“Men, get your bows ready. Stop those men before they slaughter Drakis.”
Alexar launched the first arrow, the shaft clearing Tarok’s head by a hand’s span, and flashing into the opening. Two more arrows snapped across the space between the towers, just as Tarok and those defending the doorway were about to be pushed aside. Alexar’s next volley stopped the assault, five men firing together, pinning two bodies in the opening. The Egyptians disappeared back into the tower’s confines.
Enkidu’s face appeared above the wall, a bloody sword in his hand.
He shouted something, and it took Alexar a moment to comprehend the words.
“Yavtar, take half the men to the other tower. Help them.”
Yavtar nodded. He and his men carried no bows, and they could do nothing more from up here.
Alexar moved to the corner of the tower, and glanced down at the gate, just in time to see the last of the huge beams that barred it shut come down. A crowd of men massed against the wide wooden strakes in their panic, for a moment the press of their own bodies the only thing keeping the gate closed.
Alexar jumped onto the battlement, directly above the gate. Placing his feet with care, he drew a shaft and picked his target. An Egyptian trying to get the mob to move back died first. A second foreigner followed, then another, this one waving a sword. At such close range, shooting straight down from less than twenty paces, Alexar could scarcely miss. He stood alone, exposed on the battlement, but no bowmen opposed him, and he kept shooting, whipping the arrows from quiver to string to his ear so fast his movements never seemed to stop. And with each twang of the bowstring, a man died or fell wounded.
Panic erupted below. Some still worked to force the gate open, but others turned and ran, desperate to escape the deadly arrows that hissed down upon them. One of Alexar’s men joined him, adding his shafts to the carnage below. Bodies lay atop one another, forming a fresh barrier to anyone striving to open the gate.
Just as he nocked his last arrow, Alexar realized he had no targets below. The mob had broken and turned back.
“Keep watch. Kill anyone that tries to get out,” Alexar ordered, then jumped down and went back to where the three archers stood, bows drawn, still waiting for targets to appear in the doorway opposite them. Across the open space, the doorway to the other tower stood empty. A man leaned on the wall, waving a red-stained sword at him. Alexar had to stare before he recognized the bloody figure of Drakis.
Before Alexar could wave his bow in reply, he heard a rush of noise from below. Moving to the tower’s edge, he leaned over and saw Bantor and more than twenty soldiers jogging into the open space, bows ready, looking for targets. Following them was a wall of men, hundreds of them, all shouting Eskkar’s name and waving whatever they could find as a weapon, filling the lanes. The inhabitants of Akkad had finally rallied in force to support their liberators. The last of Korthac’s fighters threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees, crying for mercy.
Alexar laid his bow across the battlement and stared down at the sight.
The battle for the gate had ended. The soldiers and the people of Akkad once again ruled their city.
29
Bantor and ten men galloped through the main gate, heading south.
All were bone-weary after a long night without sleep, but no one complained. Every one of them had a score to settle with Ariamus, and Bantor had no trouble finding volunteers. Each man led a spare horse, and carried his bow slung across his back.
After Bantor put down the last resistance at the gate, the city had gone wild, with all the inhabitants out in the streets, cheering and praising their deliverers, and generally getting in the way. He wasted close to an hour before he fi nished searching the dead and wounded that surrounded the towers, looking for Ariamus. Bantor even spoke with the prisoners, wounded or those who surrendered, asking for Ariamus, but no one knew the whereabouts of the former captain of the guard; Ariamus had vanished, like a night demon with the coming of dawn.
When he’d learned that no one had seen Ariamus, alive or dead, Bantor knew the man would run, making his break over the wall. Little more than an hour after the last of the fi ghting, Bantor stood in Eskkar’s courtyard, surrounded by the pandemonium of rowdy soldiers and exuberant citizens celebrating their deliverance.
“He’ll head south,” Eskkar said, raising his voice over the din. “He won’t chance encountering anyone coming down the northern road, not if he’s got any of the Egyptians with him. He’ll want to cross the river as soon as he can. Take whatever men you need and go after him.”
“I’ll run him down,” Bantor said. He’d already worked through what Ariamus must be thinking, and had come to the same conclusion. Moving through the crowd, Bantor found Klexor sitting on the ground, feet sprawled out in front of him, his back against the house, and drinking wine straight from a jug.
“We’re going after Ariamus. Get nine men who can ride and meet me at the stable.”
Klexor’s eyes widened in surprise, but he put down the jug. The chance to pay back Ariamus pushed all thoughts of rest and merrymaking aside.
Bantor cursed the time wasted to round up enough horses, wrench the men away from their celebrations, and move his force through the celebrating crowds that filled the lanes.
On foot, Ariamus would head south, following the river. The land there contained many farms, and some of those farms might have a plough horse or two hidden away. Once mounted, Ariamus would disappear, eventually crossing the river to head west. He would expect pursuit, but maybe not this fast, and not supplied with extra mounts.
Once outside the city walls, the quiet sounds of the countryside returned. At first Bantor didn’t bother looking for tracks. Ariamus would have followed the endless, interconnected canals, moving slower through the water channels, but leaving no obvious trail. Instead, Bantor followed the main road south for a mile, until the farms began to spread out, before he moved his men toward the river.
At the riverbank, Bantor spread his line of men wide, looking for tracks as they moved southward, and anchoring the line at the river himself, searching the ground for any sign of a group of men entering the water. He stopped every confused and still-frightened farmer they encountered. Had anyone seen fugitives running from Akkad? Anyone missed any horses? No one had seen a band of men on foot, but the farmers all wanted to know what had happened in Akkad. Except for a brief statement that Eskkar had returned, Bantor refused to answer any questions about what had happened to Korthac and his men. All this took time, and Bantor grew more and more impatient, as he swept his men back and forth across the most likely routes.
“Bantor! This way,” Klexor shouted, his bellow covering a quarter mile of wheat and barley fields that separated the two. Bantor turned the horse and applied his heels, racing through the crops until he joined his subcommander atop a low rise.
By now they’d traveled about three miles from Akkad. Up ahead, a good-sized farm nestled in a grove of palm trees, near a broad canal that carried water from the river. Thin wisps of smoke rose from one of the three structures. Bantor saw the roof missing from one, and guessed what had happened.
He waved his bow to show his men the way. Taking care, they converged on the farmhouse, weapons at the ready; Bantor did not intend to be ambushed again. As he drew closer, Bantor saw the tracks of men for the first time, fresh mud showing where they’d come out of the canal. Approaching the farm, they saw no one, no farmer, wife, or child, not even a dog.