So, calling Payindah and my men, I went back down the long dark passage with its evil prison cells, and, warned by experience, did not investigate too closely. There were men of ours in most of them seeking round with torches, and from the looks on their faces I argued there would be scant shrift for such of the enemy as were caught above.
At last I stood in the bright sunlight at the entrance, blinking like an owl, and drinking in great gulps of clean air after the fœtid atmosphere within, feeling like one come straight out of hell.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GATE AGAIN
There was no fighting near by, though sounds of battle still came from the buildings on my right, where some of the enemy were resisting. On the far side of the open space our men were being reorganized, and all down the long street small bodies of troops were collecting the inhabitants so as to clear that quarter of the town. The first lust for killing had passed, and, as I entered the main street, I passed sullen groups of prisoners, powerfully built, cruel-looking men, darker-skinned than their captors. Again I remarked that faint trace of Mongoloid blood that I had noticed in Atana’s face.
Some looting had started, as was inevitable, but it was quickly put down with a firm hand, and all valuables and stores were collected under guard, to be distributed in due shares later. Kyrlos stood for order and good government, and he intended to administer Shamanland under strict military rule after the war. As he told his people, they could not afford to kill off all the Shamans, since their knowledge of metal-working and their mining skill—they really controlled all the Brown Sakae mines—could ill be spared.
Headquarters were in a big house about a hundred yards down the street, with a flat roof, whence one could overlook most of the town. And there I found Kyrlos with some of his chiefs portioning out the town for them to clear up and hold for such time as we stayed in the city. Andros was below talking to Henga, who had just arrived from mopping up the gate defences. From the grim look on his face, I could see that the latter was counting the moments till he could find Atros, who so far had not been seen, nor was there any news of his body being among the dead. Henga greeted me with a smile as I limped in.
“A good fight, Harilek! I love your Wrexham more and more. And the doctor, too, is a man after my own heart. Seldom have I seen such stout sword-play as he made in the Shaman ranks, though he uses the edge more than we do. Yes; a good fight!”
He looked as if he had passed a pleasing morning. His cap was bitten across by a long sword-gash that had dinted the steel, his mail was hacked in half a dozen places, the over-collar of his under-leather jerkin had been ripped across by some sharp weapon, but his grey-blue eyes were steady as ever.
“A good fight, but comes a better,” he continued. “When Wrexham has blown in the citadel door as he broke down the fort gate, then I lead the storming party—’tis Kyrlos’s own promise—and then”—his mouth set hard again—“I shall speak with Atros.”
Some one brought us a jug of wine, and we washed out our dusty throats, Henga solemnly spilling a few drops on the floor to thank his gods for a good fight. We sat over our drink for a few minutes, and then Andros got to his feet.