Flanking these weapons of destruction, the infantry marched; garbed in skins and the rough-hewn cloths of the north, they trampled forward, shields and spears in their hands, swords and throwing axes dangling from their waists. Behind them, three, four, and five ranks deep, stood the archers, each one a veteran of many long years of battle and conquest, now eyeing the fabulous city of Samarkand with growing lust. From the nearby heights, where the main camp of Kabul’s army waited, the mounted troops of his legions soothed their restless steeds. Shaven-headed, ears and fingers bejeweled with riches stolen from a dozen different raped kingdoms, they too bided their time, awaiting the signal for the charge, the moment they had waited for since crossing the river so many weeks before. The prize of prizes was within their grasp: the city renowned for its wealth and power, its fame and glory, as much as for its beautiful women — Samarkand, now weakened and divided, as ripe for the taking as a pearl from an oyster. The mighty khan of Huns knew that everything he had ever desired was within his grasp. He would not surround the city; he would storm it, and issue such destruction and bloodshed that the world would shudder and remember for a thousand years to come. His troops would revel for weeks amid the spoils that waited. The people of the city would provide an army of slaves such as other kings could only dream of, while he, Kabul, would forge his dynasty. Nothing could stop him now.
Part Two - The Sands of the Prophecy
Chapter Six
Dawn came pale from the eastern horizon. As the light grew brighter, it filtered softly between the yellow and still budding leaves of the thick forests circumventing the city. It was the warm sun of a late spring day that was shining; flocks of tiny birds soared high amid the soft clouds wisping by; the grasses of the fields swayed deeply with the tender breeze blowing down from the faraway mountains. This was a perfect morning, a day for strolling lovers, for ballad singers and poets to gain inspiration for their verse, for young children to romp playfully among the flocks and herds of the countryside. But this day saw none of these things. Instead, there was only the grim shadow of war spreading across the land like a blanket, the groan of machines swinging into place, the anxious blare of bugles signaling the commencement of attack.
No later than the crack of dawn had the drums begun to pound a steady beat — boom-boom, boom-boom — a slow, irritating cadence to which the fearsome Hun army moved. Trampling the grass, uttering fierce and frenzied war cries, they came, wave after wave of untold numbers swarming like locusts until they obliterated all. Hun commanders, shirtless, long-haired and bearded, rode their horses expertly to and fro among the ranks, swords gleaming in the sunlight as they barked directives and deployed their armies to full advantage.
The sound of trumpets blasted throughout Samarkand, heralding the moment of combat. By the hundreds her soldiers mustered from their barracks and drill fields, clambering with all haste up the stone steps to the turrets and the towers and the crenellated walls. They took to their positions, scarlet and silver cloaks rustling, bronze breastplates rattling, plumes of their helmets blowing with the wind, and gazed down in awe and respect at the full magnitude of the enemy they faced. From hill to hill and field to field they came, these tens of thousands of battle-hardened barbarians, black banners of Kabul clinging to spears and spikes alike, raised proudly in the glimmering light, tilted toward the walls of the once feared city. The host moved in steady rhythm, paving way for no man or beast as they lifted their shields from the glare and readied to block the downpour of arrows already being mounted against them.
And on came the mighty war machines; siege towers rolled across the flat, sun-baked soil, pulled by teams of rugged oxen eighty and one hundred strong. Taskmasters took to the whips, urging the oxen forward as they slashed their straps through the hot air. The beasts grunted and pressed on, cajoled and spurred by the sweaty skinners. Ballistas and mangonels were set in rows, dozens of them strategically placed before the gates and towers, missiles stockpiled beside them endlessly, grim operators ready to load and let loose the flying torrent.
From the walls, the captains of Samarkand issued terse commands to their anxious troops. With the sun in their eyes, they looked on and waited, listening with concern as the war cries grew louder and the enemy prepared to rush. From the low, grassy hills in the east the cavalry charged, three thousand horsemen tearing onto the plain, horses kicking up dirt behind, sending up swirling clouds of thick dust that all but covered their advance.
Surrounded by key aides and commanders, Amrath stood stoically at his place in the highest watchtower, peering down at the moving forces as though they were an army of ants. He looked impressive in his emblazoned robe of amber, scarlet sash around his waist, from which a small curved dagger hung loosely in its metal sheath.
Glumly the aide closest to him pressed his elbow and said, “My lord, we are ready for your signal.”
Amrath nodded somberly. For a moment he toyed with the notion of sending for the emir — after all, the liege of Samarkand had both the duty and the right to be here now — but then the graying noble shook his head. The emir cringed in his rooms, kept company only by his toys and his favorite whores. Even as the empire faced final disaster he would not leave, would not face the reality before them. Bitterly Amrath clenched his teeth and said, “I’m ready, Commander. Give the signal now.”
The burly soldier bowed and turned. Cupping his hands around his bearded mouth, he called to the battlements below. The cry was repeated by lower ranked officers, and within moments the trumpets were blaring once more, this time issuing the call for the defense to begin.
Thousands of long-shafted arrows sailed high over the walls, whistling down in a steady rain as they fell upon the first charging ranks of the Huns. There were screams as the barbarians fell, dozens of them at a time, quickly trampled underfoot by comrades behind. Shrieking at the top of their lungs, brandishing weapons and calling the name of their foul god Ulat, they pressed on, oblivious to anything in their way. The cavalry came roaring over the plain, thundering in splendid array, just as the deadly engines sprang into action.
Weighted javelins sang from the ballistas, surging forth like great, terrible rockets. One after another slammed against the walls high and low, many falling well behind into the city proper, where they crashed into homes and pavilions, causing widespread damage. Panic-stricken citizens foolishly bolted from the safety of their homes and ran amok, wildly screaming and wringing their hands while the battle raged all around.
Javelins ripped into towers, shredding hastily built barricades along the walls and setting ablaze wooden fortifications. Then, with even more tremendous impact, sailed the boulders, the rocks clumsily released by the spoonlike arms of the mangonels. Again and again they struck, wreaking devastation across the length of the city’s defenses. Mammoth boulders smashed and crumbled masonry that had withstood the elements for centuries.
A fearful direct hit tore asunder the highest fortified tower set at the edge of the western wall, almost directly above the main gate. While hundreds of Huns came groaning forward with weighty battering rams, a flying debris of thousands of pieces of the shattered tower rained through the air, mangled men caught by surprise, with no chance even to scream as they were literally catapulted from their positions and sent hurtling like rag dolls in every direction.
“To the gate!” cried Amrath, shaken at the ferocity of the fight and the speed with which the Huns had come so far so fast.
The commanders concentrated their firepower, directing a barrage against the battering rams, while others set flame to the vats of pitch. Over the side the liquid was poured, black and fiery, spilling below like a mountainous wave. Those beneath the downpour looked up in terror. Throwing down weapons and shields, they ran like madmen to elude the burning tar. For many, though, flight was too little too late; with furs and protective armor blazing, they staggered and fell blindly, tumbling on top of one another in grisly acrobatics, wailing and moaning as flesh burned, turning their bodies int
o human torches.
The earth itself smoldered, then caught. Fanned by the wind, it was not long before the flames had carried to the fields and tinder-dry grasses of the plain. The cavalry was forced to turn and charge back for the hills, while all around, horses reared and whinnied in fear, incredible billows of thick, black, nauseating smoke from the pitch lifting high into the sky in terrible fumes.
But there was little cause to cheer among the defenders of Samarkand. Amrath left his post and ran down the parapet at the frantic request of one of his most trusted aides.
“My lord, look!” cried the soldier, his twisted face blackened by smoke.
It was a sight no man would ever forget. Even amid the rage of heightened battle, the siege towers still rumbled forward, inching forward in a straight line one by one, fresh archers and swordsmen boldly standing upon the wide platforms, eagerly waiting to reach the walls and rush over into the fray.
Amrath mopped a worried brow. “They must be stopped!”
Ranks of city archers were called from other posts and formed into two lines along the broadest of the walls. There they lit their own arrows and, on command of their captains, strung a line of flying fire against the approaching towers. Many were set ablaze. Huns scrambled down, climbing as fast as their hands and feet could carry them; others, balls of flame dizzily dancing about them, chose to jump instead. As they did, other archers aimed at the human targets, catching many midflight, causing them to parody new dances in the air as their limbs gushed forth blood, splattering the earth before they hit.
The war cries were growing louder, more intense. Although hundreds upon hundreds of Kabul’s finest troops lay lifelessly scattered everywhere before the walls, there were still more charging barbarians than could possibly be counted. The blazing pitch had not deterred them, nor had the raging fires or even the unrelenting rain of arrows that pounded in wave after wave in never-ending succession.
The soldiers of Samarkand released their own catapults. Rocks tumbled through the air speedily, landing below with mighty thuds, breaking the backs of scores of attackers at a time. As the cries of the dying and wounded rose to a deafening pitch, the first of the battering rams reached the gate. Back it swung, then forward, slamming against the solid oak and iron braces, chains lumbering, carriers falling left and right as more pitch and boiling water was thrown from the heights. Scalded, flesh turned purple and black, many staggered and dropped, only to be replaced by more and more scrambling men seemingly coming from nowhere.
“The south gate has been breached!” came an anxious call from behind. Amrath, his eyes smarting from the smoke, turned to find a panting runner sweeping before him. “Sire, we need reinforcements,” the youth pleaded. “The enemy has broken our first line; the wall has been smashed. We were forced to retreat.”
Amrath swung around and arched as far over the parapet as he could. Directly below, the assault on the main gate was continuing as before, but well beyond it, near the curve of the city wall, he could plainly see cohorts of barbarians swarming through a gaping hole that had once been the city’s second most important entrance. Soldiers, tunics bloodied, lay piled in heaps where they fell in stout but futile defense. And the Huns, taking full advantage of their one major breakthrough, were diverting more forces from behind to swell the ranks of those already broken through.
Missiles whistled centimeters from Amrath’s head; he bravely faced them and made a quick count. By his estimation, enemy forces were entering inside the city at the rate of no less than one hundred a minute. Given just a little more time and free rein, this breach would signal the doom they had all feared, long before this morning was out.
“Every other man to the breach!” he barked.
His generals complied, but the unmasked worry in their eyes told him of the desperation of the situation. Each defender taken from his post meant that much less defense of other, still well-fortified positions.
While the battle to block the advance through the broken gate continued with renewed fury, the first of the siege towers reached the wall. Shouts of victory poured from the throaty barbarians. They swung out from the platforms, many falling at the initial barrage of arrows, and pressed along the walls in hand-to-hand combat. Burly Huns, curved swords held high, moved a wheel of death, pushing back the weary defenders, slashing out viciously and toppling them from the walls. Samarkand’s troops held ground as best they could; but no sooner had they managed to somehow halt one thrust than from behind came another. More and more towers, some badly burning, were rolled into position against the walls. The Huns clambered over comrades and enemies alike, boots squeaking in pools of dark blood that stained the entire length of the walls.
Iron balls slammed helter-skelter, poking more and more holes in the defensive structure. Fire arrows darted into the thick of sweaty bodies. Hun archers kneeled in lines, shooting freely, not caring that they were now hitting as many of their own men as the enemy. Another catapult sounded; this time a major tower beside the main gate was squarely hit. Its masonry erupted outward with tremendous force, those within sent reeling backward, smashed against solid rock. The air howled with the sounds of the javelins and boulders and iron balls. Direct hits upon the populated centers of the city sent women screaming through the streets, sheltering their infants as roofs collapsed on top of them, walls crumbled, and raging fires consumed house after house, streets and markets and mosques.
Sensing quicker victory than they had expected, the sons of Kabul came riding through the breach, sword arms held forward, blades pointed in one direction only — the palace itself.
Wounded soldiers were trampled underfoot by the bold steeds as they vainly tried to stop the charge, but it was a useless gesture; the cavalry, rerouted well away from the burning fields, had circumvented the strongest positions entirely and come surging through the open gaps. Citizens recoiled in horror at the sight, dashing for some unknown protection as the Huns recklessly cut them down, giving no thought to the innocent.
Against his will, Amrath was dragged from the fiery watchtower and, surrounded by aides, pulled away from the wall to the last bastion of Samarkand’s strength. Down to the inner wall they escaped, barbarian axes flying all about. There a pitiful remnant of the proud army stood fending off wave after wave of rushing Huns. The main gate gave, its doors sent hurtling off their hinges. Like the wind came a thousand Huns, bloodstained and grimy, eyes crazed, minds bent on plunder and rape.
“The palace,” rasped Amrath, yanking the sleeve of the nearest commander, “we must defend the palace.”
The soldier grimaced with the pain of his wounds and looked at the brave noble evenly. “We cannot, my lord. Even were we to try and force our way —”
In his anguish and frustration, Amrath pulled away from the wounded commander and jumped to the steps of the battle-scarred parapet, pulling out his dagger. In his mind he had one thought and one thought only: to somehow make his way to the palace and save his daughter.
With a wild scream, cleaving an ax, a broad-shouldered, hirsute barbarian tore down from the top of the wall. Amrath dodged his flying blade barely in time; the tip of the ax grazed his ribs. Paying no heed to the deep crimson stain spreading over his garments, he plunged his dagger with an upward thrust into the attacker’s heart. As the Hun pirouetted and doubled over, the valiant lord bolted down the bloodstained slippery steps and made his way to the open street.
Everywhere was mayhem as he fought a path to reach the smoke-filled Square of the Prophet. Hun cavalry came charging by, mindless of his presence. Thin white billows were rising from the temple dome, and he realized that the enemy had already taken the square as a first position in storming the palace. With a sinking heart filled with grief, he knew that the assault upon the solid walls of Samarkand’s heart would begin any moment. There was so little time for him to get there first …
He whisked around, falling flat to his stomach as a sword-wielding horseman cut a low swathe with his blade, missing him by inches.
Amrath rose slowly to his knees, then to his feet. Screams were filling his ears as he dumbly pressed forward, vowing that while a single breath yet remained in his pain-wracked body he would continue on, face whatever was necessary to reach Sharon and save her.
Corpses of women lay coiled at his feet, butchered after they had been raped. Through the smoke and haze he could see crying children bending over their mothers’ remains, and old men, noncombatants but useless to the Huns, lying spread-eagle on the cobblestones, faces twisted in gruesome death masks, hatchets and snubbed arrows protruding from their backs. Bloodied and ragged citizens ran amok mindlessly, calling out pitifully as they dashed between the flames and advancing troops. It was an awful sight, the worst Amrath had ever seen. With a sigh of despair he blotted all these atrocities from conscious thought as he stumbled forward, the pain in his side growing worse.
A handful of slain palace soldiers lay before him; he gagged at the sight of their slit bellies and decapitated heads. One he recognized, a youth conscripted into service by Hezekiah, the son of a longtime court ally and friend. Amrath wept openly, wondering why God had decided to take such terrible revenge upon Samarkand. What sins had been so shamefully committed that the once glorious empire should be reduced to such waste and rubble?
From a distant roof, a hidden Hun archer raised his bow and fired. When the arrow hit its mark, Amrath froze. A burning sensation crawled from the back of his neck and down to his legs. He could not move; paralyzed he stood, hands feebly reaching to pull out the dart embedded in his spinal cord. The dagger dropped from his grasp and tumbled hollowly to the ground. He still did not seem to know what had happened; he tried to move forward but found the world spinning dizzily around him. His eyes frantically searched for the dome, the golden dome of the magnificent temple that rivaled the holy one of Mecca. Double images danced before him as he slid to the ground.
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 7