by Sam Barone
A man wielding a sword on a galloping horse cannot reach down far enough to strike at anyone lying on the ground. Barbarians carried lances to take care of that very problem. A trained rider could thrust the lance down to kill someone crouching or even lying prone, or hurl it at someone hugging the earth. These attackers carried neither lance nor bows, and some of Bantor’s men escaped without a scratch, though fewer than half struggled to their feet after the wave of riders smashed through them.
Bantor’s left shoulder burned in agony. A flying hoof had landed on him, and he wondered if his arm had been crushed. Ignoring the pain, he pushed himself to his feet, fumbling for his sword with his good hand.
“Form a line on me. Hurry, before they turn. Hurry!”
It took the attackers time to slow their horses and turn them around, expecting to ride back and deliver the killing blow. But the very speed of their charge had carried them another sixty or seventy paces past the shattered column. Before the first man could goad his horse back toward the Akkadians for a second attack, an arrow reached out and struck him in the chest, then another, and another.
“Hold,” Bantor shouted, as the survivors rushed together, lining up to face their attackers. “Draw… aim,” he waited until every man had drawn his shaft to his ear. “Loose!” As the bandits finished turning their horses and began their second charge, twenty arrows flew into their ranks.
Man and beast went down, both screaming in pain, and the second charge slowed. Less than three seconds later, another wave of arrows struck, and now some of the bandits had no thought but to get away from these deadly archers. The brave few men who kept riding toward the archers died, killed in the third wave, delivered at less than twenty paces, the shafts striking with enough force at that distance to stop even a horse in its tracks.
Horses and men flopped on the ground between the two forces, and the scattered dead and dying prevented a quick assault on the line of bowmen. Again Bantor directed the men’s fire, and another wave of arrows landed in the midst of a group trying to rally for another attack.
The attackers turned away, urging their horses to either side of the bowmen. Still within range, more horses and men died before the last of the bandits galloped to safety.
Bantor had seen broken men flee before, and guessed that these attackers wouldn’t be back, not for some time at least. He cursed at their backs, and flung his sword down into the earth, before sinking to his knees.
The whole fight had lasted but moments from beginning to end, but more than half of Bantor’s men had died, and his horses scattered over the countryside.
When Klexor reached his side, he found his leader wincing in pain and muttering one word over and over. “Ariamus!”
It took more than half a mile before Ariamus and his subcommanders managed to halt and regroup their men. Some of them had bolted for Akkad, others just raced in any direction, anxious to get away from the great arrows that buzzed like bees about their heads, striking down their companions. They circled about, trying to regroup, and Ariamus finally brought them together.
“Dismount,” he shouted. “Get down off those horses.”
Some refused, still frightened of the Akkadian bowmen. Most kept glancing back toward the place of ambush.
“They’ve no horses to follow us, you fools,” he bellowed. “What are you, a bunch of cowards to run from half your number? Nebibi, Rihat, bring the men together. Kill anyone who disobeys.”
Ariamus took a quick count of his riders, then slapped his hand upon his leg so hard his horse jumped in surprise. Ariamus had struck Bantor’s line with over sixty men, losing only one or two to arrows before they clashed, and Ariamus doubted if he’d lost a man as they rode through them. One more charge would have finished the job.
Now Ariamus counted less than forty men, and these looked so shaken up he doubted he could drive them back for another attack. He had lost an equal number of horses, but had more than recouped that loss, since almost all of Bantor’s horses had trotted after his own animals.
He stopped cursing at his men, dismounted, and squatted down on the ground to think things over, Nebibi and Rihat joining him. The rest of the men began to breathe a little easier, relaxing enough to lick their wounds or to tell their companions how bravely they had fought.
“We killed most of them,” Rihat offered. “And we’ve got almost all of their horses.”
“We’re not here to steal horses, you fool! You should…” Ariamus took a deep breath. It wouldn’t help to shout at his underling. And the man was right, they had killed most of Bantor’s men. “How many do you think were left alive?”
Rihat closed his eyes, the better to think about what he had seen.
“Twenty, maybe less. Not more than that.”
Ariamus had made the same guess. So he’d killed more than half of Bantor’s men. Perhaps some of the survivors had taken wounds. Damn Bantor. Ariamus had planned well, but he hadn’t expected to find himself in this situation, with only half a victory. What would he tell Korthac?
How could Ariamus explain that he’d left twenty Akkadians alive, when he had over twice that number still fit to fight?
“Exactly how many men did we lose, Rihat?”
Rihat shrugged, then got up and began a detailed count. It took some time before he came back and sat down on the grass. “We’ve forty-one men left, not counting us. Two are wounded, but not too badly. They can still ride.”
Only two men wounded, but more than twenty dead or missing. The numbers didn’t improve his mood. Those arrows had struck with such force, and at close range, the shafts struck hard enough to knock a man off his mount. He doubted any of his men who’d lost their horses or gotten wounded survived. The Akkadians’ arrows would have finished any survivors by now. Ariamus had lost about as many men as he had killed.
Not that he cared about his losses. With Korthac’s gold, they could always recruit more men.
More important, Bantor’s men had been soldiers, men trained to fight, and not so easy to replace. The horses couldn’t be easily restocked either.
Ariamus had to scour the western lands to get the mounts he had acquired.
On foot, the Akkadians wouldn’t be much of a threat. Ariamus remembered seeing Bantor go down under hooves, and didn’t recall seeing him get up. He recalled Bantor as a slow-witted fool anyway, and once again Ariamus wondered what Eskkar had seen in the man. Nevertheless, Eskkar’s stupidity was Ariamus’s good fortune.
He’d broken Bantor’s men, and left them on foot. Their bows would be useless against the walls of Akkad, and from those walls Korthac and his men would have their own bows. No, the situation looked less bleak the more he thought about it. At least, it would have to sound that way when he reported to Korthac. Ariamus had promised the man he would destroy all the Akkadians, not just half of them. He started thinking about what he would say to the new ruler of Akkad.
Even more important, Ariamus didn’t dare lose any more men. Without a sizable force reporting to him, Takany would overshadow him, and Ariamus, as leader of the horsemen, would lose whatever influence he had with Korthac. No, Ariamus decided, he’d already lost more men than he’d expected. Any more would be disastrous, even if he survived another attack himself.
“We must go back and finish them, Ariamus,” Nebibi interrupted Ariamus’s thoughts. “Korthac said we should…”
“Korthac isn’t here, Nebibi.” Ariamus cut him off. “Do you want to charge again against those bowmen?”
Nebibi’s face told him the answer. The Egyptian had plenty of courage, but they both knew what kind of men they led.
“We’ve no bows, Nebibi,” Ariamus began, lowering his voice and speaking now in the language of Egypt. “Even if we could drive this lot back for another attack… even if we succeed, we’ll lose too many of our own doing it. And remember, those archers will be targeting anyone urging the men to the attack.”
Nebibi opened his mouth, then closed it. The man might fear Korthac’s wra
th, but Nebibi had never seen arrows such as those, knocking horses to their knees.
“We’ve done what we set out to do, Nebibi. We’ve smashed Bantor’s force. The few that survived, that escaped, let’s say less than a dozen, are masterless men now, and helpless. Korthac will be pleased when he receives our report.”
Nebibi thought it over, no doubt trying to balance the danger of shad-ing the truth to Korthac compared to facing Bantor’s men again. At last he nodded uneasily. “Yes, Ariamus, only a few escaped us. Less than a dozen.
Korthac will be pleased.”
Ariamus smiled in satisfaction, then turned to Rihat. “Close up the men.”
Moments later, the whole force of bandits clustered around their commander.
“Men! We have won a great victory. We have broken our enemies, and left less than a dozen alive, most of them wounded, and without horses.
You have done well to fight so bravely.”
That raised a ragged cheer from his fighters, though some of them wondered how they could be cowards and fools one moment, then heroes the next.
“Now we return to Akkad. We will join up with Korthac’s men, and enjoy the city we took yesterday. The gold, the women, the horses, all the best of Akkad, will be ours.”
They cheered again, as they realized the fighting had ended. He saw the smiles on their faces, and knew their confidence had returned, that they once again considered themselves ferocious fighters. So long as they didn’t have to face those archers again.
That would be how he explained it to Korthac. Nebibi would support the story, or have to admit to his own failure. Besides, a few men on the loose, scattered over the countryside, wouldn’t matter anyway. They’d round them up in a few days.
“Back to Akkad,” Ariamus shouted, as he climbed on his horse, “back to Akkad and our gold!”
Another cheer, louder this time, went up. Nebibi looked at Ariamus, and nodded acquiescence, tight-lipped. Their report would satisfy Korthac, at least for now.
By the time the three trailing scouts reached the column, the fight had ended. Bantor, back on his feet, shook with rage, swearing torture and death to Ariamus. Half the men had never heard the name before.
“Take it easy, Bantor,” Klexor said, trying to calm his captain down.
“Let’s take a look at your shoulder.”
Alexar walked up, carrying a water skin. “They took us by surprise, but we drove them off and killed more of them than we lost.” He and the other two men acting as rear guard, had rushed forward as soon as they saw the ambush, but none of the attackers had passed within a hundred paces of him. Alexar managed to dismount and tie his horse to a bush.
He’d been one of the first to fire as the men rode past.
The ambush left everyone with a raging thirst, and they drank the remainder of their water with no thought to save any for later. They couldn’t carry it far on foot, anyway.
“Anyone know who they were?” Alexar tossed away the now-empty water skin. “They weren’t Alur Meriki, or we’d all be dead by now.”
“If they were Alur Meriki,” Klexor offered, “they would’ve finished us off with lances, the barbarian way, instead of riding through us like a bunch of old women who can’t control their horses.”
“Their leader was Ariamus, the former captain of the guard in Orak,”
Bantor said, staring at the ground. He tested his shoulder, moving his arm carefully; it didn’t hurt quite as much. Perhaps the bone hadn’t broken after all. Bantor took a deep breath, still struggling to control his emotions.
“The coward Ariamus ran off when he learned the barbarians were coming to Akkad, and that’s when Eskkar took command of the village.”
Bantor left unsaid that, a few months before his departure, Ariamus had sent Bantor out on a patrol, then summoned Annok-sur to his bed for an afternoon of pleasure. Annok-sur had never spoken about it, but Bantor had heard whispers of it from the men.
Short of stabbing Ariamus in the back, and so forfeiting his own life for killing his superior, Bantor could do nothing, so he’d swallowed his pride and pretended ignorance. He knew Annok-sur had not gone willingly, but to protect her husband and daughter.
Flexing his arm, Bantor couldn’t remember a time in the last few months when he wasn’t recovering from one wound or another.
“Well, whoever they were, they headed off toward Akkad,” Alexar replied, “so they must be sure of being able to enter the city.”
“They can’t enter Akkad, not that many of them, and not carrying weapons,” Bantor answered, trying to understand what had happened. No large force of armed men could get into Akkad, unless…
“Could they have taken the city?” Klexor asked, his mind going down the same path as his commander’s.
“They must have captured Akkad,” Bantor said. “They knew we were coming, and didn’t want us reaching the gates.”
“Forty or so bandits isn’t enough to take Akkad,” Klexor offered. “They must have more men inside the city as well.”
“So they ambush us just before we reach Akkad,” Alexar said, “before we learn what’s happened to the city.”
That made sense, Bantor decided. Take the city, then take the soldiers piecemeal. He wondered if Eskkar’s force to the north might be next, if they hadn’t already been crushed.
“Damn the demons below,” Bantor swore. “We can’t just walk up to the gates and ask what the hell is going on! These bandits may have had enough fighters to capture Akkad from within.”
“Well, what are we going to do?” Klexor sounded worried. “If this Ariamus has captured Akkad, he may come back with more men. We can’t just stay here.”
A good question, Bantor thought, and he didn’t know what to answer.
What would Eskkar do, he wondered. Eskkar always knew what to do on a battlefield. Bantor thought about that for a while.
“How many horses and men do we have?” he asked abruptly.
Alexar had already taken the count. “Counting us, we’ve twenty-five men, six of them wounded, and seven horses.” He glanced at the soldiers gathered around their leaders. The men looked alert, some tended to the wounded, while others salvaged what they could from their dead companions or the bandits. “We may get a few more horses if we’re lucky, but darkness is coming on…”
Bantor thought that over. He took longer to work things out than some of his men, but he’d survived plenty of fights. One thing he knew for certain. He didn’t have enough information to decide what to do. If he picked the wrong course of action, they might all be dead by noon tomorrow. So he would get information first. He looked up to find his men watching him, waiting for him to speak.
“Here’s what we’ll do. Alexar, take the four best horses, and one other rider. Start north for Bisitun at once. We’ve got to make sure Eskkar and Sisuthros know what is happening. Get far enough away from here before you rest for the night, then keep going as fast as you can, changing mounts as often as you can. Ride the horses until they drop, if you have to. You should be able to get to Bisitun in five or six days, maybe less, with two horses for each man. Tell Eskkar what’s happened, and that it was Ariamus who led the attackers. Make sure you remember that name. Ariamus. Take anything you need for the trip.”
He waited until Alexar nodded understanding, then Bantor turned to his other commander. “Klexor, put the wounded on the other three horses, and send them south, back the way we came. We passed some farmhouses a few miles back. Maybe they can hide there until they recover.”
“And the rest of us, where are we going?” Klexor asked.
Bantor shifted his shoulder, wincing at the pain, but he could move it.
He’d have to hope it mended itself in a few days. “We are going to take what we can carry and head north ourselves, as if we were heading for Bisitun as well. We’ll walk all night, and tomorrow morning. Then we’ll cut over to the river. If any follow us, they’ll think we’ve crossed over to the west bank.
We’ll see i
f we can find some boats to take us south, back to Akkad.”
“Back to Akkad!” Klexor questioned. “What can less than twenty do against the city?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry, we won’t be going into Akkad, just to the farms north of the city. Rebba’s farm, that’s where we’ll go. He has a jetty on the river, and plenty of room to hide twice as many men. He can tell us what the hell is going on.”
Bantor turned back to Alexar. “Tell Eskkar that’s where we’ll be, and to get word to us at Rebba’s farm. Get ready to move out.”
They all picked up their weapons, gathering up all the spare arrows they could carry. Alexar picked a young archer to ride with him, a man no taller than a boy, departed on the four strongest horses and started moving north at an easy canter. A few minutes later, the injured started south, walking their horses to ease the wounded. The rest of the men closed in around Bantor, waiting for the order to move out.
Klexor broke the silence. “Why didn’t this Ariamus come back to fi nish us off?” The others moved in closer, eager to hear their commander’s words.
“Because the coward knew we’d kill most of his men before they over-ran us.” Bantor pulled his sword from the earth, knocked the dirt off, and returned it to its sheath. He didn’t like admitting defeat, or that Ariamus had still enough men to finish the job. “But I know one thing. I’m going to kill him myself, if it’s the last thing I do. I’m going to rip his heart right out of his chest.”
No one said anything, and Bantor went on, talking as much to himself as his men. “We’ll have to wait, at least until Eskkar gets word about what’s happened. If we can join our force with his, we’ll have enough men to face Ariamus, and I can spread his guts in the sun.”
The men looked at each other. Bantor rarely spoke with such passion, but all could see that hatred and a desire for revenge possessed the man, just as they could hear it in his voice. They, too, wanted their revenge.
Ambushed like raw recruits, they’d seen their friends and fellow soldiers killed. Worse, their dead would have to lie unburied, while their comrades fled for their lives.