by Sam Barone
Thutmose-sin recognized the dust-covered warrior. Unegen, one of Bekka’s leader of twenty. Thutmose-sin made it his business to know as many of his commanders and leaders of twenty as possible. This one had already been marked down as one who might be destined for more responsibility.
A slave ran forward, carrying a water skin, and handed it to Unegen. By the time he handed it back, Unegen had gulped down half a skin of water and poured the rest over his face and chest. Like his horse, sweat and dirt covered most of his body.
Thutmose-sin felt his peaceful evening slipping away. No one rode a valuable horse as hard as Unegen had unless he carried important news. And such news seldom boded well.
“Great Chief,” Unegen began, “I am . . .”
“I know who you are.” Thutmose-sin voice remained calm. After all the years of fighting with other steppe clans, dirt eaters, and trouble makers within his own clan, not much remained that could rattle the battle-hardened leader of the Alur Meriki. “Did Bekka send you?”
“Yes, Sarum. He ordered me to bring you this news. We were riding to the west and we encountered eleven dirt eaters on horseback. They turned back when they saw us, and we followed. They rode hard, and by the time we caught up with them, the eleven had turned into a hundred, all of them carrying bows. They moved toward us, and we gave ground. Bekka ordered me to report to you, and to say that he thought the dirt eaters were heading for the stream.”
Strange riders of any kind in these empty foothills likely meant trouble. “These dirt eaters, they showed no fear at encountering our warriors?”
“No, Sarum. They moved with purpose and with great speed. They rode . . .”
“Hold your words, Unegen. I want to summon the clan leaders. We might as well all hear your news at the same time.”
Thutmose-sin turned to his guards. “Find Altanar and Bar’rack. Tell them to come at once.” By now those two clan leaders had returned to their wagons somewhere in the caravan. The only other clan chief, Urgo, had camped a hundred paces away. Thutmose-sin would fetch Urgo himself. Three more clan leaders were out scouting and raiding with their men to the south and southwest, picking up slaves, livestock, or anything else of value to the Clan.
Unegen, Urgo and Thutmose-sin already sat on the mostly bare ground just beside the Sarum’s wagon when Bar’rack and Altanar arrived. The five men formed a close circle, their feet almost touching. Chioti, Thutmose-sin’s first wife, made sure that each man had a cup of water at his hand before bowing low and leaving them to their business. She would make a circuit of the wagon, to make sure that no one loitered close enough to hear what the men said, or disturbed the gathering.
More than a little nervous at being the center of such a gathering, Unegen repeated what he had told Thutmose-sin. “These dirt eaters showed no fear of us, and they rode their horses well.” He reconsidered his words. “I mean, they rode well enough for dirt eaters. And they carried bows. Not the long bows used from the city’s walls, but ones such as we use.”
Thutmose-sin smiled. No warrior would ever admit that a dirt eater could ride as well as the clumsiest member of the Alur Meriki.
“And Bekka believed these riders were heading for the stream?”
“Yes, Sarum. Where else could they be going?”
Only a young warrior in his first council meeting would dare to point out something to his Sarum.
“If they rode hard,” Altanar said, “they might have reached it by now.”
A year older than Thutmose-sin, Altanar led his own clan with both wisdom and strength. He had taken an arrow in his shoulder fighting at Orak’s walls and nearly died. Since that battle, Altanar had stood beside Thutmose-sin and, as much as any friend could, helped him rule the Great Clan.
“These riders,” Thutmose-sin picked at a clump of the sparse grass before him, “they must be from Akkad.”
“Who else would have so many horsemen?” Bar’rack’s words carried conviction. “Akkad has grown bold if they would challenge us in these hills, so far from their walls.”
Bar’rack, the youngest of the clan leaders, had led the Antelope Clan for the last six years. Twelve years ago, Bar’rack’s brother had been slain by the outcast Eskkar and his soldiers just before the siege of the village began.
Bar’rack had sworn the Shan Kar, the blood oath to kill the slayer of his kin. He, too, had taken an arrow in his arm at the siege of Orak. Since then he nursed a deep hatred of Eskkar and all dirt eaters.
“They cannot hold the stream with a handful of riders, especially if they are not carrying the long bows.” Altanar, like the other clan leaders, retained a healthy respect for the skill of the Akkadian archers. “Our warriors will sweep them aside, if Bekka and his men have not already done so.”
“Perhaps they intend to ride into the mountains,” Bar’rack said. “They might know trails through the foothills. Wherever they go, we’ll hunt them down.”
“There are no trails through the hills for so many men, no paths that go anywhere,” Urgo said, joining the discussion for the first time. “Besides, they know we would track them down and kill them within days.”
Every eye went to the oldest man in the circle. Urgo, another cousin of Thutmose-sin, carried nearly ten more seasons than his leader. Many considered him the wisest of all the warriors, and his advice helped govern the Clan.
Urgo also planned and mapped out the routes chosen by the Alur Meriki in their migrations, making sure they traveled efficiently and that the Clan always journeyed over routes with plenty of forage and water. His sharp wits could recall better than any of his fellow warriors every trail, path, stream, and river that the Clan had traversed in the last thirty years.
Last year, Urgo’s horse had slipped on some rocks, throwing its master. The fall broke one of Urgo’s legs. He also hurt his back. The injuries had almost killed him, and now pain accompanied Urgo’s every move, forcing him to stay close to his wagon. He could only ride a horse with difficulty, and for brief periods.
“What do you think, Chief Urgo?” Thutmose-sin used Urgo’s full title, to make sure the others listened to his words.
“The outcast Eskkar still rules in Akkad, and he is no fool. He would not waste horses or men so far to the north without some purpose. If he has decided to come forth from his walls and challenge us, the best place for such a challenge would be the stream. If he has enough men to hold it against us, even for a few days, many of our horses, herds, and women and children will die.”
All of them understood the need for water. The large number of horses and livestock, as well as the people of the Alur Meriki, depended on reaching the stream within the next few days.
“How can he challenge us with only a hundred or so fighters?” Bar’rack shook his head. “We’ve seen no sign of men or horses from the south. Our riders would have warned us if such a force approached.”
“He would not challenge us with so few,” Urgo agreed. “If he plans to do so, then he will bring many more men than a hundred.”
Thutmose-sin turned to Unegen, sitting in silence between Altanar and Urgo. “What direction did these riders come from?”
“They came from the west, riding along the base of the foothills. We were hunting, and did not expect to see an armed party approaching from that direction. The land there is almost empty of game, and there is not enough water and grass to sustain even a small herd of horses.”
“If Eskkar amassed a large force of horsemen far to the west,” Urgo said, “and he was cunning enough to know when and by what route our caravan travelled, he could move his soldiers toward us without being seen by our scouts.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Altanar said. “We should send more warriors to the stream.”
Urgo shook his head. “It may be too late for such a move. Our water stocks are already low, and the caravan will be out of water in two days, three at most. We expected to be at the stream by then. If we find the Akkadians there, and cannot drive them away from the water, we w
ill lose many animals.”
He glanced around the circle, taking his time before speaking. “I think we should turn the caravan around. If we push hard, it is only four days back to the last watering place, perhaps less. And much of the traveling is downhill. If it turns out there is no danger, we will have lost but a few days.”
Only a man with Chief Urgo’s wisdom and experience could speak about turning back in the face of a few dirt eaters. Anyone else would have been branded a coward for uttering such despicable words.
Thutmose-sin considered Urgo’s suggestion. The caravan had turned back before in the face of some unexpected obstacle, but not for many years, and never because of a threat from mere dirt eaters.
“Many will die if we turn back,” Altanar said. “We have no water to spare.”
The Alur Meriki women’s duties included laying in stocks of water to supply each wagon with enough to reach the next watering hole. And they had done so. But no wagon wanted to burden itself with extra water weight when there was no need.
The women knew when the caravan expected to reach the stream. Most would have stored a little extra for their families, but not enough for the horses or herd animals. Hundreds, perhaps many more, would die of thirst. No one had considered the possibility that they might be prevented from reaching the water.
“We have time yet before we make such a decision,” Thutmose-sin spoke quickly before an argument started. “Besides, by now, Bekka may have dealt with the problem.”
He turned toward Unegen. “Return to your clan chief. Tell Chief Bekka to search out the route to the west, and see if there are any more dirt eaters approaching. When you have learned what you can, return here.” He gazed at each of the other clan leaders. “Is there anything else to say?”
No one answered. The silence, of course, only meant that no one wanted to challenge Thutmose-sin’s decision, not necessarily that they approved of it. He stood, ending the meeting. “Meanwhile, Altanar and Bar’rack will gather our forces and move toward the stream, just in case they are needed.”
The others rose with their Sarum, bowed, and departed. Only Urgo, climbing slowly to his feet, lingered behind.
Thutmose-sin met his gaze. “You are troubled by this, old friend?”
“Yes, Cousin. These dirt eaters, Akkadians as they now call themselves, have grown strong. Twice before we have fought against them, and both times we’ve taken heavy losses. During these years, their numbers have grown, and now they deem themselves rulers of this land.”
Urgo did not have to add ‘as we once did.’ The burden of those defeats weighed heavily on the leader of the Alur Meriki. Thutmose-sin had an even more personal reason to hate Eskkar and the dirt eaters of Akkad – the whorl-shaped scar on Thutmose-sin’s forehead had come from the pommel of Eskkar’s sword.
Thutmose-sin had been within a single sword stroke of killing the outcast leader of Akkad’s forces. Instead, Thutmose-sin’s sword had shattered on his foe’s blade, and Eskkar recovered enough to strike back, hard enough to render Thutmose-sin unconscious.
“They do not rule these lands yet,” Thutmose-sin replied.
“Still, there is no denying their power and fighting skills any longer.” Urgo shook his head in dismay at the idea. “The traitor Eskkar is no fool, to send a hundred armed and mounted fighters to their death. Even he cannot afford to waste so many men. I still say you should turn the caravan around while you deal with this threat.”
“And if the purpose of these strangers is to split our warriors away from the wagons, then what?” Thutmose-sin shook his head. “We might be risking more if we turn back.”
“Perhaps it is as you say.”
Urgo did not sound convinced. Thutmose-sin clasped his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “A handful of warriors should not make our people turn in fear, old friend.” He smiled at his cousin. “Tomorrow we will know more about what lies ahead. Then we will decide.”
Urgo’s stared into the eyes of his sarum. “Let us hope the decision is not already made for us.”
7
Hathor slid down from his horse, patted the animal’s neck, and stepped into the stream. The clear water, fresh from the mountains, chilled his feet, and he stood in it only long enough to quench his thirst, scooping handful after handful to his mouth. Around him, all the men and horses gulped the cold water, cleansing their dry mouths, tossing it over their faces and chests, and filling their bellies. Some in their exuberance splashed water on one another. The refreshing water tasted even sweeter after driving the barbarians out of their path.
The horses attended to, Hathor’s riders guided their animals away from the fast flowing water. They had to drink slowly, to ensure that they did not swallow too much too fast. The men would bring their mounts back later for a second chance to satisfy their thirst.
Lifting his gaze, Hathor studied the barbarians who had retreated reluctantly before him. Just over half a mile away another hill rose up to the east. The enemy fighters had ridden up the slope that ridged the sky. From there, they stared down at the Akkadians. A few still brandished their bows or lances, while other expressed their anger by shouting what must be curses in his direction. If what Eskkar said were true, these fighters hated to retreat, especially after a challenge by those they called dirt eaters.
They could shake their fists and wave their weapons as much as they wanted. All that mattered was that Hathor’s men had the stream, and if anyone wanted a drink of water, they would pay for it with their blood.
The brief encounter between the two forces had taken only moments. The flight of arrows launched by the barbarians had wounded two horses, and Hathor doubted the shafts of his own riders had done any better, especially shooting uphill, always a difficult shot.
His men might bask in the glow of their small victory, but Hathor needed to hold this position until Eskkar and the rest of the Akkadians arrived. Handing his horse over to one of his men, Hathor paced the length of the stream. From its origin in the northern cliff wall, the Khenmet flowed in a nearly straight line for almost four hundred paces before it disappeared into another maze of impenetrable rocks and steep, gray crags.
He knew the stream travelled underground for more than two miles before it emerged from a cleft in the rocks as a waterfall, its clear waters then plunging several hundred paces to a rock-filled canyon below. From there the water flowed south, slicing its way through more cliffs and crags, and still inaccessible to a horse or wagon.
And while a man might risk his neck and clamber down the canyon’s walls to slack his thirst, by the time he regained the land above, he’d be as thirsty as when he started.
Even worse for the barbarians, the caravan of wagons and livestock would have to be left behind, as the terrain to the south was far too rough. If the Alur Meriki did not cross the stream here, they would be forced to travel nine or ten miles over treacherous cliffs and rocky ground to the south before the stream reemerged and gave them a place to access the water.
But those ten miles would take several days to traverse, and leave them no better off than they were now. They would face another four or five days of rough travel just to get back to the trail, leaving them still short of water for the rest of their descent from the mountains. No, the Alur Meriki would water their herds and ford here, or turn back toward the east and retrace their path.
Hathor let his eyes sweep the terrain. He’d been here before with Eskkar, but that was more than a year ago, when Eskkar first hatched the idea of an ambush. With a handful of riders, they spent almost twenty days exploring the pass and hills that marked the likely Alur Meriki migration trail, until they found this place. Hathor remembered how Eskkar’s eyes had widened in satisfaction at the find.
“A good place to give battle,” Eskkar had said. They remained at the Khenmet most of a day studying the land before moving on to the east. Only when they had discovered all the possible watering places within four or five days ride did a satisfied Eskkar and his men turn their horse
s’ heads toward Akkad.
As soon as he and Hathor returned, they met with Ismenne the Map Maker. From their descriptions, she sketched out the all the land from Aratta to the Khenmet, laying out the routes and the Alur Meriki migration path. Once completed, the planning for this expedition had begun.
Hathor took another look at the stream, less than forty paces wide. The water splashed noisily from a cleft between two large rock formations, both tall and formidable. While not particularly wide or deep – Hathor guessed that he could throw a stone from one bank to the other – it gave the Akkadians another advantage besides a place to quench their thirst. But for a horse charging through the chilly waters, the current would slow both horse and rider, and make them an easy target for his archers.
Draelin, still leading his horse, strode over to stand by his commander. “Where do you want the men?”
Hathor turned away from studying the stream to gaze at the north rock wall rising above him. “I want the men closest to the cliffs. Have them form a defensive line starting from there.”
“We don’t have enough men to hold the length of the stream.”
“I know, but if they overrun us, we can keep our backs to the cliff, and our archers can control the crossing.”
It wasn’t much of a defensive plan, but it would have to do. “Picket the horses in the little hollow in the cliff,” Hathor ordered. “That should give most of them some protection from the barbarian arrows.”
“We’re going to fight on foot?” Draelin sounded dubious at the idea.
“Oh, yes, at least until Eskkar gets here.” Hathor lifted his gaze once more toward the enemy hilltop. “If the barbarians arrive in force, they’ll overwhelm us if we try to match them on horseback.”
“I’ll settle the men in,” Draelin said, his eyes already searching the ground for the best possible fighting position.