A barbarian snatched a golden necklace from a Maya woman, as a huge shadow fell across his body. His eyes opened wide in terror at the sight of the bearded giant that stood before him. He started to run, but the ax was too quick, descending with an ominous swish. His head rolled to the pavement.
Erik struck again and again, his fists and his ax lashing into the barbarians. He stood like a red-bearded fury, arms flailing, bodies falling to his right and left.
Neil hacked his way to Erik’s side, and together they lashed out at the enemy. Now, forced back by overwhelming numbers, the Norsemen backed up against a stone wall in one of the courts.
From the other side of the city, retreating slowly under the weight of the pursuing barbarians, came Baz and his men.
Slowly, both forces joined in a semicircle against the wall. The barbarians withdrew, and Baz came to stand beside Neil and Erik. His quilted padding was slashed down the front and a line of red streaked across his chest.
“You are wounded,” Erik said.
“Another scar,” Baz laughed. “I collect them.” He looked at the long gash Olaf had inflicted on Erik’s arm. “And your arm?”
Erik returned Baz’s laughter. “I am becoming a collector too.”
“I prefer to collect barbarian heads,” Baz said, the grin still on his face. Somehow, he looked handsome, in spite of the scar that twisted his features.
“You’ll have the opportunity to collect plenty,” Neil said solemnly. “Here they come.”
The barbarians charged across the court, their rattles shaking wildly. Neil recognized the blast of a conch horn, and suddenly, the enemy was upon them, clawing, swinging, slashing.
A grisly-faced soldier reached for Neil’s throat with grimy fingers. Neil kicked out, his foot connecting with the barbarian’s stomach. He doubled over, and the head of Neil’s ax came down on his skull. On his left another barbarian swung the flat of his sword against Neil’s arm.
Neil wrenched his arm back in pain, the ax toppling out of his hands. The barbarian drew back his sword, ready to swing but Baz interceded, clutching the soldier’s neck between his hands and lifting him above the bodies on the floor. With a deft snap, he cracked the man’s back over his knee and tossed him aside like a broken matchstick.
Neil lifted a sword from the floor and holding it in both hands, swung it like a scythe before him. On his right, Erik swore in Swedish and swung his ax like a devastating sledge hammer, using now the blade, now the handle, and now the back of the blade, gouging, cutting, stoving in heads. The barbarians retreated to regroup, and the small band waited for the next charge.
“There are too many of them,” Neil said.
Around them, fallen Mayas lay over fallen barbarians, their blood seeping into the stones like a muddy red pool.
“We can hold them for a little while,” Erik said.
“Here they come!” Baz shouted.
Again the horn. Again the rattles. Again the painted faces and the swinging arms, the sweating torsos, and the gleaming axes.
Ax met sword, metal against obsidian, arms locked together, arching, straining bodies. The shouts went up again, and the screams and the gurgles of men who were losing arms and legs. And lives.
Two barbarians flung themselves at Erik’s head, and he shook them off like flies. They charged at him again and this time Erik caught one with his ax against the side of the cheek, while Neil ran the other through with his sword.
“Baz!” Neil shouted suddenly. “Look out!”
A barbarian had leaped from the wall behind, his body poised in the air for a moment and then crashing down heavily on Baz’s shoulders. Baz crumpled like a wet newspaper as the barbarian scrambled to his feet, a dagger flashing in his right hand.
Neil lunged with his sword, but not soon enough to prevent the dagger from sinking into Baz’s chest. The barbarian pulled the dagger back, slapped Neil aside with his free hand, and plunged it into Baz’s chest again. Baz jerked convulsively as Neil stumbled to regain his footing. Again the barbarian snapped the dagger back, and Neil recognized it for the first time as a retrieved Norse weapon.
The barbarian crouched and crept forward. Neil scrambled for his sword, his mind paralyzed with a sudden muscle-gripping, nerve-shattering fear.
Baz’s legs lashed out, twining about the barbarian’s waist, and twisting until the man fell to the stones, Baz’s fingers went to his opponent’s throat. He squeezed tightly, but then Baz’s face went suddenly white as all life flooded from his body. His hands dropped limply, falling on his chest.
The barbarian jumped to his feet. But Neil had a sword this time, and it swung out in a whistling arc, catching the barbarian across his chest. A gaping hole appeared in his right side, and he stared at it in disbelief. The sword swung around again, and the barbarian collapsed beside Baz, the dagger rattling harmlessly to the stones.
“More,” Erik shouted. “Careful, Neil.”
They came again, a gigantic human steam roller that rumbled across the small court.
Neil fought beside Erik, his arms tired with the weight of the heavy sword. The barbarians pressed forward, pushing, thrashing, then falling back again.
“We can’t hold out much longer,” Neil said, glad for the momentary respite.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a minor skirmish on the other side of the court. Four barbarians were crowding around a figure with a sword. The figure lashed out, stepping in and felling one of the invaders. He turned, ran a few feet toward Erik and Neil, and then stopped again to face the pursuing barbarians. His sword flicked out, and another man fell. More barbarians joined the pursuers, reaching for the battling figure. It turned and ran for the circle of defenders again, and moonlight splashed on a broken nose.
“Dave!” Neil shouted. He slapped Erik on the shoulder. “It’s Dave.”
Erik leaped over the pile of bodies that formed a barricade before them, and Neil was just a step behind him. They ran across the yard, joined their weapons with Dave’s and plowed into the barbarians.
Then, turning swiftly, they ran back to the barricade.
Neil saw it was pitifully manned. Half a dozen Norsemen and a handful of Mayas had dragged benches and tables with them and piled them up behind the fallen bodies. They crouched behind these now, waiting for the next barbarian assault.
“This is it,” Neil said. “This is the last one.”
“I’ve been searching high and low for you,” Dave said. “This lone wolf business doesn’t appeal to me.” He wiped a bloody hand over his torn shirt. “These guys are all over the city.”
Erik looked across the court where the barbarians were rallying their strength.
“What are they doing now?” Neil asked.
“They’re waiting,” Dave said. “They’re taking no chances this time. They’re waiting until the rest of the boys in the city join them. Then there’ll be one last rush.”
“And if it succeeds,” Erik said, “there will be no more resistance. The city will be theirs.”
They glanced nervously across the court. Barbarians poured in from the streets, joining their fellows and waiting for more men and more arms. They began pounding on their drums and shaking their rattles.
“What can we do?” Neil asked. “We’ll never survive another charge.”
“Look at them. There must be hundreds of them. What are they waiting for?”
“Probably an omen from the skies to…”
Neil stopped short, his mouth hanging open. He gripped Dave’s shoulder.
“The machine!”
“What?”
“From the skies! We’ll drop down on them with the machine, Dave.”
“What! Don’t be ridiculous, Neil. The machine needs repairs. We’ll never get home if…”