The furious battle atop the Ishalem wall was everything Mateo needed, and he lost himself in the sheer unfettered violence, the unencumbered goal of attacking the enemy. As soon as he and his men scaled the ropes and surmounted the stone barricade, they ran along the top of the wall toward the nearest Uraban sentries who were just beginning to respond to the threat. Here, a mile from the Tierran army’s main camp, the sentries seemed less prepared for a fight.
Shenro ran ahead, breathless. “We’ll have to be quick. I thought we might have a little more time to search.”
The first Uraban they met let out a thin yelp as he died with a sword in his stomach. The next sentry shouted an alarm before Destrar Shenro slashed sideways so viciously that not only did he cut the man’s throat, he nearly decapitated him. Shenro looked down at the crumpling body with disgust. “I’d hoped one of these men could tell us where to find the soldan-shah.”
“Do you speak Uraban?” Mateo asked.
“I would have made my point, somehow.”
With clamoring alarms, more sentries rushed from the watchtowers. Urecari soldiers emerged from their barracks, still not sure what was happening. Mateo urged the Tierran fighters forward, and they raced in a group along the top of the wall. Destrar Shenro seemed enraptured, as if energized by the sight of blood on his blade.
Jenirod followed close behind them. “They’ll be mustering reinforcements from all across the city. Even if we do find the soldan-shah, how are we going to get out of here with him?”
“Maybe we should just kill him in his bed, then,” Shenro said, undaunted.
“That wouldn’t put an end to the war!”
Shenro shrugged. “Still…”
Instead of adding his own comment, Mateo swung his sword at a Uraban soldier in front of him. Jenirod shoulder-blocked another enemy fighter with enough force to knock him off the wall. The man plummeted to the ground with an audible snap of bone.
Uraban horses galloped through the streets below. Dark-haired men raced up the steps to the top of the wall, carrying naked scimitars.
The Tierran soldiers charged with enough enthusiasm to drive back the larger numbers of Urabans. They called Omra’s name, as if that would magically bring him to face them. Destrar Shenro threw himself into the fray without regard for his own safety, and Mateo understood exactly how the destrar felt. He drove back the nagging whisper in his head that Jenirod had warned them this was not a good plan. It was too late to change course now. Instead, he concentrated only on fighting the enemy—for Anjine.
Mateo fought hard enough that he didn’t have to pay attention to the odds rising against them. Anjine had already walled herself off from him, and he felt helpless to do anything else. Perhaps this way he could leave his mark and prove to her that she needed him, that he was valuable to her…and to Tierra.
Although he had a well-defined objective, he didn’t have a clear path to reach it, and that was a poor example for a military subcomdar to set. He reacted, driven by emotion and anger, pursuing an idea he had not considered logically. And now he was dragging these other men off the cliff with him. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “For the queen!” and pressed forward with greater vehemence.
Shenro leapt ahead like a dancer, striking down two Urecari and facing a group of armed men who surged up the stone steps. “For Aiden!”
“If we don’t retreat soon, Subcomdar, we’ll be overwhelmed!” Jenirod cried.
“We haven’t captured the soldan-shah yet.”
“We haven’t found the soldan-shah!”
Accompanying the rush of soldiers up the steps came a man dressed in fine clothes, wearing the scarlet olba and sash of a commander. Recognizing the man’s rank, Shenro threw himself forward, sliced open the arm of another Uraban who got in the way, and knocked him aside. “There he is—the soldan-shah! Seize him.” The Uraban in the red olba coolly brandished his scimitar, staring down the edge of the blade. Shenro lifted his sword and let out a yell. “Take him, and we can leave!”
Mateo was confused. “That’s not the soldan-shah.”
From behind, the man Shenro had knocked aside struck back, hitting him on the head with the flat of his scimitar. The destrar reeled from the blow, tried to hold up his sword.
The man with the scarlet olba thrust with his curved blade, and Shenro barely managed to squirm out of the way. Jenirod grabbed the destrar and pulled him to safety before he even realized his danger. When one of the Alamont soldiers engaged the enemy leader, the Uraban ran him through with his curved blade. The Tierran coughed in disbelief, held upright by the scimitar that skewered his chest. His own blade slipped from his fingers to clatter on the stone steps, and it slid, bumping on one step after the next, until it dropped off the edge to the ground. The man flailed with his empty hand, still trying to hit the Uraban commander, but the light faded from his eyes. The Ishalem commander yanked his bloody scimitar out of the body.
The Tierrans fought with increased vigor, and Shenro seemed disoriented. “That’s the soldan-shah! We have to take him.”
Mateo pulled him away. “I’ve seen Soldan-Shah Omra, and that isn’t him.”
Shenro was crestfallen. “Then we still need to find him in the city.”
More enemy soldiers ascended the access stairways. Though he had already known it at the back of his mind, Mateo finally realized the folly of their raid. “We can’t do it, Destrar.” He raised his voice to sound the retreat. “Back to the ropes!”
Four enemy soldiers engaged him, their scimitars dancing in the dim light. Mateo held a dagger in one hand, sword in the other as he backed away, defending himself against the scimitars. But when he tried to block two thrusts at the same time, another Uraban darted into the opening. His long slim knife plunged into Mateo’s side.
The blow made him stagger. It felt as if someone had poured ice down his throat. He used his knife to fend off a killing thrust, cut deeply into a Uraban arm, then slashed weakly with his sword as he scrambled away.
Taking charge, Jenirod bellowed for the soldiers to get to the ropes and climb back down to their horses. Several more Tierrans died as they withdrew, and their bravado faded as the tide of battle shifted in their minds. Instead of feeling invincible, they saw the surge of enemy soldiers and a thousand blades waiting to kill them. They carved their way through the handful of defenders to their rear, retreating along the top of the wall.
The Ishalem commander shouted an order, and through the haze of pain from the knife wound in his side, Mateo watched a line of enemy archers take a stance, nocking arrows. Urecari swordsmen dropped back to leave an open field of targets.
“Run!” Jenirod shouted. Somehow, Destrar Shenro had gotten ahead of him, leading the surviving fighters to the ropes and grappling hooks. The first three Tierran soldiers scrambled down to the ground and ran to the horses.
Mateo staggered along, holding his side, which was slick with hot blood.
Arrows sang through the air, and five Tierrans fell at once. Mateo was dropping behind, limping and reeling. He felt lightheaded, as if the pain were far away, no more than a nagging shout drowned out by the storm of adrenaline. The archers loosed their next round, and a Uraban arrow struck him squarely between his shoulder blades. It felt as if someone had hit him with a hammer, a blow that Vicka’s father would have admired. He couldn’t run. His legs gave way, pitching him forward. He found himself sprawling. He struggled to get up.
Mateo knew he was dead. He couldn’t move, couldn’t reach the ropes, much less climb down. He was going to die here, after all, atop the Ishalem wall.
Jenirod grabbed him by the arms, pulled him up, and carried him over his shoulder like a rolled rug. The clash of swords, the shouts and screams of men, the defiant roars all faded to a blur in his head.
Jenirod faced the oncoming enemy on the wall and let out an animal snarl that drove them back. He slung a rope around his waist, tightened his grip on the limp Mateo, and lowered himself as fast as he could. He dropped to the ground as the Urabans reached the edge of the wall, hurling curses.
The enemy soldiers found the ropes and cut them. A few Tierrans fell; one man broke his ankle, but his boot kept the joint together enough that his companions could help him to the horses.
More archers appeared silhouetted against the top of the barricade, pulling their bows. Jenirod ran, zigzagging to foil the archers’ aim, hardly even winded despite his heavy burden. Mateo was only marginally aware of what was happening.
“Go!” Jenirod bellowed to the men ahead of him. “Mount up and ride for your lives back to camp!”
Arrows whispered around them in the tall grasses, reminding a groggy Mateo of fish leaping in a pond.
Somehow Jenirod reached his horse and heaved Mateo across the saddle before he swung up himself. He bent forward and galloped off into the night. “We’ll get you to the Saedrans, Subcomdar—just hold on. You’ll be all right.”
Mateo didn’t believe him. He gasped for breath, trying to cling to a memory of Anjine until he finally lost consciousness.