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.
Korthac retreated a step, weaving lightly from side to side, striving to get past the sword tip that kept jabbing at his face and neck, waiting for Eskkar to tire and leave himself vulnerable to a solid counterstroke.
Eskkar kept advancing, taking small steps and keeping his balance, sliding his feet across the floor to avoid stumbling on something, jabbing and lunging, turning aside Korthac’s counters, and gradually forcing his enemy back toward the center of the room. Suddenly Korthac dropped low, swinging his sword at Eskkar’s legs. The unexpected maneuver stopped Eskkar’s advance for a moment, and in that instant Korthac leapt backward, abandoning the attack and darting through the door that led into the bed-chamber.
The Egyptian slipped through the opening and tried to fling the door shut, but Eskkar, reacting almost as fast as his enemy, rammed his blade into the door, keeping it open before Korthac could bring his weight to bear and seal the door. Then Eskkar threw his shoulder and all his weight against the panel just as Korthac’s second effort tried to force the door shut. Eskkar’s bulk and momentum drove the door back into Korthac’s face. The Egyptian staggered back with a curse, knocking over a small table and sending a water jar crashing to the floor, as Eskkar struggled to force his way inside the bedroom.
Off balance, Korthac brought up his sword, but, with no time to swing the blade, he tried to hammer the hilt into Eskkar’s face. Eskkar caught his attacker’s wrist in his left hand, enough to deflect the blow, but the pommel’s rough edge ripped along Eskkar’s head, and a splash of blood spattered against the doorjamb.