Baskets of food were thrown from the storehouse, the barbarians stamping their feet into the fruit and vegetables, overturning jars of honey-Maniacally, like obsessed fire bugs, they put the torches to everything in sight, fire carrying its terror from building to building.
Erik’s eyes flicked over the picture. And then, bellowing like a wounded bull, he charged out of the forest and into the midst of the battle. The Norsemen followed behind him, their voices raised thunderously. From the other end of the city, almost simultaneous with Erik’s rush, came a battle cry now familiar to Neil. It was Baz, the warrior and conspirator, fighting again for his homeland in a time of danger. He swung a sword at his side and led a band of Mayas into the fight, pushing them forward with the sheer drive of his own energy.
A barbarian snatched a golden necklace from a Maya woman, as a huge shadow fell across his body. His eyes opened wide in terror at the sight of the bearded giant that stood before him. He started to run, but the ax was too quick, descending with an ominous swish. His head rolled to the pavement.
Erik struck again and again, his fists and his ax lashing into the barbarians. He stood like a red-bearded fury, arms flailing, bodies falling to his right and left.
Neil hacked his way to Erik’s side, and together they lashed out at the enemy. Now, forced back by overwhelming numbers, the Norsemen backed up against a stone wall in one of the courts.
From the other side of the city, retreating slowly under the weight of the pursuing barbarians, came Baz and his men.
Slowly, both forces joined in a semicircle against the wall. The barbarians withdrew, and Baz came to stand beside Neil and Erik. His quilted padding was slashed down the front and a line of red streaked across his chest.
“You are wounded,” Erik said.
“Another scar,” Baz laughed. “I collect them.” He looked at the long gash Olaf had inflicted on Erik’s arm. “And your arm?”
Erik returned Baz’s laughter. “I am becoming a collector too.”
“I prefer to collect barbarian heads,” Baz said, the grin still on his face. Somehow, he looked handsome, in spite of the scar that twisted his features.
“You’ll have the opportunity to collect plenty,” Neil said solemnly. “Here they come.”
The barbarians charged across the court, their rattles shaking wildly. Neil recognized the blast of a conch horn, and suddenly, the enemy was upon them, clawing, swinging, slashing.
A grisly-faced soldier reached for Neil’s throat with grimy fingers. Neil kicked out, his foot connecting with the barbarian’s stomach. He doubled over, and the head of Neil’s ax came down on his skull. On his left another barbarian swung the flat of his sword against Neil’s arm.
Neil wrenched his arm back in pain, the ax toppling out of his hands. The barbarian drew back his sword, ready to swing but Baz interceded, clutching the soldier’s neck between his hands and lifting him above the bodies on the floor. With a deft snap, he cracked the man’s back over his knee and tossed him aside like a broken matchstick.
Neil lifted a sword from the floor and holding it in both hands, swung it like a scythe before him. On his right, Erik swore in Swedish and swung his ax like a devastating sledge hammer, using now the blade, now the handle, and now the back of the blade, gouging, cutting, stoving in heads. The barbarians retreated to regroup, and the small band waited for the next charge.
“There are too many of them,” Neil said.
Around them, fallen Mayas lay over fallen barbarians, their blood seeping into the stones like a muddy red pool.
“We can hold them for a little while,” Erik said.
“Here they come!” Baz shouted.
Again the horn. Again the rattles. Again the painted faces and the swinging arms, the sweating torsos, and the gleaming axes.
Ax met sword, metal against obsidian, arms locked together, arching, straining bodies. The shouts went up again, and the screams and the gurgles of men who were losing arms and legs. And lives.
Two barbarians flung themselves at Erik’s head, and he shook them off like flies. They charged at him again and this time Erik caught one with his ax against the side of the cheek, while Neil ran the other through with his sword.
“Baz!” Neil shouted suddenly. “Look out!”
A barbarian had leaped from the wall behind, his body poised in the air for a moment and then crashing down heavily on Baz’s shoulders. Baz crumpled like a wet newspaper as the barbarian scrambled to his feet, a dagger flashing in his right hand.
Neil lunged with his sword, but not soon enough to prevent the dagger from sinking into Baz’s chest. The barbarian pulled the dagger back, slapped Neil aside with his free hand, and plunged it into Baz’s chest again. Baz jerked convulsively as Neil stumbled to regain his footing. Again the barbarian snapped the dagger back, and Neil recognized it for the first time as a retrieved Norse weapon.