The Son of Sobek (Kane Chronicles)(3)

He sized me up, which was disconcerting since he was half a foot taller. I still couldn’t read his T-shirt except for the word CAMP. Around his neck hung a leather strap with some colorful clay beads, like a kid’s arts and crafts project. He wasn’t carrying a magician’s pack or a wand. Maybe he kept them in the Duat? Or maybe he was just a delusional mortal who’d accidentally found a magic sword and thought he was a superhero. Ancient relics can really mess with your mind.

Finally he shook his head. “I give up. Son of Ares? You’ve got to be a half-blood, but what happened to your sword? It’s all bent.”

“It’s a khopesh.” My shock was rapidly turning to anger. “It’s supposed to be curved.”

But I wasn’t thinking about the sword.

Camper Boy had just called me a half-blood? Maybe I hadn’t heard him right. Maybe he meant something else. But my dad was African American. My mom was white. Half-blood wasn’t a word I liked.

“Just get out of here,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I’ve got a crocodile to catch.”

“Dude, I have a crocodile to catch,” he insisted. “Last time you tried, it ate you. Remember?”

My fingers tightened around my sword hilt. “I had everything under control. I was about to summon a fist—”

For what happened next, I take full responsibility.

I didn’t mean it. Honestly. But I was angry. And as I may have mentioned, I’m not always good at channeling words of power. While I was in the crocodile’s belly, I’d been preparing to summon the Fist of Horus, a giant glowing blue hand that can pulverize doors, walls, and pretty much anything else that gets in your way. My plan had been to punch my way out of the monster. Gross, yes; but hopefully effective.

I guess that spell was still in my head, ready to be triggered like a loaded gun. Facing Camper Boy, I was furious, not to mention dazed and confused; so when I meant to say the English word fist, it came out in Ancient Egyptian instead: khefa.

Such a simple hieroglyph:

You wouldn’t think it could cause so much trouble.

As soon as I spoke the word, the symbol blazed in the air between us. A giant fist the size of a dishwasher shimmered into existence and slammed Camper Boy into the next county.

I mean I literally punched him out of his shoes. He rocketed from the river with a loud suck-plop! And the last thing I saw was his bare feet achieving escape velocity as he flew backward and disappeared from sight.

No, I didn’t feel good about it. Well…maybe a tiny bit good. But I also felt mortified. Even if this guy was a jerk, magicians weren’t supposed to go around sucker-punching kids into orbit with the Fist of Horus.

“Oh, great.” I hit myself on the forehead.

I started to wade across the marsh, worried that I’d actually killed the guy. “Man, I’m sorry!” I yelled, hoping he could hear me. “Are you—?”

The wave came out of nowhere.

A twenty-foot wall of water slammed into me and pushed me back into the river. I came up spluttering, a horrible taste like fish food in my mouth. I blinked the gunk out of my eyes just in the time to see Camper Boy leaping toward me ninja-style, his sword raised.

I lifted my khopesh to deflect the blow. I just managed to keep my head from being cleaved in half, but Camper Boy was strong and quick. As I reeled backward, he struck again and again. Each time, I was able to parry; but I could tell I was outmatched. His blade was lighter and quicker, and—yes, I’ll admit it—he was a better swordsman.

I wanted to explain that I’d made a mistake. I wasn’t really his enemy. But I needed all my concentration just to keep from getting sliced down the middle.

Camper Boy, however, had no trouble talking.

“Now I get it,” he said, swinging at my head. “You’re some kind of monster.”

CLANG! I intercepted the strike and staggered back.

“I’m not a monster,” I managed.

To beat this guy, I’d have to use more than just a sword. The problem was, I didn’t want to hurt him. Despite the fact that he was trying to chop me into a Kane-flavored barbecue sandwich, I still felt bad for starting the fight.

He swung again, and I had no choice. I used my wand this time, catching his blade in the crook of ivory and channeling a burst of magic straight up his arm. The air between us flashed and crackled. Camper Boy stumbled back. Blue sparks of sorcery popped around him, as if my spell didn’t know quite what to do with him. Who was this guy?

“You said the crocodile was yours.” Camper Boy scowled, anger blazing in his green eyes. “You lost your pet, I suppose. Maybe you’re a spirit from the Underworld, come back through the Doors of Death?”

Before I could even process that question, he thrust out his free hand. The river reversed course and swept me off my feet.

I managed to get up, but I was getting really tired of drinking swamp water. Meanwhile Camper Boy charged again, his sword raised for the kill. In desperation, I dropped my wand. I thrust my hand into my backpack, and my fingers closed around the piece of rope.

I threw it and yelled the command word “TAS!”—Bind!—just as Camper Boy’s bronze blade cut into my wrist.

My whole arm erupted in agony. My vision tunneled. Yellow spots danced before my eyes. I dropped my sword and clutched my wrist, gasping for breath, everything forgotten except the excruciating pain.