Holding the hilt with both hands, Bantor raised the weapon up, then thrust it down with all his strength, shoving the point into the man’s groin, driving it right through his body and deep into the earth. That elicited a lingering scream that echoed over the empty countryside.
Bantor let go of the sword and watched the former captain of the guard of the village of Orak bleed to death as he writhed in agony, clutching at his own blade with hands already streaked with blood.
30
Eskkar spent the first part of the morning making sure his compound stood ready for any further attack. When he felt certain that the house and Trella would be safe, he moved to the barracks, seeing to the wounded men recovering there, and making sure the soldiers had regained control of the weapons. Then he took a quick tour of the city, before finally returning to his courtyard. By then it was apparent the resistance had collapsed. Eskkar set up a command center to direct the soldiers and citizens clamoring for his attention.
Everyone claimed an urgent need to see him, and this time Eskkar had no one available to sort out the trivial from the more urgent. Bantor had ridden out to hunt down Ariamus at midmorning, and only the gods knew when he would be back. Gatus arrived, and sought to help, but he still hadn’t fully recovered from his own wound. That left Alexar as the only senior man still standing. Eskkar promoted him to subcommander, and ordered him to take charge of the gates.
The three of them spent the morning organizing the soldiers, issuing weapons to the nobles’ guards, establishing patrols, and directing the search for any remnants of Korthac’s force. Fortunately the stables and horses survived intact, and Alexar soon had mounted parties of men searching the countryside, looking for those who escaped over the wall. Finally things quieted down enough for Eskkar to slip away. An hour before noon, he left Gatus in charge and climbed the stairs to his quarters.
Standing in the bedroom doorway, he saw Trella and Annok-sur lying side by side on the bed, both asleep. Trella looked pale from loss of blood.
Korthac’s cut and the ordeal of childbirth had exhausted even her sturdy frame. Most of Trella’s servants had returned, including those driven off by Korthac. Already they had replaced the broken furniture and exchanged the bloody blankets for clean ones. The room looked almost the same as the day Eskkar rode north. Except for the cradle.
He’d visited the bedroom several times before, just quick checks to reassure himself of Trella’s well-being, and to make sure she and Annok-sur had everything they needed. On the last visit, Trella took his hand. She tried to speak, but he knew she needed rest, so he simply squeezed her hand and told her to sleep.
Now Eskkar looked into the bedroom and saw an unknown woman with a large bruise on her cheek sitting beside the cradle, rocking it gently, her eyes on the infant. She rose and came toward him, motioning him to follow her through the doorway.
“Your wife needs her sleep, Lord Eskkar,” she whispered. “The babe needed to be fed, and his crying woke her. Now they both need their rest.”
For the first time Eskkar noticed how quiet the house was. Even the soldiers in the courtyard kept their voices low out of concern for his wife.
“You are…”
“My name is Drusala. I was midwife to Lady Trella.” She stepped back inside, picked up the cradle, and returned, holding the cradle in both arms and turning it so he could see the child’s face. “This is your son. He was born last night, a few hours past midnight.”
Eskkar stared in fascination at the tiny infant, his eyes shut and face still red from crying. Eskkar had scarcely had time to look at him since he’d carried the babe to Trella after the fight. This time he gazed not at a baby, but at his son, his heir that Trella had promised him months ago.
“Have you decided on a name, lord?”
Eskkar spoke without hesitation. “Sargon. His name is Sargon of Akkad.” Eskkar and Trella had chosen the name months ago, in fact the very day the Alur Meriki were driven off. Now he looked in wonderment at the heir who would bring the city together in a way that even Eskkar and Trella, both strangers to Akkad, never could. His son would become part of that future, would carry Eskkar’s line down through the ages.
“The child… he seems so small.” Eskkar reached out and touched the infant’s fingers, amazed at their softness.
“The babe… Sargon came earlier than we expected. That’s why he is so small. But he is healthy, and I expect he will grow as tall and strong as his father.”
“Was the birth… difficult, Drusala? I mean, did Trella suffer much?”
“The presence of Korthac made it… He complained about the noise.
He threatened… he said that…”
“He’ll make no more threats, Drusala,” Eskkar said. “Is there anything you need, anything at all?”
“No, lord. I’ll stay and watch over your son. Lady Trella will need to feed Sargon again soon enough. We will have to find someone to help nurse the child. The early birth caught us unaware, and we didn’t have time to arrange a wet nurse. Right now it’s best to let Lady Trella sleep as much as she can.”
The mention of Korthac’s name reminded Eskkar of his prisoner.
“Keep my son safe, Drusala.” He reached out and gently touched the child’s cheek again. A strange feeling passed over him, as if the gods chose that moment to forge a bond between the child and the father. Eskkar found himself smiling. “Send word when Trella wakens.”
He left the room, descending the stairs and crossing the courtyard to the smaller house. Three soldiers guarded the room that held Korthac.
They stepped aside as Eskkar entered. He looked down at the figure lying on the floor. The sun didn’t provide much light in the low-ceilinged chamber, but he saw blood still covered the Egyptian’s face. They’d bound his hands behind him.
Eskkar considered having the man dragged outside, but didn’t want another spectacle. “Bring a torch,” he commanded. He found a stool and moved it closer to Korthac, eying the man who’d nearly killed him. A soldier returned, carrying the torch, and handed it to Eskkar.
“Leave us. And draw the curtain.”
When they were alone, Eskkar lowered the torch and used its light to examine his prisoner’s face. Korthac glowered back at him, using his one good eye. Blood had crusted over the other, the one Eskkar had smashed during the fight. Korthac struggled to breathe, thanks to the broken nose.
His lower lip was swollen and split, and he squinted up at the torch held just above his face.
“You are Eskkar?”
“Yes, Korthac. I’m the man whose wife you tried to steal.”
“Eskkar has returned.” Korthac tried to laugh, but the sound turned into a painful fit of coughing, and it took a few moments before he could stop. “You fought well… for an ignorant barbarian. And you should have died on my blade. No man ever defeated me in battle. Only your slave saved your life.”
The words came out slowly, each one spoken with care. Even through the man’s pain, the voice sounded melodious, with just the trace of an accent.
“Perhaps,” Eskkar said, “but I remember you running into the bedroom, trying to put the door between us.”
Korthac grimaced at the reminder. “You handled your long sword well enough. Did you never lose a fight, barbarian?”
“Just once, that I recall,” Eskkar said, “but fortune favored me, and I survived.”
“You should have died in Bisitun.” This time Korthac’s voice held a trace of bitterness that he couldn’t conceal.
“Yes, your assassins missed their chance there.”
“So I see. You must tell me what happened. I was supposed to get word, even if they failed. Ariamus swore they would kill you, but.. you made it so easy for me. You divided your forces while you enjoyed your pleasures in the north. A child could have taken your city.”
