The Dragon of the Ishtar Gate

Myron frowned. "They have assaulted each of the three entrances to the tower in turn and been repulsed. If I were their chief, I should divide them into three groups, with orders to attack the three entrances simultaneously. If they can inflict a few more wounds and get inside the tower, they will quickly finish us off."

"Just so. Kothar, push this body to one of the entrances and lay it crosswise as a barricade. It will give us a little cover. If we get out of this alive, by Ahriman's iron yard, I'll see that every man jack of us has a bow and knows how to use it! Now, from this pit I can cover all three entrances, so I shall stay here save when I must help one of you. Take your spears and stand ready to rush to the roof or the lower entrances as I command you."

"But—" began Kothar.

"Shut up! If you be on our side, you shall do as I say. If not, your body will make another useful barricade."

Yelping cries told that the Arabs were renewing the assault. Bessas jumped down into the grave in the center of the burial chamber. There he stood, calmly wheeling from side to side, loosing arrows where targets showed, and bellowing:

"Myron, take the roof, quickly! Kothar, take the east entrance! Myron, come back down and take the south entrance! Kothar, lie down to give me a shot! Kothar, come back and take the roof! Hurry! Get that knave on the stair! Go on, stick him! Kill him!" bawled the Bactrian, as Kothar made timid, ineffectual jabs at his opponent until Bessas nailed the man with an arrow.

The giant was in his element, running his little battle with the smooth competence of a skilled lapidary cutting a gem. Myron, panting, dashed up and down the stair and in and out the passages, pausing to exchange spear thrusts with the swarming foe.

On one dash, Myron's right leg buckled under him, spilling him to the floor. He sat up, staring stupidly in the deepening gloom. His fingers found the shaft of an arrow that had pierced his leg.

"I'm hit!" he called.

"Plague!" exclaimed Bessas. "Crawl down the east passage and lie behind the dead Arab. If anybody tries to climb over the body, stick him."

Dizzily, Myron obeyed. He had no more than lain down behind the corpse when a hand from outside seized the point of his spear and tried to wrest it away from him.

"Ea!" he shouted. "Bessas!" The Arab was strong, and Myron felt the spear sliding out of his sweaty hands."

No help came. Myron strained to pull his spear loose. He could hear the Arab who had hold of the other end talking to a comrade. Then the point of another spear, just visible, came thrusting over the corpse, feeling in the dark for Myron's body.

Myron gave himself up for lost. He could let go the spear and get out his sword. But that weapon was too short to be useful in this extremity, especially as he did not have his shield.

Then a chorus of yells resounded from outside. The Arab released Myron's spear, and the other spear disappeared. Myron raised himself on his elbows to see."

The Arabs were streaming away from the Tower of the Snail. Down the road from Marath ran a crowd of people with torches and spears. At their head rode Skhâ of Barbalissos.

The Arabs fled away into the night. Myron, Bessas, and Kothar slid out of the Tower of the Snail into the arms of the kilted townsfolk, whom Skhâ had roused.

"Good lad! I thought you'd bolted," said Bessas to Skhâ. "It is well you got back when you did. Who is the physician of Marath? We are all wounded."

"You, too?" said Myron.

"Just a graze in the ribs." Bessas took his hand away from his side, showing a large dark spot on his jacket. "And a lump on my head the size of a simurgh's egg. How many did we get?"

Besides the two corpses inside the edifice, two Arabs lay dead near the tower. A wounded Arab huddled near the road. Myron would have questioned him, but before he could hobble to the spot the townsfolk had killed the wounded man. There was also a camel dying of an arrow wound. Bessas said:

"Master magician, can you tell who these men were, or why they sought our lives?"

Kothar stepped from one corpse to the other, studying the dead men and the camel, which the Marathites were preparing to cut up for meat. At last he said:

"These are men of one of the nomadic tribes of the Syrian desert. As to which tribe, or the cause of their attack, I shall have to consult the higher powers."

"Consult away."

"Do you still wish me to guide you?"

"Perhaps—for fourpence a day, no more. If you guide as you fight, by the fangs of Azi Dahaka, we are likely to find ourselves in Scythia when we aimed for Kush!"

A disturbance attracted Myron's attention. An Arab had halted a dromedary at the edge of the ruddy torchlight. Like the leader of the attack, he wore a long robe and, on his head, a square of cloth folded diagonally and held in place by a headband of rope. Although he held up a hand in greeting, some of the Marathites began to shout threats and insults and to throw stones.