Drakis watched as Enkidu and his men used the stakes taken from the wagon to brace the bottom of the cart’s wheel, levering it halfway into the opening, creating an effective barrier against anyone trying to enter.
Satisfied that the wagon couldn’t simply be pulled aside, Enkidu turned toward him. “Are you wounded, Drakis?”
“No, just out of breath. Can you hold the base of the tower?”
“Yes, for now. They’ll not be able to force it easily, if our archers can cover us from the top of the tower. Leave me five men, and take the rest up top.”
“Is that enough to hold here?”
“Any more would just get in the way,” Enkidu said. “And we found some spears in the corner.”
Spears could be even more effective than swords at close-quarters fighting. Taking a precious moment to clasp Enkidu on the shoulder, Drakis turned toward the steps, as Enkidu’s men kept shoving and pushing, trying to wedge the wagon tighter into the tower entrance. By now, most of the front wheel stood inside the opening. Enkidu was right. Even with plenty of men, the wagon wouldn’t be easy to drag aside, especially if defended. Already two men had taken up their bows, standing ready on either side of the barricade, searching for targets. Another returned lugging an armful of spears, then leaned them against the wall, ready for use.
“Hold them off, Enkidu. Send word if you need help.”
Leaving five men with Enkidu, Drakis led the rest back up the stairs, warning them to keep their heads low when they emerged on the battlement. To his surprise, the night’s darkness had given way to dawn’s first light, and he looked toward the east to see rays of gold pushing up into the sky, the sun itself just below the horizon.
The streets below remained dark, sheltered from the rising sun by the wall and tower. An arrow hissed over his head. On the battlement Tarok, Drakis’s second in command and a seasoned veteran, had organized the men, all of them crouched below the battlement facing the opposite tower.
“We’ve lost two men, Drakis. One dead, and the other has an arrow in his arm. Useless. But we’ve killed five or six of them. They must be Korthac’s Egyptians.” Tarok sneaked a quick look over the battlement for a moment, then turned back to his leader. “What’s happening below?”
“We’ve blocked the entrance with a wagon. Enkidu will hold the doorway, if we can support him from here.”
“We’re almost ready to begin,” Tarok said. “I’ve been waiting for dawn, so we could see them better. They’ll make easy targets. You keep watching the ones below.”
Drakis looked eastward. A rosy red glow lit the horizon, and the sun’s edge would be flooding the land with light any moment now. He took a quick count of the men. Counting himself, he had fifteen archers who could draw a bow.
In a soft voice, Tarok explained to the latest arrivals what he planned to do. Then he arranged the men in two ranks of seven, arrows strung, waiting for the order to attack. Tarok nocked his own shaft and readied himself alongside the first rank.
“Now,” Tarok said. The first rank rose up as one man, picked their targets, and fired, ducking back down as soon as the shafts flew free. In the same motion, the second rank stood, arrows already drawn to their ears.
These men searched for targets before shooting.
The first volley disrupted the men in the other tower. Now the second volley, carefully aimed at any target that showed itself, targets less than thirty paces away, snapped out across the gate.
Drakis had under his command most of the best archers in Akkad, second only to Mitrac and his chosen few. Drakis’s marksmen had no trouble hitting a man’s head at that distance, even at fi rst light. He peered across the wall. The first volley might not have struck anyone, but the second killed two or three of the enemy. Again the first rank rose up, shafts drawn, but found nothing to shoot at.
Korthac’s soldiers might be fierce fighters, they might even be using the same bows that Drakis’s men carried, but the Egyptians hadn’t practiced hours each day for months. Today they faced archers schooled in volley firing, with muscles strong enough to hold an arrow to the ear while counting to fifty, if necessary. More important, months of training had given the Akkadians pride in their skills, and they weren’t about to cower before some foreigners holding bows.
Drakis saw something move on the other tower and heard the snapping of bowstrings as seven arrows flashed across the open space between them.
The archers ducked down again, to nock another shaft. The second rank took their place without a word, searching for targets. But there weren’t any, and Drakis gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps this would be easy enough after all.
“Tarok, can you sweep the tower with half the men? I need the rest to cover the entrance and the gate.”
“Yes, for now. If I need help…”
“You’ll have it,” Drakis said. In a moment, he had his men moving, shifting them to the rear of the battlement, where they could look down into the square. Because their flank would be exposed to fire from the other tower, they would have to depend on Tarok’s bowmen to protect them. Drakis didn’t like fighting like this, with his flank unprotected, but at least he could cover the approach to the tower.
As Drakis searched for enemies below, an arrow struck the wall a foot beneath his head before glancing off the tower. Below him, a mix of bowmen and men carrying swords jostled about, getting ready to rush his position, gathering in nearly the same spot Drakis had used to launch his own assault.
“We have to hold them off, keep them from forcing the entrance below,” Drakis said, as he lined up his men on either side. “Aim for the archers first.” Picking up his bow and stringing a shaft, he gave one last look toward the other tower.
“Now!”
They rose up together and loosed eight arrows into the bandits assembling below. Some fired back. A few arrows rattled against the wall, but most flew overhead. It would take them a shot or two to find the range, and Drakis, like every archer, knew how difficult it was to shoot uphill. His men ignored the counterfire, and kept launching shafts into the enemy fighters, pouring shafts down as fast as they could, and trying to kill off anyone carrying a bow. Under that rapid fire, the exposed men below scattered, some running back down the street, others ducking into houses or hiding behind anything they could find.
The Akkadians fired a few more arrows at anything that moved. Finally Drakis saw nothing to shoot at, and he let his bow go slack as he studied the square beneath him. He couldn’t see anyone, but knew his enemy was gathering just out of sight. If he’d captured both towers, his archers could have swept the lane with arrows. Again he cursed the fates that hadn’t let him arrive a few moments earlier. Still, he thanked the gods that only bandits had defended this tower, not Korthac’s desert fighters.
He wondered about Eskkar. In the distance, he could hear the shouts and battle cries rising and falling, most of them coming from the direction of the barracks. Hopefully, Bantor and his men would be in the city. If things did not go well for Bantor, Drakis and his men would be trapped up here, cut off with no way to escape. He tightened his grip on his bow. He’d know about that soon enough. Right now there was nothing Drakis could do, except wait for the next attack.
Takany watched Ariamus and Hathor leave the courtyard, glad to be rid of both of them. If Ariamus survived this night, if Hathor didn’t kill the man, Takany vowed to kill both of them himself. Even if Hathor did kill Ariamus, Takany decided he wanted Hathor dead anyway. The man had questioned his decisions before, and now wanted to leave Korthac behind. Takany knew one thing. The gate must be defended. Without control of the gate, they couldn’t stop more troops from entering Akkad. This Eskkar might have hundreds of men out there, just waiting for the gate to open.
Shaking his head, he put both men out of his mind. Instead, he cursed the evil demons who’d attacked the house at night, catching everyone still asleep or lax at their posts. These Akkadians were too cowardly to challenge his men in daylight, when his men could slaughter them with ease.
Looking about, Takany found the last handful of men still gathering up weapons and lacing on sandals. To his satisfaction, with the number of men in the courtyard halved, the situation improved. The twenty or so fighters remaining knew their work. They’d recapture the house soon enough. Takany knew he had to move quickly, before something happened to Korthac, though in the back of his mind Takany started considering life without Korthac.
If these weaklings had killed Korthac, Takany would take charge of Akkad, and he swore a curse on the city’s inhabitants for this attack. He’d kill so many that none of them would ever dare rise from their knees again.
Leaving a handful of soldiers to guard the kitchen door and prevent any escape that way, Takany readied his men, moving those carrying shields to the forefront. Spearmen followed behind them, and six or seven archers would bring up the rear. Hathor had taken most of the bowmen with him. Bows wouldn’t be of much use inside the house.
“Once we start in,” Takany shouted, moving up and down in front of his men. “There must be no hesitation. Go straight up the landing and kill everyone in your path.” He took a deep breath, hefted his shield. “Now!”
Six men stood ready with the courtyard table. They’d positioned it a few paces from the door. Now they picked it up and charged the door, using it as a battering ram and smashing it against the door with all their strength. The heavy table, made of thick planks, split part of the doorway with the fi rst attempt. Takany heard men shouting behind the door. They knew what was coming.
“Good,” Takany yelled. “Hit it again.”
The men battered the door again, the sound of ripping wood adding to the din. The third time smashed the door open, snapping the bar that braced it, and knocking aside a table the defenders had shoved up against it.
Arrows flew through the splintered doorway. One of the men closest to the door sank to his knees, a shaft in his chest. The rest of Takany’s soldiers moved back.
“Shields, get those shields up front,” Takany shouted.
Other men moved forward, carrying shields and holding swords, ready to face the danger they knew lay within. A few carried the heavy Akkadian bows. Once inside, if they could get their weapons in play, they’d wreak havoc on any defenders trapped on the landing.
“Attack!”
The men surged forward, the human wedge knocking the last of the door from the frame as they rushed inside. Arrows struck down the first two men through the doorway, head shots that slowed the Egyptians only for a moment. They knew the fastest way to end the battle was to rush in and kill everyone, so the Egyptians ignored their losses.
Standing just outside, Takany made sure the last of his fighters had surged through the door before following him inside. Raising his shield, Takany followed his fighters in, shouting at them to push ahead. “Kill them all,” he roared, “get close and finish them.”
His men took up the cry, the fearful words echoing throughout the chamber. “Kill them all!”
Muttering a curse at Takany’s stupidity, Hathor stepped through the courtyard gate, pushing along the last straggler of those he’d ordered to the main gate. The fool had knelt in the dirt to fasten his sandal.
“Leave that, you ox,” Hathor ordered, shoving the man into a run. He’d sent ahead more than twenty-five men, more than enough to recapture the tower. Unlike Takany, Hathor had decided that Eskkar and his men numbered far fewer than the supposed “hundreds” that Takany feared lurked outside the gate. Otherwise Eskkar wouldn’t have let himself get trapped inside Korthac’s house. Probably Eskkar had slipped into the city with a few men, and hoped to raise the inhabitants.
By the time Hathor broke into a run, most of his men had already disappeared up the lane. He wanted to catch up before anything else went wrong. Turning the corner, Hathor and the soldier nearly stumbled over the dead body of one of his men lying in the lane.
Hathor slowed for a moment, looking down at the body, but a shout raised Hathor’s eyes, and he saw another of his soldiers take down some Akkadians, both of them falling against the side of a house.
“Look, he’s killed one of our…”
“Forget him,” Hathor ordered. “Get to the gate.” He shoved the man ahead with one hand and drew his sword with the other as he approached the two bodies. The downed Egyptian appeared dead or unconscious, but the weight of his body still pinned his stunned attacker to the ground.
Hathor raised his sword, but someone screamed behind him. Whirling around, he saw a young woman, a knife in her hand, rushing at him. Off balance, he swung the sword at her head, but she ducked beneath, darting past him and throwing herself across both bodies, trying to protect her man. The knife had fallen from her hand as she landed, and now she fumbled in the dirt trying to recover it.
Although surprised at her courage, Hathor didn’t care. They would both die. He took a step and raised the sword. As he did so, the woman gazed up at him, her eyes wide with fear.
“En-hedu,” he said, recognizing the leather seller from Korthac’s lane.
He even remembered her name.
“Hathor. No!” She raised her arm to protect herself, as her eyes locked on to his.
Speaking his name wouldn’t save her. The sword came down. At the last moment, however, he turned the blade aside, striking the ground a finger width from her ear and knocking the dirt of the lane into her face and hair. For an instant, they stared at each other.
Hathor broke the spell. “Get back to your house, you fool!” The words surprised him as much as En-hedu, who looked up at him in bewilder-ment, her mouth open.
Then a stone, flung by someone in the crowd, flew past his head and rattled against the wall. A few villagers approached, shouting curses and threats at him. Another stone cracked against the wall. He had no more time to waste. Cursing himself for a soft-hearted fool, he raced away, heading toward the gate.
Behind him, cheers arose as the crowd saw the Egyptian running away.
Shocked, En-hedu watched him go, her heart still pounding with fear.
She knew how close to death she’d come. A man and a woman reached her side, and lifted her up. Her legs felt weak and she could scarcely stand. Together they pushed the dead Egyptian aside, the one Tammuz had killed.
En-hedu wrapped her arms around Tammuz. More people joined her res-cuers, and two men gathered up Tammuz. Blood flowed from a large gash over her master’s temple. A woman beckoned them from the doorway of the nearest house, and in a moment, En-hedu and Tammuz found themselves dragged inside its cool walls. For Tammuz and En-hedu, the fighting had ended.
Inside Eskkar’s house, Mitrac fired shafts as fast as his fingers could snatch the arrows from his quiver and fit them to the string. The enemy had burst in and driven them back to the landing. Already Grond was hard-pressed at the base of the stairs. An arrow smacked into the door, just missing Mitrac’s face, and another struck one of his archers on the step below.
Mitrac heard the man cry out as he fell from the steps. But forced back onto the stairs, his back to the door to Eskkar’s private quarters, Mitrac had nowhere to hide.
He knew his only chance lay in killing all the Egyptian archers before they killed him. So Mitrac picked his targets carefully, first selecting the enemy archers, making sure they launched no arrows of their own, but still shooting so fast that he and his last two men seemed like a dozen.
Despite his haste, Eskkar’s words always rang in his thoughts. “Shoot the leaders, Mitrac, and the men will lose heart.”
Another shadow blocked the entrance to the house for a moment. Mitrac glanced up just as the doorway cleared. A lone warrior, a man as tall as Eskkar, stood behind the attackers, shouting in a booming voice and driving them onward, ordering them to press the attack.
Without hesitation, Mitrac shifted his aim from the spearman he’d been about to kill to the enemy leader. That warrior carried a shield held high, just below his eyes. Without conscious thought, the shaft flew from the twanging string, the arrow gliding a hand’s width over the lucky spearman’s head and slipping under the upraised shield by a finger’s breadth, before burying itself into the man’s belly, just beside the hip bone.
Before the shaft landed, Mitrac had drawn another, killing a man with a spear trying to skewer Grond at the foot of the stairs. Mitrac never noticed the Egyptian commander stagger back against the doorframe, dropping his sword to grasp at the arrow feathered low in his belly.
With a scream of pain and rage, Takany bent double, trying to grip the heavy shaft that clutched and burned at his insides as if someone had shoved a torch deep within his body. He stumbled back through the door into the courtyard, then tripped and fell, the shaft brushing against the dirt and sending another wave of pain through his body. Agony seized him, and he cried out for help, but his words disappeared in the confusion, as inside the house, his men still sought to fight their way up the stairs, most of them unaware of their leader’s wound.
Takany tasted dirt of the earth in his mouth even as he breathed its dust into his lungs. The pain increased, and a wave of dizziness went over him. His own blood, as hot as if it came from a fire, covered his hands. The gods of the underworld had called out for his spirit, demanding that he come to them. Takany knew he was dying here in this foreign place, after all the fights and all the years of killing, dying with the strange taste of an unfamiliar land in his mouth.
He opened his mouth to call out, but he could no longer control his voice. Despite the dawn’s growing light, his eyes refused to focus. He stopped moving, suddenly lightheaded, as if he were falling from a great height. All he could do was gaze upward toward the sky, unable even to blink, watching the dawn beginning to burst over the city. He felt his blood soaking his hands and stomach, pooling between his naked legs, his life’s blood pouring out into the dirt. It was the last thought he ever had.
Takany died unnoticed by his men, who fought on against the few Akkadians still standing between them and the doorway. They could feel the defense weakening, and only two bowmen remained on the landing. The storm of arrows had nearly ended, as the Akkadians emptied their quivers. Step by step, the Egyptians fought their way up the stairs, sensing victory within their grasp.
Suddenly the door behind the archers opened, a rectangle of soft light illuminating the landing. Everyone’s eyes lifted to see who stood there.
One glance answered the question. A tall, blood-spattered warrior holding two swords that glinted in the growing light appeared, slipping behind the archers and pointing a long horseman’s sword at them.
“Korthac is dead,” the warrior roared, the words filling the room. The fighting paused for a moment, just long enough for the warrior to repeat his words. “Korthac is dead!”
Every Egyptian flinched at the sound, knowing an evil omen filled the house. “Korthac is dead, and now you will all die as well.”
Not all the Egyptians understood the meaning, but all of them recognized Korthac’s name, and they all comprehended the truth of the message. Korthac must be dead, or he, not this barbarian demon, would stand before them.
The warrior bellowed something unintelligible, then jumped off the landing, practically in the midst of the Egyptians, attacking them with a fury that saw two men struck down in as many heartbeats. The Akkadians, arrows exhausted and about to be overwhelmed, took heart, and began their own counterattack. Disheartened, the Egyptians fell back.
The battle gods had turned against them. No one wanted to face the certain death awaiting anyone who dared to challenge their battle-enraged opponent.
In moments, the common room emptied, as the Egyptians shoved and pushed their way through the outer door and into the courtyard. The last man had barely cleared the door when someone picked up the table knocked over when the door was forced, and shoved it upright against the doorway, blocking the opening.
In the courtyard, less than a dozen of Korthac’s fighters remained alive, plus an equal number of Ariamus’s men. They’d seen Eskkar come out of Korthac’s room alone, proclaiming their leader’s death. A handful of battle-crazed archers had somehow driven them from the house, shooting shafts so quickly that they seemed like twice their number.
The Egyptians shouted at each other in confusion. Meanwhile, the sound of Eskkar’s name rang through the city, taken up by hundreds of voices, a nonstop chant that filled the lanes and echoed across the rooftops, rattling their nerves. Takany, in a pool of blood, lay dead at their feet, an arrow buried in his stomach. Hathor and Ariamus had departed for the gate. Nebibi was at the barracks. Most of the senior men were dead.
Without anyone to give orders, the Egyptians began to argue. Some wanted to charge the house once again, others wanted to link up with Hathor at the gate. More than a few just wanted to flee. Korthac’s death unnerved them. Korthac had survived a hundred fights. If he could be killed, then who might be next? Without a leader, they started drifting toward the courtyard gate, and in a moment all of them began moving.
They rushed out of the courtyard and into the lane, heading for the main gate. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, they ran directly into Bantor and his men charging up the lane.
The street outside Eskkar’s courtyard erupted with the Akkadians’ battle cry. Bantor led his men up the lane, his bloody sword flashing in the morning sun, his men strung out behind him. The charging Akkadians in front had no time to draw their bows; instead they snatched swords from scabbards and smashed into the surprised Egyptians before they could form a line. For a moment Bantor’s attack slowed, as bronze clashed upon bronze, men cursing as they fought. Korthac’s men still outnumbered their attackers.
Bantor, engaged in a furious sword fight with a thickset Egyptian, lifted his voice. “Archers! Aim for their faces!” The archer struggling behind Bantor fi nally got his bow in play. The shaft nearly took off Bantor’s ear, but the Egyptian screamed as the arrow took him in the mouth; the wounded man staggered back.
With a scream of satisfaction, Bantor pushed ahead. “Aim for their faces! Kill them all!”
Another arrow struck, then another. Rapidly fi red arrows launched at point-blank range struck down the Egyptians, while Bantor and a handful of men up front protected the bowmen from assault. The shafts, many launched directly into the enemy’s faces, took the fight out of them.
Unable to close with the archers, some of Korthac’s men abandoned the fight and started to retreat up the lane. Already more than half of them had taken wounds or been struck down. The rest broke, turned, and ran back toward Eskkar’s courtyard. Some fled past Eskkar’s gate, disappearing from sight as the lane twisted and turned, but others ducked back inside, seeking safety. Before they could shut the gate, an arrow brought down the last straggler, an Egyptian already wounded, and the man’s dead body blocked the opening.
Bantor, his face covered in blood splatter, flung his shoulder against the gate even as the surviving Egyptians struggled to shut it. In a moment the rest of Bantor’s men added their weight and forced the gate open. Bantor stumbled through, ducking under a wildly swung blade and falling to his knees. Before his attacker could recover, Bantor had thrust his sword into the man’s stomach.
Bows were forgotten as the Akkadians forced their way in, sword clashing against sword. Outnumbered now for the first time, the Egyptians fought back, knowing their fate should they be defeated; for a moment, they stopped Bantor’s advance, and the sound of clashing arms rose up throughout the courtyard.
“Eskkar! Annok-sur,” Bantor bellowed, the words echoing off the compound’s walls. He wanted those in the house to know that help had arrived. “Eskkar!” he yelled again, as he redoubled his efforts against those facing him.
Arrows began killing Korthac’s followers from behind. Most of the Egyptians fought to the end, but those recruited by Ariamus had no stomach for this kind of close-in fighting. They ran, throwing away their weapons and scrambling up and over the courtyard wall. Desperate to escape, they fled through lanes and even houses, searching for any path, as long as it led away from the fighting.
Bantor killed the last Egyptian facing him. Glancing around the courtyard, his eyes searched the dead, looking for Ariamus.
“Ariamus!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
It must be Bantor,” Eskkar said. The clash of men fighting out in the lane sounded clearly even inside the house. “Shove that table aside.”
With Mitrac’s help, Eskkar cleared the hasty barricade erected only moments ago from the door, while the two surviving archers stood behind, bows at the ready. Grond tried to move to Eskkar’s side, but slipped to the floor, his wounds weakening him. Mitrac nocked his bow as Eskkar lifted his sword, then shoved the table clear, ducking back as he did so.
One glance told Eskkar all he needed to know. The courtyard was filled with men fighting. Some bellowed war cries and others screamed in pain from their wounds, but this time more than half the combatants were shouting Akkadian war cries. He started forward but Mitrac caught his tunic.
“No, stay here,” Mitrac said, pulling Eskkar away from the doorway.
He stood just inside the doorway, and fired an arrow into the back of an Egyptian standing only a few paces away. The other two archers moved up behind him, and added their shafts, shooting over Mitrac’s head. Standing with his sword ready, Eskkar watched as Mitrac and his bowmen started the final slaughter, the three of them picking off targets. With every shot, an enemy died, as the carefully aimed shafts took down any who still sought to stand their ground.
A voice rose up over the clamor. “Eskkar! Annok-sur!”
Eskkar saw Bantor leading the attack, his sword slashing at everyone before him. “Cover him,” he ordered Mitrac, who shifted his bow to put a shaft into Bantor’s opponent. A few more shots from the doorway, and the Egyptians broke, unable to withstand swordsmen in front and archers behind. The last of the enemy ran for the rear, frantic to scale the courtyard wall before an arrow took them. A few attempted to make a stand in the quarters across from Eskkar’s house. But without solid doors, the soldiers’ quarters provided only temporary security. More of Bantor’s men brought their bows back into play, shooting through the doorways and windows.
Overwhelmed, the last few Egyptians died or threw down their swords, calling out for mercy, their cries for leniency barely audible against the roar of cheering men. A few ran back into their quarters, desperate to regroup, but most dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy, begging to be spared, anything to avoid being killed by their battle-mad opponents.
Eskkar stepped out from the doorway, Mitrac at his side, an arrow still nocked on his string, his eyes searching for danger. The courtyard seemed covered in bodies, most of them with arrows sticking out of them. Nearly all seemed to be Egyptians. Bantor, his chest heaving and his eyes wild from the battle madness, finally recognized his leader.
Bantor stood there, blood covering his right arm and splattered all over his face and chest. But his smile belied the blood, and he raised his sword high as the cheering men rushed past him to Eskkar’s side. Their jubilation turned into a deafening roar at the sight of their commander.
With the fighting ended, at least at Eskkar’s house, the dirty, bloody, and battle-weary men looked at each other in the bright morning light.
Their voices turned into a chant that grew in volume, as the men shouted
“Eskkar! Eskkar! Eskkar!” at the top of their lungs. The cheer went on and on, until Eskkar thought it would never end. Half the city could hear the words, and would know that Korthac had been defeated.
The wounded needed to be tended, and the fighting wasn’t over yet.
Eskkar saw Klexor, who’d just reached the house, and pulled him away from the delirious soldiers.
“Take charge here,” Eskkar ordered. “Get the men organized and secure the courtyard.”
His smile never changing, Klexor nodded and began bellowing orders.
Eskkar grabbed Bantor’s arm and led him back inside the house. Mitrac was already there, tending Grond’s wounds. Covered in blood, most of it his own, Eskkar’s bodyguard appeared ready to collapse. The fighting had raged back and forth across the room. Wreckage of the big table littered the fl oor, and one of the benches had been smashed. But Eskkar found one still whole, and righted it as Mitrac and Bantor lifted Grond up and laid him out on the bench. Just enough light filtered in to show three separate wounds.
“Find the women and the healers,” Eskkar said. “They must be nearby.
Get them here at once.” He grabbed one of Bantor’s men. “Stand here and guard these steps. Trella and Annok-sur are above.”
Bantor, his bloody sword held loosely in his hand, approached. “Annok-sur, where is she? Is she…?”
“She’s upstairs, with Trella, guarding Korthac. She’s all right, only a knock on the head,” Eskkar said. “Did you find Ariamus?”
“Isn’t he dead?” Bantor’s voice hardened and he straightened up, the fatigue dropping from his shoulders. He stopped moving toward the steps.
“Tell Annok-sur I’ll be back. I’ll take some men and start hunting Ariamus down.”
Eskkar’s eyes narrowed at the tone of Bantor’s voice. “No, Ariamus can wait. What’s happened to Drakis? Is he still holding the towers?”
Bantor hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Take your men to the main gate,” Eskkar ordered, his voice firm.
“Drakis may need you. If some of these Egyptians escape…” He saw Bantor hesitating, and shook his head. “Ariamus is wounded. In an hour the whole city will be looking for him. Drakis needs you now.”
“Can’t you go…”
“No, I’m staying here.” With Korthac upstairs and this place recaptured, Eskkar knew his remaining soldiers would be coming to him, looking for orders. Besides, he didn’t want to leave Trella and the child. He’d left Trella alone for weeks; he didn’t plan to leave her again, not to chase down a handful of foreign fighters whose cause was lost.
“Damn the gods,” Bantor said, rage back in his voice. “I’ll go to the gate.
But I swear Ariamus won’t get away from me this time.” Bantor shouted for Klexor. They collected their men, nearly twenty of them, and jogged out into the lane, heading for the gate.
As Eskkar turned back toward the stairs, Ventor the healer entered the house, his eyes wide in amazement as he took in the carnage and death.
His frightened apprentice, glancing nervously in every direction, followed carefully behind, carrying his master’s box of instruments. Eskkar took Ventor by the arm and guided him toward the steps. “Have your apprentice care for Grond. You attend to Trella. She’s upstairs, wounded.”
Eskkar took the instrument box from the apprentice, and used his other hand to half-carry the old healer up the stairs and into the outer room.
“Annok-sur,” Eskkar shouted, the sound filling the now quiet workroom. “It’s Eskkar. Open the door.”
He heard the bar scrape, then fall to the floor with a thud. The door swung open. The lamp still burned, but the sun provided more than enough light. The baby had stopped crying, held close and nursing in his mother’s bloody arms. Korthac lay where Eskkar had left him, still unconscious. Annok-sur looked weak, but she still held Korthac’s knife over his motionless body. She nodded to Eskkar and moved back to the foot of the bed, to maintain her watch on the Egyptian.
Trella’s eyes looked up at him. She seemed to have trouble focusing, but then she recognized Eskkar and smiled.
“You’re safe now, Trella,” he said, kneeling next to the bed and taking her hand. “Korthac is taken and his men are being hunted down.”
She nodded, and her body seemed to relax. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “Stay with me, Eskkar.”
“I’ll not leave you again, Trella, I swear it. Now let Ventor tend to you.”
“Is Bantor alive?” Annok-sur asked, leaning over and holding her head with both hands, still holding the bloody knife.
“Very alive,” Eskkar said. “He’s gone off to hunt down Ariamus.”
“Look at your son, Eskkar,” Trella said, her words calling him back to her side.
Ventor moved to the other side of the bed. “Give me the child for a moment, Lady Trella.” He gently lifted the child from her arms, then offered the babe to Annok-sur. She handed the knife to Eskkar, then took and held the infant close to her breast.
“Let Ventor tend to your wound, Trella,” Eskkar said, stroking her hair for a moment.
She nodded, and her head fell back onto the bed. “Look at your son.”
Eskkar took a step to Annok-sur’s side, and peered down at the infant for a few moments. The child, its cheeks red and eyes screwed shut, looked very small.
“He looks well, Trella,” Eskkar said, not sure what to say.
A moan from the floor turned his attention to Korthac, still lying there unmoving. Eskkar reached down and grasped the unconscious man by the shoulders and dragged him out of the bedroom, pulling him across the workroom until he reached the top of the stairs. The soldier Eskkar had ordered to guard the stairs still held his post at the foot of the stairs. Just then two of the household’s servants stepped through the remains of the door, moving gingerly past the bodies of the dead, their eyes wide at the sight of all that blood and death.
“Get this filth out of my house,” Eskkar said, letting Korthac slump to the landing. Eskkar resisted the urge to roll Korthac off the landing; the fall might kill him, and that would be too easy a death. “Find three men to guard him. They’re to stay within arm’s length of the Egyptian. If he gives you any trouble, or anyone tries to rescue him, kill him.”
The soldier nodded.
Eskkar called down to the servants, and told them to bring fresh blankets, water, and anything else they thought Trella and Annok-sur would need. He turned back inside, pushing the door closed to lessen the noise from the courtyard.
Annok-sur didn’t even look up when he returned, just rocked slowly back and forth, trying to soothe the baby. Ventor had pulled back the blanket from Trella’s hips and leaned over to examine her wound, his face inches from the still-oozing cut.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to change the bedding when I’m done, Lord Eskkar,” the old man said. “There must have been much blood lost during the birthing.”
Another woman, one of the regular servants, came into the room, but left almost immediately as Ventor called for bandages and fresh water.
Eskkar stood there, unsure of what to do. He wanted to ask Ventor if Trella would live, but he knew better than to interrupt the healer with questions; the man would tell him as soon as he knew. The baby began to cry, and Annok-sur whispered soothingly to the infant. Ventor began wiping the blood from Trella’s side, and Eskkar saw the wound from Korthac’s knife. The slashing blow had struck a little above her hip.
The servant returned with water and linen. Ventor washed the gash, then wiped the blood from Trella’s body before pressing the cloth against the wound. “She’s still bleeding from the birthing, but not heavily. The wound is only a deep cut, and she won’t be walking for a few days. I believe she will recover.”
Eskkar exhaled a long sigh of relief. His wife would live. That was all that mattered.
Ventor’s touch calmed Trella almost as much as his words. Her eyes closed, and she seemed to fall into a light sleep.
The healer worked swiftly. He cut up a clean part of the blanket and used it to bind Trella’s wound. Then he washed the rest of the blood from her body.
Eskkar handed him the second blanket, and Ventor draped it gently over her, leaving only her head and shoulders exposed.
“She needs to rest for a few hours,” Ventor said. “We’ll know more then. I’ll go tend to the other wounded.” He stood and went to Annok-sur, gazing down at the child. “The baby seems healthy, though a bit small.”
“The child is safe, Eskkar,” Annok-sur said, ignoring Ventor’s comment.
“And so is Trella. The wound is not deep. But she’s lost a lot of blood.”
Eskkar muttered thanks to the gods. His wife would live, and he had a son. He’d captured Korthac, broken his men, and retaken Akkad. Eskkar started to shake, as much a reaction from worrying about Trella as from all the fighting. Suddenly his legs felt weary.
Annok-sur recognized the signs. Wincing from the effort, she lifted the baby up onto her shoulder. “Come outside, Eskkar. You can do nothing here. Let her rest for a few moments, to regain her strength.”
Giving Trella one last look, Eskkar followed Annok-sur out of the bedroom, peering over her shoulder at his son’s tiny face. For the first time, Eskkar felt the stirring of pride. He’d fathered a son, Sargon, who would carry on not only Eskkar’s name but his descendants’, those who would come afterward, down through the ages. The thought surprised him. Eskkar had never thought more than a few days ahead before, but now, the future appeared to stretch before him, the child showing the way. Somehow that seemed more important than Korthac’s defeat.