Empire Rising (61 page)

By then, Eskkar had reached down and scooped up his sword. This must be Korthac. No one else would be in these rooms. Only Korthac stood between him and Trella. But the door stood open behind him, and Korthac’s men might be here at any moment. Eskkar raised his bloody blade and moved forward.

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Atop the tower, the stars and moon provided barely enough light for Drakis to see his enemies, milling shadows outlined against the night sky. Screaming like a demon, he hacked left and right, striking at anyone who wasn’t shouting Eskkar’s name. His men burst through the opening behind him, shouting their war cries. They’d driven the confused defenders up the steps, out of the tower, and onto the battlement, but Korthac’s followers still had to be killed. Drakis had no thought except to swing his sword, yelling Eskkar’s name at the top of his lungs, as he struck and struck at the enemy before him, not caring where his blade landed.

The defenders, panicked and thinking themselves outnumbered, lost the will to fight. Caught by surprise in the night, their thoughts turned to flight. One man died, then another, before the rest dropped their swords and fled. They scrambled to get away, shouting for mercy and leaping to the parapet that butted against the side of the tower, a fifteen-foot drop to the parapet below. Those who managed it ran for their lives, thanking their gods for their escape. One man went over the outer wall into the ditch, falling nearly twenty-five feet. A scream of pain announced his landing.

Gulping air into his lungs, his chest heaving, Drakis shook his head to clear his mind. He’d taken the tower. Looking around, he saw bodies strewn about. An arrow whistled past his head, and he realized that it came from the other tower. His excitement disappeared as he ducked down. The other tower still remained in enemy hands, guarded by men with bows of their own.

More battle sounds came from below. By now, most of his men had reached the tower’s top. “Get down! Watch for enemy bowmen on the other tower,” Drakis called out, as he grabbed one of his men and yanked him to safety below the rampart. Frustration set in an instant later when he realized Enkidu had failed to take the right tower.

“Use your bows to clear the top of the other tower, then cover the gate!

Make sure it stays closed. I’m going back down.” Shoving his way back into the tower’s blackness, Drakis trod carefully down the now-bloody stairs, making sure of his footing. He reached the bottom in a rush, stumbling over the last few steps.

The base of the tower had no door, and little in it, except for the steps that wound their way along the walls and up to the battlement. He found 358

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Enkidu and his men standing beside the entrance, using their bows, shooting at anything that moved.

“What happened? Why didn’t you—”

“They blocked the doorway with a table before we could reach it, Drakis. They spoke a strange language . . . must be Korthac’s men. I lost two men trying to force it.” Enkidu paused to take a breath. “So I ordered the men here.”

“Damn the gods.”

Grunting in rage, Drakis peered out into the open. The plan to take both towers had failed, but he could still control the gate with one tower, if he could hold it. At least he would have all his men together.

The fire outside still burned, but the flames had started to die down.

Enkidu had given him an idea. If he could barricade the door with something, they could hold both the tower and the gate. This tower had no table, nothing, in fact, except for a few blankets strewn on the floor. Drakis peered out the doorway. Down the street, following the wall toward the north, he could just make out the usual carts and tables, pushed against their owner’s houses for the night. One object loomed up larger, even in the dim light—a country wagon, with its wheels nearly as tall as a man. If he could bring it here, it would make a formidable barrier.

“See that wagon up the lane? We’ll drag it here and use it to block the doorway.”

Enkidu looked out the opening. “They’ll be shooting at us. Korthac’s fighters are gathering near the other tower. Their archers are already targeting this entrance.” As if to give emphasis to Enkidu’s word, an arrow clattered off the side of the opening.

“I’ll go for it. I’ll take three men. Send some of your men to the top.

Cover us from there. Hurry.”

Ignoring Enkidu’s protests, Drakis grabbed three men and told them what he planned. Putting down his bow, he stepped close to the doorway and studied the lane. Confused shouts sounded everywhere, and men darted about the cleared space, but no one had dared to approach the tower as yet, and the lane to the north appeared empty. Still, it wouldn’t be long before someone took charge and the counterattack began.

“Come!” he said, and burst through the opening, running as fast as he could. Glancing behind him, Drakis saw his men following and even caught sight of Enkidu and another man standing inside the doorway, arrows at the ready.

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The wagon stood a good hundred paces from the tower, and, once there, they’d have to push the cumbersome vehicle back. Breathing hard, he reached the wagon and found it facing the wrong direction. They’d have to turn it around, or it would be even more difficult to get moving.

Drakis ran past the back end of the wagon, then knelt and lifted the long wooden tongue, grunting at its weight.

One of his men joined him, and together they lifted the heavy wooden trace from the ground and pushed it higher and higher, until it fell backward, landing on the top of the wagon with a loud crash. His other men had already slipped alongside the house wall and started shoving. Drakis grasped the edge of the front wheel and added his weight. Slowly, with much squeaking and protesting, the heavy conveyance began to move.

As soon as they cleared it from the wall, Drakis called his men to the rear of the wagon. All four of them picked up the back end, straining under the weight, and simply walked it around, so that the wagon’s front pointed toward the tower.

“Put your shoulders into it,” Drakis said, his breathing labored from the effort, and shoved his body against the rear of the clumsy wagon.

Creaking loudly, it started to move. Drakis cursed himself for not bringing more men; two full-grown oxen normally moved a wagon this size.

After a few steps it rolled more easily, but they couldn’t get it going faster than a slow walk, and no amount of effort seemed to increase its speed.

Still, they’d covered half the distance to the tower before the first sign of anyone noticing their movement. An arrow slammed into the wagon with a twang, and from its angle Drakis guessed it had come from the other tower.

“Keep the wagon between us and the tower,” he commanded, and his men shifted a little more to the left. Another arrow whistled over their heads. Then a voice cried out from above them.

“Look out behind you!”

The warning came from the rooftop beside them, where the still half-asleep citizens of Akkad had retreated, some for safety, others to watch the spectacle. Drakis glanced over his shoulder and saw four men nearly upon them, swords flashing as they ran.

“Behind us!”

He pulled his sword from its scabbard and lifted it high as he readied himself. A few steps before the attackers reached them, one of them stumbled and went down, a cry of pain echoing through the night. Drakis 360

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saw an arrow sticking in the man’s leg. It meant one less man, and it gave the attackers a moment of hesitation before they struck, and by then Drakis and his men stood ready.

Swords clashed. Drakis, the fighting madness still on him, screamed Eskkar’s name with all his might, swinging his sword as he struck back at his attacker, mixing thrust and cut with a savagery that put fear into his opponent’s heart. His opponent broke off and ran. Another lay dead or dying, and the last attacker turned and fled into the darkness.

Drakis didn’t even pause for breath. Sword in hand, he lowered his back against the wagon and pushed with his legs. His heels dug deep ruts into the dirt, and he slipped again and again, but at least he could watch their rear.

It took a long moment to get the wagon moving again, and now they had to guide it slightly to the left, in order to point it toward the tower’s opening. The wagon slowed even more as it turned. Suddenly it began to move faster, and Drakis realized two more archers had come from the tower and started pulling on the left front wheel, helping the unwieldy wagon along and guiding it straight at the tower’s entrance.

That made them easy targets. The front of the wagon stood exposed not only to Korthac’s bowmen in the other tower, but to those men Drakis saw assembling on the other side of the square. He heard an arrow glance off the base of the tower, then felt two more shafts strike into the wagon itself.

Then the wagon wheezed past the opening. “Everyone inside!” Drakis followed them in, his legs trembling so much from the exertions that he stumbled and nearly fell. The fighting and the heavy wagon had drained his strength, and he needed a moment to catch his breath. He heard Enkidu giving orders, so he just watched for a moment.

His second in command had six men struggling with the wagon, this time using their efforts to tug one of its great wooden wheels into the doorway. One man crawled under the wagon and back out into the lane, then swung himself up and into the wagon’s bed. Drakis had expected the cart to be empty, but now he saw two thick stakes stored there, no doubt used to lever the wagon out of mud or soft sand. The quick-thinking soldier handed them down to Enkidu, arrows whistling about him, before diving headfi rst back into the tower. The two lengths of wood, as tall as a man, would help jam the wagon against the wall.

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and provided a shield wall to protect his archers. His men could defend the tower for now, at least. He dragged more air into his lungs. “Ready your bowmen, Enkidu,” Drakis said. Unlike the rabble he’d caught by surprise and driven from this tower, Drakis knew he’d next be facing disciplined Egyptian fighters, and that real fighting had just begun. “They’ll be coming for us soon.”

Unlike the rest of the alehouse patrons, En-hedu awoke well before the dawn, the habit acquired since she’d first started watching Korthac’s house. Since the Egyptian had left that house behind the day he took power, En-hedu had given up selling her wares. The need to watch Korthac had passed; he ruled here now, at least until Eskkar returned. Until then, Tammuz and she waited, glad for the first time that almost no one knew of his real activities.

Nevertheless, the habit of early rising remained, though now she used the brief interval for another purpose. En-hedu turned on her side, facing Tammuz, who still slept soundly. She couldn’t get out of the bed without crawling over him, so she decided to wake him. That had become a new experience for her. Not waking a man, she’d done that often enough for her former master. Waking Tammuz, in the last few weeks, had become a pleasure instead of the start of a day’s new degradations.

She moved closer to him, raising herself on one elbow and letting her breast fall upon his bare chest. He stirred, but didn’t wake, so she reached between his legs and began stroking him. Still asleep, in moments he grew hard, and when she grasped his rising manhood he moaned in pleasure.

“Wake up, master,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “It’s almost dawn.”

Startled, he lifted his head, but her hand, still holding him fast, kept him from rising.

“What . . . En-hedu . . .” He sighed in contentment and let his head fall back on the bed.

She tightened her grip, and began moving her hand up and down.

Since she’d saved his life that day when Korthac took over, her feelings for him had changed, grown even deeper and stronger. Now she wanted to please him, care for him, keep him as close as possible. She still felt the wonder at his gentleness, and she’d grown bolder and bolder each time they made love. Unlike her former master, Tammuz felt different, tasted 362

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different. What had been degrading before had turned into something as exciting as it was pleasurable.

After a few days of lovemaking, she found herself so moist that her juices ran down her thigh. Now she squeezed him again, then leaned over him, pushing the blanket away. She kissed his erection, brushing it with her lips before taking him in her mouth. The sounds he made when she did that always excited her, and she thrilled at her power over him, at his need for her touch and her body. This morning would be special, she decided, and she felt herself growing excited in anticipation.

Suddenly she stopped, and sat up in the bed. “What was that?”

“What? Nothing . . . nothing . . . don’t stop . . .”

“No, it’s something,” she insisted, letting go of Tammuz. “Men shouting . . .” The noise came again, louder this time.

Tammuz sat up, pushing the blanket to the floor, both of them now clearly hearing a clamor of men, followed by the blare of a distant trumpet sounding its alarm.

Overhead, they heard Gatus moving about, and knew he’d heard the same sounds. Tammuz swung his legs down and moved away from the bed.

“Gatus,” he called out softly toward the loft, “what is it?”

She heard the ladder creak, then the stars disappeared as the soldier’s bulk blocked the opening for a moment, before Gatus descended the ladder into their room.

“Fighting,” Gatus said, as he stepped from the fi nal rung. “Men fi ghting near the barracks. I heard some calling Eskkar’s name.”

That name had not been spoken aloud in days, not since Korthac’s bloody edict.

By the time Gatus reached their midst, En-hedu had risen from the bed. Fumbling in the darkness, she found the knife Tammuz had given her.

The thin copper blade, sheathed in soft leather, fitted to a belt she fastened around her body, just under her breasts. Then she pulled her dress over her head. If she walked with her arms crossed, the knife was well concealed.