"What else can we do?" asked Kardann. "You've got to try something!"
Bickering swept through the ranks as Cordell shook his head in dismay. Indeed, what else could they do? Yet without spells, without the magic of Icetongue, without Darien…
With a groan, Cordell sat down at the table, placing his head in his hands. How could she have betrayed him? He wallowed in his self-pity for a moment before forcing himself free of the mire, to once again stand and pace before his men.
"They seem to have withdrawn at nightfall, at least to some extent," observed the Bishou. "Perhaps that's our chance, to break out of here in the middle of the night."
"The clouds have moved in," added the dwarf. "It's a dark night – and still raining."
"I have some spells that might prove of some use to us," interjected Bishou Domincus. "An insect plague, perhaps, to clear them from our path. Or wind and water, such as Helm grants me to use."
"Perhaps you're onto something," said Cordell, desperate for any hope. "One thing's for sure – to remain here is death, death for all of us." He made his decision quickly.
"Tonight, then!" said the captain-general, a trace of his old commanding presence returning to his posture and his voice.
"But how many lives will we lose?" squeaked Kardann.
"We know which life you are concerned with, my good assessor," said Cordell dryly. "And rest assured that we shall do our best to get it to safety.
"You, on the other hand," he continued, "must complete the plans to move several tons of gold. You have two hours."
From the chronicles of Coton:
A note before I retire, while the city dies around me.
Now at last Qotal sends his sign, as the couatl again strives in his name. Forgive me, Great Wise Master of my faith, that I do not record my gratitude at this event. All my pleas and prayers to this end notwithstanding, hoping – nay, begging – for you to take some action.
But now I must ask why? Why has the couatl come? What purpose is there to any struggles at this hour, in this dark night?
Now, when it is too late for all but the dying?
THE CRESTING FLOOD
Are you ready to go?" Cordell asked Sergeant-Major Grimes the question, knowing that there could be only one answer. Grimes, a bluff, profane veteran, had been his choice to replace Alvarro. The sergeant-major was no intellectual giant, but Cordell at least felt he could trust the hearty lancer to follow orders.
The blond horseman stood at the head of the lancers, who were formed in a column of twos in the great corridor of the palace. Never, thought Cordell, had he seen such a collection of wounded, tired men. But he knew they stood ready to march.
Before them, the wooden doors, reconstructed by the legionnaires after the day's battle – remained closed, concealing the escape attempt from the Nexalans. Lookouts on the roof reported that there were only a few dozen warriors pacing restlessly about in the vicinity of the doors.
"Give me the sign," grunted the horseman.
"Another hour. We want to let things settle down out there as much as possible. Remember, when you do go, charge all the way to the gate of the plaza. You have to hold that gate until the rest of the legion gets there." Grimes nodded, scowling in concentration.
"Captain-General?"
"Yes?" Cordell turned in irritation. "What is it, Kardann?"
"It's the gold. We've loaded what we can in saddlebags. But there's still a great pile of it. What do you think we should do?"
The captain-general sighed heavily, regretting the necessity that forced them to abandon much hard-earned treasure. "Let the men have as much as they want to carry. The rest we'll leave behind."
In moments, word spread through the ranks of the legionnaires. The soldiers clustered around the mound of gold, filling pockets, backpacks, pouches, even boots and gloves, with the precious metal, many taking so much they could barely walk. Others such as Daggrande, mindful of the hard fight and long flight ahead, took only a few items of purest gold.
At last darkness and quiet spread through the sacred plaza around the palace. The rain drummed heavily on the roof, splattering on the stone surface of the huge courtyard, deadening sound and restricting vision.
"All right," Cordell hissed to Grimes, after a last reconnaisance. "When the doors open, ride,"
Behind the three dozen riders, the other companies of the Golden Legion – swordsmen, crossbowmen, and spears – pressed toward the door. They all understood the necessity for speed if they were to have any chance of escaping this city that had suddenly become their deathtrap.
"Go!" barked Cordell. Two legionnaires immediately pushed the palace doors open, and the horsemen rumbled forth, trampling the few surprised Nexalans in their path. The chargers galloped across the plaza, making it halfway to the gate before any kind of alarm was raised.
But then a volley of whistles and shouts broke from the night. Grimes kicked his trotting lancers into a headlong rush, and they reached the gate to the sacred plaza in a lumbering stampede. Here a hundred warriors stood to bar their way, but the horsemen cut through them like a scythe through straw.
Hooves splashed through puddles of rainwater, and the steady drizzle ran into the riders' eyes, but they nevertheless found many targets for their steel-tipped lances. Through the darkness, their bodies slick with water, they slashed back and forth.
Warriors swarmed into the sacred plaza, scrambling over the walls from the surrounding city, but the column of legionnaires pressed onward to the gate, advancing at a fast march. The men at the front charged with raised shields and a deadly array of speartips before them. The rest of the column followed, maintaining tight formation.
Through the gate, Grimes swept his riders into the street beyond. He saw waves of warriors approaching from both directions, running toward the battle as quickly as possible. He recognized instantly that these were not the well-formed ranks they had faced before, so he gambled.
"Red and Blue wings – with me! Black and Gold, charge to the right!"
He wheeled his horse and lowered his lance. A dozen riders formed a line beside him, and they thundered up the street. Behind him, a similar line charged in the other direction. They met the Mazticans in seconds, lancing them or crushing them under the hooves of the steeds. In another moment, the remaining warriors turned and fled, disrupted and panicked by the sudden, brutal onslaught.
Quickly the sergeant-major wheeled his lancers, racing back to the plaza gate. He found the other wings had done the same, and in another minute, the leading rank of the footmen started into the street from the sacred plaza. The legion poured steadily through the gap in the wall.
"Take half your riders and start toward the causeway." Cordell barked the command to Grimes. "Have the other half bring up the rear. Now, go!"
Instantly the blond rider spurred his mount down the wide avenue toward the southwest causeway, the shortest route to the shore of the lake, with half of his company trailing.
Meanwhile, Cordell wasted no time turning the column of legionnaires after Grimes, leaving the rear guard under Daggrande's steady command. "Double march-move!" he barked. With the captain-general at the head, the invaders trooped toward the hoped-for escape from this city of chaos.
The press of warriors soon spilled from the plaza, and more attackers rushed from side streets and buildings as they passed. The Golden Legion fought its most desperate fight, a running battle through the dark, rainy streets of Nexal. Many men fell, badly wounded, and had to be left behind. Often they begged for a final blow to spare them the horrors of the Nexalan altars. Many a veteran trooper broke down and wept as he delivered this stroke of mercy to an old companion.