Inside Eskkar’s house, Mitrac fired shafts as fast as his fingers could snatch the arrows from his quiver and fit them to the string. The enemy had burst in and driven them back to the landing. Already Grond was hard-pressed at the base of the stairs. An arrow smacked into the door, just missing Mitrac’s face, and another struck one of his archers on the step below.
Mitrac heard the man cry out as he fell from the steps. But forced back onto the stairs, his back to the door to Eskkar’s private quarters, Mitrac had nowhere to hide.
He knew his only chance lay in killing all the Egyptian archers before they killed him. So Mitrac picked his targets carefully, first selecting the enemy archers, making sure they launched no arrows of their own, but still shooting so fast that he and his last two men seemed like a dozen.
Despite his haste, Eskkar’s words always rang in his thoughts. “Shoot the leaders, Mitrac, and the men will lose heart.”
Another shadow blocked the entrance to the house for a moment. Mitrac glanced up just as the doorway cleared. A lone warrior, a man as tall as Eskkar, stood behind the attackers, shouting in a booming voice and driving them onward, ordering them to press the attack.
Without hesitation, Mitrac shifted his aim from the spearman he’d been about to kill to the enemy leader. That warrior carried a shield held high, just below his eyes. Without conscious thought, the shaft flew from the twanging string, the arrow gliding a hand’s width over the lucky spearman’s head and slipping under the upraised shield by a finger’s breadth, before burying itself into the man’s belly, just beside the hip bone.
Before the shaft landed, Mitrac had drawn another, killing a man with a spear trying to skewer Grond at the foot of the stairs. Mitrac never noticed the Egyptian commander stagger back against the doorframe, dropping his sword to grasp at the arrow feathered low in his belly.
With a scream of pain and rage, Takany bent double, trying to grip the heavy shaft that clutched and burned at his insides as if someone had shoved a torch deep within his body. He stumbled back through the door into the courtyard, then tripped and fell, the shaft brushing against the dirt and sending another wave of pain through his body. Agony seized him, and he cried out for help, but his words disappeared in the confusion, as inside the house, his men still sought to fight their way up the stairs, most of them unaware of their leader’s wound.
Takany tasted dirt of the earth in his mouth even as he breathed its dust into his lungs. The pain increased, and a wave of dizziness went over him. His own blood, as hot as if it came from a fire, covered his hands. The gods of the underworld had called out for his spirit, demanding that he come to them. Takany knew he was dying here in this foreign place, after all the fights and all the years of killing, dying with the strange taste of an unfamiliar land in his mouth.
He opened his mouth to call out, but he could no longer control his voice. Despite the dawn’s growing light, his eyes refused to focus. He stopped moving, suddenly lightheaded, as if he were falling from a great height. All he could do was gaze upward toward the sky, unable even to blink, watching the dawn beginning to burst over the city. He felt his blood soaking his hands and stomach, pooling between his naked legs, his life’s blood pouring out into the dirt. It was the last thought he ever had.
Takany died unnoticed by his men, who fought on against the few Akkadians still standing between them and the doorway. They could feel the defense weakening, and only two bowmen remained on the landing. The storm of arrows had nearly ended, as the Akkadians emptied their quivers. Step by step, the Egyptians fought their way up the stairs, sensing victory within their grasp.
Suddenly the door behind the archers opened, a rectangle of soft light illuminating the landing. Everyone’s eyes lifted to see who stood there.
One glance answered the question. A tall, blood-spattered warrior holding two swords that glinted in the growing light appeared, slipping behind the archers and pointing a long horseman’s sword at them.
“Korthac is dead,” the warrior roared, the words filling the room. The fighting paused for a moment, just long enough for the warrior to repeat his words. “Korthac is dead!”
Every Egyptian flinched at the sound, knowing an evil omen filled the house. “Korthac is dead, and now you will all die as well.”
Not all the Egyptians understood the meaning, but all of them recognized Korthac’s name, and they all comprehended the truth of the message. Korthac must be dead, or he, not this barbarian demon, would stand before them.
The warrior bellowed something unintelligible, then jumped off the landing, practically in the midst of the Egyptians, attacking them with a fury that saw two men struck down in as many heartbeats. The Akkadians, arrows exhausted and about to be overwhelmed, took heart, and began their own counterattack. Disheartened, the Egyptians fell back.
The battle gods had turned against them. No one wanted to face the certain death awaiting anyone who dared to challenge their battle-enraged opponent.
In moments, the common room emptied, as the Egyptians shoved and pushed their way through the outer door and into the courtyard. The last man had barely cleared the door when someone picked up the table knocked over when the door was forced, and shoved it upright against the doorway, blocking the opening.
In the courtyard, less than a dozen of Korthac’s fighters remained alive, plus an equal number of Ariamus’s men. They’d seen Eskkar come out of Korthac’s room alone, proclaiming their leader’s death. A handful of battle-crazed archers had somehow driven them from the house, shooting shafts so quickly that they seemed like twice their number.
The Egyptians shouted at each other in confusion. Meanwhile, the sound of Eskkar’s name rang through the city, taken up by hundreds of voices, a nonstop chant that filled the lanes and echoed across the rooftops, rattling their nerves. Takany, in a pool of blood, lay dead at their feet, an arrow buried in his stomach. Hathor and Ariamus had departed for the gate. Nebibi was at the barracks. Most of the senior men were dead.
Without anyone to give orders, the Egyptians began to argue. Some wanted to charge the house once again, others wanted to link up with Hathor at the gate. More than a few just wanted to flee. Korthac’s death unnerved them. Korthac had survived a hundred fights. If he could be killed, then who might be next? Without a leader, they started drifting toward the courtyard gate, and in a moment all of them began moving.
They rushed out of the courtyard and into the lane, heading for the main gate. Before they’d taken a dozen steps, they ran directly into Bantor and his men charging up the lane.
The street outside Eskkar’s courtyard erupted with the Akkadians’ battle cry. Bantor led his men up the lane, his bloody sword flashing in the morning sun, his men strung out behind him. The charging Akkadians in front had no time to draw their bows; instead they snatched swords from scabbards and smashed into the surprised Egyptians before they could form a line. For a moment Bantor’s attack slowed, as bronze clashed upon bronze, men cursing as they fought. Korthac’s men still outnumbered their attackers.
Bantor, engaged in a furious sword fight with a thickset Egyptian, lifted his voice. “Archers! Aim for their faces!” The archer struggling behind Bantor fi nally got his bow in play. The shaft nearly took off Bantor’s ear, but the Egyptian screamed as the arrow took him in the mouth; the wounded man staggered back.
With a scream of satisfaction, Bantor pushed ahead. “Aim for their faces! Kill them all!”
Another arrow struck, then another. Rapidly fi red arrows launched at point-blank range struck down the Egyptians, while Bantor and a handful of men up front protected the bowmen from assault. The shafts, many launched directly into the enemy’s faces, took the fight out of them.