A fresh wave of men burst into the house from the courtyard as Grond reached the bottom of the steps. Some carried spears, deadly weapons at close quarters, especially against swordsmen packed together. One of Mitrac’s arrows struck down the leading spearman. The spear fell from its owner’s dying hand and skidded along the floor to land at Grond’s feet.
Dropping his sword, he scooped it up just in time to meet the charge.
“Eskkar has returned,” he shouted, lunging forward with the weapon, and Mitrac’s archers took up the cry, firing arrows as fast as they could fit them to their strings, as the battle for Eskkar’s house began.
Inside the workroom, Eskkar lunged with his sword, but Korthac knocked the blade aside and, in the same motion, drove his blade toward Eskkar’s face. Surprised at the speed and strength of Korthac’s arm, Eskkar barely managed to jerk his head aside as the weapon’s point stung its way past his ear. He moved back a step, recovering his guard and keeping his sword in front of him. The clash of swords behind him reminded Eskkar he had little time.
“My men are behind you, barbarian. You’ll be dead soon, like your
…”
Ignoring Korthac’s words, Eskkar lunged again, this time trying to thrust low under Korthac’s guard. But Korthac countered the stroke easily, and for a second time Eskkar barely managed to avoid being skewered by the counterstroke, and again he moved back half a step. He realized that he faced a master swordsman.
“You fight like a clumsy ox, barbarian.” Outlined against the flickering lamp, Korthac’s face was a dark shadow, and his voice sounded like that of a demon from the underworld.
Eskkar knew better than to listen to his opponent, to let himself be distracted by the man’s words, then cut down by a sudden thrust. Man or demon, the sword would finish him. Moving to the side, Eskkar snapped the long sword out, thrusting with every muscle to keep his arm rigid and the blade straight.
Korthac parried the lunge, but had to move aside to do so. Eskkar never paused. He thrust again and again, short, quick jabs, aiming for the man’s face, his stomach, even his legs, any part of the body, using the sword like a lance, striking as fast and hard as he could at any opening, never stopping, never giving his adversary the chance to counterattack.
It was the way to beat a superior swordsman, and here, inside the house and with no space to swing the long horse sword, he knew Korthac had the edge. So instead of trying for a killing blow, Eskkar used his blade’s tip, jabbing it at his opponent so fast that Korthac had no time to strike back. Wound and weaken your enemy. A dozen cuts would bring down any man, as sure as one fatal thrust. His clan fought that way, the barbarian way.
“Your slut begged at my feet for a chance to pleasure me.”
This time the words sounded rushed, the foreign accent stronger. Eskkar shook the sweat from his eyes, watching his foe for any weakness.
Korthac retreated a step, weaving lightly from side to side, striving to get past the sword tip that kept jabbing at his face and neck, waiting for Eskkar to tire and leave himself vulnerable to a solid counterstroke.
Eskkar kept advancing, taking small steps and keeping his balance, sliding his feet across the floor to avoid stumbling on something, jabbing and lunging, turning aside Korthac’s counters, and gradually forcing his enemy back toward the center of the room. Suddenly Korthac dropped low, swinging his sword at Eskkar’s legs. The unexpected maneuver stopped Eskkar’s advance for a moment, and in that instant Korthac leapt backward, abandoning the attack and darting through the door that led into the bed-chamber.
The Egyptian slipped through the opening and tried to fling the door shut, but Eskkar, reacting almost as fast as his enemy, rammed his blade into the door, keeping it open before Korthac could bring his weight to bear and seal the door. Then Eskkar threw his shoulder and all his weight against the panel just as Korthac’s second effort tried to force the door shut. Eskkar’s bulk and momentum drove the door back into Korthac’s face. The Egyptian staggered back with a curse, knocking over a small table and sending a water jar crashing to the floor, as Eskkar struggled to force his way inside the bedroom.
Off balance, Korthac brought up his sword, but, with no time to swing the blade, he tried to hammer the hilt into Eskkar’s face. Eskkar caught his attacker’s wrist in his left hand, enough to deflect the blow, but the pommel’s rough edge ripped along Eskkar’s head, and a splash of blood spattered against the doorjamb.
Eskkar dropped his useless sword and reached for Korthac’s throat with his right hand. Before Eskkar could grasp Korthac’s neck, the Egyptian caught his hand and held it with a grip of bronze. Struggling and twisting, they stumbled back into the outer room, grunting and gasping for breath as they fought. They thudded hard into the wall, sliding along its smooth surface, the Egyptian moving so quickly that Eskkar couldn’t get any leverage.
Korthac still held his sword in his right hand, and he kept trying to free his wrist from Eskkar’s grasp. Korthac stood a good foot shorter in height, but to Eskkar’s surprise the Egyptian’s muscles not only resisted his own but nearly managed to bring the blade back into play. They crashed against the table, sending it skidding across the floor with a loud screech. Eskkar’s leg took the brunt of the collision, but he shouted in rage and forced the smaller man back by sheer strength. Suddenly Korthac smashed his forehead into Eskkar’s cheek with such force that Eskkar almost let his grip slip on the man’s sword arm.
Eskkar knew he’d be dead the instant his enemy got the sword into play. Turning his face away to avoid another head-butt, they struggled again, twisting and grunting. Eskkar spun on his heel, using all his strength to unbalance Korthac. Nevertheless, Korthac kept his feet, and the two of them slammed into the wall, bounced off, then crashed back into the half-open door of the inner room. This time they fell through the opening and landed in a heap on the floor.
Another lamp burned here, giving off a dimmer light that barely illuminated the smaller room. Eskkar caught sight of Trella crawling on the floor.
“Eskkar, the baby,” she cried out, pain sounding in her voice.
Trella said something more, but Eskkar couldn’t make out her words.
The baby’s wailing added to the confusion.
Eskkar rammed Korthac’s hand against the doorframe, and grunted in satisfaction when he heard the man’s sword clatter on the floor. Eskkar must have loosed his grip on Korthac’s wrist, for in the next moment, the Egyptian had twisted his wrist from Eskkar’s grasp and lunged away. Eskkar tried to rise, but he slipped on the wet floor. Korthac reached his feet first, a knife appearing in his hand as he moved forward, weaving quickly from side to side, like a snake readying to strike.
Reaching for his knife, Eskkar found the sheath empty, the blade lost in the struggle. Weaponless, Eskkar moved back, his hands extended, but he found himself forced backward into a corner.
“Now you’ll die, barbarian,” Korthac said, his voice hoarse from effort.
But as Korthac stepped past Trella’s prone body, she lifted herself on one hand, and Eskkar saw her drive a small knife into Korthac’s calf.
Korthac flinched in pain. He looked down, then slashed at Trella with the knife. But Eskkar needed no better opening. The instant Trella struck, he rushed the man, covering the short distance between them so fast that Korthac couldn’t react fast enough. Once again Eskkar caught Korthac’s wrist as their bodies crashed together and they tumbled heavily to the floor, and this time it was Korthac who landed on his back.
Eskkar found his face pressed against Korthac’s stomach as the man squirmed, writhing along the floor, striving to get away and at the same time attempting to force his knife into Eskkar’s side. They struggled, rolling back and forth across the floor. Eskkar lunged forward and clamped his right hand on Korthac’s neck and squeezed, trying to choke the man enough to weaken his hold on the knife. They’d jammed themselves against the wall, near Trella’s dressing table. From above their heads the baby continued to cry, its tiny wails competing with the men’s grunts of rage.
Korthac’s free hand searched Eskkar’s face, trying to find his eyes, but Eskkar ground his face deeper into the man’s stomach as he dragged himself up the shifting body and closer to Korthac’s face. The Egyptian used his feet and knees, snapping them up and down with all the force he could muster, searching for Eskkar’s groin, all the while trying to dislodge Eskkar’s hold on his knife hand.
With a savage heave, Korthac loosened Eskkar’s grip enough to bring the knife into play. The Egyptian’s blade seared along Eskkar’s arm. But the pain only enraged Eskkar, and he redoubled his efforts against the man who’d seized his wife and threatened his child. Eskkar tightened his grip on Korthac’s right wrist, putting all his force into squeezing the man’s bones together, harder and harder, as the blood pounded in Eskkar’s ears.
Korthac twisted and jerked his arm, but he couldn’t break Eskkar’s grip, and with a low gasp, his fingers dropped the knife.
