Red Hawk advanced once more, thrusting his sword towards Piay’s heart. Piay jammed his weapon up in time, deflecting the strike, but the tip of the blade raked across his arm. He choked back a howl as the agony from the wound lanced through him.

As Piay reeled back, he glimpsed the firepot, knowing instantly what he needed to do. Hacking through the leather thong that suspended it, he grasped the frayed end and swung the pot at Sakir. Red-hot embers flew out, sizzling against the barbarian’s skin. Sakir did not cry out, but he fell back nonetheless.

The firepot crashed across the deck, shattering. More embers spun out, landing on the rolls of sailcloth and discarded timber. Flames licked up, the river wind whipping them into a roaring spiral. In no time, the fire was raging across the deck.