“We can’t hold anymore.” he hissed through his pain. “There are too many breeches. Too many — ”
Sinbad brought his knife up just in time. A powerfully built bandit, with gold earrings and a jewel in his nostril, flung himself at the captain from the roof of the burning stable. The two men fell to the ground and grappled. In that instant of horror and surging panic, Sinbad felt the muscular hands of his adversary around his throat, strangling his own effort to scream. But Sinbad’s knife was still in his hand. Afterwards he could not remember drawing it back and stabbing blindly at the grisly flesh encumbering him. Nor could he remember feeling the blade of the knife meet soft flesh and sink deeply in. An almost fiendish wail brought him back to awareness and, amid the rising clamor and tumult, he pushed the attacker off, leaving him to lie face down, a pulsing, gaping wound in the back of his neck sending forth a torrent of crimson.
He stood up to find Methelese locked in combat of his own. Using the skill of the ancients, the wily Greek kicked to the groin, delivered an elbow to the face as the bandit howled, and, his blade firmly clenched in his bloodied fist, brought it up deeply into the solar plexus. The attacker convulsed as Methelese twisted the knife and withdrew. Then, panting, the Greek exchanged a brief look of triumph with the captain.
Villagers were running helter-skelter, abandoning their places and seeking some new refuge, some new place to stand and fight. From the corner of his eye, Sinbad could see Francisco and a few others boldly trying to maintain their line at the near edge of the southern barricade. But Suliman’s forces had sensed the collapse of the defenses and were now pressing from every side, even working their way completely around the village and coming from the quay. Fishing boats raged with fire, the few villagers left in the pier’s defense lay scattered and still upon the dock, triumphant attackers trampling over them in their race to the plaza.
Overhead, the sky had changed color. The indigo of evening had replaced the blue of day. Stars were twinkling, the moon bright and full. Sinbad stared and gritted his teeth, harshly swearing. Where was the ship? Where was Milo?
“To the church!” he cried, gathering those around him. And together they bounded from the wall and rushed toward the oval doors of the sanctuary.
Methelese covered while the girls ran up the steps. Sinbad blocked the thrust of a wildly wielded scimitar, threw its owner to the ground, and dashed to the landing. With a fallen bandit’s shield in his hand, he warded off the rush of flying arrows and urged everyone to come through the doors as quickly as possible. All the survivors of the attack, including the three de Leon daughters as well as Don Manuel, managed to dodge arrows and spears and axes, and fling themselves inside. Barely in time, for no sooner had they gained entry than a host of new cavalry broke over the barricades and overran the plaza.
Methelese, with Don Giovanni hopping behind him, and Sinbad, shield held high over his head, were the last to make it in. The very second the doors shut, a hundred arrows slammed into wood, shafts shaking with the force.
Huddled mothers and children were crying; Sinbad stared about the grim pews and shuddered. All that remained of Pansa was here in this one place, gathered together and prime for taking. He could not have chosen a worse defensive position had he tried.
“Man those windows!” he barked to the farmers. Then to the ashen priest, “Gather the children in the front — it’s the safest place we have.”
Father Augusto nodded, and while this was being done, Sinbad called together a small handful of his best fighters.
Both Maria Elisa and Maria Victoria stood beside grimy-faced Methelese and weary Francisco.
“Gather up as many arrows as you can find,” he told them all. “Bring them to the tower.” He turned to Javier. “Suliman is going to storm the walls — what do we have that can stop him?”
The mason darkly shook his head. That there was pitifully little to be found needed no telling.
“There is some pitch in the cellar,” said the priest, leaving the grouped women and children and coming to Sinbad’s side. “And a barrel of oil, I think … ”
A small smile of satisfaction broke over Sinbad’s face. Pitch and oil! What better could he ask for? He snapped his fingers, shouted for Manuel. “Follow the father to the cellar,” he barked. “And bring everything of use to the tower right away.”
The priest led the way below; Sinbad, only Don Giovanni accompanying him, rushed up the narrow stone stairway beside the rectory and made his way to the tower. There he found young Rudolpho, bow in hand, fingers taut on the string, taking dead aim at a bellicose attacker running from the fallen barricades toward the church steps. The youth held his breath, let loose. Whistling, the snubbed arrow sailed in a direct line and smacked cleanly through the attacker’s gut. The man whirled, grasped at the shaft, and doubled over before he fell dead.
“Got him!” laughed Rudolpho, tiny fires glinting in his eyes.
“Fine shooting, my boy,” said Sinbad with admiration.
Surprised to find the Eastern mariner behind him, Rudolpho grinned. He made the sign of the cross. “So far I’ve been lucky.”
Sinbad laughed. “Skillful as well. But tell me, what have you seen?”
Rudolpho uncrossed his legs and half-slid to the farthest edge of the platform, a spot that afforded an excellent view of almost the entire plaza. “See for yourself,” he told Sinbad.
Sinbad crouched and poked his head just over the top. His eyes scanned the full scene below. Suleiman’s men had overrun everything, it was certain; all of Pansa’s carefully planned defenses were now smashed or burned, with a scattering of fires still sending up billows of dark smoke in every direction. The ground was littered with corpses, many of them defenders, but many more Suliman’s own men. The battle for the village had been more costly than the bandit chief could ever have dreamed. So much so that now, while his forces were busily overrunning the buildings, looting what meager spoils they could find and putting swords to anything yet alive, Suliman had called off his frontal attack on the church. Clearly, he was consolidating again before the final assault. It was a wise move for the bandit, Sinbad knew, yet it also provided just a little more time for his own plan.
Amid muffled shouts in the now chilly night air, the firelight provided Sinbad a good view of what was happening below. Captains were regrouping their archers, spreading them out thinly in an arc, positioning them in the very ditches that Sinbad’s own men had dug. Beyond the road, there was a rumble of wagons, fresh supplies and weaponry being hauled to the plaza to ensure a successful siege. The whitewashed church was caught in a vise, surrounded on three sides by the bandit army, ever gathering strength as stronghold after stronghold was fortified, and the defenders trapped with their backs to the sea, where the tiny harbor blazed out of control, every fishing boat put to the torch to assure that no one might escape. Suliman’s revenge would be complete and total.
Sinbad gritted his teeth and hissed. His gaze turned to the sea for the hundredth time since afternoon — and still there was no sight of the Scheherazade on the horizon.
“Watch this, Sinbad,” growled Rudolpho, drawing another arrow. The mariner squinted and saw a burly wagon master directing three wagons to a new position where the south barricade had been. The dirty fellow stood brazenly in the open, barking commands to his drivers, a whip in his hand, his eyes intent upon the church. Rudolpho expertly took aim; he swung the bow horizontally and fired. The wagon master screamed, head thrown back with sudden and petrifying force, eyes popping as the arrow slammed through his throat, ripping it apart, the tip of the arrowhead protruding from the back of his neck.
There was a flurry of cries and activity below as his companions dragged him away and hid behind the walls, loudly swearing and vowing revenge on the unseen tower archer.
Rudolpho gloated but Sinbad frowned; there were hundreds more like roaches, to take the dead man’s place, and all were ready to swarm over the townspeople the moment the signal was given.
&n
bsp; Just then Sinbad heard footsteps on the stairs. He peered down at Elisa and Victoria, their arms bundled with arrows. Behind them lumbered Methelese, Manuel, Francisco, and the priest, slowly and carefully carrying up buckets of already heated pitch and oil.
It was just in time — for no sooner had they reached the landing than Suliman’s archers began to pound the church with fearful volleys again, their flaming missiles sailing through the recessed windows downstairs and causing panic among the huddled citizens. The farmers posted at the windows stood by helpless, themselves cowering, unable to return the fire.
“We’ll not hold long like this,” said Methelese, putting down his buckets of flaming pitch. He peered over the wall but quickly ducked as archers across the plaza saw his silhouette and let loose a barrage. The arrows sailed over his head, slamming into the cast-iron bell and causing a gentle tingle.
A flank of footmen lifted themselves from hidden darkness and began to march openly. Elisa and her sister drew their bows, aimed. Rudolpho did the same. But they were only three — and the front rank of the phalanx numbered at least forty.
Father Augusto crossed himself and shut his eyes. With a shudder, he said, “All is lost.”
“Not yet!” snapped Sinbad. He stood up, a bucket of oil sloshing from side to side in his hands. And he leaned closer to the edge of the precipitous wall. “Wait until they get within ten paces,” he told the others. “Then toss the buckets.”
Methelese nodded glumly; Francisco and Manuel silently said a prayer and lifted their own pitch. Meanwhile, in the plaza, the army had begun to break into a run, rank after rank fanning out and spreading over the charred battlefield. Their peculiar formations closed in swiftly; already they were gaining a strong foothold around the church while their archers kept the defenders at the windows ineffective.
A horn blasted. Running amok, the bandits launched their offensive. A confused medley of sound rose all around, men’s cries and screams, mingled with the whistling of arrows, the whinnying of frightened horses, the roaring of fueled fires spreading everywhere.
Sinbad heaved his bucket of pitch. The black liquid, scorched and scalding, spread like a wet blanket as it poured over the front row of frenzied attackers. Men reeled back and howled, stumbled, fell, trampled over each other, and drew back. Methelese’s bucket was quick to follow. The boiling oil thickly scattered, lumping and landing squarely upon a group of scimitar-wielding bandits who, with broad gaits, had almost reached the church steps. Scalded and singed, they too staggered back-drop-ping their weapons and wailing as they ran off aflame into the night, lighting the way to the road like human beacons.
Horsemen came tearing through the plaza, chains spinning dizzily above their heads, balls of iron let loose and sent crashing into the fragile walls.
Whump!
Again and again they struck, causing huge cracks in the stone to deepen, the edges to crumble. And then came more bandits, dozens more, heaving an enormous battering ram. Straight for the church doors they trotted, grim and silent, paying heed neither to the hurled pitch nor the agonized screams of comrades fallen and writhing upon the ground.
Manuel’s bucket went sailing onto their heads. Then Francisco’s. Then Sinbad’s second. The pitch splatted every which way. Havoc reigned among the battering-ram carriers; as the front bearers fell, those behind could no longer carry the weight. The great lumbering log, cut from a giant tree more than a thousand years old, thudded to the ground, many of its bearers pinned underneath. They screeched and yowled, cursed and pleaded, but to no avail. Those nearby left them lying helplessly, as the charge to gain entry only increased in ferocity.
“They’re at the doors!” cried Elisa, staring down from the tower, watching the ugly host of men who had eluded the pitch and were at this very moment banging hatchets and axes into the aged wood.
Rudolpho’s bow sang; the arrow hit true, one attacker spun, stared up through glassy eyes, and gurgled as he toppled over. Elisa’s arrow slowed down another; the bandit hobbled, his left leg buckling under; but it was Victoria’s shot that stopped him completely. Her aim had been wild but lucky. Calloused hands shot to his face; the bandit opened his mouth and screamed soundlessly. Stuck through his right eye was her dart; he tried vainly to pluck it out. His face turned to a pulp of oozing red and he twisted aimlessly until finally he slipped into a pool of burning pitch and was consumed.
More iron balls slammed into the walls, many into the tower itself, whose fragile foundations had begun to crumble. Then more horses and more charging footmen came roaring into the plaza. Thundering over debris, they led a vicious new attack from the shattered north wall and poured like ants over every inch of the field of battle.
Sinbad hurled the last bucket of pitch, gaining little satisfaction when a stallion reared and threw its rider high into the air with such force and fury that every bone in the man’s body broke when he at last crashed to earth.
The fires downstairs in the church, up until now contained, were suddenly raging out of control. Archers hidden along the rooftops still relentlessly rained their deadly arrows, and the screams of anguished villagers were the most horrible sound Sinbad had ever heard.
It was over at last, he knew. Pansa had given her best fight — and a bloody good one it had been — but now she was doomed. There were no more resources for him to call upon. No more tricks, no more last-ditch efforts at trying to regroup. He had promised the townsfolk a chance at survival, and now, while the peaceful village was sacked, burned and plundered before his eyes, he knew that he had failed. Failed miserably.
With his knife in his hand, he observed the carnage. His place in the shattered tower still allowed a clear view of the foot of the church steps, where now he saw the doors crack under the blows of axes. The bandit army blurred across the plaza, leaping and jumping, howling war cries and shouts of victory. Suliman was about to have his revenge. Pansa was destroyed — and from here to the gates of Barcelona there was nothing to stop him.
While Rudolpho and Elisa fired arrow after arrow, the captain from Baghdad watched in sorrow. Even Don Giovanni, still upon his shoulder, had no words of comfort. Sinbad clenched his knife between his teeth and waited for the bandits to start to scale the walls to reach the tower. Already ladders were being brought forward, ropes and iron hooks hurled from every side. Disconsolately, Sinbad’s hand fell to his side and felt at his pocket. There was something inside, and without thinking he pulled it out. It was a flower, a crushed red dahlia — the one he had saved from the field. A sour smile crossed his lips as he held it in the palm of his hand and stared. The splendorous flower that was going to be the answer to all his problems. He laughed bitterly and balled his hand into a fist. If only he hadn’t been such a fool; if only he had never believed in its magic; how very different life would be for him today …
Then, with rising smoke filling his lungs and the clatter of boots scaling the wall, he shut his eyes.
By Allah, he prayed, if this flower has any powers at ally give them to me now. Save Pansa, save these good people of Barcelona who have given me their trust and their faith. Spare the lives of the innocent, let them not die with me because of my folly. Grant me this one wish, and this one wish alone …
“Sinbad, look out!”
He opened his eyes to find a hairy beast of a bandit coming over the top of the wall. He wheeled and ducked as a thick blade swooshed centimeters from his scalp. Then, dropping the flower, he took his knife from between his teeth and lunged. The bandit caught his wrist; the tip of the blade licked at Sinbad’s throat. Sinbad yanked hard and they fell to the ledge together, each grappling at the other’s throat, rolling over and over until they were at the very edge of the steps. Sinbad fought the beast of a man with every bit of strength he could muster. He drove his knee straight up into the bandit’s groin; the attacker loosened his hold only for a split second, but it was enough. Sinbad’s knife slashed then and ripped the man’s throat at the jugular; with a heave he sent the corpse hur
tling down the steps to crash head-first at the bottom of the landing. Then onto his feet he sprang, leopardlike, no longer feeling sorry for himself A bandit rushed for Elisa; before he could grab the girl, Sinbad slammed the full weight of his body against him, and the bandit reeled back with the blow. The pitiful wall, battered and broken, crumbled and then gave way suddenly so that the attacker fell backwards, his sinewy arms flailing, and tumbled to the plaza, knocking over a siege ladder and taking with him the three or four climbing bandits. As they splattered, Sinbad grabbed Elisa and pulled her from harm’s way. Across the other side of the tower more ropes had been thrown; a half-dozen fiery-eyed bandits were swarming up. Rudolpho drew back, let go one last shot. The arrow smacked through the lead attacker’s belly and, as he stumbled, Father Augusto swept up his fallen sword, swung it over his head and whirled it. Three bandits staggered, oozing wounds slashed across their faces. Manuel hurled an empty bucket, flung his knife. Another bandit cried, the blade firmly stuck through his heart.
All around was screaming. Sinbad, through the smoke and fire and thunder of battle, vainly tried to force a path to get both Elisa and Victoria off the tower and back down to the rectory. From every side they were now blocked, with swarthy men clambering like an army of dreaded tarantulas. With Methelese beside him, Sinbad held as many at bay as he could. Francisco fell, a hatchet buried in his skull. Young Rudolpho took a severe wound in the side and dropped to his knees, his last arrow spent. Manuel fended off another and desperately tried to reach his daughters, but the body-strewn tower made the venture impossible.
Below, horns were sounding the charge; Suliman’s forces boldly rushed the doors and windows. Through the din and dark there was little to be seen; sound alone told the story. It was only moments before the church would be totally overrun, the last survivor put to the sword.
Sinbad kicked a bandit sharply in the groin, slitting his throat as he tumbled, and forced his way to the wounded Rudolpho. The boy, eyes shut with pain, brow burning feverishly, tried to smile as Sinbad took his hand. Don Giovanni, perched beside the fallen lad, looked at Sinbad and shook his head sadly. There was nothing anyone could do.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 78
