"What thinkest thou?" Menelachos watched the others.
"Rhedogar's our finest warrior," Pleuron replied. "He'll hold the gates, whatever the cost."
Eucleia shook her head. "We're missing something. Some advantage the Skorenoi have that we don't know about."
"I've been thinking the same," Menelachos agreed. "Chrethon is cunning-he wouldn't have beaten us as many times otherwise. But what does he plan?"
The chiefs mulled on this. Pleuron shook his head. "I don't know," he replied. "Perhaps we should consider following through on the plans we were making before the attack, though."
"Leave Ithax?" Menelachos asked. "While we're under attack?"
Pleuron nodded soberly. "I don't mean we should ride out now, my lord," he replied, "but if the fight goes badly, we should be prepared."
"I agree," Eucleia said. "Better to be overcautious than dead."
"Very well, then," Menelachos said reluctantly. "Arhedion, ask Rhedogar for all the runners he can spare. Have them ride about the town, telling folk to gather at the Yard. I want everyone who isn't already fighting to assemble there before the sun's down."
Bowing, the scout turned and sprinted back up the ramp.
Hurach crouched in the shadows, listening as the fighting rose in pitch. It had been building for some time, and still Ithax's defenders held out, valiantly keeping the Skorenoi at bay. Even outnumbered, the horsefolk were clearly going to prevail.
He smiled wickedly. That was just what Chrethon wanted them to think. The vain attack was deliberate, to build false confidence among the centaurs. It was working, too. Ithax's defenders let out victorious shouts as they slew the attacking Skorenoi. They were convinced they would win, that none of Chrethon's minions would make it into Ithax.
They were wrong. Hurach was already there.
In the battle's first moments, he'd crept to the south side of the town, far from the main gates, keeping to the shadows. When the attack began, he'd scaled the wall like a goat-legged spider, slipping past the guards as the sounds of battle drew their attention. He'd gone over the top unnoticed, a patch of darkness in the twilight.
There were other ways in and out of Ithax besides the main gates. Searching as Chrethon had bidden, he'd found a postern, wide enough to admit two centaurs abreast, in the south palisade. It made a poor place to assail the wall. The ground outside was treacherous, sloping at an angle that made it impossible to use a ram properly. It was barred with a heavy oaken beam, and four guards stood watch before it. The sentries were all staring north now, toward the fighting. Again, their distraction was a boon. It would make it much easier to do what he must. All he needed now was his sign.
Before long, it came. The red star in the north sky began to shine, revealed by the dwindling of the daylight. On the other side of Ithax, Chrethon would see it and start giving orders. It was time to act.
He drew his knife, creeping toward the guards through the shadows. He crept up, making no sound at all, then darted in, blade flicking like a serpent's tongue.
He took the first centaur with a single stab from behind; it died before it knew anything was amiss. Leaping, he lashed out as the second turned toward him, and opened its jugular. It fell, gasping as blood welled from its throat, thrashed feebly, then was still.
The other two turned and saw him, eyes widening. One, a slender sorrel mare, turned and ran as her partner, an ivory stallion, shouted for her to get help. The stallion wheeled to face Hurach, his lance flashing. The satyr ducked the first thrust, dodged a second, then backed up until he bumped into the corpse of the horse-man he'd stabbed in the back. He twisted away from a third thrust, knocking the lance downward as it passed him. The spear drove into the corpse, lodging there. As the sentry tried to pull his weapon free, Hurach lunged once more, cutting a deep gash across his opponent's stomach. The centaur dropped his lance, groping at the deep, painful wound. Hurach made short work of him, stabbing him three times to make sure he was dead.
The sorrel mare was running, bolting for Ithax's darkened huts. Hurach straightened, reversed his grip on his knife, and threw. The blade spun through the air and struck the mare in the neck. She crashed limply to the ground.
Hurach glanced around quickly to make sure no one else was watching, then loped to the postern. Spitting in his palms, he braced himself against the bar. Shaking with effort, he lifted it from its brackets. He threw it aside, then turned and kicked the gate with a cloven hoof.
It swung open.
The sounds of fighting were diminishing outside the gates, and Lord Menelachos was hoping he'd called the folk of Ithax to the Yard of Gathering for nothing, when the cry arose, freezing his blood:
“The postern gate! They've taken the postern!"
He exchanged horrified glances with Pleuron and Eucleia, then turned to look south, toward the cries. The sentries on the battlements there were firing their bows wildly, at targets both outside and inside the walls. A flight of arrows flashed up in reply, cutting them down. Steel clashed and hooves pounded the earth as the Skorenoi forced their way into the town. Smoke began to rise from burning huts.
"How in the Abyss did they get in?" Pleuron gasped.
"What does it matter?" Eucleia snapped. She gazed across the Yard, at the centaurs who'd gathered there. The horsefolk looked south, snorting and shying as the flames rose. "It's over! They've breached the wall. We've got to get these people out of here."
Menelachos shook his head. "We can still fight-"
"If we do, we die," Pleuron interrupted. "Eucleia's right, my lord-we must flee."
Menelachos was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he heaved a despairing sigh. "Very well. Go on then, Pleuron. Get them out of here. Eucleia, tell Rhedogar to pull his men off the walls. Thou wilt need all his warriors to fight thy way through Chrethon's ranks."
Pleuron's eyes widened. "My lord? What about thee?"
"Someone needs to lead the rear guard," Menelachos replied. He shook his head as the other chiefs opened their mouths to object. "Don't argue-there's no time."
Pleuron tarried long enough to clasp the High Chief's shoulder, then whirled and cantered toward the assembled centaurs, shouting to get their attention.
"Go on," Menelachos told Eucleia. He took off his jeweled tore and handed it to her. "You're High Chief now, my friend. May Chislev walk beside you."
She nodded solemnly, donning the tore. Then, bowing, she wheeled and galloped north toward the gates, calling Rhedogar's name.
Menelachos watched her go, then cantered south, his eyes on the smoke and flames. He drew his sword and waited.
Chrethon laughed at how well his plan had worked. How easily Ithax had fallen in the end! Smoke piled high on the town's far side, and shrieks of terror rose with it. Even Rhedogar and his archers had come down off the battlements, letting the Skorenoi advance unhindered upon the gates. Chrethon tensed. At last, victory was within his grasp.
"My lord!" called a voice.
He glanced toward it and saw a long-striding runner, frothing as it sprinted toward him. He recognized it: He'd sent it to the postern with Thenidor and his warriors.
"I bring news from Ithax!" the runner proclaimed. "The foe is making a stand at the Yard of Gathering. Thenidor asks for more men to help in the fight!"
Chrethon hesitated, glancing toward Ithax. He wanted as many Skorenoi as he could spare waiting at the front gates when they came down. But then, if Thenidor was having trouble pushing through the town… .
"Find Leodippos," he snarled. "Tell him to go to the postern at once, and take his warriors with him."