There were only four to continue the attack, but their assault would be a reckless whirlwind of steel. No more sidestepping or retreating for Rankin.
"——hacked to pieces in some side street of Tekrit——" flashed through his mind. Ismeddin the Darvish was right.
And then he saw the chief draw his blade.
"Horse and foot! Christ, if I could only get him!" prayed Rankin.
Time had ceased. He remembered how very slowly a swift blade approaches when one is in the last extremity. He could parry, cut, retreat, parry again, cut—and then the chief on horse would cut him down. But there was plenty of time....
Then something on the wall behind Rankin cast its shadow over him: attack from the rear.
"They are thorough in Tekrit!" flashed through his mind as the very end of that interminable instant came in an irresistibly flailing mill of blades.
Clack-clack-click! And a silent stroke that bit flesh. Clack-clack——
"Halt!" roared the chief from his Barbary horse.
His upraised blade swept down. In response to his signal, something soft and clinging dropped from the wall and enveloped Rankin. Snared in a net!