Empire Rising es-2

by Sam Barone

Since two of the Egyptians carried bows, Klexor decided to take no chances. He called out new orders, the Akkadian line compacted, and they dismounted a hundred paces from the Egyptians. Three of Klexor’s men gathered up the horses and held them fast, while the others started shooting.

  The Egyptians, tired from the day’s running and not used to the heavy bows, couldn’t find the range. One enemy bowman went down in the first volley. Another took up the fallen man’s weapon, but Klexor’s five archers poured volley after volley of arrows at them. Both enemy bowmen went down by the third volley. The next volley struck down two more. One Egyptian killed himself, falling on his sword rather than be captured. The last three, one of them wounded, charged at their attackers and died, the deadly shafts taking them down long before they could close the distance.

  Bantor and Naram-tanni ignored the fighting behind them. They kept moving, racing at full speed after the two horsemen, by now almost out of sight. The gap began to close. Bantor’s horses might not be as fresh as the ones Ariamus rode, but the best horseflesh always wound up in Akkad, and these mounts now proved their quality over the stolen farm animals. When the horse Bantor rode started to tire, he slowed to a walk and leaped onto the second animal without dismounting, and broke into a gallop, abandoning the tired horse to be recovered by Klexor’s men.

  The distance had closed to less than three hundred paces when one of the horses ahead of Bantor stumbled and went down. The rider, caught looking behind at his pursuers, landed hard. Bantor saw the man’s dark skin and galloped ahead. “Kill the Egyptian, Naram-tanni,” Bantor said as he swung wide around the dismounted man and galloped after Ariamus.

  Naram-tanni pulled his horse to a stop about a hundred paces away, nocked an arrow, and waited, watching his quarry. The Egyptian looked fit and hard, and Naram-tanni didn’t want to waste shafts trying to hit a dodging target. He decided to wait. Klexor and the rest of the soldiers would be arriving soon.

  The Egyptian drew his sword and stood there, waiting for Naram-tanni to advance. Moments passed, until he realized the horseman wasn’t attacking. Suddenly he burst into a run, coming straight toward the mounted archer.

  Before the Egyptian had covered half the distance between them, Naram-tanni turned his horse aside and cantered off, glancing back to make sure he stayed just ahead of the Egyptian.

  Exhausted by the chase, the Egyptian stopped and waited. Naram-tanni guided his horse back until another hundred paces separated them. He sat there, staring. Naram-tanni had plenty of time, and the Egyptian wasn’t going anywhere. The sound of hoofbeats floated over the grass, and Klexor and two other men rode into view, each of them leading a spare horse.

  “The other bandits are all dead,” Klexor said, when he reached Naram-tanni’s side. “Let’s take this one alive.”

  “I don’t think this one is going to throw down his sword,” Naram-tanni said.

  “Put a shaft into him,” Klexor ordered, readying his own bow. “That’ll change his mind.”

  Looking a little dubious, Naram-tanni dismounted. He handed the halter to Klexor, and started walking forward.

  The Egyptian, determined to sell his life, charged again, lifting his sword and shouting something incomprehensible.

  Naram-tanni waited until the man closed to within a dozen paces before shooting. His shaft flew at the man’s legs, but the Egyptian leapt aside, and the arrow hissed by. But before he could change his path again, a shaft from Klexor’s bow followed, this one reaching the charging man a moment before he could close the gap between him and Naram-tanni.

  Struck in the leg, the Egyptian went down. He struggled to stand, but his leg gave way. Before he could recover, Naram-tanni, sword in hand, closed in. With a savage overhand thrust, Naram-tanni knocked the Egyptian’s weapon from his hand.

  With Naram-tanni’s sword’s tip at his chest, the exhausted and wounded man yielded. Naram-tanni held the prisoner that way, until Klexor joined him.

  “What’s your name, Egyptian?” Klexor put his sword point at the man’s throat, as Naram-tanni sheathed his weapon, took a halter rope, and moved toward the prisoner. He pushed the Egyptian down, and began tying his hands in front of him.

  “I asked you for your name,” Klexor repeated, this time jabbing the sword tip into the man’s chest just enough to draw blood, and loosen his tongue.

  “Hathor, leader of thirty, in the service of Korthac.”

  “You speak our language well, Egyptian dog,” Klexor complimented him. “And you’ll get to see your Korthac soon enough.”

  “Korthac is alive? We thought…”

  “Oh, he’s alive. Lord Eskkar broke his nose, half-blinded him, and cracked his leg.” Klexor laughed when he saw that the man didn’t believe him. “By himself. They fought man to man in the upper room. Your Korthac didn’t fare too well in the encounter.”

  For the first time, Klexor saw defeat in the man’s face. By then, the rest of the men had reached them. “Pull that arrow out of his leg and bind it up. Then put him on a horse. Eskkar may want to talk to him. So make sure he stays alive.”

  Picking up his bow, Naram-tanni mounted his horse. “I’ll go after Bantor. He may need help.”

  Klexor grinned. “Wait for me.”

  Bantor rode steadily, carefully watching the ground before him. A misstep, a broken leg, and Ariamus might get away. The distance narrowed faster now, as Ariamus’s weary horse stumbled more and more often. Bantor saw Ariamus glancing behind every few paces.

  When the gap shrank to less than a hundred paces, Ariamus gave up.

  He slowed the tired horse to a stop and drew his sword. “Well, where’s Eskkar?” he called out. “Was he afraid to face me himself? Or did the Egyptian kill him?”

  At twenty paces, Bantor pulled up his horse and drew his own sword, noting the bloody bandage wrapped around Ariamus’s left arm. “Eskkar is well and sends his greetings. He asked me to bring you back alive, but I think I’d rather kill you myself.”

  “I’m here, Bantor, waiting for you. Or are you afraid, too? Even your wife wasn’t afraid. She got down on her knees fast enough, and begged for more.”

  “Your horse is finished, Ariamus. I’ll fight you on foot. If you win, you can take my horse before my men get here. Otherwise I’ll wait, and we’ll bring you down like any jackal, with arrows.”

  Ariamus looked around. He didn’t like the offer, but he had no choice.

  Bantor’s men couldn’t be far behind. He slid off the horse. In a fit of anger, Ariamus smacked the sweat-soaked animal with the flat of his blade, and the startled horse lumbered off a few steps before halting again, its weary legs splayed out, blowing air from its nose.

  Dropping his bow, Bantor dismounted. He tossed the halter rope to the ground and walked toward the former captain of the guard.

  “You’re an even bigger fool than Eskkar,” Ariamus said, baring his teeth in a wide grin. “There never was a day you could beat me with a sword.” With a shout of rage, Ariamus closed the distance, swinging the sword high in a feint, then sweeping the blade low toward Bantor’s legs.

  Bantor moved a step to the side, letting Ariamus’s blade pass within a handsbreadth, and countered with his own stroke.

  The clash of bronze rolled over the land, sending a flock of birds squawking into the sky. Ariamus fought with the desperation of a wounded animal trying to escape a trap, determined to get rid of his opponent; he knew the rest of Bantor’s men would be close behind. If Ariamus hadn’t taken a wound, he might have done better. But Bantor met every stroke and knew every trick. Like all the Akkadian subcommanders during the siege, he’d practiced against Eskkar and other top swordsmen for months.

  The minute he sensed Ariamus tiring, Bantor swung wide, leaving an opening for his opponent. But when the blade flashed at his stomach, Bantor slipped aside and hammered down, aiming not at his opponent’s body, but where the sword arm would be.

  In a gush of blood, the blade clove deep into the forearm bone. Ariamus screamed, and his wea
pon fell from his nerveless fingers. Bantor never stopped. Another stroke took Ariamus in the knee, staggering him to the ground. A hammer blow descended on the man’s collarbone, shattering that. Then a low thrust into his right side pierced his lung. Ariamus, blood gushing from his mouth, fell onto his back, eyes bulging, unable even to cry out in pain.

  Standing over his opponent, Bantor spat in his face. He put his own sword aside, and picked up Ariamus’s. “This is for Annok-sur. And for me.”

  Holding the hilt with both hands, Bantor raised the weapon up, then thrust it down with all his strength, shoving the point into the man’s groin, driving it right through his body and deep into the earth. That elicited a lingering scream that echoed over the empty countryside.

  Bantor let go of the sword and watched the former captain of the guard of the village of Orak bleed to death as he writhed in agony, clutching at his own blade with hands already streaked with blood.

  30

  Eskkar spent the first part of the morning making sure his compound stood ready for any further attack. When he felt certain that the house and Trella would be safe, he moved to the barracks, seeing to the wounded men recovering there, and making sure the soldiers had regained control of the weapons. Then he took a quick tour of the city, before finally returning to his courtyard. By then it was apparent the resistance had collapsed. Eskkar set up a command center to direct the soldiers and citizens clamoring for his attention.

  Everyone claimed an urgent need to see him, and this time Eskkar had no one available to sort out the trivial from the more urgent. Bantor had ridden out to hunt down Ariamus at midmorning, and only the gods knew when he would be back. Gatus arrived, and sought to help, but he still hadn’t fully recovered from his own wound. That left Alexar as the only senior man still standing. Eskkar promoted him to subcommander, and ordered him to take charge of the gates.

  The three of them spent the morning organizing the soldiers, issuing weapons to the nobles’ guards, establishing patrols, and directing the search for any remnants of Korthac’s force. Fortunately the stables and horses survived intact, and Alexar soon had mounted parties of men searching the countryside, looking for those who escaped over the wall. Finally things quieted down enough for Eskkar to slip away. An hour before noon, he left Gatus in charge and climbed the stairs to his quarters.

  Standing in the bedroom doorway, he saw Trella and Annok-sur lying side by side on the bed, both asleep. Trella looked pale from loss of blood.

  Korthac’s cut and the ordeal of childbirth had exhausted even her sturdy frame. Most of Trella’s servants had returned, including those driven off by Korthac. Already they had replaced the broken furniture and exchanged the bloody blankets for clean ones. The room looked almost the same as the day Eskkar rode north. Except for the cradle.

  He’d visited the bedroom several times before, just quick checks to reassure himself of Trella’s well-being, and to make sure she and Annok-sur had everything they needed. On the last visit, Trella took his hand. She tried to speak, but he knew she needed rest, so he simply squeezed her hand and told her to sleep.

  Now Eskkar looked into the bedroom and saw an unknown woman with a large bruise on her cheek sitting beside the cradle, rocking it gently, her eyes on the infant. She rose and came toward him, motioning him to follow her through the doorway.

  “Your wife needs her sleep, Lord Eskkar,” she whispered. “The babe needed to be fed, and his crying woke her. Now they both need their rest.”

  For the first time Eskkar noticed how quiet the house was. Even the soldiers in the courtyard kept their voices low out of concern for his wife.

  “You are…”

  “My name is Drusala. I was midwife to Lady Trella.” She stepped back inside, picked up the cradle, and returned, holding the cradle in both arms and turning it so he could see the child’s face. “This is your son. He was born last night, a few hours past midnight.”

  Eskkar stared in fascination at the tiny infant, his eyes shut and face still red from crying. Eskkar had scarcely had time to look at him since he’d carried the babe to Trella after the fight. This time he gazed not at a baby, but at his son, his heir that Trella had promised him months ago.

  “Have you decided on a name, lord?”

  Eskkar spoke without hesitation. “Sargon. His name is Sargon of Akkad.” Eskkar and Trella had chosen the name months ago, in fact the very day the Alur Meriki were driven off. Now he looked in wonderment at the heir who would bring the city together in a way that even Eskkar and Trella, both strangers to Akkad, never could. His son would become part of that future, would carry Eskkar’s line down through the ages.

  “The child… he seems so small.” Eskkar reached out and touched the infant’s fingers, amazed at their softness.

  “The babe… Sargon came earlier than we expected. That’s why he is so small. But he is healthy, and I expect he will grow as tall and strong as his father.”

  “Was the birth… difficult, Drusala? I mean, did Trella suffer much?”

  “The presence of Korthac made it… He complained about the noise.

  He threatened… he said that…”

  “He’ll make no more threats, Drusala,” Eskkar said. “Is there anything you need, anything at all?”

  “No, lord. I’ll stay and watch over your son. Lady Trella will need to feed Sargon again soon enough. We will have to find someone to help nurse the child. The early birth caught us unaware, and we didn’t have time to arrange a wet nurse. Right now it’s best to let Lady Trella sleep as much as she can.”

  The mention of Korthac’s name reminded Eskkar of his prisoner.

  “Keep my son safe, Drusala.” He reached out and gently touched the child’s cheek again. A strange feeling passed over him, as if the gods chose that moment to forge a bond between the child and the father. Eskkar found himself smiling. “Send word when Trella wakens.”

  He left the room, descending the stairs and crossing the courtyard to the smaller house. Three soldiers guarded the room that held Korthac.

  They stepped aside as Eskkar entered. He looked down at the figure lying on the floor. The sun didn’t provide much light in the low-ceilinged chamber, but he saw blood still covered the Egyptian’s face. They’d bound his hands behind him.

  Eskkar considered having the man dragged outside, but didn’t want another spectacle. “Bring a torch,” he commanded. He found a stool and moved it closer to Korthac, eying the man who’d nearly killed him. A soldier returned, carrying the torch, and handed it to Eskkar.

  “Leave us. And draw the curtain.”

  When they were alone, Eskkar lowered the torch and used its light to examine his prisoner’s face. Korthac glowered back at him, using his one good eye. Blood had crusted over the other, the one Eskkar had smashed during the fight. Korthac struggled to breathe, thanks to the broken nose.

  His lower lip was swollen and split, and he squinted up at the torch held just above his face.

  “You are Eskkar?”

  “Yes, Korthac. I’m the man whose wife you tried to steal.”

  “Eskkar has returned.” Korthac tried to laugh, but the sound turned into a painful fit of coughing, and it took a few moments before he could stop. “You fought well… for an ignorant barbarian. And you should have died on my blade. No man ever defeated me in battle. Only your slave saved your life.”

  The words came out slowly, each one spoken with care. Even through the man’s pain, the voice sounded melodious, with just the trace of an accent.

  “Perhaps,” Eskkar said, “but I remember you running into the bedroom, trying to put the door between us.”

  Korthac grimaced at the reminder. “You handled your long sword well enough. Did you never lose a fight, barbarian?”

  “Just once, that I recall,” Eskkar said, “but fortune favored me, and I survived.”

  “You should have died in Bisitun.” This time Korthac’s voice held a trace of bitterness that he couldn’t conceal.

  “Yes,
your assassins missed their chance there.”

  “So I see. You must tell me what happened. I was supposed to get word, even if they failed. Ariamus swore they would kill you, but.. you made it so easy for me. You divided your forces while you enjoyed your pleasures in the north. A child could have taken your city.”

  Eskkar felt a pang of anger at the truth of the remark. Everyone seemed to know about his dalliance in Bisitun. “Rebba told me much about you, Egyptian. Trella’s asleep now, but when she awakens, I’ll hear the rest.”

  The torch sputtered, and Eskkar moved it away from Korthac’s face.

  “Most of your men are dead or prisoners. Only Ariamus got away, with a handful of others, but Bantor will run them down soon enough. In a few days, the city will be cleansed of your memory.”

  “Akkad will be a great city someday. It was worth the gamble.”

  “If that were the only thing between us, I’d give you a quick death. But you terrorized Trella and threatened even my son. You’ll take the torture for that. Tomorrow will be your last day of life, Korthac. You’ll be weak from your wounds, and you’ll suffer greatly.”

  “You’ll get no satisfaction from torturing me.” Korthac struggled to keep his voice firm and his words even. “Your slave-wife and her whelp were mine. She knelt before me… begged for my mercy. I only regret that I didn’t kill her when I had the chance.”

  Eskkar reached out with his foot and gave Korthac’s broken leg a shove. The injured man couldn’t control the gasp of pain that wrenched from his mouth.

  “I think, Korthac, that you should have stayed in Egypt.”

  “You won’t rule here long, barbarian. You’re not wise enough, even with your slave woman whispering in your ear.”

  The words hung in the air, as if in prophecy, and Eskkar felt a chill pass over him. He took his time thinking about them. He knew that Korthac still fought, that he still searched for any way to inflict harm on his captor.

  That made him a worthy opponent, fighting to the last breath, seeking to give some worry to his enemy.