"What's wrong!" she said.
I whispered to her, fiercely. "Return to your home and lock yourself in. Do not go out into the streets!" "I do not understand," said she. "What are you talking about?"
"Do not ask questions," I ordered her. "Do as I say! Go home, bolt the door to your rooms, do not leave the house!" "But, Tarl Cabot," she said.
"Hurry!" I said.
"You're hurting my arms," she cried.
"Obey mel" ~ commanded.
Suddenly she looked out over the parapet. She, too, saw the dust. Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened in fear.
"You can do nothing," I said. "Run!"
I kissed her savagely and turned her about and thrust her a dozen feet down the walkway inside the wall. She stumbled a few feet and turned. "What of you?" she cried.
"Run!" I commanded.
And Dina of Turia ran down the walkway, along the rim of the high wall of Turia.
Beneath the unbelted tunic of the Bakers, slung under my left arm, its lineaments concealed largely by a short brown cloak worn over the left shoulder, there hung my sword and with it, the quiva. I now, not hurrying, removed the weapons from my tunic, removed the cloak and wrapped them inside it. I then looked once more over the parapet. The dust was closer now. In a moment I would be able to see the kaiila, the flash of light from the lance blades. Judging from the dust, its dimensions, its speed of approach, the riders, perhaps hundreds of them the first wave, were riding in a narrow column, at full gallop. The narrow column, and probably the Tuchuk spacing, a Hundred and then the space for a Hun- dred, open, and then another Hundred, and so on, tends to narrow the front of dust, and the spaces between Hundreds gives time for some of the dust to dissipate and also, inciden- tally, to rise sufficiently so that the progress of the conse- quent Hundreds is in no way impeded or handicapped. I could now see the first Hundred, five abreast, and then the open space behind them, and then the second Hundred. They were approaching with great rapidity. I now saw a sudden flash of light as the sun took the tips of Tuchuk lances. Quietly, not wishing to hurry, I descended from the wall and approached the stalled wagon, the open gate, the guards. Surely in a moment someone on the wall would give the alarm.
At the gate the officer was still berating the blond-haired fellow. He had blue eyes, as I had known he would, for I had recognized him from above.
"You will suffer for this!" the commander of the guard was crying. "You dull fool!"
"Oh mercy, master!" whined Harold of the Tuchuks.
"What is your name?" demanded the officer.
At that moment there was a long, wailing cry of horror from the wall above. "Tuchuks!" The guards suddenly looked about themselves startled. Then two more people on the wall took up the cry, pointing wildly out over the wall. "Tuchuks! Close the gates!"
The officer looked up in alarm, and then he cried out to the men on the windlass platform. "Close the gates!" "I think you will find," said Harold, "that my wagon is in the way."
Suddenly understanding, the officer cried out in rage and whipped his sword from his sheath but before he could raise his arm the young man had leaped to him and thrust a quiva into his heart. "My name," he said, "is Harold of the Tuchuks!"
There was now screaming on the walls, the rushing of guardsmen toward the wagon. The men on the windlass platform were slowly swinging the great double gates shut as much as possible. Harold had withdrawn his quiva from the breast of the officer. Two men leaped toward him with swords drawn and I leaped in front of him and engaged them, dropping one and wounding the other.
"Well done, Baker," he cried.
I gritted my teeth and met the attack of another man. I could now hear the drumming of kaiila paws beyond the gate, perhaps no more than a pasang away. The double gate had closed now save for the wagon wedged between the two parts of the gate. The wagon bask, upset by the running men, the shouting and the clank of arms about them, were bellowing wildly and throwing their heads up and down, stomping and pawing in the dust.
My Turian foe took the short sword under the heart. I kicked him from the blade barely in time to meet the attack of two more men.
I heard Harold's voice behind me. "I suppose while the bread is baking," he was saying, "there is little to do but stand about and improve one's swordplay."
I might have responded but I was hard pressed.
"I had a friend," Harold was saying, "whose name was Tarl Cabot. By now he would have slain both of them." I barely turned a blade from my heart.
"And quite some time ago," Harold added.
The man on my left now began to move around me to my left while the other continued to press me from the front. It should have been done seconds ago. I stepped back, getting my back to the wagon, trying to keep their steel from me. "There is a certain resemblance between yourself and my friend Marl Shot," Harold was saying, "save that your sword is decidedly inferior to his. Also he was of the caste of warriors and would not permit himself to be seen on his funeral pyre in the robes of so low a caste as that of the Bakers. Moreover, his hair was red like a larl from the sun whereas yours is a rather common and, if I may say so, a rather uninspired black."
I managed to slip my blade through the ribs of one man and twist to avoid the-thrust of the other. In an instant the position of the man I had felled was filled by yet another guardsman.
"It would be well to be vigilant also on the right," re- marked Harold.
I spun to the right just in time to turn the blade of a third man.
"It would not have been necessary to tell Tarl Cabot that," Harold said.
Some passersby were now fleeing past, crying out. The great alarm bars of the city were now ringing, struck by iron hammers.
"I sometimes wonder where old Tarl Cabot is," Harold said wistfully.
"You Tuchuk idiot!" I screamed.
Suddenly I saw the faces of the men fighting me turn from rage to fear. They turned and ran from the gate.
"It would now be well," said Harold, "to take refuge under the wagon." I then saw his body dive past, scrambling under the wagon. I threw myself to the ground and rolled under with him.
Almost instantly there was a wild cry, the war cry of the Tuchuks, and the first five kaiila leaped from outside the gate onto the top of the wagon, finding firm footing on what I had taken to be simple rain canvas, but actually was canvas stretched over a load of rocks and earth, accounting for the incredible weight of the wagon, and then bounded from the wagon, two to one side, two the other, and the middle rider actually leaping from the top of the wagon to the dust beyond the harnessed bask. In an instant another five and then another and another had repeated this maneuver and soon, sometimes with squealing of kaiila and dismounting of riders as one beast or another would be crowded between the gates and the others, a Hundred and then another Hundred had hurtled howling into the city, black lacquered shields on the left arms, lance seized in the right hand. About us there were the stamping paws of kaiila, the crying of men, the sound of arms, and always more and more Tuchuks striking the top of the wagon and bounding into the city uttering their war cry. Each of the Hundreds that entered turned to its own destina tion, taking different streets and turns, some dismounting and climbing to command the roofs with their small bows. Al ready I could smell smoke.
Under the wagon with us, crouching, terrified, were three Turians, civilians, a wine vendor, a potter and a girl. The wine vendor and the potter were peeping fearfully from between the wheels at the riders thundering into the streets. Harold, on his hands and knees, was looking into the eyes of the girl who knelt, too, numb with terror. "I am Harold of the Tuchuks," he was telling her. He deftly removed the veil pins and she scarcely noticed, so terrified was she. "I am not really a bad fellow," he was informing her. "Would you like to be my slave?" She managed to shake her head, No, a tiny motion, her eyes wide with fear. "Ah, well," said Harold, repinning her veil. "It is probably just as well anyway. I already have one slave and two girls in one wagon if I had a wagon would probably be difficult." The girl nodded her head affirmatively. "When you leave the wagon," Harold told her, "you might be stopped by Tuchuks nasty fellows who would like to put your pretty little throat in a collar you understand?" She nodded, Yes. "So you tell them that you are already the slave of Harold the Tuchuk, understand?" She nodded again. "It will be dishonest on your part," said Harold apologetically, "but these are hard times." There were tears in her eyes. "Then go home and lock yourself in the cellar," he said. He glanced out. There were still riders pouring into the city. "But as yet," he said, "you cannot leave." She nodded, Yes. He then unpinned her veil and took her in his arms, improving the time.