It was light enough for glasses now, and once I made out on the right-hand wall Alec’s tall figure, pistol and sword in hand, forcing his way into the Shamans, blade and axe awhirl about him where Henga’s stout Sakae settled outstanding scores of raid and rapine of years past. The enemy were pressed back and ever back, until the walls were clear of them right down to the bridgehead, and the arrows ceased to whiz down about us.
A little later, riding with Kyrlos, I passed up through the narrow passage, strewn, alas! with men of ours, in through the broken, blackened gates, up the steep entry-way, and so into the rabbit-warren of Shamantown, littered with stark corpses and dying men, desolate broken house-doors, and wailing, dishevelled Shaman women, and once or twice a drawn-visaged Sakae woman—prize of some past raid—shrilling her glad pæan of hate at the retribution that had come at last.
And once, one of our Blue Sakae in worn leather, his bloody sword hanging from his wrist, and his arms about a girl who clung to him, her face close to his. I shall never forget the wonderful light of unbelievable hope dawning in the girl’s eyes as she understood that the past had gone like an evil dream, that life had opened out anew, and from black despair had come all joy and gladness, nor the look of quiet happiness on the man’s gaunt face as he realized that he had, indeed, cheated fate and won back all that made his life.
We pushed on up the main street amid the shattered shops. Andros’s discipline was good, and there was no looting as yet. The Sakae were far too busy killing, for the Shamans gave no quarter, looked for none, and got but little. There was bitter house-to-house fighting in some quarters, little bodies of men fighting in the narrow lanes where they penned isolated groups of Shamans into culs-de-sac, and killed them out. But the bulk of our troops had pressed on toward the great cliff face behind the city, where, hewn into the solid rock, was the citadel.
The dead and wounded were thicker again as we drew near the open space below the cliffs and then checked, where ahead of us the fight eddied and swayed about the narrow archway leading into the rock. The first rush of Andros’s men had cleared right up the main street into the open square, where high above us showed the rock-hewn windows, whence the chief Shaman gazed down upon the huddled mass of houses below, like a vulture craning its evil gaze from its foul roost. Grim above the frowning entrance were the long projecting beams whence swayed on weathered ropes limp corpses of our men—captured in the earlier assaults. The kites and ravens circled about them, perching on the dangling forms or hovering about the eddying fight below.
The narrow gateway was choked with bodies, and, as Kyrlos and I came up, pushing our ponies through the crush of men, we saw Andros with Forsyth, who had evidently joined him after the city wall had been cleared, followed by a rush of swordsmen, disappear into the dark passage beyond, and the fight round the entrance stilled and ceased as the last enemy were beaten down. We waited awhile, looking up at the tremendous wall above us, whence rained down stones and arrows, and saw upon the topmost terrace pigmy figures in glinting steel. John and Firoz pushed their way up to us.
“How’s the show, Harry? Henga’s finished mopping up below. He’s coming up with his men now, red-hot to get into the citadel and finish off some blood feud he’s got on hand.”
“Don’t know much what’s doing. Andros and Alec with a lot of men are inside that gate ahead now. Isn’t it a hell of a place!”
“Look at those poor devils hanging there!” said John, pointing. “Henga told me the Shamans killed their prisoners. But that one was a woman! See? Bloody swine! Here, I’m going after Andros to help in the finish.”
I had started with the best of good intentions to avoid all unseemly brawls, but somehow or other I found myself throwing my reins to one of the men and following John into the dark blood-smeared gate with Payindah and some of my archers behind me. We followed a long, dark, winding passage, smooth with the passing of centuries, grimy with the soot of torches. Now and then we tripped over huddled forms, and here and there passed wounded men making their painful way back to the daylight outside. At one corner, looking into some windowless cells, lit now by the red glow of torches, we saw some of Andros’s men. They were standing silent with grim faces, while two of their number were freeing an almost unrecognizable thing that had once been a man—Blue Sakae by the tattoo-marks on his shoulders—from a contraption of rusty iron bands and chains that bound him to the wall. Sightless and mutilated, if ever anything cried aloud for vengeance that poor human rag, that still just breathed, did so. I was nearly sick as I came out and went on up the passage, and I could hear John’s teeth gritting.