by Sam Barone
“We need to delay them,” Eskkar said, “weaken them before their next assault.” He turned to Shappa. “Take two hundred of your men and harass the enemy tonight. Just fling stones at them from the darkness, anything to keep them off guard and disturb their sleep. We need to delay the next onslaught. Every day we can hold them makes them weaker. They’re already short of food and water, and if they don’t receive new supplies, soon they’ll be too weak to fight.”
Alexar’s men had found several wounded Elamites unable to flee. A quick interrogation had confirmed the lack of food, and even more important, water.
“If they get resupplied . . . and now they have less mouths to feed . . .” Alexar let the words trail off.
“We’ll have to assume Sargon can cut their supply line,” Eskkar said. “That may take a few more days. Resupplied or not, we have to hold them. Whatever water they had will be gone by tonight. I don’t think they can mount more than one final attack, not after taking such losses.”
After a battle, a choking thirst fell upon every fighter. Even Eskkar’s men had nearly emptied the vast number of water skins to quench their thirst. Nevertheless, water skins continued to arrive, carried by Trella’s porters from the spring at the mouth of the Pass.
“Let’s hope they don’t come again tomorrow,” Drakis said. “We could use another day of rest.”
“That’s what Shappa’s night raid is for, to convince them to wait another day.” Eskkar looked at each of his commanders. Their faces were grim, but he saw no signs of men ready to give up. They understood that they could never make it back to Akkad without leaving the infantry and slingers behind, and no one would suggest that cowardly action.
Eskkar knew he needed something bold and unexpected if Akkad were to defeat the Elamites. His men could not withstand another such attack. The two battles had given him some ideas, but he still lacked the missing piece, the part of the plan that would offer the best opportunity for victory. “Is there anything else we can do?”
“Let’s send the prisoner back with a message to all the Elamites,” Alexar said.
They still had the captured horseman Eskkar had questioned when he first arrived at the Pass.
“What message?”
Alexar laughed, a grim sound with little mirth. “We tell them truth, that Akkad cannot be defeated, that King Eskkar has never lost a battle, and that our most powerful gods have promised us victory.”
Everyone chuckled at the idea.
“No, I mean it,” Alexar insisted. “We march him down the slope, with twenty or thirty of Mitrac’s archers behind him. They stay back, just out of range, and send him close enough to be heard, and make sure he repeats the message. That way, everyone in the front ranks will hear his words.”
“Will anyone believe him?” Drakis didn’t sound convinced.
“Most of the time, men believe what they want to believe,” Eskkar said. “Many of Modran’s soldiers are hungry and exhausted. They’ve seen their companions struck down. By now they have doubts about this campaign and their leaders. Yes, only some will believe the words, but all will remember them when they next march into battle.”
“And if he doesn’t deliver the message properly, we riddle him with arrows,” Mitrac finished.
“Do it,” Eskkar said, “send him back just before sundown.” It might not count for much, but it couldn’t hurt. “Any other suggestions?”
No one spoke. Eskkar grimaced, but before he could offer his own suggestions, Muta spoke.
“I have an idea.” Muta hadn’t lost many men in the fight, and hadn’t said much during the discussion. He had emerged unscathed from today’s fighting.
Enslaved by the nomads who lived in the western desert, Muta had received his freedom with Akkad’s help and risen to be second in command of all the Akkadian cavalry. “By now, the Elamite soldiers and commanders are convinced they can overwhelm us. They’ll attack based on what they saw today. Suppose we give them something different from what they expect?”
Eskkar and the others leaned closer, everyone eager to hear some new battle plan. “Tell us, Muta, what else can we do?”
Muta took a deep breath. “They won’t be expecting a cavalry attack. Charging downhill, we could break their line.”
“Charging over the enemy dead and into their front line, I think you’d lose most of your men,” Alexar countered. “You might disrupt them for a time, but you can’t attack such a mass of men on horseback.”
“If the Elamites break our line, we’ll lose most of our men away, trying to cover the retreat.”
Eskkar rocked back on his heels, no longer listening to his commanders’ words. Muta had provided the missing initiative for which Eskkar had sought. Now the parts fell into place in rapid succession.
He looked up, and saw everyone staring at him. Eskkar smiled. “Muta has given me an idea. I think there is a way after all for our cavalry to break the Elamites. Or at least part of them.”
Speaking carefully, Eskkar sketched out his bold, even desperate, plan. One by one, his commanders added their ideas, suggesting improvements, until every head nodded in agreement.
Eskkar turned to Shappa. “Once again, you and your men will have to buy us the time we need.”
Drakis laughed. “It will be like Isin. Slingers and boys too small to swing a sword or lift a spear will decide the battle.”
Shappa ignored the rough compliment. “We can do it, Captain. We’ll hold the line as long as you need.”
“Then let’s get moving,” Eskkar said. “We’ve all got plenty to do before dawn.”
Chapter 32
Midafternoon arrived before Lord Modran, teeth clenched and a grim look on his face, finally met with all his commanders. Less than half of them had survived, and Modran’s soldiers still licked their wounds. Two battles in four days, and nothing to show for it, except thousands killed and even more wounded.
The dead bodies festered everywhere, and the unceasing cries of the wounded grated on Modran’s ears, though the sounds grew steadily weaker, as thirst and loss of blood took their toll. He ordered his commanders not to waste any food or water on anyone who couldn’t fight.
Meanwhile, flocks of carrion birds, attracted by the smell of blood and decomposing flesh, circled their way raucously through the air, their mocking cries seemingly directed at Lord Modran.
After the retreat, the discouraged soldiers had moved to the rear, pushing and shoving, cursing at their leaders. Modran’s soldiers had scattered all over the Pass, and now many were unable to find, let alone regroup, into their proper units.
And when they did locate their companions, the troops involved in the fighting swore that they would not face the Akkadians in the front ranks again. After this attack, every Elamite soldier knew how slim the odds were of surviving in the first battle line, even in a victory.
Modran heard the bitter words, but didn’t bother to berate his men. He knew about soldiers’ anger after a retreat, and today’s debacle stood far above a mere movement to the rear. His soldiers understood, perhaps better than their commanders, that lives had been wasted.
Thousands of men dead, and after all that blood, the Akkadians still blocked the Pass. Today’s rough count of the dead and badly wounded had reached over seven thousand. After eliminating the numbers of the siege men, porters, livery men, and other non-fighters, Modran had just over seventeen thousand men able to fight.
Nevertheless, by the time General Martiya had taken the count of the dead and wounded and collected his subcommanders, Lord Modran had regained control of his anger at today’s disaster. Now his surviving unit commanders stood together, shoulder to shoulder, each blaming in a loud voice someone else, mostly the dead commanders, for the failure to breach the line.
Martiya, too, had given vent to his own frustration. “We were breaking them. Their center was ready to collapse. But a few boys with slings drove back our men from beneath the cliff, and we lost our chance.”
One of the subc
ommanders, his right hand shattered by a slinger’s stone, voiced his thoughts. “Those were not boys, and they threw so many stones at us that . . .”
“Stones, arrows, spears,” Modran shouted, “no one retreats until the order is given.” He glared at the soldier until he lowered his eyes, no doubt wishing his commanding general had taken a stone to the head.
“We should have attacked again,” Martiya said. “The Akkadians were ready to break. Another assault would have overwhelmed them. Instead we’re likely to waste the rest of the day collecting the men and moving them back into position.”
“There’s still time,” Modran said. “We will wait until dark, then move our men up, and launch a night attack. In the darkness their bowmen won’t be able to pick and choose their targets. We should get close enough to rush them.” He turned to Martiya. “Can we do it?”
“Mmm, a night attack, it’s not a bad idea.” Martiya rubbed the scratch on his face. “They won’t be expecting an assault after dark. We could form a column, and instead of trying to hit the entire line at once, we strike at a single point of their position, say their right flank. That would keep our men away from the slingers, who need the height of the cliffs to be any threat. By the time the Akkadians shifted enough men over to stop us, we could break through and overrun them by sheer numbers. Once behind the line, we can slaughter them all.”
Modran hadn’t considered attacking at a single point, but the idea sounded workable. A column of a hundred men abreast, with fifty men lined up behind each soldier in the front rank, would be unstoppable at night. Even the Akkadians couldn’t kill so many fast enough. It would be easier to organize and move the soldiers in a column, rather than trying to keep a line the width of the Pass intact and moving forward in unison.
“We could feint attacks at their center and left flank,” Modran said, thinking out loud. “By the time they realized we were concentrating on their right flank, the bulk of our forces would be on top of them.”
“Who would lead the attack?” Martiya’s question wasn’t an idle one. Whatever contingent spearheaded the assault would take heavy causalities even if it broke Eskkar’s line.
Modran wanted to send the remnants of General Jedidia’s men to the front again, but he didn’t trust them. Any setback, no matter how small, would have them running once more to the rear. “We’ll have to use the Immortals. I don’t trust any of the others.”
The number of Immortals under Lord Modran’s command numbered exactly two thousand men. Whenever one of them fell in battle, he was replaced by another handpicked fighter from the city of Anshan. Proven in many battles, they considered themselves the best of the Elamite army, and rightly so.
No enemy had ever withstood their attack. The Immortals were proud fighters, and their pride would not let them suffer a defeat. Personally loyal to King Shirudukh, for this campaign he had assigned them to Lord Modran.
Modran’s private guards were selected from the best of the Immortals. So far, the entire force had been held in reserve. Modran hadn’t been willing to see them decimated by Akkad’s archers, especially so far from Akkad’s walls. This situation, however, called for desperate measures.
“We can count on the Immortals to continue the assault, no matter what,” Martiya agreed. “With them leading the way, the others will follow.”
“Then it’s settled.” Modran took a deep breath, and stared up the Pass. Nearly a mile away, he could make out the Akkadians. A line of men still stood across the Pass, waiting. His own soldiers, slumped to the ground, showed despair and defeat with every movement.
“As soon as it’s too dark for the Akkadians to see, we’ll move the Immortals up. We’ll have five thousand men behind them. Use the rest of the cowards to convince the Akkadians we’re attacking them head-on once again.”
Martiya nodded. “If we start our preparations as soon as darkness falls, we should be ready by midnight, or a little later. Have you received word from Zanbil? Are more supplies on the way?”
Modran had not heard from the first messengers he’d dispatched to Zanbil, and their failure to return added to his rage. He’d ordered one of them to report back at once, as soon as they delivered his message. That man should have returned two days ago. Zanbil had plenty of supplies by now, with more arriving each day from the south. Modran needed those supplies, needed them now. He’d made sure that his messengers understood the urgency of his demands.
The second group of messengers, twenty in number, also should have reached Zanbil by noon today. That meant that large quantities of supplies must already be on their way. Nevertheless, he could not wait much longer. Already his men were eating the dead horses, and with no firewood for cooking, gagging on the raw meat.
Even if the food arrived late, Modran knew it would help restore his men’s confidence and strength. More important, the hundreds of water skins he’d demanded would keep his army fighting. Once they broke Eskkar’s ranks, all the Akkadian food and water supplies would be theirs.
“No, I’ve heard nothing from Zanbil,” Lord Modran said. “The first messengers and supplies should have returned by now.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Martiya said. “We’ve got to attack soon. Otherwise our soldiers will be too weak from hunger and dry from thirst to fight well. We have to go tonight.”
Modran nodded, his jaw clenched. It had come to that. With his vast army, he now had only this one chance to beat the Akkadians. “Make sure the men know what’s at stake. If they want to quench their thirst, they have to break Eskkar’s line. He’s got plenty of food and water.”
“Yes, damn him.” Martiya spat on the ground. “He’s still getting supplies from Akkad. By the gods, how did he ever manage to accomplish that?” Martiya smacked his fist into his palm. “Food and arrows, and water, too, most of it carried by farmers and tradesmen.”
That no longer mattered either, Modran knew. “For tonight’s attack, make sure every man knows his battle position. Tell them to get some rest, but make sure there are no delays forming up and preparing for the assault.”
“There won’t be,” Martiya said. “Still, I’d feel better if I knew more supplies were coming.”
Their situation had indeed turned desperate. But Modran had more serious stakes at risk. If he failed to defeat Eskkar’s men, King Shirudukh would almost certainly have Modran’s head on a spear. All Shirudukh would need to hear was that thirty thousand soldiers, including a force of Immortals, could not brush aside less than ten thousand. Trivial details about the narrow confines of the Pass, or lack of food and water, would not mitigate the King’s wrath.
No, Modran had no intention of returning to Elam with that message. Even if the King let him live, Modran would be forced to beg for his life at Chaiyanar and Jedidia’s feet, removed from his command, his wealth confiscated, his men dispersed. Modran would watch while Chaiyanar and Jedidia reaped the rewards of the invasion. By now Sumer would be ready to fall, and Jedidia was no doubt wreaking havoc in the empty lands north of Akkad. If he met no resistance, he, too, might decide to ride for Akkad.
Those thoughts stiffened Modran’s determination. He’d overwhelm Eskkar’s lines if he had to sacrifice every man in his army to do it.
“Break Eskkar’s line, Martiya,” Modran said. “Break their line, and we’ll be at Akkad’s gates in five days.”
“We will.” Without waiting to be dismissed, Martiya spun on his heel and walked away, his fists clenched in anger.
Modran ignored the slight from his second in command. Instead he turned his gaze on the rest of his sullen commanders. “You know what’s at stake, and what you need to do. Any man that falters will be put to the sword. The Immortals will lead the way to victory.”
One by one, heads nodded in approval. The Akkadians, forced to defend the entire width of the Dellen Pass, no longer had enough men to resist a concentrated attack on their right flank. They, too, must have taken heavy losses in today’s battle. Thoughts of victory took root in every Elam
ite commander. The darkness of night, and the strength of the Immortals, would break the Akkadians’ position.
As soon as it grew too dark to see, Shappa ordered his slingers to move out. Once again, Markesh led the way through the darkness, crawling on his hands and knees for the first hundred paces. Two hundred and sixty slingers followed behind him.
None of them carried bows. Even in the dimmest moonlight, a bow’s silhouette was too distinct, too noticeable. For tonight’s attack, slings were the preferred weapon. Nearly silent, they could be used from a crouching position.
Each slinger carried twenty-five bronze bullets. Markesh hadn’t wanted any extra weight of projectiles to slow down his men. Without the extra missiles, they could move easier and faster through the darkness.
The Elamites, as they had done each night, established a strong perimeter across the width of the Pass, to give plenty of warning should the Akkadians attempt a night attack. But the line of enemy sentries stood only a hundred paces in front of their main force. Obviously, the Elamites had discounted the idea that the numerically inferior Akkadians might try to attack a much larger force, even at night.
So far, neither side had tried to use the darkness of night for an assault. Moving heavily armed men across a broken field littered with dead carcasses everywhere sounded foolhardy. The noise from any such attempt would be easily heard.
Nor did soldiers like the idea of fighting at night. Everyone knew that after dark demons rose from their secret pits to wander the earth, eager to snatch men’s souls from their bodies and carry them to the bowels of the earth. Dying at night or lying wounded in battle left the victim’s body and spirit even more likely to be taken.
The Akkadian slingers, however, had trained so often at night that such fears had no effect on Shappa’s men. After years of training, not a single slinger had fallen victim to a demon, and Markesh doubted tonight’s raid would be any different. After all, the demons had feasted on the dead and wounded Elamites for many days.