Eskkar caught the flickering flash of the blade in the lamplight, and Ariamus screamed as a sword pierced his upper arm. Lifting Ariamus off the floor in a burst of rage, Eskkar threw the man at this new attacker, stopping the third man’s advance for an instant, until he shoved Ariamus hard against the wall. The former captain of the guard slid to the floor, dazed and clutching at his arm.
By then, Eskkar had reached down and scooped up his sword. This must be Korthac. No one else would be in these rooms. Only Korthac stood between him and Trella. But the door stood open behind him, and Korthac’s men might be here at any moment. Eskkar raised his bloody blade and moved forward.
Atop the tower, the stars and moon provided barely enough light for Drakis to see his enemies, milling shadows outlined against the night sky. Screaming like a demon, he hacked left and right, striking at anyone who wasn’t shouting Eskkar’s name. His men burst through the opening behind him, shouting their war cries. They’d driven the confused defenders up the steps, out of the tower, and onto the battlement, but Korthac’s followers still had to be killed. Drakis had no thought except to swing his sword, yelling Eskkar’s name at the top of his lungs, as he struck and struck at the enemy before him, not caring where his blade landed.
The defenders, panicked and thinking themselves outnumbered, lost the will to fight. Caught by surprise in the night, their thoughts turned to flight. One man died, then another, before the rest dropped their swords and fled. They scrambled to get away, shouting for mercy and leaping to the parapet that butted against the side of the tower, a fifteen-foot drop to the parapet below. Those who managed it ran for their lives, thanking their gods for their escape. One man went over the outer wall into the ditch, falling nearly twenty-five feet. A scream of pain announced his landing.
Gulping air into his lungs, his chest heaving, Drakis shook his head to clear his mind. He’d taken the tower. Looking around, he saw bodies strewn about. An arrow whistled past his head, and he realized that it came from the other tower. His excitement disappeared as he ducked down. The other tower still remained in enemy hands, guarded by men with bows of their own.
More battle sounds came from below. By now, most of his men had reached the tower’s top. “Get down! Watch for enemy bowmen on the other tower,” Drakis called out, as he grabbed one of his men and yanked him to safety below the rampart. Frustration set in an instant later when he realized Enkidu had failed to take the right tower.
“Use your bows to clear the top of the other tower, then cover the gate!
Make sure it stays closed. I’m going back down.” Shoving his way back into the tower’s blackness, Drakis trod carefully down the now-bloody stairs, making sure of his footing. He reached the bottom in a rush, stumbling over the last few steps.
The base of the tower had no door, and little in it, except for the steps that wound their way along the walls and up to the battlement. He found Enkidu and his men standing beside the entrance, using their bows, shooting at anything that moved.
“What happened? Why didn’t you-”
“They blocked the doorway with a table before we could reach it, Drakis. They spoke a strange language… must be Korthac’s men. I lost two men trying to force it.” Enkidu paused to take a breath. “So I ordered the men here.”
“Damn the gods.”
Grunting in rage, Drakis peered out into the open. The plan to take both towers had failed, but he could still control the gate with one tower, if he could hold it. At least he would have all his men together.
The fire outside still burned, but the flames had started to die down.
Enkidu had given him an idea. If he could barricade the door with something, they could hold both the tower and the gate. This tower had no table, nothing, in fact, except for a few blankets strewn on the floor. Drakis peered out the doorway. Down the street, following the wall toward the north, he could just make out the usual carts and tables, pushed against their owner’s houses for the night. One object loomed up larger, even in the dim light-a country wagon, with its wheels nearly as tall as a man. If he could bring it here, it would make a formidable barrier.
“See that wagon up the lane? We’ll drag it here and use it to block the doorway.”
Enkidu looked out the opening. “They’ll be shooting at us. Korthac’s fighters are gathering near the other tower. Their archers are already targeting this entrance.” As if to give emphasis to Enkidu’s word, an arrow clattered off the side of the opening.
“I’ll go for it. I’ll take three men. Send some of your men to the top.
Cover us from there. Hurry.”
Ignoring Enkidu’s protests, Drakis grabbed three men and told them what he planned. Putting down his bow, he stepped close to the doorway and studied the lane. Confused shouts sounded everywhere, and men darted about the cleared space, but no one had dared to approach the tower as yet, and the lane to the north appeared empty. Still, it wouldn’t be long before someone took charge and the counterattack began.
“Come!” he said, and burst through the opening, running as fast as he could. Glancing behind him, Drakis saw his men following and even caught sight of Enkidu and another man standing inside the doorway, arrows at the ready.
The wagon stood a good hundred paces from the tower, and, once there, they’d have to push the cumbersome vehicle back. Breathing hard, he reached the wagon and found it facing the wrong direction. They’d have to turn it around, or it would be even more difficult to get moving.
Drakis ran past the back end of the wagon, then knelt and lifted the long wooden tongue, grunting at its weight.
One of his men joined him, and together they lifted the heavy wooden trace from the ground and pushed it higher and higher, until it fell backward, landing on the top of the wagon with a loud crash. His other men had already slipped alongside the house wall and started shoving. Drakis grasped the edge of the front wheel and added his weight. Slowly, with much squeaking and protesting, the heavy conveyance began to move.
As soon as they cleared it from the wall, Drakis called his men to the rear of the wagon. All four of them picked up the back end, straining under the weight, and simply walked it around, so that the wagon’s front pointed toward the tower.
“Put your shoulders into it,” Drakis said, his breathing labored from the effort, and shoved his body against the rear of the clumsy wagon.
Creaking loudly, it started to move. Drakis cursed himself for not bringing more men; two full-grown oxen normally moved a wagon this size.
After a few steps it rolled more easily, but they couldn’t get it going faster than a slow walk, and no amount of effort seemed to increase its speed.
Still, they’d covered half the distance to the tower before the first sign of anyone noticing their movement. An arrow slammed into the wagon with a twang, and from its angle Drakis guessed it had come from the other tower.
“Keep the wagon between us and the tower,” he commanded, and his men shifted a little more to the left. Another arrow whistled over their heads. Then a voice cried out from above them.
“Look out behind you!”
The warning came from the rooftop beside them, where the still half-asleep citizens of Akkad had retreated, some for safety, others to watch the spectacle. Drakis glanced over his shoulder and saw four men nearly upon them, swords flashing as they ran.
“Behind us!”
He pulled his sword from its scabbard and lifted it high as he readied himself. A few steps before the attackers reached them, one of them stumbled and went down, a cry of pain echoing through the night. Drakis saw an arrow sticking in the man’s leg. It meant one less man, and it gave the attackers a moment of hesitation before they struck, and by then Drakis and his men stood ready.