The Egyptian, determined to sell his life, charged again, lifting his sword and shouting something incomprehensible.
Naram-tanni waited until the man closed to within a dozen paces before shooting. His shaft flew at the man’s legs, but the Egyptian leapt aside, and the arrow hissed by. But before he could change his path again, a shaft from Klexor’s bow followed, this one reaching the charging man a moment before he could close the gap between him and Naram-tanni.
Struck in the leg, the Egyptian went down. He struggled to stand, but his leg gave way. Before he could recover, Naram-tanni, sword in hand, closed in. With a savage overhand thrust, Naram-tanni knocked the Egyptian’s weapon from his hand.
With Naram-tanni’s sword’s tip at his chest, the exhausted and wounded man yielded. Naram-tanni held the prisoner that way, until Klexor joined him.
“What’s your name, Egyptian?” Klexor put his sword point at the man’s throat, as Naram-tanni sheathed his weapon, took a halter rope, and moved toward the prisoner. He pushed the Egyptian down, and began tying his hands in front of him.
“I asked you for your name,” Klexor repeated, this time jabbing the sword tip into the man’s chest just enough to draw blood, and loosen his tongue.
“Hathor, leader of thirty, in the service of Korthac.”
“You speak our language well, Egyptian dog,” Klexor complimented him. “And you’ll get to see your Korthac soon enough.”
“Korthac is alive? We thought…”
“Oh, he’s alive. Lord Eskkar broke his nose, half-blinded him, and cracked his leg.” Klexor laughed when he saw that the man didn’t believe him. “By himself. They fought man to man in the upper room. Your Korthac didn’t fare too well in the encounter.”
For the first time, Klexor saw defeat in the man’s face. By then, the rest of the men had reached them. “Pull that arrow out of his leg and bind it up. Then put him on a horse. Eskkar may want to talk to him. So make sure he stays alive.”
Picking up his bow, Naram-tanni mounted his horse. “I’ll go after Bantor. He may need help.”
Klexor grinned. “Wait for me.”
Bantor rode steadily, carefully watching the ground before him. A misstep, a broken leg, and Ariamus might get away. The distance narrowed faster now, as Ariamus’s weary horse stumbled more and more often. Bantor saw Ariamus glancing behind every few paces.
When the gap shrank to less than a hundred paces, Ariamus gave up.
He slowed the tired horse to a stop and drew his sword. “Well, where’s Eskkar?” he called out. “Was he afraid to face me himself? Or did the Egyptian kill him?”
At twenty paces, Bantor pulled up his horse and drew his own sword, noting the bloody bandage wrapped around Ariamus’s left arm. “Eskkar is well and sends his greetings. He asked me to bring you back alive, but I think I’d rather kill you myself.”
“I’m here, Bantor, waiting for you. Or are you afraid, too? Even your wife wasn’t afraid. She got down on her knees fast enough, and begged for more.”
“Your horse is finished, Ariamus. I’ll fight you on foot. If you win, you can take my horse before my men get here. Otherwise I’ll wait, and we’ll bring you down like any jackal, with arrows.”
Ariamus looked around. He didn’t like the offer, but he had no choice.
Bantor’s men couldn’t be far behind. He slid off the horse. In a fit of anger, Ariamus smacked the sweat-soaked animal with the flat of his blade, and the startled horse lumbered off a few steps before halting again, its weary legs splayed out, blowing air from its nose.
Dropping his bow, Bantor dismounted. He tossed the halter rope to the ground and walked toward the former captain of the guard.
“You’re an even bigger fool than Eskkar,” Ariamus said, baring his teeth in a wide grin. “There never was a day you could beat me with a sword.” With a shout of rage, Ariamus closed the distance, swinging the sword high in a feint, then sweeping the blade low toward Bantor’s legs.
Bantor moved a step to the side, letting Ariamus’s blade pass within a handsbreadth, and countered with his own stroke.
The clash of bronze rolled over the land, sending a flock of birds squawking into the sky. Ariamus fought with the desperation of a wounded animal trying to escape a trap, determined to get rid of his opponent; he knew the rest of Bantor’s men would be close behind. If Ariamus hadn’t taken a wound, he might have done better. But Bantor met every stroke and knew every trick. Like all the Akkadian subcommanders during the siege, he’d practiced against Eskkar and other top swordsmen for months.
The minute he sensed Ariamus tiring, Bantor swung wide, leaving an opening for his opponent. But when the blade flashed at his stomach, Bantor slipped aside and hammered down, aiming not at his opponent’s body, but where the sword arm would be.
In a gush of blood, the blade clove deep into the forearm bone. Ariamus screamed, and his weapon fell from his nerveless fingers. Bantor never stopped. Another stroke took Ariamus in the knee, staggering him to the ground. A hammer blow descended on the man’s collarbone, shattering that. Then a low thrust into his right side pierced his lung. Ariamus, blood gushing from his mouth, fell onto his back, eyes bulging, unable even to cry out in pain.
Standing over his opponent, Bantor spat in his face. He put his own sword aside, and picked up Ariamus’s. “This is for Annok-sur. And for me.”
Holding the hilt with both hands, Bantor raised the weapon up, then thrust it down with all his strength, shoving the point into the man’s groin, driving it right through his body and deep into the earth. That elicited a lingering scream that echoed over the empty countryside.
Bantor let go of the sword and watched the former captain of the guard of the village of Orak bleed to death as he writhed in agony, clutching at his own blade with hands already streaked with blood.
30
Eskkar spent the first part of the morning making sure his compound stood ready for any further attack. When he felt certain that the house and Trella would be safe, he moved to the barracks, seeing to the wounded men recovering there, and making sure the soldiers had regained control of the weapons. Then he took a quick tour of the city, before finally returning to his courtyard. By then it was apparent the resistance had collapsed. Eskkar set up a command center to direct the soldiers and citizens clamoring for his attention.
Everyone claimed an urgent need to see him, and this time Eskkar had no one available to sort out the trivial from the more urgent. Bantor had ridden out to hunt down Ariamus at midmorning, and only the gods knew when he would be back. Gatus arrived, and sought to help, but he still hadn’t fully recovered from his own wound. That left Alexar as the only senior man still standing. Eskkar promoted him to subcommander, and ordered him to take charge of the gates.
The three of them spent the morning organizing the soldiers, issuing weapons to the nobles’ guards, establishing patrols, and directing the search for any remnants of Korthac’s force. Fortunately the stables and horses survived intact, and Alexar soon had mounted parties of men searching the countryside, looking for those who escaped over the wall. Finally things quieted down enough for Eskkar to slip away. An hour before noon, he left Gatus in charge and climbed the stairs to his quarters.
Standing in the bedroom doorway, he saw Trella and Annok-sur lying side by side on the bed, both asleep. Trella looked pale from loss of blood.
Korthac’s cut and the ordeal of childbirth had exhausted even her sturdy frame. Most of Trella’s servants had returned, including those driven off by Korthac. Already they had replaced the broken furniture and exchanged the bloody blankets for clean ones. The room looked almost the same as the day Eskkar rode north. Except for the cradle.
He’d visited the bedroom several times before, just quick checks to reassure himself of Trella’s well-being, and to make sure she and Annok-sur had everything they needed. On the last visit, Trella took his hand. She tried to speak, but he knew she needed rest, so he simply squeezed her hand and told her to sleep.