Quest for Honour (74 page)

He ducked his head and shrugged the rope off his shoulder. “Take this.” He handed the third rope to Ibi-sin, and pulled something from his tunic. “Help them up.”

Both ropes went taut again, and two more men pulled themselves up and over the wall.

Shappa, the first Akkadian to breach Larsa’s walls, ignored them. He dropped a stone in his sling and waited. The guards were visible enough, but most of them were facing inwards, watching the city burn. Smoke hung in the air, stinging the eyes, rasping the throat, and already carrying the stench of burning flesh throughout the city. Fire-arrows continued to rise and fall through the sky, but fewer now that most of the fires had taken root.

The first six men up the ropes were slingers, and they knelt against the wall, staying in the shadows. Shappa walked along the parapet, forcing himself to move slowly and purposefully, as if he belonged. He carried the sling in his left hand. His left hand was as his right, and he could use his
sling almost as well with either hand. His right hand held a long copper knife concealed behind his leg.

The next sentry never saw the knife that flashed into his stomach. Shappa pressed his sling against the man’s mouth to muffle any cries, but the man went down without a sound. Within a few heartbeats, the rest of the slingers followed. Soon two more ropes were being fastened to the parapet supports.

Shappa returned to find Dragan and Ibi-sin still helping men up and over the wall. Archers, their bows strung and looped over their shoulders, were pulling themselves into the city. The bowmen fanned out along the wall, and Tarok led them toward the ramparts steps.

“Guards! Guards! Akkadians on the walls! They’re inside the city! ”

Someone had noticed the mass of men slithering over the wall and sounded the alarm.

Drakis, almost the last man to scale the wall, pulled himself up over the edge, his white teeth showing either a grin or a grimace as the enemy sentries sounded the alarm along the north wall. “Too late now, fools!”

The noise echoed down into the city, but it didn’t matter. With four ropes providing access, the last of Drakis’s men pulled themselves up and over.

“Let’s go!” Drakis commanded.

Forty men raced down the steps and into Larsa, pounding through the lanes, heading for the main gate.

Dragan and Ibi-sin watched them rush off, hard men intent on a single purpose. In a moment, they had the parapet to themselves.

“What shall we do now?”

“I don’t know, Ibi-sin. But we’d better get off this wall before someone notices us.”

D
rakis had taken a good look toward the main gate before he descended the steps. He knew the way from studying Ismenne’s map, but in the darkness, nothing looked familiar. The lanes twisted and turned, even more confusing than those in the older parts of Akkad. Some of the houses were burning, and his men pushed and shoved through crowds of people frantically trying to put out fires, save their possessions, or escape the flames. No one seemed to recognize them as Akkadians, or if they did, had any inclination to try and stop them.

Just as he thought he’d taken a wrong turn, the lane turned into a wider passage, and Drakis knew the gate lay just ahead.

“This way! Archers, take to the roofs.”

He led the men in a wild charge straight at the gate. Two houses burned along one side, and a watchfire burned along the top of the wall. Sentries continued to sound the alarm, and now Drakis heard the panic in their voices. An arrow struck the ground beside him and skittered off into the darkness. The sentries on the wall had finally grasped the situation.

But Drakis and his men were moving too quickly to stop and too fast to hit. They made it to the foot of the gate before they encountered any opposition. Two guards died trying to stop them, and the others backed into the towers that led upwards.

Drakis didn’t care about them. “Get that gate open!”

The two men with the hammers went to work. As soon as the first stroke pounded on the brace, the gate shook, and everyone knew what was happening. The city’s guards started shooting arrows at anything that moved, including the city’s inhabitants, and a group of soldiers who had collected themselves to ready a counter-attack. But by then the twenty Akkadian archers had reached the roofs. Now Akkadian arrows, as well as stones from the slingers, began to fly from the darkness, first striking down anyone who seemed in command, then searching out anyone with a bow. That stopped the counter-attack against Drakis and his twenty swordsmen.

The first wedge broke free, then the second a moment later. “Get the beam out!” Drakis’s voice cut through the chaos.

Some of his men dropped their swords and moved to the gate. Four men lifted the top beam, grunting as they shoved it up over their heads. Then they had to move it aside. One man went down with an arrow in his chest, and the log sagged dangerously before the remaining trio could hurl it aside, letting it roll off into the darkness. They had to get it far enough away from the gate so as to not hinder it swinging open. The hammers kept pounding behind them, and Drakis glanced back to see the last wedge splinter into fragments.

He slid his sword into the scabbard and helped his men shoulder the second, and lower, beam. They had to stoop down to grasp it. An arrow slammed into the gate a hand’s width from Drakis’s head, but it didn’t matter now. With a grunt the beam rose up, scraping along the wood, and Drakis moved away from the gate, his feet stumbling in the dirt, trying to
maintain his footing. The soldier with the hammer began pounding on the gate with all his might, the signal to those waiting outside.

“Throw it!” Drakis gave the command and the men heaved the beam to the side. Behind them, the gate burst open, and the first man through was Eskkar, at the head of a wave of two hundred and fifty spearmen, and fifty archers. He recognized Drakis.

“Drakis! Stay here. Make sure the gate stays open until the rest of the men arrive.”

That didn’t take long. Soon the entire force of spearmen jogged through the gate, breathing hard. The first part of Eskkar’s army was pouring into Larsa, and nothing could stop it now.

E
skkar, carrying a shield like any of his infantry, led the initial force straight down the widest lane. He remembered to count his strides, and when he reached eighty a lane appeared on his left and he led the men that way. Fires burned everywhere, and the people shrank out of their way, frightened by the river of fierce men all wearing bronze helmets that glowed blood-red in the flickering light, and carrying shields and long spears whose tips glinted as they reflected the flames.

Another two hundred paces and the house of King Naran appeared, an imposing structure surrounded by a wall taller than the height of a man. Four soldiers, swords in hand, guarded the gate, but they took one glance at the charging Akkadians and fled. Two ran up the lane, and the other two ducked inside the gate.

“Open that gate!”

Eskkar dashed up the lane, his personal guards and the spearmen trying to catch up with their leader. He heard a bar snap into place as he reached the entrance, but no gate this small would stop him now. He raised his shield and flung his weight against the gate. A moment later, four more bodies hit it, and more hands reached out to push against it.

Something snapped, and the gate burst open. Eskkar stumbled through the opening, falling to his knees from the press of men behind him. Grond caught him by the arm and jerked him upright. Akkadian soldiers shouting war cries rushed into the grounds, brandishing spears or swords. Any who resisted were slain. Those who tried to flee were caught and slammed to the ground. The spearmen fanned out, filling the spacious grounds and moving to the rear of the courtyard.

In moments the king’s house was taken. Eskkar strode through the open door, stepping over a body. Two torches burned in the long common room, but it was devoid of life. A broad flight of steps led upstairs, marked by a bloody trail. Eskkar pointed with his sword and his men rushed up the steps. Another barred door held the soldiers up for a few moments, before they ripped it from its hinges, and poured into the upper chamber.

Eskkar mounted the steps and entered the room. Two thick candles mounted on the walls illuminated the first of the three rooms he knew to comprise the house’s second story. Women were dragged from the other rooms, and soon a dozen stood crammed together in the corner. Eskkar looked at the terrified women shaking in their fear, clutching each other in their panic. One, older than the others, wore a rich gown. A pearl necklace hung from her neck. Two younger women, likely her daughters, clung to her arms, as Eskkar moved to face her. She tried to shrink back, but there was no place to go.

Eskkar studied her for a moment. King Naran had several wives, but his first wife had given him two daughters. “You are Naran’s wife?”

“No!” The woman lifted her chin and held her daughters tight against her body.

“Then you’re of no use to me.” He turned to Grond. “Kill her, and the two with her.”

Grond, his powerful frame as frightening as any man alive, drew his sword from its scabbard and stepped forward, raising the blade over his head.

“Wait! Stop!” The older of the two girls holding their mother upright shouted the words. “My mother is first wife to my father, King Naran.”

“Where is he?” Eskkar’s voice rasped into the older woman’s face.

She hesitated. “I don’t know.” Her voice quivered as she spoke.

Naran’s wife had courage, but the daughter would tell him what he wanted. Eskkar reached out, caught the mother’s hair, and twisted it back, making her gasp with pain. “That’s twice you’ve lied to me, woman. Next time I’ll cut out your tongue. Where is he?”

Grond grabbed her by the face, pushing his thick fingers into the sides of her jaw, forcing it open. He shoved the sharp blade into her mouth, and a trickle of blood formed in the corner.

“Inside! Inside the bed chamber!” The same girl, sobbing now, pointed to the way.

Eskkar released his hold on Naran’s wife. “Bring them.” He entered
the second chamber, a comfortable room where Naran no doubt took his pleasure. A large chest rested against the wall, the only concealment possible.

Grond went to it, placed his foot against one side, and shoved. The chest slid aside, revealing an opening cut into the wall.

“Get him out.”

Grond would have to bend over double to squeeze inside the dark hiding hole, and he knew better than to do that. Instead he took a spear from one of the grinning soldiers, and thrust it into the darkness.

“Stop! I’m coming out.”

On his hands and knees, King Naran emerged from the hidden chamber, his bronze helmet still on his head. If he had a sword, he’d left it behind.

A soldier arrived with a torch, shoved it inside, and inspected the hiding hole. “It’s empty, Lord Eskkar.”

“Don’t take any chances. Tear the wall down. There might be another hole concealed within this one. Check all the rooms, break open every wall. There will be more hiding places for his gold.”

Grond jerked the helmet from Naran’s head, turned him around, and began tying his hands behind his back.

“Guard him and his women well, Grond. I’ll be back for them later.”

T
he moment Razrek heard the alarm about Akkadians entering the city, he knew it was time to go. Already the mass of soldiers outside the city had begun abandoning their position and started jogging toward the main gate. The threat against the south wall had been a ruse.

“Damn that demon Eskkar!” Razrek shook his head in frustration. “Summon our men to the river gate, and get them mounted. We’ve only moments before these bastards seal us in.”

He raced down the steps and ran as fast as he could toward Larsa’s river gate. Fires burned everywhere, and the heat from the flames would have given him pause at any other time. With swords in their hands, Razrek, Mattaki and his men rushed down the lane, forcing their way through the terrified mob of people pushing and shoving in every direction.

“Use your swords on the rabble,” Razrek shouted. “Clear the way to the corrals!”

Mattaki shouted orders to every horseman they passed, and soon
hundreds of men milled about in the stable area. Razrek reached the house where he’d stabled his horse, and those of his commanders. Some were already there, others arriving breathless, pausing only long enough to fit a halter over their horse’s head.

Frantic soldiers tore loose the gate’s fastenings and flung it open. Men kicked their horses hard and burst through the opening, riding south along the river toward safety. Razrek saw a few arrows reach out from the darkness and strike down several of his men. The shafts didn’t descend in force, but he knew that would soon change as more archers reached the rear of the city.

Razrek finally fitted the halter to his nervous mount’s tossing head. He swung onto his stallion and hunched over his horse’s shoulder as he urged the big animal forward. With a thunder of hooves, Razrek and the rest of his men fled into the darkness, away from the walls and burning debris. Behind him came hundreds of the city’s inhabitants, desperate to escape before the Akkadians sealed them in. Shouting and pushing, they forced their way through the gate, running for their lives.

The Akkadian bowmen, slowed down by the tangle of broken huts that littered the ground, finally pushed their way toward the river gate, trying to seal off the most likely escape route. But only a few arrived before Razrek and hundreds of his men galloped out. Arrows flew at them, but the leader of the first group of breathless archers didn’t have enough men to contest their escape. He shot arrows at anything that moved, and emptied his quiver with the last shaft launched into the darkness.

More archers kept arriving, and now Razrek’s stragglers were cut down, arrows killing horses and riders, driving them back into the city. When men and horses littered the space just outside the gate, the exodus stopped. A few defenders tried to close the portal, but Eskkar’s spearmen arrived and took control. The last escape route out of Larsa had been closed.