The closest combatants were a pair swinging wildly at each other. Gutha couldn’t tell friend from foe.
‘Snake’s tongue,’ he shouted.
‘Vulture’s claw.’
Relieved that the man had the presence of mind to recall the previous week’s watchword, Gutha circled around to his opponent. The warrior never saw him or the weapon that almost took his head off. Gutha needed both hands to dislodge the blade from the lifeless lump of flesh at his feet.
As the guards came past him yelling the watchword, he skirted around the melee along the wall. Such a chaotic scrap robbed him of his advantages and — as the guards seemed to have the numbers — his priority was to get through the gate and find out what was going on. As he neared the doors, a figure tottered out of the fight and fell in front of him.
This warrior hadn’t seen him either. He leaped to his feet, panting like a dog.
Gutha knew it might be one of the guards but if he called out he would alert him. Better not to take the chance. He raised the axe.
The warrior twitched, sensing danger.
Just before Gutha brought the blade down, something hit him hard in the back. The pain dropped him to his knees and it took a moment for him to realise he hadn’t been cut. He swung the axe at where he thought his foe was but missed. Sand splattered into his face.
Someone ran past. Someone else said ‘this way’ in Nabatean.
Fearing he would be struck before he could see again, Gutha got to his feet and withdrew to the wall. He stayed there until he’d managed to blink and paw most of the sand out of his eyes.
‘Commander Gutha? Commander?’
‘Reyazz? Over here!’
The engineer could barely get his words out. ‘They — they have the stone. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.’
Indavara was down to one dagger — his own — so was therefore relieved when his fingers found the edge of the surround. He paused to make sure none of the archers had noticed then hauled himself up. His left boot found half a hold on a protruding brick; enough to help him get his elbows over the surround.
Beyond the flaming torch — which was mounted to one side — were the backs of the three archers, each man still entranced by the unfolding chaos below. Indavara almost grinned. The hard part was over.
He swung his right leg over the surround, not seeing the mug until he kicked it — straight across the tower and into the backside of one of the archers. The mug clattered to the ground and the three Arabians turned. As Indavara dropped over the surround he was glad to see none of them had swords.
One man gave a shout and charged straight at him. Indavara didn’t have enough time to draw his blade, only enough for two thoughts. First, the guard was brave. Second, the guard was small.
They met in the middle of the tower. Indavara drove in low, his shoulder audibly cracking a rib or two as he sent the lighter man flying back through the air. Eyes bulging, arms clutching at the others, the archer bounced off the surround then disappeared into the darkness.
‘Is Indavara going to give a signal or what?’ asked Yorvah.
The body thumped into the ground three yards away.
‘Offhand, I’d say that’s it,’ replied Mercator. He pointed at the town side of the path. ‘Archers there, swords with me. I want every one of those guards down and cold inside a minute.’
To Indavara, they weren’t really men now: just two dangerous shapes he had to get rid of. One had just drawn his dagger, the other was pulling his bow from his back and hammering on the wooden floor with his boot.
Sword now drawn, Indavara came at the dagger-man from the left, forcing him towards his compatriot. He feinted a sweep then thrust straight into him. The blade bounced off the guard’s breastbone but froze him. The second thrust went in close to his heart. As Indavara pulled the blade out, the archer collapsed against the surround, wheezing.
The last man’s bow came down hard on his arm but met only the unyielding metal of the mail-shirt. Realising he was in trouble, the archer sidestepped away, fending off his pursuer with the bow.
As Indavara went for him, his left foot landed on nothing and he fell onto his right knee. Someone grabbed his leg. He peered down through the trapdoor and saw a head of greasy black curls. As the Arabian looked up, Indavara brought the sword hilt down on his skull. The guard blinked once then fell. He grunted as his groin landed on a lower rung, then tumbled all the way to the bottom.
Indavara was more concerned with the archer, who was coming at him with the bow again. Still stuck, he stretched out his sword arm and hacked at his assailant’s legs. The blade connected with both of them.
Shrieking, the archer dropped his bow and fell head first through the trapdoor. He landed next to the other guard with a crushing thud.
Tasting blood, Indavara realised the leg wounds had splashed him on the way past. He wiped his mouth, then sheathed his sword and started down the ladder.
Cassius was all set to drive past the figure waving at him. But then the hood came down and he saw the distinctive features of Ulixes. The gambler was holding his lantern in one hand, the sack in the other. As Cassius stopped the horses, Ulixes nodded at the rear of the cart. ‘You might want to cover that up.’
‘There wasn’t much time.’
‘Allow me. Before you attract some unwanted attention.’
Ulixes climbed on, put the lantern down and lifted the wine skin. Cassius turned and watched him spread it over the top of the stone. Ulixes nodded at the compound. The fiercest of the flames were now higher than the buildings.
‘Distracting enough?’
‘I’d say so.’
Two warriors ran across the road, heading for the compound. Ulixes waited for them to pass, then pulled the skin down over the other side of the black stone.
‘Where are Khalima and the others?’
‘Got caught up in a fight.’ Cassius peered at the track to the right of the road. ‘I think I can see Andal and the horses.’
‘Then let’s get them and head for the gate.’
‘We wait for Khalima.’
Ulixes thumped down onto the bench. ‘We have one chance to get out of here, grain man. It won’t last long.’
Cassius couldn’t deny the logic; he at last had the stone, his job now was to get it out of Galanaq.
He took up the reins. ‘Yah!’
Indavara reached the first floor and ran to an arrow slit facing the gate. Below, Mercator and the auxiliaries were already in control; while the optio and Yorvah stood guard, the others were dragging bodies away into the shadows.
But suddenly they all stopped what they were doing and looked along the street. Mercator led them forward, sword high.
Indavara ran across the tower to the door. He grabbed the latch and pulled it up but the door was locked. There was a torch in a bracket nearby but the light was weak, the twigs and oil almost burned out.
He blundered around in the gloom, searching for a key. From outside came shouts and the clash of blades. Fearing he might have to go back up and check the guards, he at last found a hook. The key was hanging from it on a string. He grabbed it and fitted it into the lock.
‘Come on!’
He had to shake both the door and the key to get it to turn. Once it was open he drew his sword and sped down the stairs.
The auxiliaries had been attacked by a group of Ilaha’s guards. Two figures moved clear of the melee. Indavara recognised Khiran, the auxiliary who had brought the Mars figurine. Clearly wounded, he seemed unable to lift his arms and defend himself. Indavara was already running but he knew he’d be too late.
Khiran’s opponent thrust in low. The auxiliary’s head flew up, exposing his throat. A moment later, the guard’s blade slashed across it. Even before Khiran hit the ground, the man who’d killed him heard the new threat and turned.