Dimly he was aware that the man next to him in the line had gone down, which meant his right side was exposed. He stepped back three paces, covering his retreat with a powerful slash that connected with something soft. He realised that he was resigned to the fact that the counterattack, which was more or less their last realistic chance, wasn’t going to happen now; the wall had definitely fallen, so even if they did somehow push the enemy back down the hill, all that’d happen would be that ultimately they’d be enfiladed by archers on the wall, pinned down and surrounded. The plain truth was that there were too many of the enemy now inside the city for his forces to push out again.
Without knowing why, he ducked. As he did so, a poleaxe flashed over the top of his bent neck, slicing the air just where his chin would have been. He estimated where the poleaxe-user must be and lunged at that extrapolated spot, dropping on one knee as he did so just in case the other man had a friend. The blade went into something; he twisted it sharply to the left and freed it, then moved smartly right out of the way of a lance-thrust. He was getting left behind again, which wouldn’t do at all. From his kneeling position he sprang backwards, taking a chance on landing cleanly, and made it. As he landed he swung his sword again, feeling a jarring shock as it rang on a helmet.
Up the hill, then; and once they started on that road they might as well call it a day. Even if they were able to get the second-city gate closed and manned the wall, it’d only be a matter of time. They’d be penned up in a smaller, less advantageous siege, with no prospect of supply or eventual relief. The best they could hope to achieve by holding the second city would be slightly more favourable terms of surrender.
Then to hell with this, Loredan said to himself; nothing more I can do, so let’s just see if there’s a hope in hell of getting through to the docks and out of here.
Easier said than done. It wasn’t just a matter of deciding he didn’t want to play any more; he still had to find a way through the attack and round the hill. Quite possibly he’d left it too late, in which case he might as well lower his sword and get it over with. But that went against the grain, somehow; it was offensive to all the instincts he’d acquired over a decade in the legal profession. It would be tantamount to throwing the fight.
There was only one way he could think of, and if it didn’t work he was finished. On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice. First he let fly with a broad sweep, very hard and slightly wild; it connected, sure enough, and while the other man was plunging about in panic with half his face carved off, Loredan dropped to his knees, his face only a few inches above the mat of corpses and nearly corpses. He found himself looking into the eyes of a man – one he’d just seen to? Quite possibly, no way of knowing, and did it matter? – who was still just about alive, his eyes wide in a horrified stare, his lips moving without sound, as if he was trying to pass on some tremendous revelation about death. Loredan crawled over him, first a hand on his face, then a knee, and then onwards, scrabbling and slithering over the dead and dying-
– This is adding insult to injury, Bardas. Bad enough to be facing the greatest of all horrors, alone, frightened and in pain, without having some uncaring stranger kneeling on your face while you’re at it-
– For what seemed like hours, with shuffling feet and knees kicking and banging into him, stepping over his head, treading on his outstretched fingers. Still, it had to be done, and so long as nobody looked down, so long as they assumed he was just another nearly dead man wriggling about underfoot, there was a chance he might even get away with it.
He reached a point where there were feet but no more dead bodies, and decided it was time to stand up. He did so, and found himself face to face with a clan warrior, a kid of about sixteen who stared at him in horror as if he’d just shaken hands with the occupant of a freshly made grave. Loredan treated him to a knee in the groin and moved on, slipping sideways between two others and then-
– Out of the battle, as far as he could tell. Nobody was looking round at him, let alone following. He stood still to catch his breath, then hurried at a fast trot for the cover of an archway.
Maybe it’s going to be all right. Perhaps; too early to tell, though. Anyway, the next bit’s the easy part.
He peered into the darkness behind the archway. Now then; this leads to an alley which runs up behind the old fruit warehouse and comes out opposite the pin-makers’ courtyard; turn right there past the chisel-grinders’ row, carry on as far as the tavern with the barmaid with the unfortunate squint, then left down the plane-makers’ arcade as far as the junction with the westernmost ropewalk, alleyway to the left, straight down that, should come out just behind the customs sheds.
He hadn’t gone more than twenty yards into the darkness when his foot caught on something and he went sprawling. He landed on his side, jerked his knees up, pushed against the alley wall and was on his feet again in just over a second, with his sword in a classic two-handed guard. Whatever he’d just tripped over groaned.
Options: kill it in case it follows, leave it or investigate. While he was deciding, it groaned again. Ah, the hell with it, Loredan muttered under his breath.
‘Who’s that?’ he said.
No reply except another low moan. Wondering what in gods’ name he thought he was doing, he sheathed his sword, stooped and put out a hand. He felt a face; smooth, soft, a girl or a young boy.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered.
‘Arrow,’ the voice replied.
‘Can you get up?’
Groan. Loredan sighed. This was a complication he really could do without.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
Somehow he got its arm round his shoulder, then straightened his back and knees and lifted. It wasn’t very heavy; almost certainly a girl by the feel, which maybe explained a little why he was doing this extremely rash thing.
‘Now walk,’ he said. ‘Please. If you don’t, I’m going to have to dump you.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘Difficult.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘If it was easy, everyone’d be able to do it, and where’d be the point in that? All right, I’ve got you. Try and hold on if you can.’
‘Can’t.’
‘All right, then, be difficult. But I’m warning you-’
‘Can’t,’ the girl repeated. ‘No fingers.’
‘What?’
‘No fingers-’
No fingers, no fingers. Who did he know in this city, young girl, skinny, no fingers?
Oh, for crying out loud-
Gorgas Loredan knelt behind the stairs that led up to a gallery of shops, waiting for the men to go by. There were about twelve of them – in other words, too many – and they had a wagon. He considered jumping on, hoping they wouldn’t notice in the dark. No, forget it, not feeling lucky. The wagon, he noticed, was piled high with barrels.
To his intense annoyance, the procession halted about ten yards away from where he was hiding. The escort – they were close enough for him to confirm that they were plainsmen – lit torches from the lantern that swung from the side of the wagon and set about investigating the surrounding area. Gorgas began to feel decidedly nervous, and he had made up his mind to run for it and hope they were too busy to follow him when they stopped poking about and, splitting up into pairs, began to unload the barrels.
The idea of a quick sprint was still appealing. True, there was an archer sitting on the driver’s bench with an arrow nocked and ready, but it seemed a reasonable assumption that his function was primarily defensive. No advantage to be gained by wasting valuable arrows taking pot shots at fleeing civilians in bad light. He made up his mind to start running on the count of five.