One head vanished from among the others, a body crum pled to the ground. Red showed in the hair. The wall of shields wavered and the block broke apart, leaving each man to his own resources. They ran down the wadi, leaving behind their fallen chief.
Huy wiped his brow, vastly relieved. Bak clapped him on the shoulder and climbed out of the ditch. The tribesmen were retreating in earnest, he saw, heading toward the val ley, trying to escape the deadly shower of arrows and reach the main body of the desert force where they could stand and fight with some chance of success. They fought as best they could, firing on the run at those who had ambushed them. Men who were injured but mobile staggered along with them. The more seriously hurt and the dead were left behind. Lying on the wadi floor, the wounded men moaned or cried out for help or struggled to get up and away so they would not be taken prisoner.
A trickling stream of tribesmen turned their backs on their fellows and headed up the wadi, seeking safety and freedom on the open desert. They promptly fell into the arms of Sergeant Dedu and the archers who had blocked the trail, ending all hope of escape.
Bak whistled again. His spearmen-about half of Amon ked’s guards-came out of hiding, joining the archers on the slopes, more than doubling the size of Bak’s small army. Other than the few men who remained behind to round up enemy deserters and the walking wounded, they pressed the enemy hard, harrying them, rushing them into the valley.
Where, if all went well, they would charge in among
Hor-pen-Deshret’s forces, disrupting the fighting and caus ing consternation among the men attacking the caravan encampment.
Bak led his troops out of the wadi and onto the valley floor. Many of the men they chased were loping across the higher ground where animals normally grazed. Others ran through fields knee-deep in ripening vegetables and wheat, partly trampled by the raiders who had preceded them.
Grim-faced men were pouring out of the village and across the fields from nearby farms and hamlets. A large pack of dogs accompanied them, those from the village and the fe ral animals that had traveled so long with the caravan.
Each of the men carried a spear or scythe or some other tool that could be used as a weapon. Bak had no delusions.
These men had not come to help the caravan. They had come to save as much of the year’s crop as they could. Any tribesmen wishing to wade out to the island to steal the donkeys would have serious reservations about passing through that hostile gathering.
“Stay out of the fields,” he shouted, praying his men, whose lust for battle had grown to major proportions with their success in the wadi, would choose to hear him.
A second shouted order sent his archers running, hunched low, toward a jagged finger of land that projected from the escarpment. Eight or ten enemy archers stood atop the rise, their backs to the approaching men, firing arrows into the caravan encampment.
Bak ran on across the trampled grass and weeds, leading his spearmen to battle. Though he tried to remain rational, he was as exhilarated as they.
Ahead, the tribesmen who had swarmed out of the wadi rushed full tilt in among Hor-pen-Deshret’s main force, which appeared from a distance poised to charge the bar ricaded caravan. Excited and boastful shouts wavered and died. A wave of consternation and dismay rose, crested, waned. An angry voice speaking a tongue of the desert rose above all the rest, haranguing the men. Hor-pen-Deshret,
Bak guessed, urging his army to look forward toward vic tory, not back to a partial defeat.
He had expected them to have long ago charged the car avan, to be in the heat of battle. They must have awaited the remainder of their force coming through the wadi. Or had they re-formed after being rebuffed?
He glanced quickly toward the elevation where the en emy archers had stood. None remained. His own archers were climbing the slope to replace them. They had dis patched the others while he looked elsewhere. Satisfied that that source of danger no longer threatened, he scanned the fields to the north, beyond the enemy force. A white cloth draped over an acacia branch told him Lieutenant Ahmose and his troops were in position and waiting.
To the west, the lord Re hovered above the horizon, leav ing the caravan in the shadow of the escarpment. About an hour of daylight remained. The battle in the wadi had lasted less than an hour, yet had seemed as long as a day. The men of the desert must shortly make their move, before the light began to fail, forcing them to retreat.
Bak whistled, signaling his men to charge. Ready, wait ing, eager for action, they raced along in his wake. To the north, a trumpet blasted, Ahmose ordering his troops to battle. Soldiers rose from a grain field as if lifted from the earth by the gods and dashed toward the enemy.
A harsh yell ahead and the desert warriors surged for ward, screaming like wild men to make themselves seem fiercer. They were halted momentarily by the wall of shields, which bristled with spears, felling many among the first wave of men. Those behind pressed the leaders on, forcing them through the barrier. Shields fell or were swept aside, and Nebwa’s small force pulled back to regroup, to face the enemy again among the high stacks of jars, sacks, bags, and baskets of foodstuffs and gear, Amonked’s fur niture, piles of sheaved hay, every object the donkeys had carried upriver.
With more than half the enemy among and beyond the fallen shields, with their blood-curdling savage yells spo radic and individual, many voices silenced by the fierce fighting, Bak and his men fell upon their rear left flank while the troops from Askut struck the right flank. Sounds of the melee filled the air. The thud of wood against wood.
The grunting of struggling men. The thunk of weapons striking tough, tight-stretched cowhide. Growled oaths and loud, excited shouting. The clang of bronze spearpoints.
Screaming and moaning. The thump of something solid striking softer matter.
Stirred by the excitement, the action, the dogs ran in among the contestants, teeth bared, hackles raised. Bak feared at first they would mistake friend for foe, and some times they did, but the vast majority set upon the enemy, nipping heels and buttocks and hands. Harassment, not a bold confrontation.
Thin dust rose in puffs around the feet of the struggling men. The stench of blood and sweat was strong. Forgetting the stinging in his thigh, the blood seeping from beneath the makeshift bandage, Bak parried thrusts with spear and shield, downed one man, disarmed another.
He fought hard, sweat dripping in spite of the evening chill. His spearmen, spread out among the enemy with Ah mose’s soldiers, were battling with a skill and enthusiasm none would have dreamed of a few days before. He was proud of them. They could return to the capital with Amon ked, holding their heads high.
Bak heard something behind him, a man’s harsh breathing. He pivoted, striking an enemy warrior at waist level with the long shaft of his spear, knocking him off balance, deflecting the blade of a dagger. The tribesman grabbed the shaft to steady himself and held on. Bak jerked one way and another, trying to wrest the weapon free.
Abruptly the man released his hold and crumpled to the ground. Seshu, standing over him, raised his mace in a tri umphant salute and swung away to face a fresh conflict.
Muttering a hasty prayer of thanks, Bak pressed forward.
Inside the fallen wall of shields, he found his long spear ungainly, his thrusts hampered by the narrow, twisting aisles between the high stacks of equipment and supplies.
Most of Nebwa’s troops had already abandoned their spears to fight on with smaller weapons. The tribesmen had been forced to follow suit. The congestion had been Nebwa’s idea, and a good one. What hampered the men of the car avan in a mild way was bound to confuse the men of the desert-and distract them with innumerable desirable ob jects.