Empire Rising es-2

by Sam Barone

  “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.

  28

  Hathor and his Egyptians had finally gained control of the mob milling about the main gate. A handful of the cursed Akkadian archers had slipped into the city and captured the left tower, but his men still held the right. They reported no activity in the countryside outside the gate, no horde of fighters waiting for the gate to be flung open. Once again, Takany had chosen an unwise course of action. For a moment Hathor felt tempted to take his men and return to Korthac’s house, but that would have provoked Takany beyond all reason. Better to fi nish the business here and then return, with the gate safe and under Hathor’s control.

  He had a rough count of the enemy who’d taken refuge in the tower, and knew he faced less than twenty men. Now Hathor needed to come to grips with them, to kill these intruders before the city turned against him.

  He didn’t have much time. Eskkar’s name sounded everywhere around him, growing louder every minute as more and more people of Akkad took up the cry. Dawn ha
d broken over the city’s walls, exposing the full extent of the carnage at the gate. Bodies littered the open area, most with arrows protruding. Wounded men cried out for help, or tried to crawl to nearby houses seeking safety.

  Hathor didn’t know how Korthac had lost control of the city so quickly. No word had come from Nebibi, who’d slept at the barracks, or from Takany, since he’d ordered Hathor to the gate. He’d dispatched two runners, one to the barracks and one back to Korthac’s house, but neither had returned and Hathor had no idea whether Korthac’s men remained in control at either location. Not that it mattered. Right now, and for his own protection, Hathor needed to retake the gate from these Akkadians.

  He had more than enough men, but the longer Eskkar’s men could hold Hathor at bay, the greater the danger to all of them.

  One loud voice kept bellowing out Eskkar’s name as a battle cry from the tower’s top, the man’s powerful lungs sending the name over half the city. The booming voice rattled his men, another evil omen that weakened their nerve. Hathor knew it wouldn’t be long before all these cursed Akkadians rose up against them. If he failed to destroy these men in the next few moments, he, Korthac, all of them, might be overwhelmed by the city’s enraged citizens. The last thing Hathor wanted was to be trapped inside Akkad.

  Reinforcements kept arriving, swelling the number of fighters under his command. That would have reassured him, until Hathor discovered most of them had fled from fighting elsewhere. Apparently battles had been fought at the barracks as well as at Korthac’s house. Hathor swore briefly at this demon Eskkar, and wondered how he and so many men had sneaked into the city.

  Nevertheless, Hathor’s veterans gathered all of Korthac’s remaining followers who arrived, forced them to stand ready, and ordered them to obey his commands. Hathor, striding up and down before them, promised to kill any man who started to flee or who refused to fight. Already he had more than fifty men, half of them carrying bows, and the number continued to grow.

  “We must recapture the tower,” he called out in the language of Akkad. “From there we’ll control the city.” In Egyptian, he gave different orders. “Drive the cowards toward the gate. Let them take the arrows. Then we’ll force the doorway.” He still had men in the other tower, and they would add their efforts to his.

  Hathor took one last look. He had enough men, and his own bowmen would at least keep the archers atop the tower pinned down. The sun’s rays bathed the towers in a golden light. He gave the order, and, with a shout, they charged around the corner, everyone racing as fast as they could across the killing ground. Men fell, struck down by arrows, but only a few, and Hathor’s fighters surged across the open space, calling out Korthac’s name. The battle for the gates of Akkad had begun.

  Drakis swore when he saw them coming, a horde of armed men that vastly outnumbered his force. At least the waiting had ended. His archers’ arrows flashed out over the cart. Behind him, Enkidu waited on the first landing, with four archers standing single file on the steps below him, hugging the wall. If the Egyptians forced the opening, Drakis planned to retreat up the stairs fighting every step of the way, using bowmen to cover his retreat. They’d make their last stand atop the tower, where they could still control the gate.

  The enemy surged across the open space and succeeded in reaching the base of the tower, ignoring their losses. The wagon shuddered in the opening, as the first of the attackers reached it, bodies slamming against its sides. Arrows flew, spear points flashed in the ever-growing sunrise, and wood creaked as a dozen of Korthac’s men made every effort to muscle the wagon aside. But the thick wheel filled the entryway, and the strakes that braced it held fast. A spear hurtled through the opening, and one of Drakis’s men screamed as the weapon took him in the chest.

  Another Akkadian wrenched the spear from the dying man, and flung the weapon back through the opening. The archers fired at any target-exposed faces, hands that tried to push the wagon aside, even their enemy’s legs. But more took the place of those that fell wounded or dying, and Drakis realized that the barrier wouldn’t keep them out much longer.

  The wagon moved, stopped, and moved again. Drakis heard wood snapping, and knew the men outside were tearing the wagon to shreds with their bare hands, using force of numbers to pry it loose. The smell of blood rose up in the confi ned space, mixed with the heavy breath of men shouting and cursing at their enemies. The Akkadians shot at anything that moved, any target they could see, killing shots at such close range. But despite the havoc his archers inflicted, another man always took the place of those who died.

  With a lurch, the clumsy cart shifted. A moment later, the last brace tore loose, and the rear of the cart wagon lurched a pace forward, dragged away from the opening with a loud screech of wood on wood. For a moment, that gave his archers better targets, and even as the opening grew wider, they poured arrows into the crowd of men outside, snapping shafts into their ranks.

  Drakis had no idea how many they killed, but the attackers began to waver. Shouting encouragement at his men, he urged them to hold the barrier, even as he plied his bow, shooting at any target that offered itself.

  But by now Hathor’s bowmen had reached the base of the tower. More than anyone, they understood that safety lay in forcing the entrance. They began shooting shafts through every opening.

  The man beside Drakis dropped without a sound, an arrow through his eye. Drakis stepped up into the breach and shot three arrows as fast as he could. A scream of pain rewarded him, and he kept firing, shooting at anything he could see, an arm, a leg, even a sword. He had to hold these men off, drive them back, hold until relieved. Nevertheless, half his men had fallen or taken wounds, those unable to draw a bow moving up the stairs to safety.

  With a loud cracking sound, the wagon lurched away from the tower, and daylight filled the opening. Arrows from the stairs held them for a moment, but the attackers, driven from behind by Hathor, had taken on a blood rage of their own. They pressed forward into the doorway, climbing over the bodies of their own dead. Drakis shot his last arrow, then dropped his bow and drew his sword.

  “Fall back,” he shouted and struck aside a spear thrust toward him.

  “Fall back.”

  Swinging the sword like a madman, knocking away spears and swords, Drakis retreated slowly, found the first step with his heel, and started climbing upward. For a moment, Enkidu’s archers, farther up the steps, held the enemy back, but then an arrow flashed into the tower, and an Akkadian archer fell off the steps, groaning from his wound.

  To his dismay, Drakis realized the situation had worsened. The sun rays now reached the tower’s arrow slits, illuminating the interior. From the cover of the doorway, the enemy archers could fire at his men, exposed on the steps. They’d be picked off one by one if they continued to fight like this.

  “Up the stairs. Everyone up the stairs.”

  Two arrows struck him as he continued to back up the steps, one graz-ing his ribs and the other ripping into his left arm just above the elbow. He stumbled and would have fallen off the steps, but Enkidu reached down and grabbed him. They scrambled up the steps to the second landing, out of sight of the doorway for a moment. Cursing at his wound and shaking off weakness, Drakis kept his feet moving upward. He heard Enkidu directing the men, telling them to form another line, even as his subcommander pushed him up the steps.

  “Get to the top,” Enkidu shouted. “See what’s happening there. I’ll hold them here.”

  Wincing with pain, Drakis climbed the steps, practically falling as he reached the battlement atop the tower. The sun had cleared the horizon, and the blue sky shimmered in the morning air. The fresh scent of the morning river washed over him, driving the stench of blood away for a moment. He slipped to his knees, and leaned back against the wall.

  “Sit still,” Tarok said, kneeling beside him while he took a quick look at the arrow protruding from Drakis’s arm. “It’s in the bone. Stay here and I’ll bandage…”

  “Rip it out,�
�� Drakis ordered, his eyes shut tight against the pain washing over him. He opened them, and stared at Tarok’s sweating face, a hand’s breadth from his own. “Rip it out now.”

  Tarok didn’t argue. With a grunt, he put his knee against Drakis’s shoulder, then took the wounded arm in one hand and pushed it against the wall. Tarok grasped the arrow with his other hand. Drakis flinched when Tarok gripped the shaft, but before the pain could mount, Tarok twisted the arrow and yanked on it with all his strength. A wave of agony shut out the sunlight, and Drakis couldn’t hold back the moan of anguish that forced itself from his lips. But the bloody shaft came free, bits of flesh still clinging to the arrowhead.

  “Still good,” Tarok said, tossing the arrow toward the archers behind him. “Don’t move. I’ve got to bind it up, or you’ll bleed to death.” Using his knife, Tarok cut open Drakis’s tunic, tore a long strip from it, and used it to bandage the wounded arm, stretching the cloth tight to stop the bleeding.

  Drakis blacked out for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, Tarok had gone, and Enkidu, blood streaming from his leg, had backed the men into the opening at the top of the battlement. Drakis struggled to his knees, found his sword, and crawled beside Enkidu. One man had found a shield, and they used that to cover themselves as they dared quick looks down the steps.

  “We’re killing them,” Enkidu said. “The stairs are covered with bodies, but they keep coming. These Egyptians know how to fight. How goes it up here?”

  Drakis glanced about him for the first time. “I don’t know. Can you hold…”

  “I’ll hold them. See if help’s coming.”

  Tarok, his red hair glinting in the sunlight, had returned to his men.

  Drakis saw that less than half of his original force remained, and most of those had taken wounds. Using his good hand on the top of the battlement, he pulled himself over the rough surface toward the archers still facing the other tower. A loud booming noise told him something had just struck the gate, shivering the massive wood logs. Risking a look over the wall, Drakis saw a half-dozen men trying to unbar the gate.