by Sam Barone
Since none of them knew exactly how the Elamites had positioned their troops, there wasn’t much else in the way of planning they could do now. They did, however, talk about what they would do if they met any enemy horsemen returning to Zanbil.
When the small war council broke up, Sargon felt satisfied. He had no interest in glory, and was more than willing to give that and any credit to Den’rack and Garal. All Sargon wanted was the opportunity to strike a real blow at the Elamites. Any diversion or delay he and the warriors inflicted on the enemy would relieve pressure on Eskkar and the Akkadians.
Garal’s idea for the raid, Sargon understood, matched what Eskkar would have done. Sargon’s father never let an opportunity pass by to strike a blow against his enemies. Sargon now had the chance to follow that code.
Even so, for the first time since he had ridden out of the warrior staging camp seven days ago, sleep didn’t come easily, and when it did, Sargon’s gloomy dreams kept jerking him awake. He finally recognized the signs for what they were – the fears of a young, inexperienced commander leading older and likely wiser men into battle.
All the same, his commanders needed him to lead. Sargon belonged to neither the Ur Nammu or the Alur Meriki, and so both could follow him into battle without any loss of honor. He had one last thought before he settled into a deeper sleep. Ordering men to risk their lives by following his orders wasn’t as easy as he expected it to be.
In the morning, well before the sun had cleared the high peaks of the Dellen Pass, Sargon and his men mounted and continued their rapid journey, moving as fast as the ups and downs of the trail permitted. The excited jabbering of young warriors, most of them eager for their first battle, soon disappeared under the pressure of the grueling ride. Not to mention that everyone had to struggle with a second horse and the extra supplies.
Noon came and went without event. But just before midafternoon, one of the scouts came racing back to their main troop.
“Sargon,” the man shouted, “riders are approaching.”
Sargon raised his hand and brought the column to a halt. “Did they see you?”
“No. But they can’t be far behind.”
“How many?”
“Not sure,” the scout replied. “At least ten, maybe more.”
Sargon knew the numbers made no difference. Their trail was too prominent and fresh. The Elamites would notice it before they had ridden a hundred paces. The warriors would have to fight, regardless of the odds. At the same time he wondered what had happened to the second scout, but there was no time even to ask the question.
Den’rack and Garal took charge. They placed all the men to the left side of the passage, where a few large boulders offered some concealment. The spare horses and pack animals were handed off to the youngest warriors, who cursed their misfortune, while the rest readied their weapons.
By then Sargon could hear the hoof beats echoing off the rocky walls. Garal and Den’rack moved their horses to either side of Sargon’s mount. Every man readied his weapons, and Sargon unslung his lance. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, and then with a rush, a band of riders appeared, curling around a large boulder that marked the trail.
Den’rack gave a shout. In an instant more than eighty warriors surged forward, screaming their war cries. That sound, as much as the sudden appearance of so many barbarians, panicked the Elamite horses as well as their riders. Caught by surprise in the narrow confines of the Pass, the enemy riders dragged their horses to a halt as they tried to turn them around and flee. But the Elamites had no chance of escaping the ambush.
Leaning forward, Garal launched the first shaft, putting an arrow into the soldier leading the way. More missiles tore into the surprised mass of riders, their path forward now completely blocked by Sargon’s warriors. Then the Elamites were too close for the warriors to work their bows.
Sargon, his mount driving forward as eagerly as the rest, leaned low beside his horse’s neck, his lance clutched tight in his hand. An enemy soldier, a shaft sticking into his shoulder, still managed to draw his sword. Sargon thrust the sharp lance into the man’s chest, knocking him off his horse and tearing Sargon’s weapon from his hand.
He drew his sword, but by then fighting had ended. The Elamites had numbered less than twenty, and all were down, caught by surprise and overwhelmed by numbers. The second scout, brandishing his bow and shouting in triumph, appeared. He had hidden himself while the Elamites rode past, then killed the only enemy who managed to turn his horse about and try to escape back up the Pass.
“Stop the killing,” Sargon called out. “Garal, see if any are still alive.”
Garal flung himself from his horse and sword in hand, inspected the bodies. He gave a shout as he dragged a dazed and wounded man to his knees. The prisoner had an arrow protruding from the fleshy part of his chest close to his armpit. Blood had already soaked his tunic, and more continued to flow.
Either the shaft had unseated the rider, or more likely, his panicked horse had tossed him to the ground. The wounded man was the only survivor, and from the look of his injury, he wouldn’t last much longer.
Sargon dismounted and approached the Elamite. “You’re the only one left alive. If you want to live, you’ll answer my questions.”
Dazed, the man glanced up at the fearsome warriors, many with blood still on their swords, who surrounded him.
“Where were you going, and what message did you carry?” Sargon seized the man by his hair, drew his knife, and held it to the man’s throat. “Answer me now, if you want to live. Or are you eager to die like your companions?”
The words came out in a rush. Just a common soldier, he knew little. The riders were bound for Zanbil, to speed up the delivery of additional supplies. Lord Modran had demanded more food and water, as well as shields and any planks in Zanbil. Apparently Modran had tried a second time to force the Akkadian lines in the Pass and suffered another defeat.
After the battle Lord Modran had become enraged, vowing to break the Akkadian army blocking his way, if he had to kill half his army to do it. Sargon asked a few more questions, but obtained nothing else of value. Exhausted by his wound, the prisoner’s head sagged onto his chest.
Satisfied that he had learned all he could, Sargon thrust his knife into the dying man’s heart. With a gasp more of surprise than pain, the man collapsed on his back, his eyes going wide for a moment before death took him.
Sargon took no pleasure in the killing. But as leader of the warriors, he had to show strength before them. No enemy, no matter how badly wounded, could be allowed to live and possibly cause harm to the warriors or their plans. Sargon could have ordered one of his men to kill the prisoner, but that would have shown weakness.
Ignoring the body at his feet, Sargon turned to his men. “My father’s army still holds the Pass, and now has twice driven back the Elamites. Tomorrow we will strike their rear, and bring confusion to their ranks and fear into their hearts.”
A cheer went up from the warriors. Not a man had been lost in this fight, so quick and ruthless the action. Buoyed by their victory, the warriors were now ready for anything.
“Warriors! It is time to ride hard,” Sargon shouted. “Strip the bodies of everything useful, even their clothing, and bring up the extra horses. We may need them.”
Another cheer went up. In moments, the naked bodies of the dead had been dragged behind some rocks, and looted of their weapons and valuables. The extra horses were collected, and once again Sargon led the way deeper into the Dellen Pass.
As they rode, Den’rack and Garal exchanged glances. Both men smiled. Sargon was indeed learning how to fight, and how to command.
Chapter 38
By midafternoon of the next day, Sargon’s warriors were near exhaustion. Every man had pushed himself to the utmost. Even the horses looked spent, despite their frequent rests while their riders changed mounts. The last twenty miles of their ride had taken them over the hardest part of the Pass, and stretched both man and bea
st to their limits.
The ride gave Sargon a better appreciation of Modran’s dead messengers, caught by surprise after the arduous ride. They, too, had covered the rough ground with remarkable speed. But now the slope of the trail tended to be mostly down, and Sargon knew they had drawn close to Modran’s army.
“Sargon! A scout is returning.” Den’rack, riding at Sargon’s side, showed little effect from the punishing journey.
Sargon looked up to see a rider galloping toward them. Sargon halted the warriors, who bunched up around him, all eager to hear the news.
Pulling his horse to a stop, the man blurted out what he’d seen. The rear guard of Lord Modran’s army lay just over a mile ahead.
This time Sargon had to see for himself. He halted the warriors and ordered them to stay where they were. Then, with only Den’rack, Garal, and the scout, Sargon rode the final mile through the Dellen Pass. When the four reached the second scout, Sargon swung down from his mount, and the leaders covered the last fifty paces on foot.
The scout pointed to a sloping boulder, and they scrambled up the slippery stone until they reached the top. Flat on their stomachs, they peered down the trail at the back end of Lord Modran’s army.
A little over a quarter mile ahead, Sargon studied the rear guard of Modran’s troops. Not really soldiers, of course. These were the siege workers, the diggers and sappers, the carpenters who would construct ladders and shields, butchers and cooks to feed everyone, and livery men to help with the pack animals.
At least a hundred tents, crammed into every part of the Pass, provided shelter. Only a thin ribbon of the trail, enough for two or three horses side by side, remained open in the center of the Pass.
“Where are the horses?” Garal sounded surprised. “Wouldn’t they keep the horses at the rear?”
“They’ll be up ahead,” Sargon said. “The cavalry would want their mounts as close as possible, in case they needed them. There must be some just around that curve in the trail. These are only the laborers that Modran will use in the siege of Akkad. Most are unarmed.”
“With so many tents,” Den’rack said, “there may be two or three hundred men between us and the herds.”
“Probably more,” Sargon said. His experience with Akkad’s soldiers and their support units gave him a better grasp of the Elamite’s numbers. “But I don’t see any fighting men, only a few guards. Modran isn’t expecting any threats from his rear.”
Sargon kept studying the enemy position. The men camped before him were clearly not fighters. No doubt most of them would panic at the first sight of a sword.
“When we ride into them, the noise will alert the guards up ahead who are protecting the horses,” Garal said. “They’ll be waiting for us.”
Still thinking through the problem, Sargon didn’t reply at first. “Perhaps. But there may be a way to make this work for us.”
He sketched out his idea, one simple but daring enough to appeal to the warriors. Both Den’rack and Garal offered suggestions and improvements. Soon a workable plan emerged, risky, but one that would satisfy every warrior’s craving for blood and honor.
“Then it’s settled,” Sargon said, hoping that his idea wouldn’t get them all killed. “We’ll have to prepare the warriors with care. Each one will have his task.”
“They’ll be ready,” Den’rack said. “This will give everyone more fight than they imagined.”
“Then as soon as night falls, we go.” Sargon turned to Garal. “If this works, you’ll have a better story to tell around the campfire than Chinua.”
Garal chuckled. “As long as I’m alive to tell it.”
The evening shadows arrived early in the mountainous terrain. The siege workers ended their day even before the shadows began to lengthen. They had little energy, receiving a smaller ration of food than the rest of Modran’s fighters. Water was even scarcer, and many of them had little more than a mouthful since the morning.
The few guards posted were lax as well. Tasked with keeping anyone from trying to desert and head back through the Pass toward Zanbil, they kept their eyes on the trail to the west. But they turned quickly enough when they heard the sound of hoof beats echoing off the cliff walls.
Two riders appeared, pushing their horses hard up the slight incline. The leader of the guards, a heavyset man almost too old to fight, moved to the center of the trail, and raised his hand.
The two messengers, wearing the tunics and emblems of Modran’s personal staff, pulled their lathered horses to a stop.
“What news from Zanbil do you bring?” The guard got right to the point. “Is food and water on the way?”
“Yes, and we’ve urgent news for Lord Modran,” Sargon answered. “There’s a company of horsemen right behind us carrying supplies and weapons. Clear this rabble from the trail.”
The guard stared at Sargon for a moment. He didn’t recognize the messengers, but that meant nothing. Modran’s staff was large enough for two armies. He turned his eyes to the second man. “How far have you ridden?”
“From Zanbil and beyond,” Garal snapped. “My commander ordered you to clear the way. The reinforcements, a hundred men and a hundred pack animals, are right behind us.”
Both messengers spoke the main Elamite language. The guard didn’t recognize their accent, but with so many men from different lands fighting in Modran’s army, that was to be expected.
The sounds of horses approaching grew louder. Down the slope came the reinforcements, moving at an easy canter and riding in a column of twos, most of them leading extra pack horses.
“Let’s ride,” Sargon said. “Lord Modran is waiting for us.”
The guard and his men shrank aside, and Sargon and Garal put their horses to a canter. With the main troop almost upon them, the guard ordered his men to clear a path. They knew none of Modran’s cavalry would think twice about trampling some lazy laborer or overly officious guard.
Then the horses trotted past, guided by grim looking fighters. The leader of the guards gave them the briefest glance as they rode by his post. The next guard post, at the rear of the horse herds, would take the reinforcements through.
In moments the troop of riders had come and gone, disappearing up the trail, and the guard resumed his main duty, making sure no one deserted Lord Modran’s army.
Sargon breathed a sigh of relief as they left the rear guard behind. Garal, riding at his side, laughed softly.
“Well, the first part of your plan worked. The rest of the warriors are coming through.”
“It will not be as easy to get out as it was to get in,” Sargon said. Still, he, too, smiled in the deepening darkness.
He and Garal had dressed in garments taken from the dead messengers. Just as important, they both spoke Elam’s main dialect, and that more than anything disarmed the sentry’s suspicions. The rest of Sargon’s men had been told to keep their mouths shut, and just ride through at the same steady pace. A handful of warriors had also donned whatever usable clothing they’d taken from the dead.
All the warriors had removed their feathers and any signs that would mark them as men of the steppes. They had also left their lances, a favorite weapon of the steppes fighters, behind. Their short, curved bows, worn across their chests, attracted no attention.
If Sargon and Garal had been challenged, they would have abandoned their plan to reach the enemy horses. Instead, they would have attacked the rear guard, and done what damage they could.
But the deception – Sargon remembered his father telling him that all warfare is based on deception – had worked perfectly. Now the entire group of warriors had moved into the gap between the support troops and the first of the horse herds. That gap, less than a quarter mile long, soon ended.
Once again Sargon saw a handful of sentries watching them approach. But this time Sargon didn’t halt. “Messages and supplies for Lord Modran,” he shouted as he brushed past the guards.
“Clear the way, you fools,” Garal shouted.
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bsp; Nevertheless, Sargon slowed his horse to a trot. The horse herd, held in by ropes and separated on both sides of the trail, might be spooked by any large group of fast moving riders.
A hundred paces behind them, Den’rack matched Sargon’s pace, and his men followed his lead. They kept their eyes straight ahead, as if their only interest lay in reaching their destination. They followed the trail as it twisted and turned its way through the Pass.
The place selected by the Elamites to hold the horses was mostly flat. Small guard details of two or three men were posted every three or four hundred paces. Their assignment was to make sure some drunken fool didn’t stampede the horses, or possibly steal one in attempting to desert. Most of these sentries didn’t even bother to look up as Sargon’s warriors rode by in the gathering darkness. Each assumed that someone else had cleared the riders.
“By the gods, how many horses are there?” Garal spoke just loud enough to be heard by Sargon.
Sargon had been wondering the same thing. Many of the horses in the herd, lifting their heads to stare as the troop trotted past, showed more interest in their passing than did the guards. He kept counting, estimating the size of this herd.
Modran had entered the Pass with nine thousand cavalry. Likely he would keep a good sized force of horsemen near the front lines, in the event his Elamites could break Eskkar’s position. The rest would be kept here, in the rear.
Moving with care, Sargon’s force rode by the first horse herd, then the second and a third. The Elamites appeared to be keeping the herds about a quarter mile apart, which made sense with so many horses.
He tried to keep a rough count of the horses. Each herd numbered between three and four hundred horses, with ten or twenty guards for every group. If the herds grew too large, no one would be able to find a particular horse. After Sargon passed the fourth herd, they encountered a large campsite with at least two hundred men taking their ease.