‘We take the camels through the portal,’ Grakk said, letting his reins drop and fishing in his pack. He pulled forth a crystal the size of his fist and, oblivious to the admiring sounds that came from Sophaya, he moved to the back wall. ‘The gateway is here.’
He placed the fingertips of one hand where the beam of light struck the wall. ‘The aperture allowing this light entry is no error of construction or defect from time or mishap. The beam of light is wholly deliberate, and at precisely mid-day it will land on an indentation…’ he traced his fingers slightly to the side, ‘… here.’ Turning his hand palm-upwards, he slipped his fingers into the slight dent in the rock and slid them up into what must have been an unseen opening.
‘So,’ Sophaya ventured with a thief’s interest, ‘there is a latch in the opening that the light would have directed us to?’
Grakk smiled. ‘A latch of sorts. And indication of the location of the aperture is only the first purpose of the light. The second, well, it will become apparent should our visitors arrive late enough to allow it.’ He looked at the girl. ‘From your observation, do we have time for the light to travel to the spot?’
Her face was dark. ‘Not a chance. Not if they come straight up the main avenue to the temple, and their approach appears to be fast and direct enough to suggest they will.’
Marlo slapped a wall in anger. ‘Then we are doomed. After all this distance, doomed by a matter of moments.’
‘Then we must create time,’ said Brann. All eyes turned to him. He frowned, for it seemed obvious. Nevertheless, it seemed he must explain. ‘We cannot wait and do nothing, as they will then force us to fight them and he,’ he pointed at Grakk, ‘has forbidden us to fight them.’
‘Not exactly Grakk’s words, but carry on,’ Cannick said.
‘If we cannot do nothing, then we must act. And in acting, we must keep them from here for the time required.’
Grakk was curious. ‘And you have a suggestion how we should act?’
It seemed a strange question. ‘Of course.’
Hakon beamed and slapped him on the back. ‘You see, it is good to think.’
‘Not when you should be acting. Bring a camel into the temple. I believe we should hurry.’
Leaving Marlo to watch the remaining camels, Cannick led one at a run as they retraced their steps to the holy building. A glance as they ascended to the portico revealed the riders almost at the city wall.
‘All the way inside,’ Brann said. ‘To the big chamber. And then scare the animal.’ He looked at Hakon. ‘Probably you would be best at that.’
The big Northern boy looked at Grakk. ‘Do you think he is feeling all right?’
The tribesman looked back calmly. ‘Do you have an idea of your own to offer us?’
Hakon shrugged and ran the camel into the temple, followed by the others. Brann lingered briefly, staring with narrowed eyes at the dust cloud that was almost at the city wall, while a selection of strange human and animal noises emanated from within. He hurried inside to find them in the great chamber, the faces of ancient gods looking down on the strange group halfway across the floor. Hakon must have performed his task well, for the camel was agitated, stepping and pulling nervously and with more than one pile of steaming droppings lying close by.
‘Now look what’s happened,’ Hakon complained. ‘We have no fortune but bad fortune already, and now you have had me make the camel desecrate this holiest of places, right before the gods themselves.’
Brann was unconcerned. ‘If this is all it takes to anger the gods, they would lay waste to the world every minute of every day.’
Cannick punched Hakon on the arm. ‘Shut up and listen to the boy. Whatever he is thinking, if we don’t do it quickly you’ll be able to ask the gods their opinion when you meet them personally.’
Brann was already moving, scooping up piles of dung and running towards the rear of the chamber, dropping it haphazardly as he moved. He returned for another armful and moved quickly to the back wall, peering at the dark surface until he found the marks where past fortune hunters had attacked the surface. He scattered the dung in front of it and ran back to the group.
There was a slight smile on Grakk’s face, as if he suspected Brann’s thinking. He started jogging back out of the temple as he talked. ‘The camel should go back to wait with the others, as should all but you, you and you.’ He had pointed at Sophaya and Hakon. ‘You have bows, I remember. You should fetch them. And the smiling boy who was left with the camels: he has a bow. Bring him. The others should wait at the portal.’ He looked at Gerens. ‘You should wait with me.’
The dark eyes settled on his. ‘Fine by me, Chief.’
Cannick grinned at Grakk. ‘He’s still in there, somewhere.’
Brann frowned and looked back into the building. ‘Who is there?’
Grakk rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are in you.’
Brann dismissed the thought. It was not the occasion to wonder on what nonsense they talked. He stood on the steps of the portico, staring down the long avenue. This was what he understood: judging distances to danger, assessing threats and weaknesses and reacting to each, all in the moment. The road before him was long, very long, joining the very front of the city with the back. So long that the intruders, just now entering the opposite end, were still evident only from the dust they kicked up and not as individual figures. It would be many long minutes before they reached the temple; Brann and his friends had to hope they could make the minutes long enough.
He descended the steps as the trio returned and skidded to a halt, bows in hand. He nodded at Sophaya and Gerens. ‘You two need to come with me. You two others, I need here. At that corner.’ He pointed at the spot where the area widened to lead off into the street that ran past the stables. ‘When I say, step out from there and send three, maybe four arrows each at the riders, and then make for the portal.’ He looked at Gerens and Sophaya. ‘We should move now.’
They moved off at a run, heading several minutes down the street before he pulled them to the side.
Gerens looked hardly out of breath, while the girl was similarly fit to run still. This was good. He needed their energy as much as any skill with weapons they possessed.
The dark-haired boy eased his sword and the larger of his knives in their scabbards. ‘We are to delay them however we can? Right, Chief?’
He nodded. ‘First, yes. Then you run when I say, and reach the portal. Second, they must follow me. I hope not for a great distance, for their mounts have longer legs than I have.’
‘Should we start from above?’ Sophaya suggested. ‘There may be more surprise from there.’
‘We should.’ In the space of a few heartbeats, they were crouched atop one of the low buildings, staring down the avenue.
‘Horses.’ Gerens had his intense gaze fixed on the riders galloping up the avenue. The hooves pounded like never-ending thunder on the hard street, kicking up decades or, perhaps, centuries of sand into a cloud that rose like a brown halo around the whole group. It was clear that surprise was not their tactic.
Sophaya frowned. ‘Then they have extensive resources. If they crossed the desert on horseback, they must have had a large amount of supplies to sustain the animals. More likely they came on camels and bought the horses at an oasis, or that they had access to resources owned by whoever sent them. And they knew where to come.’
‘He does.’ Gerens didn’t turn his eyes from the approaching band, but his voice was even. ‘Access to wealth, I can only assume, but power is most definitely his.’
Brann looked sharply at him. He would know more of his enemy. ‘You know him? Tell me.’
Gerens stood and eased his shoulders. ‘That, Chief, is a story for tonight’s campfire. This situation approaches fast.’ He nodded at the horsemen, only minutes away from their position. ‘What would you have us do?’
He was right. And the answer was fairly simple. ‘We must cause confusion. If we cause them to pause for thought, we
cause them to pause. Time is the treasure we seek now. Every second we seize is precious.’
The boy nodded. ‘You have a plan, Chief?’
‘The nature of confusion is that we only know its start, not what ensues.’ He turned to Sophaya. ‘You will start it. Two arrows into the front riders, then move several buildings closer to the portal before they know where they have come from. Two more when they move again, then you move. You must not be seen, or they will know you are only one archer.’ Without waiting for a reply he started moving towards the next building, closer to their prey. ‘We will hurt them from behind or the side. Boy-with-the-angry-hair, take note, do not engage any more than you have to. You need not kill, only hurt. I have fought many at once before. Should you be drawn too much to one, another will undoubtedly kill you.’
Gerens jumped to the next roof by his side. ‘Makes sense, Chief. You can rely on me.’
Brann looked at him. ‘I feel I can. When we have hit them twice, use the street behind these houses to get her to the portal as fast as you can. Wait for nothing, for it will gain you or anyone else nothing to tarry once your job is done.’ He glanced about as the rumble of the horses’ passage surrounded them. ‘They are almost upon us. We should act separately. It will cause more confusion.’
Without bothering with a response, Gerens jumped off the back of the building and slipped into it from the rear. Brann ran its length – it was three dwellings in a single structure – and dropped into a narrow alley. It was unlikely that any of the riders would look down every opening as they passed when they were obviously so intent on their destination, but it did no harm to maximise his chances and he flattened against the far wall. The first of the group battered past him and he drew his sword and knife, letting them hang loosely in his grasp.
Almost immediately the screams and shouts rent the air and the rhythmic rumble of the horses’ hooves turned to the randomness of milling and turning. Without waiting to look, he sprinted from cover, finding himself slightly behind the back of the group. Angling across them, he ran as fast as his legs would move, slashing his sword across the backs of the nearest horse’s hind legs. Through the fog of the dust cloud that caught at his throat and eyes, he glimpsed a rider dragged from his saddle beside the house that Gerens had waited inside before the wheeling horses and shouting men obscured his view. A jumping horse careered around and the rider’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the boy in front of him. Brann ducked under the horse’s head, slashed its flank to make it rear and, as the rider fought to keep his balance, stabbed his straight sword up under the side of his ribs. The man fell and the horse bolted to the far side of the avenue, and Brann shoved the handle of his knife into his mouth so he could grab the pommel of the saddle and let it lift him away, its bulk hiding him from the riders close enough to see through the dust. As the horse ran, he managed in three attempts to sheath his sword and, at the nearest building, one that looked like it had been some sort of a place of work with an open front, he pulled himself to the saddle and placed one foot on the leather to raise himself up and grab the lip of the flat roof, gaining enough purchase to hold on just as the horse hurtled away. Scrambling onto the rough surface, he grabbed his knife from his mouth and raced along the rooftops, jumping two alleyways by the time the leaders of the riders had restored order and forced their men to forget the attack and remember their goal. He could see the girl two buildings further up on the original side of the broad street, kneeling with one arrow already nocked.
The riders urged their horses forward again, but just as they reached their full speed once more, two more arrows thudded into them, one taking the lead rider in the chest and the other transfixing the neck of a horse, causing it to rear screaming and crash into the animal to its right, knocking that man from his mount as well. Again the group halted in whirling confusion as the riders sought to identify the source of the danger. This was good. Were they soldiers, their training would have kept them on their course as their orders had decreed. Ill-discipline was encouraging in what it said of the quality of the foe they faced. Still, the horsemen’s numbers would prove decisive should it come to a straight fight.
As the horses’ stamping hooves raised the dust whirling around them once more, Brann saw the wild-haired boy dart from an alleyway and slash one rider across the back, stab a horse in the throat and leave his knife in the side of another rider before flitting back through a doorway. He glanced further up to see the girl Sophaya slipping off the back of a roof and his eyes swept over the scene below, assessing it as the cries of alarm from men and beasts were split by the screams of those Gerens had attacked. Their attention drawn to those screams on the other side of the avenue, Brann moved. Knife in hand, he leapt, wrenching a man from his mount and leaving him dying on the ground. His knife was left in the man’s neck as his fingers slipped from the blood-drenched hilt, and he wiped his hand on his own clothes and reached for his sword as he turned in a crouch. A rider bore down on him, thrusting at him with a short spear. There was no time to draw his weapon. Spinning away from the flashing point, he grabbed the shaft and continued his movement to haul the weapon forwards. Caught by surprise, the man toppled from his saddle with a grunt of rage and landed at his feet. The spear impaled his chest.
The dust was thickening now, and Brann hurled the spear at a dark shape and heard a satisfying scream. Almost immediately he was knocked into the dirt. A horse had careered into his shoulder and the rider now realised that the blood-spattered figure before him was not one of his companions. He shouted, whether in triumph or anger it was impossible to discern, and turned his horse to bring his sword arm to bear. The curved blade sliced down and Brann dived under it, finding himself falling beneath the horse’s belly and rolling frantically to avoid the murderous hooves. The move did, however, bring him up on the opposite side from the weapon and surprise the rider. Brann grabbed the small round shield strapped to the man’s left arm and, as he turned in the saddle to find his prey, yanked him headlong from his mount. The man was heavy and he felt the effort lance pain through his left shoulder, but the weight meant the man hit the ground hard, the sword spinning away into the dust cloud.
The momentum carried Brann down on top of his foe, both unable to draw any weapons as arms entangled and writhed for an advantage. He felt the spit from the man’s grunts of exertion against his face, and his nostrils filled with the stink of a hard ride across the desert. Hatred burned from eyes scant inches from his own, and the struggle turned to a brutal, base fight for survival: one that Brann sank into with familiar ease, feeling he was back in the cherished surroundings of the pit. One way or another, it would not last long. No two men existed who could sustain such effort. Thick fingers clawed inside his mouth and dragged his cheek wide, and he bit hard, drawing a shout and trapping the fingers. The other hand closed on his throat and a rush of triumph surged through him at the mistake. Any attack in this struggle must have immediate effect. His thumb sought and found an eye and gouged it. This time there was a full scream and his mouth released the fingers as the man arched back, both hands snapping to the pain. Brann’s right hand scrabbled at the man’s belt, finding a knife hilt. He stabbed the blade three times, fast: thigh, waist and upwards into the side of the neck as the man flailed at each previous strike and left himself open to the next. It was over.
He hauled himself to his feet, chest heaving, having to force himself upright. A horse stood nearby in incongruous stillness, from which of his victims he did not know, did not care. Shouts from the front of the group were starting to restore some order and the dust was beginning to settle. It was time to go.
He grabbed the saddle and pulled himself up. His head could not recall ever riding a horse but he must have done so in the time before his months of memories, as his hands and heels remembered for him, kicking the animal into obedient action. It leapt forward and he swept through the group, bursting from the front of them like a rock from a sling. It took moments for the riders to realise he was
an enemy, giving him a bowshot of a start. His action achieved what the leaders’ shouts had not, focusing the band’s attention back on their charge through the city.
The chase was on, and he was leading them towards his own companions, but the speed was no greater than they had been moving at before and their destination was no different. They had, however, been delayed and Brann meant to delay them more.
Bending low, the horse’s hot sweat against his cheek every time its jerking head brought its neck close, he urged it on, seeing the corner approach where the big boy and the smiling one would wait. He dared not risk a glance behind for fear it may lose precious yards, but he needed no look to know they would follow with as much effort as he led.
He was upon the corner, and as he passed he screamed above the tattoo of the pounding hooves, ‘Arrows! Now!’
He directed the horse up the steps of the temple and stopped under the cover of the portico, turning now to look. The archers had served their purpose and, for a third time, confusion reigned as the larger volley suggested the horsemen had ridden into an ambush. Already, though, the effect had been gained, and a cloud of sand had been stirred into the air even quicker and thicker than before. Now was his moment and he sprinted, aching legs pounding as he followed the disappearing backs of his two comrades as they, too, swiftly made for the stables. Fortune was on his side, and the horse declined to follow him, standing with head bowed and chest heaving, more in exhaustion, he guessed, than any other reason. He grunted to himself in appreciation of his luck. The horse would give the impression he had entered the temple on foot, but only if he could make it out of sight down the side street before a single rider emerged from the maelstrom of dust when realisation dawned that no more arrows rained upon them.
Legs pounding, arms driving, sword slapping his leg, he fixed his eyes on the building corner that offered sanctuary, expecting with every pace to hear a cry of discovery. Running did not feel natural. There wasn’t much cause for it underground and he guessed that before that time he had got by on determination rather than grace of movement. More than determination drove him now, though: desperation powered his legs and he closed on safety.
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