A bench scraped in the courtyard, and Eskkar began speaking again, raising his voice to cover the small sounds as Mitrac and his two archers slipped up beside them. “Maybe we should wake Korthac and tell him.
That’s good, let’s ask him to settle it.” The words meant nothing, but Korthac’s name should give the guards inside pause.
One arm around Grond’s shoulders, Eskkar pushed the gate inward, keeping his other arm extended to make sure the gate stayed wide open as he weaved drunkenly into the courtyard.
“Who are you?” came a voice from the darkness.
“We come from Ariamus,” Eskkar said, slurring his words as if from too much wine.
“Get out of here, you drunken Akkadian scum. Come back after dawn.”
The words, spoken with a strong accent, came from the big plank table placed between the two dwellings. So at least that hadn’t been moved. “Ariamus sent us,” Eskkar said humbly, bowing his head. “We have a message for Korthac.” Looking up, he saw faint flickers of light coming from the upper story, from both rooms.
“But we can’t remember what it was,” laughed Grond, and slapped Eskkar on the back.
Moving forward as he spoke, Eskkar saw the guards, two darker shadows sitting at the table, one with his feet up on its surface, the other leaning back with his hands behind his head. Their eyes shone whitely in the faint light. Glancing around the garden, he saw no one else.
Eskkar stepped away from the gate, moving sideways toward the main house. “Is Korthac awake yet? We have a message…”
The sound of many voices shouting at the tops of their lungs interrupted him. This time Eskkar realized the noise came from the west, not the river gate. That meant Bantor had entered the city and reached the barracks. The two men at the table started to move, one dropping his water cup, but they were already falling, three arrows flashing into their bodies as Mitrac and his archers stepped in from the gate.
Nevertheless, one of the Egyptians cried out as the arrow struck him, loud enough to give a warning. Eskkar ignored the dead or dying guards, certain Mitrac’s men’s arrows would finish them or anyone else issuing from the soldiers’ quarters. Instead Eskkar burst into a run, and in three giant strides reached the main entrance and flung himself with all his weight against the door.
But the portal, built to withstand just such an attack, held firm, and he bounced back, his left shoulder tingling from the impact. He’d hoped the door might not be barred or securely fastened. To his left, he heard another crash as Grond hurled himself at the kitchen entrance. But that doorway, too, was closed, and instead of a quick entry, all they’d managed to accomplish was to awaken those sleeping within.
23
Hail, Akkad!” Yavtar’s voice carried easily over the black water, alerting the guards at the river gate well before they saw or heard the boat’s approach. The current pulled at the craft, and he had to lean hard on the steering oar while his two crewmen paddled furiously to bring the vessel alongside the jetty, out of the river’s rush. Ignoring the questions from the men guarding the gate, Yavtar leapt onto the dock and secured the stern.
When he straightened up and looked toward the gate, a half-dozen heads appeared atop the wall on either side, and one of them held a torch over the wall, casting just enough light to reach the boat rocking against the wharf.
“Who goes there?”
Ignoring the challenge, Yavtar waited until his crewmen had hooked on the bowline, leaving the craft securely moored to the dock. That done, he turned to face the gate, where twice as many men now stood watching. Even before Yavtar finished his count, the men had bows in their hands, arrows at the ready, and a second torch appeared and added its light to the scene.
“Who goes there? Answer, or I’ll cut you down!”
“I’m Yavtar, shipmaster, and I’ve a message for Korthac. Pass me in, or send someone to fetch him.” He strolled down the jetty as he replied.
A third torch joined the others, this last one held forward from the wall, illuminating the base of the gate. More men appeared atop the walls on either side of the opening, these newest arrivals shaking the sleep from their eyes. Yavtar’s count now estimated about fifteen defenders.
“You know the gate is closed until dawn. Get back in your boat and stay there until then. If you step off the dock, I’ll have my men put an arrow into you.”
Yavtar had reached the end of the jetty, so he stopped and put his hands on his hips. “It’s nearly dawn. What does it matter when you open the gate?” Behind him, the boat rocked loudly against one of the wooden support piles sunk into the riverbed. Yavtar had deliberately used more rope than needed to fasten the stern, leaving plenty of slack; the noise of the boat slapping against the jetty might help conceal any other sounds.
“No one’s admitted until dawn, and then only if…”
“Fine. I’ll stay here until Korthac arrives. Send someone to bring him here. I have a message for him from Ziusudra.”
“It will wait until morning. Stay on your boat until then.”
“It will not wait until morning.” Yavtar spoke loud enough to waken half the city. “Send word to Korthac now, or I’ll make sure you’ll find the lash on your back.” Since taking power, Korthac had applied his favorite punishment to many, including a few of his own men. Back at the farm, Rebba had described Korthac’s wrath at any that annoyed him, and his favorite punishment.
The watchkeeper thought about it for a moment. “Where’s Ziusudra?”
Yavtar smiled at that bit of luck. So this man knew Ziusudra, but not likely his mission. “Ziusudra’s dead. You’d better hurry, man, or Korthac will be very angry, I promise you. He’ll want to hear my words, and see what I have for him.”
“Tell me the message… What’s your name?”
“Yavtar. Shipmaster Yavtar, as you should know. I’ve delivered cargo here often enough. And my message is for your master, not you.” Without waiting for a reply, Yavtar turned back toward the boat, and spoke to his crewmen. After a moment, he walked back toward the dock.
“Stay on the jetty,” a voice shouted, but it was not the watchkeeper’s voice.
Again Yavtar stopped at the dock’s edge, and let out a loud sigh that carried all the way to the gate. “I’m sorry me and my two men frighten you so much. But we’ve been on the river for days, coming from Bisitun.
Anyway, I’ve got three prisoners for Korthac, and you might as well take charge of them.” He turned back toward the boat. “Bring the slaves to the gate.”
During this exchange, the watchkeeper had returned. He’d checked his men, making sure all of them were at their posts, weapons ready. “I’ve sent word to Korthac,” he called out.
“Fine. I’ll stay here. You can watch these slaves for me just as well from up there.” Yavtar turned back to his men, and they pushed forward three men, each with their hands bound in front of them. Their ragged clothes hung loosely about them. Covered with dirt, their heads hung slackly on their necks.
“Get forward, and stand at the foot of the gate,” Yavtar ordered, hoping no one would shoot them. For a moment the prisoners did nothing, so Yavtar grabbed the nearest by the shoulder and shoved him roughly on his way. The other two followed. When they reached the base of the gate, they sank wearily to the ground, heads still downcast.
On the wall, the watch commander saw Yavtar taking his ease. The gatekeeper worried about what to do. A glance down at the three slaves showed them to be harmless, unarmed and beaten men. When the messenger from Korthac arrived, Yavtar would likely be summoned to Korthac’s house, and that would be the end of it. Perhaps it might be better to bring them inside the gate, then escort this Yavtar directly to Korthac himself. That way he might earn a silver coin himself, or at least Korthac’s gratitude.