Unable to close with the archers, some of Korthac’s men abandoned the fight and started to retreat up the lane. Already more than half of them had taken wounds or been struck down. The rest broke, turned, and ran back toward Eskkar’s courtyard. Some fled past Eskkar’s gate, disappearing from sight as the lane twisted and turned, but others ducked back inside, seeking safety. Before they could shut the gate, an arrow brought down the last straggler, an Egyptian already wounded, and the man’s dead body blocked the opening.
Bantor, his face covered in blood splatter, flung his shoulder against the gate even as the surviving Egyptians struggled to shut it. In a moment the rest of Bantor’s men added their weight and forced the gate open. Bantor stumbled through, ducking under a wildly swung blade and falling to his knees. Before his attacker could recover, Bantor had thrust his sword into the man’s stomach.
Bows were forgotten as the Akkadians forced their way in, sword clashing against sword. Outnumbered now for the first time, the Egyptians fought back, knowing their fate should they be defeated; for a moment, they stopped Bantor’s advance, and the sound of clashing arms rose up throughout the courtyard.
“Eskkar! Annok-sur,” Bantor bellowed, the words echoing off the compound’s walls. He wanted those in the house to know that help had arrived. “Eskkar!” he yelled again, as he redoubled his efforts against those facing him.
Arrows began killing Korthac’s followers from behind. Most of the Egyptians fought to the end, but those recruited by Ariamus had no stomach for this kind of close-in fighting. They ran, throwing away their weapons and scrambling up and over the courtyard wall. Desperate to escape, they fled through lanes and even houses, searching for any path, as long as it led away from the fighting.
Bantor killed the last Egyptian facing him. Glancing around the courtyard, his eyes searched the dead, looking for Ariamus.
“Ariamus!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
It must be Bantor,” Eskkar said. The clash of men fighting out in the lane sounded clearly even inside the house. “Shove that table aside.”
With Mitrac’s help, Eskkar cleared the hasty barricade erected only moments ago from the door, while the two surviving archers stood behind, bows at the ready. Grond tried to move to Eskkar’s side, but slipped to the floor, his wounds weakening him. Mitrac nocked his bow as Eskkar lifted his sword, then shoved the table clear, ducking back as he did so.
One glance told Eskkar all he needed to know. The courtyard was filled with men fighting. Some bellowed war cries and others screamed in pain from their wounds, but this time more than half the combatants were shouting Akkadian war cries. He started forward but Mitrac caught his tunic.
“No, stay here,” Mitrac said, pulling Eskkar away from the doorway.
He stood just inside the doorway, and fired an arrow into the back of an Egyptian standing only a few paces away. The other two archers moved up behind him, and added their shafts, shooting over Mitrac’s head. Standing with his sword ready, Eskkar watched as Mitrac and his bowmen started the final slaughter, the three of them picking off targets. With every shot, an enemy died, as the carefully aimed shafts took down any who still sought to stand their ground.
A voice rose up over the clamor. “Eskkar! Annok-sur!”
Eskkar saw Bantor leading the attack, his sword slashing at everyone before him. “Cover him,” he ordered Mitrac, who shifted his bow to put a shaft into Bantor’s opponent. A few more shots from the doorway, and the Egyptians broke, unable to withstand swordsmen in front and archers behind. The last of the enemy ran for the rear, frantic to scale the courtyard wall before an arrow took them. A few attempted to make a stand in the quarters across from Eskkar’s house. But without solid doors, the soldiers’ quarters provided only temporary security. More of Bantor’s men brought their bows back into play, shooting through the doorways and windows.
Overwhelmed, the last few Egyptians died or threw down their swords, calling out for mercy, their cries for leniency barely audible against the roar of cheering men. A few ran back into their quarters, desperate to regroup, but most dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy, begging to be spared, anything to avoid being killed by their battle-mad opponents.
Eskkar stepped out from the doorway, Mitrac at his side, an arrow still nocked on his string, his eyes searching for danger. The courtyard seemed covered in bodies, most of them with arrows sticking out of them. Nearly all seemed to be Egyptians. Bantor, his chest heaving and his eyes wild from the battle madness, finally recognized his leader.
Bantor stood there, blood covering his right arm and splattered all over his face and chest. But his smile belied the blood, and he raised his sword high as the cheering men rushed past him to Eskkar’s side. Their jubilation turned into a deafening roar at the sight of their commander.
With the fighting ended, at least at Eskkar’s house, the dirty, bloody, and battle-weary men looked at each other in the bright morning light.
Their voices turned into a chant that grew in volume, as the men shouted
“Eskkar! Eskkar! Eskkar!” at the top of their lungs. The cheer went on and on, until Eskkar thought it would never end. Half the city could hear the words, and would know that Korthac had been defeated.
The wounded needed to be tended, and the fighting wasn’t over yet.
Eskkar saw Klexor, who’d just reached the house, and pulled him away from the delirious soldiers.
“Take charge here,” Eskkar ordered. “Get the men organized and secure the courtyard.”
His smile never changing, Klexor nodded and began bellowing orders.
Eskkar grabbed Bantor’s arm and led him back inside the house. Mitrac was already there, tending Grond’s wounds. Covered in blood, most of it his own, Eskkar’s bodyguard appeared ready to collapse. The fighting had raged back and forth across the room. Wreckage of the big table littered the fl oor, and one of the benches had been smashed. But Eskkar found one still whole, and righted it as Mitrac and Bantor lifted Grond up and laid him out on the bench. Just enough light filtered in to show three separate wounds.
“Find the women and the healers,” Eskkar said. “They must be nearby.
Get them here at once.” He grabbed one of Bantor’s men. “Stand here and guard these steps. Trella and Annok-sur are above.”
Bantor, his bloody sword held loosely in his hand, approached. “Annok-sur, where is she? Is she…?”
“She’s upstairs, with Trella, guarding Korthac. She’s all right, only a knock on the head,” Eskkar said. “Did you find Ariamus?”
“Isn’t he dead?” Bantor’s voice hardened and he straightened up, the fatigue dropping from his shoulders. He stopped moving toward the steps.
“Tell Annok-sur I’ll be back. I’ll take some men and start hunting Ariamus down.”
Eskkar’s eyes narrowed at the tone of Bantor’s voice. “No, Ariamus can wait. What’s happened to Drakis? Is he still holding the towers?”
Bantor hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Take your men to the main gate,” Eskkar ordered, his voice firm.
“Drakis may need you. If some of these Egyptians escape…” He saw Bantor hesitating, and shook his head. “Ariamus is wounded. In an hour the whole city will be looking for him. Drakis needs you now.”
“Can’t you go…”
“No, I’m staying here.” With Korthac upstairs and this place recaptured, Eskkar knew his remaining soldiers would be coming to him, looking for orders. Besides, he didn’t want to leave Trella and the child. He’d left Trella alone for weeks; he didn’t plan to leave her again, not to chase down a handful of foreign fighters whose cause was lost.