Clash Of Empires (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  “You won’t be joining the fight?”

  Tooraj shook his head. “Too old. Besides, we can’t risk bandits plundering the mine. Or soldiers, either.”

  “Nuzi could be in no better hands.” Sabatu smiled at the veteran fighter. “But if things go wrong at Sumer, or when the fighting ends, I promise to return here.”

  Sabatu meant every word. He’d come to like and respect Tooraj.

  “Good hunting, then, Sabatu. May your arrow bring down your enemy and ours. I’ll keep your house ready for your return.” Tooraj glanced at the sun. “I have to go. The men are eager to learn who’s going and who’s staying.” He extended his brawny arm to Sabatu.

  Sabatu clasped the man’s arm with even more force. “Good fortune to you, Tooraj, and all the people of Akkad.”

  At dusk the next day, the setting sun’s rays sent waves of light across the Tigris when Sabatu stepped onto Akkad’s dock. He went straight to the King’s Compound, only to find that Eskkar had departed the city and left no word for Sabatu. He tried to speak with Queen Trella, but she, too, was unavailable. The guard at the gate refused to admit Sabatu. After wasting the rest of the evening and most of the next day trying to find Daro, Sabatu had encountered Yavtar in the lane outside the King’s Compound.

  Explaining his plight, Sabatu asked for Daro.

  “Daro?” Yavtar scratched his chin. “He left Akkad some time ago. Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  Sabatu caught the glint in Yavtar’s eye, but the old sailor refused to admit that he knew anything at all about Daro or his whereabouts. However, Yavtar agreed to get Sabatu to Sumer by way of one of the supply boats destined for the southern city. The next day, Sabatu sailed from Akkad.

  After almost three days on the Tigris, the slow-moving ship reached the trading port of Kanesh, the fort that marked Akkad’s southern border. Even as he stepped ashore, Sabatu heard the dockside guards talking among themselves. The Elamites had already reached Sumer’s outskirts and sealed off the city. Meanwhile their cavalry had continued moving north.

  Suddenly the voyage for Sabatu’s supply boat had become too risky. The nervous ship master refused to proceed further south. He unloaded his cargo of weapons and grain, turned his boat around, and set out for Akkad. Sabatu stood on the dock and cursed his bad luck.

  The Elamites had moved against Sumer sooner than anyone in Akkad anticipated. The invaders had already surrounded the city, and done their best to cut off all river traffic to its dock. Now only Akkad’s sleek and fast war boats had any chance of reaching the besieged city. The Elamites hadn’t come in force as far north as Kanesh yet, but their cavalry patrols had ridden boldly almost within range of its alert archers.

  Fuming at his bad luck, Sabatu discovered that he now had to wait for one of Daro’s fighting ships to arrive. With Sumer under siege, these were the only boats that dared try to slip into and out of the city under the cover of darkness. It took another two days before one of Yavtar’s fast-moving boats arrived from Akkad, bound for Sumer. The ship’s cargo consisted of forty bows and two thousand arrows, weapons that would soon be needed by Sumer’s garrison.

  Sabatu pleaded his case with the frowning boat captain, clearly unwilling to transport a useless passenger.

  “Well, I’m a man short,” he said. “But unless you can row and use that bow, I won’t take you on.”

  “I promise you, I can row, and I can fight.”

  The boat had departed Kanesh after dark, and the gruff ship master declared they would make landfall at Sumer just before dawn. He handed Sabatu an oar, and sat him down at the last rowing position in the rear of the craft, where he would have little chance to do anything wrong.

  Sabatu didn’t care. He would have clung to the side of the boat for the length of the journey if need be.

  Now Sabatu stared at the glistening water that carried the crew and cargo racing down the Tigris. The boat would make the entire journey under the cover of night. At last he traveled toward a goal of his own, the City of Sumer. There he would have his chance, however slim, to confront in battle Grand Commander Chaiyanar – the man who tortured Sabatu and had his family murdered in front of him.

  The fighting boat had covered half the distance to Sumer when the Elamites attacked. Sabatu, like the rest of the river boat’s crew, had no warning. One moment the small craft had been moving swiftly down the Tigris, the silvery water reflecting the soft light from the nearly full moon.

  Then a flight of arrows struck the boat, the individual shafts striking home with dull thuds that broke the night’s silence. With a loud splash, one of the rowers went overboard. Another man dropped his oar and started cursing, and Sabatu saw an arrow had passed through the fleshy part of the man’s arm, the bloody barb point exposed. The nine man crew, now reduced to only seven, responded fast enough, crouching low and paddling with all their strength.

  Sabatu responded rapidly as well. He thrust his oar deep into the river and dragged it through the water with a grunt of exertion. The boat leapt forward despite the arrows that hissed overhead or splashed into the river.

  The moment the arrows ceased, Sabatu dropped his oar, snatched up his bow, and strung the weapon. Pulling an arrow from the quiver resting beside his feet, he searched the east bank of the Tigris for the Elamite soldiers. But the boat, moving faster now, gave him no time to locate a target among the black shadows of the shoreline, at least seventy paces away.

  The boat traveled a quarter of a mile before more arrows smacked against the hull, and Sabatu heard another man cry out. The remaining rowers worked their oars with all their strength, the prow of the boat cutting through the gleaming water with a relentless hiss. They were almost out of range when the second, and unnoticed, disaster struck.

  The commander of the boat, acting as the steersman, took an arrow right through his neck. He never cried out, or if he did, no one heard him. Dead or dying, he loosened his grip on the steering oar. Without a steersman, the boat turned hard toward the western bank. By the time the arrows ceased and the rowers caught their breath, the boat, driven at top speed, had nearly reached the opposite shore.

  “Someone take the oar!” One of the soldiers, a man named Harnos, had taken command.

  Sabatu was closest, and one quick glance told him the steersman, slumped back against the stern, had died instantly. Sabatu dropped his bow and lunged toward the steering oar.

  Instinctively, he pulled the tiller oar inward, then realized that motion only turned the bow of the craft even more toward the western bank. With a savage jerk, he shoved the oar outward as far as he could reach, feeling the force of the river thrusting against the oversized tiller. The boat, still with plenty of momentum, swung slowly back toward the center of the river. Sabatu saw the darker shoreline looming only a few paces from the ship.

  “By the gods, I thought you’d run us aground!” Harnos, second in command – the entire crew consisted of Hawk Clan soldiers – moved to the stern to take control of the vessel.

  But before Sabatu could yield the tiller, the ship lurched to a sudden halt, accompanied by the sound of wood snapping and men tumbling over the thwarts. The noise of the collision rang out loud enough to be heard across the river. The boat had missed running aground on the west bank, but not the tree that had collapsed into river.

  “Damn!” This oath came from the crewman nearest the bow. “We’ve hit a tree limb!”

  The boat, impaled on the nearly submerged log, lost all headway. The craft’s stern swung toward the center of the channel, twisting the ship’s frame and widening the hole below the water line. Sabatu heard the river rushing into the craft. A moment later, and the cool water reached his feet.

  The experienced crew reacted swiftly.

  “Curse our luck! The boat’s going down.”

  “At least we won’t have far to swim.”

  “Take your weapons. We may need them.”

  That last came from Harnos, who clearly knew how to think fast. Men swung over the si
de, clutching bows, quivers, and swords. It took Sabatu a moment longer to realize that the ship was lost, and it was time to leave. The water had already reached his thighs, and the gunwale barely remained above the flowing river.

  Snatching up his bow and a quiver of arrows, he stepped into the water and half-swam, half-waded his way to shore. Slipping and sliding on the mud, he struggled to climb the bank and would have fallen back into the river, but a powerful arm reached down, grabbed his tunic, and pulled him out of the water.

  “What are we . . .”

  “Quiet, you fool.” Harnos was definitely a man used to giving orders. “Can’t you hear the horses?”

  The soft drum beat of hooves reached Sabatu, and he heard voices, too. With a shock, he realized the words were the language of Elam. They must have cavalry on both sides of the river.

  “Follow me,” Harnos whispered. “We’ve got to get away from here. They’ll spot the boat and come looking for us. And if you make another sound, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

  Without a glance back, the soldier led the way into the darkness, the rest of the men, as ghostly as shadows, trailing behind in single file. They moved into the trees that followed the river’s course and vanished.

  With a muttered curse, Sabatu ran after them, already worried that they had moved out of his sight. But he soon caught up with the last man. After that, he never let them get more than two paces ahead. Soon enough Harnos led his little detachment out of the trees, and into the open fields.

  As his fright at nearly drowning passed, Sabatu clenched his teeth in frustration, angered by yet another delay in his journey to Sumer. This disaster might well thwart Sabatu’s chance for revenge. Nor could he complain to Harnos, who had received no special orders concerning the passenger.

  Sabatu considered striking out on his own and trying to reach Sumer on foot. But if Chaiyanar’s cavalry had reached this far north and on both sides of the river, there would be little chance to avoid being caught. The city would be ringed with horsemen, and Sabatu would never be able to slip through their cordon.

  No, Sabatu realized he would have to stay with these Hawk Clan soldiers. They knew the land, and with luck would eventually get back to Kanesh. There Sabatu would have to plead for passage on another ship. He refused to consider that he might not be able to reach Sumer and miss the opportunity of personally killing Chaiyanar.

  The Akkadian boat had run into Elamite cavalry, and an unlucky arrow had sent the vessel to the bottom of the river, leaving Sabatu stumbling through the darkness. Now the best that he could hope for was a quick return to Kanesh, and the chance to board another fighting ship on its way to Sumer.

  He had to get there before Chaiyanar captured the city, which he would surely do. Once ensconced within Sumer’s walls, the Grand Commander would be too well protected. No, Sabatu knew that he needed the confusion of the final assault on Sumer to slip amongst the Elamites and take his shot at Chaiyanar. In the chaos of the city’s fall, Sabatu hoped that he could make his way close to his hated torturer. Speaking Elam’s language should be enough to open the way.

  One shot, that’s all he prayed for. If he could put an arrow into Chaiyanar, Sabatu would thank the gods and gladly fall on his sword.

  Chapter 18

  Fifty-six days after Orodes cut through his first pile of rubble, and the same day as Alcinor brought down the cliffs and blocked the Jkarian Pass, Orodes clung to his perch atop a boulder and stared at the landscape before him. For once, he could see something besides another god-cursed winding and narrow trail, a heap of rocks, or a gaping chasm.

  The long days of endless labor in the mountain’s foothills had drained both his strength and his energy. By now he no longer cared about Lady Trella, Akkad, or even the coming Elamite invasion. All that remained was a dogged determination to complete a task, and prove once again that Orodes of Akkad was not only the richest man in the city, but also its greatest miner.

  Even so, he knew that he would have failed, except that as he and his men had worked their way farther south, the hills and cliffs had gradually diminished in size. And the obstacles, though more frequent, had decreased in both height and the weight of rock that needed to be cleared. Now, looking ahead, Orodes saw the end to his labor, less than a mile away.

  He glimpsed something else in the distance. A patch of blue glistened under the sun. Wrinkling his nose, Orodes caught the scent of the Great Sea. He heaved a vast sigh of relief. He had done it. Despite all the obstacles the mountain gods had heaped in his path, Orodes had vanquished them all. He took another, deeper breath of the salt-scented air. Yes, the end of his journey was in sight.

  Luka joined him atop the boulder, wriggling his way to the edge. “I told you it was here! I told you.”

  “You’re sure this is the last one?” Orodes thought he could follow the trail through the end of the hills, but he couldn’t be certain.

  “Yes, this is it.” Luka pointed to a pair of grooves scratched on the rock beside them. “This is the mark I made when I returned from the Sea. You did it, Orodes, you did it!”

  Orodes resisted the temptation to take all the glory for himself. Every man in his crew had worked hard, of course, but Orodes knew no other man – miner, builder, or digger, not even Master Engineer Alcinor – in the Land Between the Rivers could have accomplished what Orodes had done, not in so short a time.

  “We did, indeed, Luka.” Orodes accepted Luka’s words of praise, as he stretched out his arm to the south. “So that is the beach itself?”

  “No, you can’t see it from here. But when you emerge from the hills, there is about three hundred paces of sandy grassland, then about another hundred or more paces of sand to the water’s edge.”

  All Orodes could spy from here was the green strip of earth, and the small patch of blue water. But the Great Sea waited just beyond, no doubt about that.

  “Pick a few men and go take a look,” Orodes ordered. “Make sure no one sees you. The soldiers will be here by morning, and the more we know about what awaits them the better.”

  The impatient horsemen in the vanguard of the cavalry had caught up with Orodes and his men eight days ago. After wasting half a morning answering foolish questions and watching his men get distracted, he’d told Hathor and King Naxos to remain a full day behind.

  Daro, the commander of the expedition, had shaken his head and accepted Orodes’s decision. Neither the King of Isin nor Hathor of Akkad had enjoyed being ordered to remain in the rear.

  “I’ll send a messenger back to Hathor at once,” Luka said. “How long will it take to break through?”

  Orodes already had that answer. After clearing forty-three blocked passages, he could estimate the time to clear this one easily enough. He glanced up at the sun, which had just moved past its midday peak in the sky. “If we work until dark, we should be able to clear the way by midmorning.”

  Luka called down orders to his men. Soon he and two others were scrambling through the rocks. They reached the other side, and set off at a trot for the beach.

  Orodes slid back down and faced his men, scattered about as they lay on the ground and grateful for any chance to rest. All were dull-eyed and near exhaustion. Dust covered arms and legs, where it had worked its way into the skin. Every one had at least a double handful of cuts on their face, hands, arms, and chest, the result of too many sharp bits of flying rock.

  Orodes had as many himself. He’d worked almost as hard as any of his men, supervising the crews, selecting the best way to work each obstacle, often times picking up a hammer and chisel himself. Gazing at the bodies sprawled about, he wondered if he appeared as haggard to them as they did to him.

  Orodes took a deep breath. “Men! We’ve reached the sea. This is the last barrier. Once we break through here, we can return to Akkad and you can collect your pay.”

  No one cheered. Only a few bothered to glance up at their master, but even they showed no excitement or enthusiasm. Almost two months of back-breaking l
abor had extinguished any such sparks. By now even thoughts of the additional coins Orodes had promised meant little.

  “Daro and the soldiers will be here by nightfall,” Orodes continued, “and they have extra supplies, so we’ll eat well tonight. They can help clearing the trail and with the digging tomorrow. Let’s get to work.”

  Orodes ignored the weary groans that answered his words. Instead he reached down and found his pack. Removing his hammer and chisel, he turned, strode to the rock wall, and started work. One by one, with the usual accompaniment of grunts and sighs, his weary men climbed to their feet and followed his example.

  Soon the noise of hammers striking chisels, rocks being tossed aside, and men swearing at the hard labor resumed its usual song. One more, Orodes thought, one more passage cut through the rocks and he could rest.

  When he returned to Akkad, he intended to sleep for the first five days, then spend the next five floating in the Tigris, washing and scraping away the rock dust imbedded in his skin. And eating. He would treat himself to fresh meat every day, perhaps at every meal. Visions of roasted chickens, thick steaks, and hunks of steaming mutton passed before his eyes.

  And wine. Orodes intended to get decently drunk every night. He would just lay in his bed and let his wives and slave girls climb all over him.

  The fantasy continued as he labored, and lasted until dusk arrived and it grew too dark to see anything. The exhausted men dropped their tools and slid to the ground wherever they happened to be. Nobody bothered searching for any scraps of firewood. His crew had not built a proper campfire in five days. Instead, they slipped into sleep as only the physically spent and emotionally drained can.

  “Wake up! Wake up, I say.”

  Orodes, his head resting against a boulder, opened his eyes, and pushed himself to a sitting position.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s the King of the Elamites, who do you think it is?” Daro squatted down beside Orodes. “Leave you alone for a few days, and look at you. A child could have slit all your throats.”