A moist warm wind blew in from the sea. The brightening sky revealed a bank of clouds that hinted at rain. In the distance, Sinbad could see a smoky outline upon the hills: horses and riders, moving in a single line, slowly making their way to the grass fields at the side of the roads. There were no whoops or war cries, no drunken oaths or vilifications. Only a host of grim, dark riders, weapons in hand, ready to mercilessly destroy everything in their path.
Sinbad slid his hand to his waist and unsheathed his dagger. Then he reached into his boot and withdrew the small concealed knife he had bought in the marketplace so long ago, with Don Giovanni perched upon his shoulder as he was now, before their shared adventures began.
“Are you frightened, my little friend?” he asked the frog.
Giovanni nodded his head solemnly.
“You know you don’t have to be a part of this. You can hop away now, while there’s time, get out of the village, and hide in the thickets. Suliman won’t be looking for you … ”
The frog looked at his friend with bulging eyes. “Leave you now, Sinbad? After we’ve come through so much together?”
“It could save your life … ”
Don Giovanni shook his head vehemently. “Our bargain was to stay together,” he reminded the sailor, recalling the agreement made that long-past day at the pond. “No, Sinbad. We set out on our search together, and we’ll stay that way. At least until we find our flower.”
The Red Dahlia!
Sinbad realized that, in the urgency of frantic preparations for protecting Pansa, he had completely forgotten about the mysterious flower — and the sad news he now had to relate to his friend.
He sighed heavily and rested the frog on his lap. “There’s something I forgot to tell you, Giovanni,” he began in a low tone. “About the dahlia … You see — ”
A multitude of shouts filled the air. Sinbad leaped to his feet, eyes wide, and stared at the full force of Suliman’s cavalry charging down the road.
“Here they come!” Maria Victoria shouted from her advance position.
While Father Augusto led the mothers and children in prayer inside the church, young Rudolpho climbed to his post in the tower and rang the bell. The tolling reverberated throughout the plaza amid the frenzy of last-second activity. Machetes gleamed in early morning sunlight; knives glistened, bows were loaded with homemade arrows. Huge clouds of dust rose behind the advancing horses, Suliman’s men now whooping and shouting at the top of their lungs.
“Hold your fire until I give the word!” called Sinbad, bounding to the top of the wall, a handful of anxious defenders at his side.
Like bats out of hell the horsemen rode, swinging their animals out and fanning across the road in ranks of twenty. The sun was in their eyes; they could as yet make out little of what lay ahead. On the flat roofs the torches were lit, ready to be thrown; the defenders watched numbly as the cavalry hurtled closer and closer.
“Now!” cried Sinbad.
Streams of black smoke followed the thrown torches as they fell into the carefully placed bales of hay. The hay ignited instantly, sending great orange tongues of flame licking toward the sky. The front line of horses broke amid the tumult; balls of fire sent stallions rearing and panicking, riders yanking at the reins, trying to calm their frightened steeds.
Arrows whistled from the roofs. Ruldolpho slowly aimed his homemade bow and let loose. The whistling shaft slammed fiercely into the throat of the foremost rider. The burly fellow’s head shot back and he plummeted from his saddle, screaming as he tumbled into a bale of flaming hay.
From both sides of the road the villagers hurtled their missiles, bricks and bats and clubs and sticks, slowing down any attempt on the part of the riders to regroup and form another assault. The northern path to the village became completely blocked with raging fires and stumbling horses, the air filled with the awful screams of Suliman’s stunned legions.
From the south came another cavalry charge. Sinbad jumped from his barricade and ran across the plaza to direct the defense. Fifty meters away he could see the first galloping steed break stride and fall, its hoof pads cut to pieces by the slivers of glass Methelese and the girls had laid during the night. A second horse stumbled, then a third. A fourth whinnyed high on its rear legs and came crashing down upon the road; a half dozen horses charging on behind could not slow in time and tumbled over it. Riders were thrown sprawling onto the caked earth. As they scrambled to their feet, ten farmers jumped from their hiding places in the cesspools and hurled pitchforks as though they were spears. Sharpened prongs struck horses that crumpled to the earth, leaving their riders helpless amid the barrage of arrows loosed from the barricades.
More farmers jumped out into the open, waving clubs and machetes above their heads. Wails of anguish permeated the air as the villagers set upon the stricken attackers and hacked and slashed their way through men and horseflesh alike. Right through the struggling line of stallions they dashed, some quickly cut down by advancing cavalry riding low and swinging words, others boldly standing up to the onslaught, machetes turned to wheels of death at every spin. Left and right, horsemen were falling, yanked from their saddles and thrown to the ground. Maria Vanessa led a group of girls from the barricades and charged into the fray. Knives and sticks in their hands, they blocked the retreat of the furthermost riders and forced them to flee from the road to what seemed to be the safety of the village.
Methelese and his own band were waiting. Vats of boiling water were spilled from the roofs onto the surging mob of dazed attackers. Their wails and shrieks sent shivers through everyone who heard them; men fell grappling at their burning faces, raw flesh afire, the pain only growing worse as the skin blistered.
The struggle proved long and difficult. Although the bulk of the cavalry had been stopped before penetrating Pansa’s defenses, it was the charging foot soldiers, well behind the horsemen, who now threatened the town from every side.
From the bell tower Rudolpho signaled the warning. Sinbad jumped from the barricade onto a nearby roof and surveyed the scene. Ahead, along the northern road, fires were still burning; dozens of Suliman’s men were sprawled helter-skelter across the ravine and ditches, their wounded animals bolting and kicking mindlessly amid the fury. But behind these, forming shoulder-to-shoulder ranks three and four deep, was the infantry; hundreds of ragged men, coming in a charge as fast as their legs could carry them.
Sinbad put two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly. At his signal, Maria Elisa and her father came pulling a mule-drawn wagon loaded with hay. An opening was quickly made between the barricades and Sinbad, lighted torch in hand, leaped onto the buckboard. Then without a word he drove the wagon onto the road and fought his way beyond the fires. The front ranks of infantry were almost upon him; he could see the looks of hate and lust in their eyes, the malice etched into their faces. He spurred the frightened mules forward, tossed the torch behind and jumped off as the hay lit into a huge bonfire. The wagon rolled out of control, heading straight for the enemy. It overturned beside the gulley, spewing hay, igniting the fields of dry grass, and turning the whole scape into a massive inferno in a matter of seconds.
The attacking ranks turned in panic; their flight was swift and soundless, back up to the meadow, far away from the approaches to the village. Billows of thick smoke formed black clouds over Pansa. Dust swirled behind the kicking hooves of fleeing horses. Charred bodies lay still upon the road, nestled in tiny pools of blood. Weapons yet in hand, the corpses gave grim testimony to what had happened here this morning — testimony that could not be refuted. Pansa had taken the enemy by surprise and had sent him reeling back. Suliman’s outlaw army had been defeated by a handful of old men and girls. But as the bandit chief shook his fist and cursed at the sight of his retreating forces, he made a vow: For what Pansa had done, they would be repaid.
*
The battle had lasted well into the morning, and by the time the last of the smoke cleared it was already past noon. A hot
sun blazed high in the perfect blue sky as Sinbad and his defenders got their first clear look at the battlefield spread before them. It was a gruesome sight, but encouraging. At the cost of only a handful of lives they had cut down the cream of Suliman’s cavalry, forcing the bandit to think twice before sending his men on another such assault.
“We’ve won!” cried a jubilant Maria Elisa, throwing her arms around Sinbad. “We’ve beaten them off!”
Don Manuel stood at her side, a small chuckle on his lips. “Did you see them run, Sinbad? Suliman the Conqueror — Ha!” He spat upon the ground. “We taught him a lesson or two, didn’t we? He won’t be so quick to come again.”
And from everywhere across the plaza came added cries of glee. Panting, Francisco came running from his own advance position, blood still wet on his machete. “They’ve gone behind the hills,” he told Sinbad proudly. “Back to their campsite, I’m sure; perhaps back to Cordoba — if they have any sense.”
Everybody laughed. Everybody except Sinbad. He looked into their smiling faces and saw the relief that had replaced anguish, the sudden belief in the impossible miracle that had happened here this morning.
“It isn’t over yet,” he reminded them. “Suliman, as much as we may want to believe it, is not going to run. He’ll regroup and come at us again — only this time knowing what to expect. No more surprises. He knows our weaknesses and he’ll exploit them.”
“In the meantime,” added Methelese, his eyes to the hills, “we had better do some regrouping of our own. As surely as night follows day, this bandit Suliman means to take Pansa — and set an example for all Barcelona.”
It proved to be a hot, clammy afternoon, with no breezes to freshen the stale air that hovered above the village. Feeling the pressure of the long wait before the next attack, Sinbad inspected the fortifications and bantered with his troops, trying to keep morale as high as possible. Always, though, he kept a watchful eye toward the harbor in hopes of seeing his ship come sailing in.
Afternoon shadows lengthened; it would not be long before the first evening star appeared. And still there was no sign of the Scheherazade. When Rudolpho called from the bell tower, Sinbad’s heart pounded. Expecting to see the youth pointing toward the sea, he was severely disappointed to find Rudolpho’s excitement raised from another direction.
“The ridges, Captain!” shouted Paulo, who was first on the wall to catch a glimpse of what Rudolpho had already noticed: a grim procession of bedraggled troops, hundreds of them marching slowly, lining the gently sloping hills and surrounding the village on all sides save for the harbor.
“Prepare for the attack!” shouted Sinbad, and the bell in the church rang loudly again. Prayerfully all resumed their posts, knowing that this time they would fight without the benefit of surprise. Suliman’s men, once fully dominating the heights, made no move to march down to the road. Instead, they kneeled in groups, drew bows, and waited.
Don Manuel scratched forlornly at his smudged cheek. “What are they up to?”
Sinbad shook his head. He wasn’t sure what Suliman had in mind, but one thing was certain: The bandit had been badly burned the first time; he wasn’t going to chance another frontal attack until he was absolutely positive his men would meet only the scantest resistance.
As Sinbad watched in growing trepidation, wagons rumbled from behind the ridges, bringing forth barrels and buckets of oil. When the barrels were placed at random points throughout the line of archers, Suliman’s men lit the oil. Thin wisps of black smoke trailed thickly heavenward and a hundred arrows were lit.
Methelese gasped. “Hit the dirt!” he shouted, throwing himself against an overturned wagon.
Muffled screams rose from every side as the hundred burning arrows whistled overhead. Leaving black smoke behind, the volley scattered and crashed throughout the plaza, slamming into dirt, brushing against the stone of the church, sticking into wooden barricades and doorways where tiny fires immediately sprang to life.
Sinbad lifted his head and stared. “Keep down,” he cried to the defenders. And just then the next volley let loose, only this time there were more arrows, hundreds more, pouring down like rain from one end of Pansa to the other.
From somewhere near the south barricade a frightened farmer broke from his position. He dashed madly for the safety of the church, ignoring the pleas of his comrades. Arrows smacked to the ground all around him; he ran faster, leaping to reach the arched doors. Three snubbed darts caught him from behind, singeing his flesh with burning oil. Like a human torch he fell, screaming and writhing, digging his fingernails into the dirt and pleading for help.
“Stay where you are!” Sinbad called out to those closest to him.
But the good-hearted defenders didn’t listen. They scrambled to his aid, three more of them immediately falling victim to the shower of flaming arrows.
Within moments, fires were burning in every direction. Houses and barns, stables, the pier itself.
“Pansa will be burned to the ground!” cried Francisco. And his shout fed the panic growing among them all.
Sinbad spun, fell to his knees, and crawled from one end of the barricade to the other. The defenders were slowly moving back from their positions, smoke and fire forcing them to abandon all of the outermost strongholds along either side of the road. Weapons discarded, they ran madly back to the plaza, seeking the shelter of Javier’s wall.
Time after time the arrows spewed across the sky. One by one the villagers were being cut down, hurled from their positions upon the roofs, forced to retreat from the ditches where, suddenly out in the open, the deadly rain riddled them until they fell in heaps, wailing as their bodies became torches and they were consumed.
The smoke was terrible. Coughing, wheezing, Sinbad led those near the north wall back to the second line of defense. Smoldering wood sent great billows upward. All eyes were stinging from the fumes.
“We’ll never hold against this,” said Methelese, protecting himself as best he could.
Sinbad stared warily at the sun; the light had started to wane, night would not be far off. And still no sign of his ship.
From the wings of the rows of archers, at the blare of a trumpet, infantry marched, wheeling inward toward the road even as the deadly rain of arrows continued unabated. In a bold move, the bandit had committed his forces to strike from both the front and rear in an effort to gain the village in one swift blow.
Once again the church bell was ringing, but this time the brave defenders were unable to regain the outermost positions. With Maria Elisa on one side, Methelese on the other, Sinbad regrouped his forces along the lower level of Javier’s wall. Bows were raised and aimed, machetes lifted. Tramp, tramp, came the sound of marching feet, over the gulleys, across the ditches, between the lifeless corpses of slain comrades still smoldering upon the road. The grim cohort, covered with shields and helmets of mail, marched straight into Sinbad’s line of fire, prepared to scale the low barricade and set upon the plaza.
“Steady,” called Sinbad to his own archers, holding them back until the last possible moment.
In an unwavering line of lifted weapons, spears, broadswords, scimitars, axes, and the like, the enemy started to run at double time, reaching the outskirts of the village in seconds and then tearing along the road. Once on level ground there seemed no stopping them; between them and the wall stood nothing.
“Fire!” shouted Sinbad.
A dozen Spanish arrows tore from their bowstrings. Three deep-chested, thick-necked attackers fell back, shields flying from their hands. A loud cry ensued as their compatriots charged with renewed fury.
A second time the villagers let loose. Two attackers tangled and dizzily plummeted, necks crimson with spouting blood, arrows stuck through their throats. But for every one of the enemy who had been hit, there were ten who had not. Whooping now, brandishing their swords and axes above their heads, they came on undaunted, right to the foot of the wall.
Heavy smoke swirled, fueled by a sud
den wind from the bay. The fighting became hand-to-hand as Sinbad, Methelese, and a handful of farmers stood atop the wall and fended off the grappling enemy clambering up the ragged face of mud bricks.
Twang!
Sinbad ducked; a charging bandit, clad in heavy mail and swinging a chain, stopped in his tracks at the broad height of the wall’s crest, a short arrow piercing his left eye. He spun around in a horrible dance, hands to his face, and careened back below, falling on top of a group of frenzied attackers. Sinbad peered up to the church tower and grinned; he waved at young Rudolpho, acknowledging that the boy had probably saved his life.
From the sides came a hundred more marauders, scrambling onto roofs of burning thatch previously held by Pansa’s defenders. From their new positions, they kept up a steady barrage that prevented the defenders in the plaza from mending the breeches in the north wall.
Sinbad jumped down from the wall. He drew back his fist and smashed the jaw of a matted-haired bandit racing for Don Manuel. As the bandit staggered, pirouetting before he hit the ground, Sinbad grabbed the innkeeper by the collar and yanked him away. All around, more of the villagers were falling. Still wielding machetes, they put up good fights before being overwhelmed one by one by the never-ending onslaught.
Rudolpho aimed again; straight through the heart went his arrow, piercing a vest of thin mail, causing the bearded, sinewy leader of the charge to slam back against the inside of the wall and slump over. His astounded companions crouched, hid, looked to the bell tower and cursed. Rudolpho had been seen — and marked.
“Retreat!” yelled Sinbad. Behind him ran Maria Elisa and a group of her girls. Maria Victoria came rushing from the southern wall with her own surviving defenders. The battle on the other side of the plaza had been every bit as furious as had the one here. No matter how brave an effort they had made, the sheer numbers of Suliman’s forces had them completely overwhelmed.
Fire arrows continued to rain, fires were burning everywhere. Methelese, face blackened, body wracked with small wounds, came running to Sinbad, his bloody knife in hand.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 77