Eskkar Saga 02 - Empire Rising

by Sam Barone

  “Wake up, master,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “It’s almost dawn.”

  Startled, he lifted his head, but her hand, still holding him fast, kept him from rising.

  “What . . . En-hedu . . .” He sighed in contentment and let his head fall back on the bed.

  She tightened her grip, and began moving her hand up and down.

  Since she’d saved his life that day when Korthac took over, her feelings for him had changed, grown even deeper and stronger. Now she wanted to please him, care for him, keep him as close as possible. She still felt the wonder at his gentleness, and she’d grown bolder and bolder each time they made love. Unlike her former master, Tammuz felt different, tasted different. What had been degrading before had turned into something as exciting as it was pleasurable.

  After a few days of lovemaking, she found herself so moist that her juices ran down her thigh. Now she squeezed him again, then leaned over him, pushing the blanket away. She kissed his erection, brushing it with her lips before taking him in her mouth. The sounds he made when she did that always excited her, and she thrilled at her power over him, at his need for her touch and her body. This morning would be special, she decided, and she felt herself growing excited in anticipation.

  Suddenly she stopped, and sat up in the bed. “What was that?”

  “What? Nothing . . . nothing . . . don’t stop . . .”

  “No, it’s something,” she insisted, letting go of Tammuz. “Men shouting . . .” The noise came again, louder this time.

  Tammuz sat up, pushing the blanket to the floor, both of them now clearly hearing a clamor of men, followed by the blare of a distant trumpet sounding its alarm.

  Overhead, they heard Gatus moving about, and knew he’d heard the same sounds. Tammuz swung his legs down and moved away from the bed.

  “Gatus,” he called out softly toward the loft, “what is it?”

  She heard the ladder creak, then the stars disappeared as the soldier’s bulk blocked the opening for a moment, before Gatus descended the ladder into their room.

  “Fighting,” Gatus said, as he stepped from the final rung. “Men fighting near the barracks. I heard some calling Eskkar’s name.”

  That name had not been spoken aloud in days, not since Korthac’s bloody edict.

  By the time Gatus reached their midst, En-hedu had risen from the bed. Fumbling in the darkness, she found the knife Tammuz had given her.

  The thin copper blade, sheathed in soft leather, fitted to a belt she fastened around her body, just under her breasts. Then she pulled her dress over her head. If she walked with her arms crossed, the knife was well concealed.

  “Can he have returned so soon?” Tammuz asked, slipping on his tunic and taking up his own blade.

  Gatus laughed as he bent down and fastened his sandals. “Eskkar knows how to move fast when he has to. No one else could rouse these cowards. He must have been on his way here when word reached him.”

  “Korthac has men watching the roads,” En-hedu said. “They would have sent warning.”

  “Eskkar could have slipped by them,” Gatus grunted. “He knows the countryside better than anyone . . . as long as he’s here, it doesn’t matter how. It’s time to fight. I’m heading toward the barracks. You two stay here.”

  He opened the door to the common room and moved rapidly to the alehouse entrance.

  “Not likely,” Tammuz said behind the old soldier’s back, already lacing on his own sandals.

  En-hedu helped Tammuz fasten his belt around his waist. By the time Tammuz and En-hedu left their room, half the sleepers had departed, awakened by the steadily rising sounds of battle that nearly masked the shouts of Eskkar’s name. Only the drunks remained, still in their stupor from too much ale. Outside, several of Tammuz’s customers stood beside the alehouse door, asking each other what all the commotion was about and talking excitedly to anyone who would listen.

  “Where shall we go?” En-hedu brushed against Tammuz as they stood in the doorway.

  “To Trella’s house. We may be of some help there. You should stay . . .”

  “I’m going with you,” En-hedu said. She knew Tammuz didn’t want her to come, but they’d already discussed that before. Wherever he went, she was determined to be at his side. Without another word, she pushed past him and began walking down the lane, heading toward Lady Trella’s house.

  “Any of you rogues want to fight, follow me,” Tammuz called out over his shoulder, as he followed after his woman.

  Dawn would be upon them soon, En-hedu realized, looking at the fading stars overhead. All around them she heard the sounds of people jabbering to each other, asking what was happening, what they should do.

  Over all the noise, they heard the sound of people cheering and shouting Eskkar’s name, and the occasional clash of weapons.

  Tammuz caught up with En-hedu, taking the lead and weaving his way through the growing crowd. Three of Korthac’s men burst out of an alehouse in front of them, and stumbled down the lane, heading in the same direction. The lane soon crossed another, and the first man turned left, toward the barracks. To the right lay the way to Eskkar’s house.

  She watched in horror as Tammuz put on a burst of speed, overtook the last of the three, and plunged his knife into the man’s back. Without pausing, Tammuz turned to the right, leaving the wounded man stumbling along for a few paces before he fell to the earth, crying out in pain. His two companions, disappearing into the darkness, never even noticed.

  En-hedu ran as fast as she could, and managed to keep on Tammuz’s heels. Together they turned into the lane, to see Eskkar’s house just ahead.

  Tammuz stopped suddenly. The street was filled with Korthac’s men, most of them Egyptians, roused from the nearby houses where they’d been housed. She watched them rush into Eskkar’s courtyard, and the sounds of fighting and men shouting rang out over the walls.

  She caught Tammuz by the arm and held him with all her strength.

  “You can’t. There are too many of them.” She felt frightened that he would rush headlong against them, his knife useless against so many swords.

  “I see them,” he said with a curse. “Let’s go back.”

  They turned and retraced their steps down the lane, away from the house. Overhead, the stars were winking out, as the first rays of true dawn began to break above them. Men milled about, and she saw two more of the invaders, swords in their hands, pushing their way through the crowd, heading toward Eskkar’s.

  “Stay behind me,” Tammuz ordered.

  En-hedu reached inside her dress, pulled the knife from its scabbard, and held it against her thigh. She felt her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

  Tammuz shrank against the wall as the first of Korthac’s men ran past, but pushed himself out into the lane, into the second man’s path. Before the cursing Egyptian could shove Tammuz aside or raise his sword, Tammuz’s knife flashed upward into the man’s stomach, penetrating just under the rib cage. The man grunted, as much in surprise as pain at the unexpected blow. Before the man slid to the ground, Tammuz had already slipped beyond him, rushing down the lane, En-hedu at his side, looking back over her shoulder to make sure no one followed.

  They found an open doorway and stepped within, watching the crowd move back and forth, everyone shouting and asking each other what to do.

  Sounds of fighting increased, and En-hedu realized the noise was coming from several different directions.

  Then she heard furious voices shouting in Egyptian, and she peered out to see a band of men moving down the lane, heading toward the gate.

  She recognized Hathor’s voice rising above the din. The man’s speech seemed calm and controlled despite the chaos, as he gave orders and pushed the men along.

  “Someone is ordering them toward the gate,” she said.

  “There must be fighting there as well.” They crouched down as the force of invaders pushed by their doorway, breathing hard, cursing and yelling at each other
. Before they could do anything, another half-dozen or so men ran past, following the first group and heading to the gate.

  Tammuz pulled his hand free, and En-hedu knew what he planned.

  When the last of Korthac’s men passed by, Tammuz slipped out behind the straggler, caught up with him in three strides, and struck him down.

  With enough light to see now, and to her horror, she realized more foreigners were still coming. Tammuz saw the first one, who shouted out in Egyptian as he raised his sword and struck.

  Tammuz ducked away from the blow, took another step back, and when the man moved toward him, raising his sword with a shout, Tammuz lunged forward with a blur of motion, extending his right arm and burying the knife into the man’s chest. The man cried out in pain, as the sword fell from his grasp, Tammuz’s knife striking true beneath the breastbone.

  But the mortally wounded man collapsed forward, his momentum taking him into Tammuz, and knocking her master backward to the ground.

  En-hedu heard the crunch as Tammuz’s head struck against the base of the wall as he landed, stunned, with the dead or dying man’s body nearly covering him.

  Two more Egyptians ran up, one shouting something incomprehensible to the other. One swerved around his fallen comrades and kept going.

  She saw Tammuz, dazed, trying to push the dead man off his chest with his one good hand. The second Egyptian raised his sword as Tammuz, still clutching his knife, struggled to free himself from beneath the body. The collision with the mud wall had stunned him, and the knife slipped from his trembling fingers.

  En-hedu screamed as she jumped forward, raising her knife. The man saw her and dodged aside. He swung around, the sword cutting toward her head. She threw herself beneath it, rolling in the dirt and landing beside Tammuz, losing her grip on her own knife in the process. She twisted to her knees and threw herself across Tammuz, getting between him and the Egyptian. He would have to kill her first. She reached for the knife she’d dropped, but fumbled with the hilt, her eyes locked in horror on the man above her, watching as the sword swung down toward her head.

  Chapter 25

  As Grond raced up the stairs, he heard the clash of swords and the sounds of fighting rising from the upper room. He’d killed two men on the lower floor, wasting precious time as his captain disappeared up the stairs. Luckily, he didn’t encounter any more guards. Now reaching the top of the landing, Grond found the door nearly closed, but ajar.

  Just as he reached for it, the door flew open, jerked wide by someone within. Before Grond could react, a body slammed into him, knocking him backward onto the landing. To keep from falling off, Grond grappled with the man, who struggled with surprising strength, dropping underneath Grond’s arms and trying to push him off the landing and break free at the same time.

  Grunting, Grond dropped his sword, unable to use it effectively, and wrapped both arms around the man. They spun around, perilously close to the landing’s edge, each man trying to twist free, neither able to use a weapon. Behind him, Grond heard footsteps on the stairs and men shouting in Egyptian. Enemy soldiers must have gotten past Mitrac and entered into the house. Grond redoubled his efforts to break free.

  Instead his foot tripped on something and he fell to his knees. His attacker broke his grip and lurched toward the stairs. Grond flung himself at the man, caught his arm, and jerked him back, wrapping an arm about him.

  Off balance, the man stumbled, but managed to drive a fist into Grond’s face. With a shout of rage, Grond reached out to grasp his assailant, who twisted violently. The effort took Grond past the edge of the landing, and he lost his balance. He fell, clutching his assailant and taking him with him.

  Holding each other, they dropped nearly six feet. They crashed together onto the long table below, its solid planks doing little to break their fall. Momentum carried them off the table, and they rolled onto a bench and then to the floor, Grond taking most of the impact. He felt his breath knocked from his body. By the time Grond could move, his attacker had trod on his chest and reached the front door. The man unbarred it, shouted for help, and vanished into the courtyard.

  Cursing the evil luck that took him off the landing, he untangled himself from the bench. Grond struggled to his feet and pulled the knife from his belt, to see three Egyptians burst through the now-open front door. But an arrow struck the first down. He saw Mitrac nocking another shaft, at the foot of the stairs.

  Ignoring this fresh wave of foes, Grond swung himself onto the steps.

  “Cover me!” He could just make out two more of Korthac’s men on the top landing, one of them pounding on the door with his sword hilt and shouting in Egyptian. They must have rushed up the stairs while he and the unknown man had fallen from the landing. For the first time, Grond realized that someone had secured the door again. The other man heard Grond’s footsteps and turned toward him, swinging his sword with a swift motion, no doubt expecting to strike before Grond could get close enough to use the knife.

  Instead, one of Mitrac’s arrows feathered itself in the man’s shoulder, knocking him off balance, and the sword dropped from his hand. Grond scooped the bronze blade up with his left hand, and stepped over the dying man. Grond thrust low with the sword, his face brushing the topmost step, as the other Egyptian deflected the blade aside. Still moving forward, Grond shoved his knife into the man’s leg, eliciting a grunt of pain. The man’s counterthrust met only air as Grond jerked his body away. The Egyptian took a step back, but his leg gave way and he tumbled down right in front of Grond’s knife. A quick stab finished the man.

  “Grond, give us room!” Mitrac had climbed the landing and now stood beside Grond, but turned his attention downward, toward the main entrance. Grond saw Mitrac had to tilt his long bow to the side as he attempted to notch another arrow. A second archer stood on a lower step, and two more of Eskkar’s men began backing slowly up the stairs, as dark shadows slipped through the outer doorway toward them, gathering for the attack.

  Grond moved aside to give Mitrac room, then bent over and pitched the dead bodies off the landing with two quick heaves, before turning his gaze back to the door. “Open the door!” He heard the rasp of bronze from within. “It’s Grond!”

  He pounded on the door with his sword hilt, then threw his shoulder against it, but the door held firm. He’d seen the thick panels enough times to know it couldn’t be forced, not without tools or more men. An arrow thudded into the wood beside Grond’s head, ripping out a lock of hair as it passed, and he heard Mitrac’s bowstring twang in response.

  Grond knew he didn’t have time to force the door, not with all these Egyptians rushing toward him. Eskkar had found a way inside somehow, and might be trapped there, but Grond couldn’t do anything about it.

  He looked down toward the dim chamber below. Gray silhouettes milled about just outside the house’s entrance, shouting in the language of Egypt.

  They’d be joining those inside soon, he knew. Grond and Mitrac would have to hold the stairs until help came.

  “Take the top, Mitrac,” he ordered, and moved down the steps, past his men, his sword in one hand, the knife in the other. “Let them come to their deaths.” He repeated the words, in Egyptian this time, as he tightened his grip on the sword.

  A fresh wave of men burst into the house from the courtyard as Grond reached the bottom of the steps. Some carried spears, deadly weapons at close quarters, especially against swordsmen packed together. One of Mitrac’s arrows struck down the leading spearman. The spear fell from its owner’s dying hand and skidded along the floor to land at Grond’s feet.

  Dropping his sword, he scooped it up just in time to meet the charge.

  “Eskkar has returned,” he shouted, lunging forward with the weapon, and Mitrac’s archers took up the cry, firing arrows as fast as they could fit them to their strings, as the battle for Eskkar’s house began.

  Inside the workroom, Eskkar lunged with his sword, but Korthac knocked the blade aside and, in the same motion, drove his
blade toward Eskkar’s face. Surprised at the speed and strength of Korthac’s arm, Eskkar barely managed to jerk his head aside as the weapon’s point stung its way past his ear. He moved back a step, recovering his guard and keeping his sword in front of him. The clash of swords behind him reminded Eskkar he had little time.

  “My men are behind you, barbarian. You’ll be dead soon, like your . . .”

  Ignoring Korthac’s words, Eskkar lunged again, this time trying to thrust low under Korthac’s guard. But Korthac countered the stroke easily, and for a second time Eskkar barely managed to avoid being skewered by the counterstroke, and again he moved back half a step. He realized that he faced a master swordsman.

  “You fight like a clumsy ox, barbarian.” Outlined against the flickering lamp, Korthac’s face was a dark shadow, and his voice sounded like that of a demon from the underworld.

  Eskkar knew better than to listen to his opponent, to let himself be distracted by the man’s words, then cut down by a sudden thrust. Man or demon, the sword would finish him. Moving to the side, Eskkar snapped the long sword out, thrusting with every muscle to keep his arm rigid and the blade straight.

  Korthac parried the lunge, but had to move aside to do so. Eskkar never paused. He thrust again and again, short, quick jabs, aiming for the man’s face, his stomach, even his legs, any part of the body, using the sword like a lance, striking as fast and hard as he could at any opening, never stopping, never giving his adversary the chance to counterattack.

  It was the way to beat a superior swordsman, and here, inside the house and with no space to swing the long horse sword, he knew Korthac had the edge. So instead of trying for a killing blow, Eskkar used his blade’s tip, jabbing it at his opponent so fast that Korthac had no time to strike back. Wound and weaken your enemy. A dozen cuts would bring down any man, as sure as one fatal thrust. His clan fought that way, the barbarian way.

  “Your slut begged at my feet for a chance to pleasure me.”

  This time the words sounded rushed, the foreign accent stronger. Eskkar shook the sweat from his eyes, watching his foe for any weakness.