by Sam Barone
By now no one even glanced at Sargon’s men as they rode by. Everyone assumed that he was riding to the front of the camp and Modran’s headquarters.
After passing two more herds, Sargon guessed he had ridden past more than two thousand horses. He raised his hand, and slowed the warriors to a gradual halt, easing to a stop just between the last herd and the one up ahead.
“I think we’ve come far enough, Garal,” he said. “If we go any deeper into the Pass, we’ll never get out alive.”
“Yes, I think this is more than enough glory for anyone, at least for me.”
“Let’s hope we don’t get more glory than we bargained for,” Sargon said. “I don’t want to be remembered as the fool who rode into the center of Modran’s army and disappeared.
Den’rack and the others joined them.
“We’ve ridden far enough,” Sargon said. “I’ll take sixty warriors and stampede the herds ahead of us toward Modran’s front line. Jennat will take forty warriors and stampede the herds we passed back down the trail.”
Neither clan leader had wanted that assignment. Both Den’rack and Garal wanted the honor and danger that would arise from moving toward the soldiers. And so Den’rack had placed Jennat of the Ur Nammu, and Yassur of the Alur Meriki in charge of driving the smaller herd back down the Pass and toward Zanbil.
Sargon, too, refused to lead the rear movement. “Jennat, wait until we’ve stampeded the next herd, then start your attack. That may give us both a few extra moments of surprise.” He turned to Garal and Den’rack. “Are you ready?” He didn’t want to waste any more time debating the assignments. Some too alert guard might wonder why the riders stopped in the middle of the Pass, with nothing but horses in front and rear.
“Yes! Let’s ride!” Garal’s loud voice echoed off the walls, and the nearby Elamite horses lifted their heads.
Den’rack began the stampede. He kicked his horse forward, letting loose a war cry that startled every Elamite horse. His booming voice filled the Pass. “Ride, warriors, ride!”
Garal matched him stride for stride, leaving a cursing Sargon three lengths behind. Giving voice to their war cries, the sixty chosen warriors moved forward, spreading out as they did. Arrows were launched at the herd in front of them. In moments both sides of the Pass erupted to the thunder of hundreds of horses on the move, all heading west toward Modran’s battle line, guided and urged on by Sargon’s warriors.
The Elamite horses, many struck by arrows meant to wound, not kill, turned away from the shouting and war cries bearing down on them. The flimsy ropes holding them in snapped unnoticed. The horses, their fear intensified by the screams of the wounded animals and the scent of blood, raced through the Pass, heading west.
Even the hard and rocky ground of the Dellen Pass shook under the horses’ hooves. The next herd, already spooked by the increasing sound, started stirring as well. The moment those animals saw the oncoming horses, they, too, stampeded away from the approaching and thoroughly frightened horses. Adding to the panic were the screaming war cries and sharp arrows of Sargon’s warriors.
By the time Sargon reached the third holding place, at least a thousand horses galloped ahead of him through the Pass. And while in a normal stampede the animals might run a quarter mile before slowing down, the presence of the warriors driving them along with shouts and arrows, and even their swords, ensured that the herd did not stop.
Elamite guards, caught by surprise as much as their horses, were trampled underfoot or forced to run for their lives to the sides of the Pass. Those that made it clung to the rocks, weapons and tools forgotten. They watched helplessly as the horses, kept to a frenzy by the strange horsemen, raced past. Campfires, cooking utensils, sleeping blankets, even tents disappeared under the hooves of a thousand terrified horses.
Den’rack, leading the way and launching arrows as fast as any of his men, finally held up his hand. Sargon and the others slowed to a stop beside him.
“Time to go back,” Den’rack shouted. “The horses will run for at least a mile now. We must turn around.”
Some of the eager warriors wanted to continue riding, but Sargon, too, recognized the danger. The farther into the Pass they went, the more Elamites they would encounter, and the easier it would be for them to be trapped. He gave the order and the reluctant warriors turned their horses around.
This time Sargon led the way at a gallop. They needed to close up behind Jennat as fast as possible. His forty men had to drive well over two thousands horses, and keep them on the move so that they ran all the way back through the Elamite rear guard and down the Pass.
As Sargon’s warriors raced eastward through the now empty portion of the Pass, the Elamites began to recover from their surprise. Shouts and curses, and even a few arrows were launched at the galloping riders. Sargon, glancing behind him, saw one warrior take an arrow in the throat and pitch from his horse. But then that section of the trail lay behind them, and they kept riding, urging their tired mounts to run as fast as possible.
At last Sargon glimpsed Jennat’s warriors a quarter mile ahead. The much larger mass of horses had obviously required more work to stampede, and more urging to continue. But soon Sargon’s riders added their voices to those of Jennat’s men, and the massive herd, though slowed now to an easy gallop, kept moving.
They swept through what was left of the invaders’ rear guard, and Sargon saw the flattened tents. More than a few bodies littered the ground, proof that some of the laborers had not managed to reach the safety of the cliff walls in time.
Then the last enemy camp lay behind them. The Elamites would pursue them, of course, but it would take them a long time to regain control of their horses, find their mounts, and regroup.
Den’rack, his quiver empty, slowed his horse and joined Sargon. “We’re stampeded more horses than Chief Bekka did to the Carchemishi.”
Sargon grinned. “Now you have your own story to tell.”
Both men laughed, and they continued down the Pass. Neither man noticed that Garal wasn’t with them.
Lord Modran stood outside his tent after meeting with his commanders, angry at the time wasted in coordinating the plans for the final assault. His commanders, so efficient in laying siege to walled villages and cities, and so resourceful at attacking opponents on open ground, seemed both confused and incompetent in the Dellen Pass. The large size of the Elamite army added to the chaos, consuming food and water at an alarming rate, and all the while accomplishing nothing.
Once again Modran cursed the King of Akkad. Eskkar’s men maintained their ranks efficiently, and his supply line continued to deliver war materials to his men. The sight of the steadily arriving food, water, and weapons had sapped the morale of Modran’s soldiers, as they contrasted their plight with those of their Akkadian enemies.
Earlier in the evening another disaster had befallen Modran’s army. The Akkadian slingers had done far more than just disrupt his night attack. With a handful of stones flung through the darkness, they had exposed his plan of attack and unnerved his soldiers.
The insignificant raid had changed the order of battle from a night attack to a full assault at dawn. With it, the certainty of victory had vanished, too, and tomorrow promised another savage conflict. Modran’s anger seethed at every delay.
Regrouping his men took far longer than he expected. Fueling his rage, none of Modran’s supposedly fearless commanders, so loud and boastful when the march started from Zanbil, had offered to lead the attack. Finally Lord Modran and General Martiya had decided the marching order for the morning’s battle.
Every one of his subcommanders knew tomorrow’s fight would be brutal and bloody. They’d come close to breaking Eskkar’s line in the last encounter, but this one promised to be even more vicious.
Although the Akkadians had suffered heavy losses of their own, the Elamite soldiers recognized the truth – Eskkar’s soldiers were not going to flee in terror, not going to retreat, not going to give ground. They had shown
their enemies that they were willing to die on their feet and fighting to the last to defend the Pass.
No such beliefs supported Modran’s soldiers. They fought because their leaders ordered them to. Thoughts of quick conquests and easy lootings in the lush countryside of the Land Between the Rivers had vanished. Without that lure, and confined within the Dellen Pass, the old bitterness between the disparate groups that comprised the army returned.
No matter who won tomorrow’s battle, thousands of Elamites were going to die. No soldier wanted to be one of those dead, in order to allow others to win the war.
Both Modran and Martiya recognized the signs. The men would have to be driven into combat. To support the morning attack, and make sure his men didn’t waver, Modran’s Immortals, two thousand men, were divided into two groups.
The largest, fifteen hundred strong, would attack in a column and try to break through Eskkar’s right flank, much the same plan as the discarded night attack. The remaining five hundred would be spread out behind the rest of the assault force, ostensibly to act as the reserve, but with orders to kill any soldier who failed to press the attack or tried to retreat.
After receiving their orders, the gloomy subcommanders headed off to their own tents and their own preparations. Modran breathed a long sigh of relief. He expected to lose half his remaining men in the coming battle, possibly more. Such a thought, unthinkable only ten days ago, now meant little. He had to win. After squandering so many men, a furious King Shirudukh would strip him of his rank and wealth the moment the news reached Sushan that Akkad remained undefeated.
Suddenly Modran felt the ground beneath his feet tremble. At first he thought it was an earth shaker, a fearful prospect here inside the Dellen Pass, where cliffs could topple onto the trail and flatten hundreds of men in an instant. But the shaking went on, and he soon recognized the sound of hoofbeats. Before he had time to react, the soldiers outside his tent erupted into shouts. Horses were galloping through the camp, neighing and rolling their eyes.
One animal raced past Modran, and he saw an arrow protruding from its rump. No doubt some fool of a soldier had mistaken a horse for an Akkadian.
Some of his men tried to catch one or two of the horses, but most of the soldiers just scattered, eager to get out of the way of the half-crazed animals. Confusion swept through the camp. Men who had just turned in for the night, hoping to get a brief respite before the battle, shouted that they were under attack, that the steppes barbarians had stampeded the horses. Other voices blamed the men in the rear guard, or even some of Jedidia’s troops, forced to join Modran’s army and fight under his command.
Modran’s tent lay a quarter of a mile behind the front of the Elamite line. His cavalry’s horses, divided into ten herds, stretched nearly two miles from Modran’s quarters, in the opposite direction. From the sheer number of horses, he realized that something had spooked several herds, causing the frightened beasts to race through the entire Elamite camp.
Many of the winded horses now trotted into the peaceful and empty space between the two armies. Whatever had happened at the army’s rear to spook the animals, the stampede had finally slowed, then stopped.
The Elamite soldiers closest to the Akkadians had panicked as well, thinking their foes had launched a second night attack. A babble of voices rose into the night, with everyone speaking at once and each man knowing as little as his companions.
For the second time that night, Modran shouted for Martiya and for his other commanders. This time, it took even longer for them to reassemble. Modran, his face white with rage, ordered his leaders to get their men under control, and find out what had stampeded the horses.
Midnight had passed before a weary Martiya dismounted at Modran’s tent. “It was a barbarian raid.” Martiya shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, but one of my men recognized their war cries, watched the way they rode. Somehow they got through the rear guard without being stopped, moved half way through the horse camps until they got to the middle of the herds, then stampeded our horses.”
Modran felt his jaw drop. “Barbarians! Here? Why would they ride into the Pass, just to stampede our horses?”
“My Lord, they stampeded the horses in both directions.” Martiya kept his voice calm and his words soothing. He knew Modran’s patience had vanished. “Once they got the horses moving to the west, they turned around and raced back toward the east and Zanbil, driving a large herd ahead of them.”
“How many horses . . . how many barbarians were there?”
“Not that many, maybe fifty or sixty,” Martiya said. “But they drove off more than two thousand horses. And the rear guard is a shambles, full of injured and dead men trampled underfoot. Horses are wandering around and through every camp. Some of our supplies were destroyed as well, not to mention the hundreds of injured or dead horses.”
Modran recalled how difficult it had been to find and pay for each and every one of those animals. Now many were gone, stolen by barbarians. The loss of the siege workers meant nothing, not now. “Can we get the stolen horses back?”
Martiya scratched his chin. “It’s almost seventy miles to the mouth of the Pass, and I don’t think even barbarians can control that many horses that far. Probably half will drop out and turn aside into the rocks. But at least ten or twelve hundred will be gone for good. My cavalry commander is getting his men organized and mounted. He can have three hundred men on their trail at daylight.”
“The barbarians ride at night! Why can’t your men do the same?”
“These barbarians have stolen almost two thousand horses, My Lord.” Martiya kept his tone respectful, though he, too, wanted to vent his frustration. “ If they lose a hundred of them riding in the dark, they won’t even notice.”
The more Modran thought about it, the less he liked it. By daybreak, the barbarians would have covered plenty of distance, at least ten or fifteen miles. Without leading extra horses themselves, Martiya’s men were not going to catch the raiders, not tomorrow.
Modran made up his mind. “No. Let them go. But post a strong guard at our rear, in case they decide to launch another raid.”
“That’s not what worries me,” Martiya said. “If the barbarians entered the Pass, that must mean Zanbil is gone, overrun, its supplies taken or destroyed. I don’t think we’ll be getting any help from there.”
Speechless for a moment, Modran stared at his general. The impact of Martiya’s words took a few moments to absorb. “Eskkar! Could he have done this? Turned the barbarians against us?”
“They say he was once one of them. He may have paid them to raid Zanbil and disrupt our supply line. It would explain why none of your messengers to Zanbil have returned.”
“Then we’ve no food coming,” Modran said. “We need those supplies now more than ever.”
Martiya took a deep breath. “If we want to eat and drink anything tomorrow, we’re going to have to take food from the Akkadians.”
Modran found himself clutching at the hilt of his sword, still belted around his waist. “What should we do about tomorrow’s attack?”
“Our soldiers are uneasy over the idea of barbarians behind them. They’re worried we’ll be attacked again. Many of them want to turn back.”
“Damn the cowards!” Modran’s bellow of rage echoed off the cliff. “A handful of men dead and some horses stolen by barbarian scum, and our men are frightened to death? Put a few of the weaklings to the sword. That should silence the rest. Tell the men the horses mean nothing, that we won’t need them once we’ve crushed the Akkadians.”
Modran’s anger and frustration threatened to rise to the surface. He took a deep breath, and tried to regain control of his emotions. “Martiya, tell the men that there’s no food in Zanbil. Tell them that as soon as we defeat these accursed Akkadians, every man will have his pay tripled for the rest of the war. That should put some courage in their backbones.”
Martiya glanced up at the moon. More than half the night had passed. “Perha
ps it might be better, My Lord, to wait another day before attacking Eskkar’s lines? That would give the men time to get some rest and recover their will to fight.”
“The longer we wait, the stronger Eskkar becomes. Even now, our men are beginning to doubt that we can win. Some are saying foreign gods protect the Akkadians, and that Eskkar has never been defeated, cannot be defeated. The more time our soldiers have to dwell on such thoughts, the weaker we become. We attack at first light as planned. And remind them that any man who falters will be killed on the spot. The Immortals will break Eskkar’s battle line.”
Martiya saw that Modran’s mind was made up. “Yes, My Lord.” Martiya turned and strode off into the night. But deep within his heart, doubt about tomorrow’s battle had already taken hold.
Lord Modran got little sleep the rest of the night. He and Martiya found themselves forced to answer a host of questions. The stampede had disrupted not only the rhythm of the camp, but the very position of the men. The cavalry, most to be held in reserve for the final effort, still had not collected enough mounts for the three thousand man reserve. Every commander and even subcommanders sought guidance and clarification of the simplest orders.
When he did finally lie down, alone in his tent, Modran found he could do little more than toss and turn. Eskkar and his puny force had to be defeated, destroyed. Had to. Not since Modran’s youth had he fought in a battle to the death. Tomorrow’s fight had to be won, or Modran faced death as surely as if Eskkar shoved a sword into his stomach.
When Modran did slip into an uneasy sleep, dark dreams made him toss and turn. But soon enough, his servant woke him.
“It’s time, My Lord. Dawn approaches.”
Rubbing his eyes, Modran pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll come.” He laced on his sandals and armor, then belted the sword around his waist. Other than that, he’d laid down fully dressed.