by Sam Barone
“Tarok! Stop those men. The gate must not open.” Drakis had lost his bow, but he picked up one lying under the battlement. When he attempted to draw it, his wounded arm refused to bear the strain, and he dropped the weapon. Cursing at his own weakness, he drew his sword again.
Tarok recognized the danger. “Don’t let them open the gate. Pin those archers down,” he shouted, jerking his head toward the enemy archers in the opposite tower. Then he stood, leaned over the wall, and began firing.
He emptied his quiver, shooting his last six arrows so rapidly that Drakis could scarcely follow his movements. Ducking back down, Tarok moved to Drakis’s side.
“I drove them off, but they’ll be back.”
“Do what you can. Keep the gate closed.” His left arm was useless, but Drakis could still hold a sword. Keeping low, he crawled back toward the tower’s entrance. Enkidu and four men defended the doorway, all of them bleeding from one wound or another.
“They’re getting ready to rush us,” Enkidu said. “Any sign of help?”
Drakis had forgotten to look toward the barracks. He moved to the other wall, pulled himself up, and endeavored to focus on the lanes leading to the gate. An arrow flew past his head, but he ignored it. A plume of thick black smoke, wavering in the morning sun, trailed up into the sky from what appeared to be the barracks. That must mean Bantor had broken through the river gate and attacked. From his vantage point, Drakis could see two of the lanes that fed into the expanse behind the gate. Men ran toward the gate, but whether friend or foe, he couldn’t tell.
He went back to Enkidu’s side, kneeling next to the opening. “Men are coming, but…”
A roar went up from inside the tower, as four or five arrows flashed through the opening, miraculously striking none of the defenders. Then the Egyptians, shouting their war cries, rushed the last few steps separating them from their enemies.
Staying on his knees, Drakis used his sword, thrusting at anything that appeared on the landing. Tarok’s men, crouched over to avoid arrows from the other tower, took their time, using the last of their arrows against those attackers trying to force their way onto the battlement. Swords clashed, spears shoved and prodded, and men screamed in each other’s faces. The attackers surged toward the opening again and again, but each time they faltered. Only a few men could approach on the stairs at one time. After the third attempt, the Egyptians halted their efforts, returning to the safety of the landing to regroup.
Drakis looked about. Enkidu had taken another wound, and leaned against the battlement, trying to catch his breath. Tarok, sword in his hand, had taken his place. It took only a moment to count those able to fight. Five men remained, and only one had a bow in his hands. That one scrambled about, picking up any stray shafts that lay about.
One more attack, Drakis decided. One more rush and they’d be finished, overwhelmed. He heard the attackers gathering inside the tower, taking their time now that the Akkadians had exhausted their arrows. Suddenly Korthac’s war cry echoed eerily throughout the tower, as the Egyptians’ followers raced up the last flight of steps, and hurled themselves at the opening.
Alexar paused when he reached the main gate, studying the situation while he struggled to catch his breath. The sounds of battle echoed from the left tower, and he guessed that Drakis and his men had taken refuge in there, no doubt fighting for their lives. The expanse now held plenty of panicky men, most of them heading toward the gate itself. In a few moments, they’d have the gate open.
The right tower, only a few dozen paces away, seemed deserted except for some of Korthac’s bowmen on the battlement above. He made up his mind. Eskkar had said to keep the gate shut, and clearly Drakis didn’t have enough men.
“We’ll take the other tower. Let’s go.”
Alexar, Yavtar, and their men burst out of the lane, running at full speed toward the tower’s entrance, mixing in with the crowd of frightened villagers and bandits rushing toward the gate. Alexar never hesitated or slowed. He dashed into the tower, sword in his right hand, bow in his left.
No one challenged him, so he sprinted up the stairs, expecting resistance at each landing, but finding no one to oppose him.
At the top, he broke into full daylight, never stopping. Almost a dozen men, bows in their hands, faced away from him, searching for targets on the opposite tower. Alexar was on them before they knew he was there, dropping his bow and striking at a dark-skinned Egyptian.
At such close range, swords were more useful than bows, and he had two men down before they could react. By then Yavtar and the others were beside him, all of them hacking and shouting Eskkar’s name, making the battle cry again echo over the city. The Egyptian archers, taken by surprise and with their bows in their hands, couldn’t react fast enough.
They clutched at their swords, but by then Alexar and his seven men had joined the fight.
Pinning their opponents to the tower wall, the Akkadians wielded their swords like men possessed by demons. Two men fell screaming over the wall, to land with a loud thud just in front of the gate. In a few savage moments, Alexar’s men swept the battlement clean.
Alexar’s lungs burned with every breath. The dash up the tower steps, the furious, close-in fighting, had sapped his strength. Gathering his bow from where he’d dropped it, Alexar peered over the wall toward the other tower. He saw men struggling there, and picked out Tarok, his red hair waving, fighting with a sword. Drakis must have retreated to the top of the battlement, and the Egyptians must be about to swarm over the Akkadians.
“Men, get your bows ready. Stop those men before they slaughter Drakis.”
Alexar launched the first arrow, the shaft clearing Tarok’s head by a hand’s span, and flashing into the opening. Two more arrows snapped across the space between the towers, just as Tarok and those defending the doorway were about to be pushed aside. Alexar’s next volley stopped the assault, five men firing together, pinning two bodies in the opening. The Egyptians disappeared back into the tower’s confines.
Enkidu’s face appeared above the wall, a bloody sword in his hand.
He shouted something, and it took Alexar a moment to comprehend the words.
“Yavtar, take half the men to the other tower. Help them.”
Yavtar nodded. He and his men carried no bows, and they could do nothing more from up here.
Alexar moved to the corner of the tower, and glanced down at the gate, just in time to see the last of the huge beams that barred it shut come down. A crowd of men massed against the wide wooden strakes in their panic, for a moment the press of their own bodies the only thing keeping the gate closed.
Alexar jumped onto the battlement, directly above the gate. Placing his feet with care, he drew a shaft and picked his target. An Egyptian trying to get the mob to move back died first. A second foreigner followed, then another, this one waving a sword. At such close range, shooting straight down from less than twenty paces, Alexar could scarcely miss. He stood alone, exposed on the battlement, but no bowmen opposed him, and he kept shooting, whipping the arrows from quiver to string to his ear so fast his movements never seemed to stop. And with each twang of the bowstring, a man died or fell wounded.
Panic erupted below. Some still worked to force the gate open, but others turned and ran, desperate to escape the deadly arrows that hissed down upon them. One of Alexar’s men joined him, adding his shafts to the carnage below. Bodies lay atop one another, forming a fresh barrier to anyone striving to open the gate.
Just as he nocked his last arrow, Alexar realized he had no targets below. The mob had broken and turned back.
“Keep watch. Kill anyone that tries to get out,” Alexar ordered, then jumped down and went back to where the three archers stood, bows drawn, still waiting for targets to appear in the doorway opposite them. Across the open space, the doorway to the other tower stood empty. A man leaned on the wall, waving a red-stained sword at him. Alexar had to stare before he recognized the bloody figure of Drakis.
Before Alexar could wave his bow in reply, he heard a rush of noise from below. Moving to the tower’s edge, he leaned over and saw Bantor and more than twenty soldiers jogging into the open space, bows ready, looking for targets. Following them was a wall of men, hundreds of them, all shouting Eskkar’s name and waving whatever they could find as a weapon, filling the lanes. The inhabitants of Akkad had finally rallied in force to support their liberators. The last of Korthac’s fighters threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, crying for mercy.
Alexar laid his bow across the battlement and stared down at the sight.
The battle for the gate had ended. The soldiers and the people of Akkad once again ruled their city.
29
Bantor and ten men galloped through the main gate, heading south.
All were bone-weary after a long night without sleep, but no one complained. Every one of them had a score to settle with Ariamus, and Bantor had no trouble finding volunteers. Each man led a spare horse, and carried his bow slung across his back.
After Bantor put down the last resistance at the gate, the city had gone wild, with all the inhabitants out in the streets, cheering and praising their deliverers, and generally getting in the way. He wasted close to an hour before he fi nished searching the dead and wounded that surrounded the towers, looking for Ariamus. Bantor even spoke with the prisoners, wounded or those who surrendered, asking for Ariamus, but no one knew the whereabouts of the former captain of the guard; Ariamus had vanished, like a night demon with the coming of dawn.
When he’d learned that no one had seen Ariamus, alive or dead, Bantor knew the man would run, making his break over the wall. Little more than an hour after the last of the fi ghting, Bantor stood in Eskkar’s courtyard, surrounded by the pandemonium of rowdy soldiers and exuberant citizens celebrating their deliverance.
“He’ll head south,” Eskkar said, raising his voice over the din. “He won’t chance encountering anyone coming down the northern road, not if he’s got any of the Egyptians with him. He’ll want to cross the river as soon as he can. Take whatever men you need and go after him.”
“I’ll run him down,” Bantor said. He’d already worked through what Ariamus must be thinking, and had come to the same conclusion. Moving through the crowd, Bantor found Klexor sitting on the ground, feet sprawled out in front of him, his back against the house, and drinking wine straight from a jug.
“We’re going after Ariamus. Get nine men who can ride and meet me at the stable.”
Klexor’s eyes widened in surprise, but he put down the jug. The chance to pay back Ariamus pushed all thoughts of rest and merrymaking aside.
Bantor cursed the time wasted to round up enough horses, wrench the men away from their celebrations, and move his force through the celebrating crowds that filled the lanes.
On foot, Ariamus would head south, following the river. The land there contained many farms, and some of those farms might have a plough horse or two hidden away. Once mounted, Ariamus would disappear, eventually crossing the river to head west. He would expect pursuit, but maybe not this fast, and not supplied with extra mounts.
Once outside the city walls, the quiet sounds of the countryside returned. At first Bantor didn’t bother looking for tracks. Ariamus would have followed the endless, interconnected canals, moving slower through the water channels, but leaving no obvious trail. Instead, Bantor followed the main road south for a mile, until the farms began to spread out, before he moved his men toward the river.
At the riverbank, Bantor spread his line of men wide, looking for tracks as they moved southward, and anchoring the line at the river himself, searching the ground for any sign of a group of men entering the water. He stopped every confused and still-frightened farmer they encountered. Had anyone seen fugitives running from Akkad? Anyone missed any horses? No one had seen a band of men on foot, but the farmers all wanted to know what had happened in Akkad. Except for a brief statement that Eskkar had returned, Bantor refused to answer any questions about what had happened to Korthac and his men. All this took time, and Bantor grew more and more impatient, as he swept his men back and forth across the most likely routes.
“Bantor! This way,” Klexor shouted, his bellow covering a quarter mile of wheat and barley fields that separated the two. Bantor turned the horse and applied his heels, racing through the crops until he joined his subcommander atop a low rise.
By now they’d traveled about three miles from Akkad. Up ahead, a good-sized farm nestled in a grove of palm trees, near a broad canal that carried water from the river. Thin wisps of smoke rose from one of the three structures. Bantor saw the roof missing from one, and guessed what had happened.
He waved his bow to show his men the way. Taking care, they converged on the farmhouse, weapons at the ready; Bantor did not intend to be ambushed again. As he drew closer, Bantor saw the tracks of men for the first time, fresh mud showing where they’d come out of the canal. Approaching the farm, they saw no one, no farmer, wife, or child, not even a dog.
Bows strung and arrows nocked, they covered the last hundred paces, stopping when they reached the first body. It was a young boy, an arrow protruding from his back, shot down trying to escape to the fields. By then Bantor knew they’d find the farmhouse empty, except for the dead. He sent his men to circle the farm, looking for fresh tracks.
“Over here… men and horses going south, commander.” Klexor dismounted, dropping to his knees and studying the ground with care. “Looks like eight or ten men, but I only see tracks for two horses.”
“How long ago?”
“Not long. Maybe an hour. Less than two. They’re moving at a run, following the horses.”
Bantor thought it over. The horse trail went southwest, slightly away from the river. That meant Ariamus led the men. Only he would be crafty enough to head somewhat away from the river, knowing that boats might have already been dispatched north and south, to give warning of what had happened in Akkad and alerting every village to hunt down any escaping fugitives. So Ariamus would be riding one of those horses, and probably leading these fugitives; if there were any Egyptians among them, they would need someone who knew the land.
“Follow their trail, Klexor,” Bantor said.
They watered the horses at the canal, then resumed the pursuit, following the recent tracks. These renegades, desperate for horses, food, and weapons, would kill anyone in their path. If they managed to pick up more horses, the whole lot might scatter, and Ariamus might yet escape.
Bantor set the pace at a strong canter, his men spread out, with a clear trail to follow. The sun marched across the sky as morning prepared to give way to noon. They pushed the horses hard, changing mounts often, but always studying the land to make sure they didn’t ride into an ambush.
The tracks grew fresher. Bantor looked up at the sun. They’d have them all by early afternoon, he decided.
“Fresh tracks here,” Klexor said, halting the men and again dismounting to study the ground. His fingers traced the hoofprint in the dirt, getting the feel of the dirt as it hardened. “They’re not far ahead now.”
They rode on, passing fewer farms as they moved farther away from the river. The land became brown, the grasses sparse, with more rocks and gullies to slow them down. But the hoofprints and sandal tracks grew fresher with every stride, and Klexor no longer needed to dismount to read its message. They rode until the horses needed changing, then rested while Bantor talked to the men.
“When we catch up with them, I’ll take Naram-tanni and go after Ariamus and whoever’s riding the other horse.” Naram-tanni shot an excellent shaft. Bantor figured that would be all the help he needed. “Klexor, you take charge of the rest of the men. Kill all the Egyptians.”
Not long afterward, Bantor and his soldiers crested a hill and saw the enemy more than a mile away, walking now, heads down with fatigue, plodding a hundred paces behind two horsemen. Bantor grunted in satisfaction.
He kept to a steady pace, not
pushing the horses, waiting until they’d been spotted, and using the time to study his quarry. As far as he could tell, only two of the fugitives carried bows, and both bowmen were on foot.
The Akkadians closed the distance to less than a mile before anyone turned around to spot them. The fugitives broke into a run, while the two horsemen, after watching for a moment, put their horses to a gallop.
Bantor held his men to a trot, and the gap between the two groups briefly widened. But the men on foot couldn’t keep up the pace, and the group began to straggle out, as the weaker men trailed behind the stronger.
Bantor grunted in satisfaction. He’d learned that Alur Meriki tactic from Eskkar. If he’d rushed down on the men at first sight, they’d have banded together to resist. If they thought they could get away, they’d keep running, exhausting themselves at the same time fear gnawed at their insides.
Bantor’s men spread out into a wide line that stretched a hundred paces across. The hindmost of the fugitives ahead of them stumbled and fell. He got to his feet and staggered on, but couldn’t keep up the pace. He turned to face his pursuers, sword in hand.
Bantor’s horsemen closed in. Their larger bows couldn’t be used effectively from horseback, but they could still be drawn, though not fully extended or aimed accurately. Nevertheless, at such short range, it didn’t matter. A hail of arrows flew at Korthac’s man, and he went down, his body riddled with shafts.
Another straggler died the same way. By then the Egyptians realized they couldn’t escape. The last six stopped and turned to face their enemy.
“Finish them, Klexor,” Bantor shouted. Then he and Naram-tanni, each still leading an extra horse, swung wide around the fugitives and galloped on.