The Fatimid army, although having fallen back from the walls, fought with grim determination. They stopped up the streets their spear to halt the Christian advance, and for a time, they held fast. Blood slicked the cobbled street, the dead numbering dozens in this alley alone. The whole army of course could not travel down one road, not all six thousand men, and the rearmost parties had begun to flood into other portions of the city - securing the flanks of the primary offensive and stationing small platoons to guard any number of defensible positions. Urban warfare could get real nasty, after all, and in the event that all did not go as planned, there needed to be an established zone of control. There wasn't a lot of coordination among the defenders anymore, as individual platoons were routing while the situation on the ground was changing too fast to notify separated parties. The majority of soldiers had survived the breach of the walls, however, and roughly half of the Fatimid army was regrouping at the inner wall while the remaining third would, alongside numerous armed peasants, harry the invaders and try to do as much damage as they could. Indeed, lying in wait at the end of the street the foremost soldiers fought, the militia had crowded the roofs and hid with slings, bows, rocks, hammers - anything that might become a missile. These began to sail over the Crusaders' heads, with admittedly mixed results.
One man appeared to have a healthy supply of dung hidden somewhere up there, and he was using it to great effect.
It so happened that, following Gudmund's dispatch of another soldier, the knight was seized by a wild-eyed Hebrew man who had entered the melee unscathed. His hair reached past his shoulders, gnarled and knotted so that one might imagine it housed a bird's nest, and he pressed the knob of a twisted wooden scepter right up between Gudmund's eyes. While he might have struck him, he did no such thing - instead hissing an unidentifiable string of Hebrew and shaking him relentlessly. He would shove Gudmund backwards into his own line of men. After this, the man began to hang on Gudmund's tunic, laughing maniacally. The scepter clattered to the ground, forgotten, and no doubt by now the other Crusaders might have stepped in to help. Yet his own wide-eyed stare held them, momentarily, at bay. "You, Squire... follow... follow me!"
He would stand then, or rather lurch to his feet, and attempt to haul Gudmund into the open door of a nearby home.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the inner wall and in the heart of the city herself, Marduk was chasing a slightly saner Hebrew man through an alley that was frankly not built for an animal his size. When they did happen upon the streets, he made his own path through the crowds; regardless of their station in society, not many people are willing to play chicken with a dragon in a hurry, and instead get right on out of his way. That, or they find themselves gently but forcefully shoved aside with the broad side of his snout.
Despite all this, his mind wasn't really on the pursuit. Mordecai could do all the thinking - he'd just follow. Instead he was still fixated on that initial shock, dwelling on how she had known his name. He'd never answered, never said a word to any of the others, as by the time he'd recovered his wits, she was gone.
But, unlike Mordecai, he would not go ahead without knowing Hayate was with him.