by Sam Barone
Eskkar had already made his own preparations, donning the bronze plates that formed a layer of protection across his chest and back. A bronze helmet lined with leather fitted snugly on his head, with flanges on each side that extended down to cover his temples, and reached nearly to the back of his neck. Eskkar had first worn the armor at the battle of Isin, more than eight years ago.
Since then, he always wore the helmet and chest plates when he practiced his swordsmanship. The extra weight and bulk tended to slow him down, and forced him to work his muscles harder on the exercise ground.
At least twice a year Trella made sure the bronze laces and shoulder straps fit perfectly. She understood that the more natural his movements, the more likely he would survive.
Tonight he felt grateful for the added protection. Unlike most of his men, who would be kneeling or crouched over, Eskkar would be standing upright and moving up and down the line. The small shield he’d brought with him from Aratta would help, but he couldn’t depend on that alone. Arrows would be plummeting from the darkness, and the more protection, the better.
Like most soldiers, Eskkar had his own personal fear. Some men envisioned a sword piercing their bellies, others trembled at the thought of a blade in their groin. For Eskkar, it was the vision of an arrow striking him in the eye, carrying his death on its point. He shrugged the gloomy image away, and concentrated on his duty.
Moving along the line, he reached Hathor’s position at the center of the Akkadian position. The Egyptian had no bow, but close to his hand five lances had been thrust into the ground. Hathor could fling the slim, bronze-tipped weapon with the best of his men, whether from horseback or standing on the ground. He, too, had a shield slung over his shoulder.
Eskkar resisted the urge to ask if Hathor’s men were ready. If any of them weren’t, Hathor would have told him. “Can you see anything?”
Another stupid question had slipped past Eskkar’s lips.
“Nothing, Captain. It’s as black as a demon’s cave out there.” Hathor keep his eyes on the far side of the stream. “If anyone’s out there, I hope the slingers find them.”
Eskkar grunted. “Damn all this night fighting.”
From the hill that overlooked the Alur Meriki camp, Bekka moved his men forward, creeping down the hill and hugging the darkest shadows. Over two hundred warriors followed behind him, each making their way as best they could while trying to make as little noise as possible. Progress remained slow, however, and he heard the muffled curses mixed with the faint clink of bronze weapons scraping over the rough ground.
The distance from the hill to the stream, only a short ride on horseback, took much longer than expected for men on foot. By the time Bekka reached the halfway point, he knew the first part of Thutmose-sin’s plan had already gone astray. He and his men would be late getting into position.
Every twenty paces, Bekka lifted his head and looked toward the Akkadian camp. At last he glimpsed the silvery gleam of the stream, now less than two hundred paces away. He thought he could hear the water rushing along. Dropping to his knees, he continued his slow march forward, his men following his example.
Despite the noise from the stream, Bekka decided the Akkadians would hear them coming long before his men got into position. Many of the extra fighters assigned to Bekka’s command consisted of old men and young boys. Both lacked the hard discipline of mature warriors. They would fight and die bravely enough, but it was too much to expect them to move silently.
Bekka swore under his breath at the too frequent noises behind him. To his ears, it sounded as loud as a mounted charge. Once again he wondered if the war gods had determined to claim his soul tonight. He cursed the Akkadians for drawing him and the Alur Meriki into this night fight.
Thoughts of death, something no warrior should acknowledge, had lurked in Bekka’s thoughts since Thutmose-sin had selected him to ride out and meet with Eskkar. The leader of the Alur Meriki had picked Bekka, one of the youngest chiefs, instead of the older and wiser leaders like Suijan or Praxa. Thutmose-sin hadn’t bothered to explain his choice, and his curt voice when he announced his decision had silenced any questions from the others.
Still, Bekka had seen the looks on the other chiefs’ faces. Bekka might have been at the stream longer than any of the chiefs, but that seemed like a weak explanation. Bar’rack’s selection was merely to test Eskkar’s willingness to be drawn into a fight.
Bekka pushed these thoughts from his mind. Whatever Thutmose-sin’s reason, it no longer mattered. Bekka’s duty demanded that he do his utmost in the attack, and he knew how slim the odds were that he would survive the coming encounter.
Though no one expected the dirt eaters to be sleeping at their posts, Bekka hoped to catch them at least slightly off guard, giving the attack a chance to succeed. Besides their bows and swords, most of Bekka’s force carried lances, more useful weapons at close range.
Fifty paces behind Bekka, Altanar would be guiding his own clan and half of Bekka’s, keeping three hundred warriors ready to support Bekka’s attack when it began. Altanar’s men would rise up as one and launch the first volley of arrows, arching them high to avoid striking Bekka’s men, to break the ranks of the dirt eaters. Or so Bekka had told his men. The thought of taking an arrow in the back from his own kind didn’t appeal to him.
He swore again at the slow progress. The plan that had seemed reasonable enough around the council fire now appeared fraught with danger. Bekka’s forces leading the attack were going to take heavy losses.
He just hoped they succeeded in their task. A warrior’s main duty was to fight, but Bekka hated the thought of dying for nothing. He and his men had to buy enough time for Thutmose-sin and the brunt of the Alur Meriki forces to launch their assault.
That meant that Bekka and Altanar had to keep fighting until their Sarum attacked. Bekka had no doubts about the fighting ability of these Akkadians. He’d seen them prepare to attack his warriors on the hill, and their cold efficiency in cutting down the riders in the steam. Win or lose tonight, Bekka knew it was unlikely he would survive.
As Markesh had instructed his slingers before they left camp, they settled down in a rough line about a hundred and fifty paces beyond the stream. Overhead, the faint sliver of the moon moved slowly across the night sky, its journey the only way to tell that most of the night had night already passed.
Dawn was not far off, and Markesh almost convinced himself that there would be no nighttime attack when he first heard the muted scrape of bronze on stone, or perhaps a bow dragging along the ground, faint sounds that grew ever louder, and more frequent.
He remained motionless, his eyes closed so that he could hear better. Soon the little telltale noises grew louder, and Markesh guessed that a sizeable enemy force was moving toward him. Despite their attempts to keep silent, the Alur Meriki could not muffle all the sounds of their approach.
At last Markesh opened his eyes and nodded in satisfaction. As he expected, the Alur Meriki might be fearsome warriors, but they lacked experience in this kind of fighting. The slingers, however, had prepared for an encounter like this, and they could move in near silence. While the rest of Eskkar’s army practiced by day, Markesh and the others like him spent half their time training at night.
The wait seemed endless, as Markesh heard the clumsy movements of the enemy approaching his position. Still, those sounds were not yet loud enough to be heard on the Akkadian side of the stream.
Lying flat on the earth, Markesh’s heart beat rapidly in his chest, and his mouth felt dry, though he had gulped plenty of water before setting out. He wasn’t afraid, not really, but excitement threatened to overwhelm him. Then he glimpsed a dark hump of a shadow moving toward him. Markesh wondered if the approaching enemy could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
He gripped his sling, and took a deep breath. A faint whirr sounded less than five paces to his left. One of his men had struck first. The smack of the bronze ball striking flesh wasn’t loud, but t
he gasp of pain from the warrior carried over the ground.
Markesh rose to his knees, and spun a missile toward the still-approaching shadow, now less than twenty paces away. A muffled oath marked the bullet’s strike, but Markesh had already ducked back down, and slipped another missile into the sling’s pouch.
All around him, Markesh heard the soft but continuous whirring that marked each throw of a sling. Not every cast scored a hit, but the throws continued, as the slingers hurled missile after missile at any and every approaching shadow. The effect on the warriors proved all that Markesh could expect.
Bekka heard the unseen missiles striking all around him. His men were under some kind of attack, but he could see no one. Only when a stone glanced off the earth, its impact kicking dirt in his face, did he understand what was happening. The Akkadians had moved their slingers, dismissed by the Alur Meriki warriors as a feeble fighting force, into the ground between the stream and Bekka’s position. And now these boys were striking at his warriors with deadly force and at close range.
Neither Thutmose-sin nor any of the other clan leaders had foreseen this. Bekka swore at his own stupidity. Of course the Akkadians would have scouts out in the land beyond the stream. Clenching his teeth, Bekka squirmed forward and hugged the ground.
He’d covered only a few more paces when he realized the plan had broken down. All surprise had vanished with the loud groans of Bekka’s wounded. This invisible enemy had to be swept aside, or they were going to stop the attack before it even reached the stream. Bekka lifted himself to one knee. “Warriors! Attack! Attack!”
He matched his own words. Leaping to his feet, he rushed toward his unseen attackers, sword in one hand, shield in the other. His warriors, as frustrated as their clan leader at this invisible and silent enemy, rose to their feet, let loose their war cries, and charged after their leader. In a moment, two hundred warriors raced through the darkness, as heedless of the slingers before them as of the treacherous ground underfoot.
The night erupted with the battle cries of the Alur Meriki. So far no arrows had come from the Akkadians. A few paces ahead, Bekka now glimpsed men fleeing toward the stream, and guessed these must be the slingers, running for the safety of their lines.
From behind, Bekka heard the first flight of Altanar’s arrows hissing their way toward the Akkadian position. Then Bekka’s own men began to fall, some crashing to the ground on either side, and he heard their curses as the sharp, bronze-tipped Akkadian arrows smacked into their flesh.
Something hummed past his ear, but Bekka kept moving. Twice he stumbled over the loose rocks the Akkadians had scattered on the bank, but both times he regained his footing. Then he reached the stream, and splashed into the chilly water.
The force of the current slowed him down, but Bekka lunged forward. Younger and more agile warriors surged ahead of him, kicking up plumes of cold water. Several fell on the slippery footing and crashed headlong into the water. Others went down and failed to rise. Death had taken them. Bekka heard the curses of the wounded join with the war cries of his men.
Breathing hard, he staggered onto the far side of the stream. By now Bekka could see the white blurs that marked the faces of the enemy. Already a few of his men flung themselves onto the Akkadians.
Then Bekka reached the enemy line. With a savage whirl, he knocked a spear aside and swung his blade with all his strength. A scream of pain burst into his face. More of his men surged out of the water and reached his side, cutting and hacking with their swords, others thrusting with their lances. Shouts of rage mixed with the cries of the wounded. He glimpsed men falling all around him, and wondered when the arrow or spear tip would rend his own flesh.
The Akkadian line sagged for a moment, but it held, and as fast as Bekka could swing his blade, another sword or spear thrust at his breast. Arrows shot at such close range ripped into his men, turning war cries into screams of pain. Twisting and dodging, he fought back. At the same time, he urged his men to break through the enemy’s line.
While the front lines of both forces fought grimly, archers on both sides kept pouring shafts into the ranks. Altanar’s warriors continued shooting their arrows as they charged forward. Bekka cursed as one of his fighters stumbled to the earth, an arrow in the back of his neck. The two forces had closed together, and Altanar’s bowmen had little to aim at.
Bekka might be struck from behind by his own kind, the worst way to die. He crouched down as he fought. The Akkadian archers launched shafts so fast that most of his men were killed or wounded even before they could bring their swords into play.
A spear burned along his left side, and Bekka stepped into the thrust and shoved the point of his blade into the spearman’s face. Then the crush of warriors pushed him forward and up against the front rank of the Akkadians. Bekka voiced his battle cry as he struggled to free his sword arm. They were going to break through the enemy’s line. He could feel it.
Another Akkadian spear thrust at his belly. He shoved it aside with his sword, but before he could react, the thick edge of a shield smashed into his forehead, knocking him backward. As Bekka struggled to regain his footing, a sword cut into his right arm, sending a wave of pain through his body and making his own weapon slip from his fingers.
A strong arm caught Bekka by the shoulder and dragged him back, away from the carnage of the line. Then Bekka’s feet felt the cold water of the stream. All around him warriors were falling back, away from the battle line and their Akkadian pursuers.
Bekka shook himself free and took a step back toward the Akkadians.
“It’s over,” Unegen shouted. “The attack has failed.”
Bekka glanced to his left and right. Unegen pulled him back into the water, and in a moment, they had joined the others, moving as fast as they could. Arrows still hissed into their midst, and Bekka waited for the one that would strike him down and take his life. Then they were across the stream, stumbling through the rocks and back into the dark shadows.
Bekka ran as hard as he could, gasping for breath. Then he flung himself behind a rise in the ground. Unegen, gulping air into his body, dropped to the ground beside him.
“We failed.” Bekka uttered the bitter words.
“At least we’re alive,” Unegen said.
“Yes, at least we’re alive,” Bekka answered. “For now.”
From the northern end of the warrior advance, Thutmose-sin watched the attack. For some reason, Bekka had started his assault early. The center force had also pushed its way forward and into the stream and launched their attack, and now the far side of the water roiled as men charged up the bank and flung themselves at the hated dirt eaters. He couldn’t see much, but the noise of the conflict had risen, the echoes bouncing off the cliffs and hills and adding to the din.
“We must attack now!” Bar’rack had moved to Thutmose-sin’s side. “The warriors have not broken the line.”
“It’s almost time. Get back to your men,” he hissed. “Await my signal.”
Thutmose-sin lifted himself from the ground, to get a better look at the fighting. The splashes in the stream had almost ceased, so he knew all of Bekka’s warriors had crossed the water. He glimpsed Akkadians moving behind their line. If the dirt eaters had shifted their fighters, it was indeed time to attack.
“Bar’rack! Warriors! Attack! Attack!”
He rose to his feet and raced toward the stream, voicing the age old battle cry of the Alur Meriki, the undulating wail that had never failed to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.
Up on the cliff face that overlooked the northern end of the stream, over twenty slingers clung to the steep sides, crouching in crevices or kneeling on tiny ledges scarcely wide enough for a foot hold. Luka, a leader of twenty, commanded these men. When the attack began at the far end of the stream, they’d moved from their hiding places into more open positions, finding their footing and seeking advantageous outcroppings where they could use their slings. They were more exposed, but they could fight mo
re efficiently.
Even before the attack, Luka had seen the ground, nearly thirty paces below, slowly shift. Looking down, he glimpsed movement everywhere, and what looked like a mass of shadows writhing across the rocky ground directly beneath him. It took a moment before he realized that a large number of Alur Meriki were creeping toward the stream.
When the attack began, he’d expected the barbarians below him to rise up and join their companions. However these warriors held back, either waiting for orders or for some other unknown reason. Whatever held them back, Luka stayed his own hand. He wanted clear targets for his precious bronze bullets, and didn’t want to waste a single one on what might be a shadow.
A voice from the shadows below shouted something in the barbarian tongue. Instantly the ground came alive, as a mass of men rose up and raced toward the stream. For a moment, Luka stared open-mouthed at the warriors, surprised at their numbers. How could so many men have gotten so close to the stream? He had paid too much attention to the attacks on the rest of the line.
“Now! Throw!” Luka’s words launched the first wave of stones. He spun his own weapon, hurling a bronze bullet into the moving mass of men below him. Before the sling had completed its revolution, he had a second missile in position. His left hand caught the still moving leather pouch, and the loose cord whipped up as he seated the stone. Another savage snap of his wrist and shoulder sent the second heavy pellet toward the barbarians below.
His few men could not hope to stem the flow, but by now arrows from the Akkadian ranks at the base of the cliff began shooting as well. The barbarians loosed their own shafts as they charged. Screams and curses floated up into the air from both sides of the attack. Luka ignored them all as he worked his sling.
Despite the battle rage, years of training kept the stones flying from his weapon. He soon realized the warriors below showed no interest in the handful of slingers atop the cliff, so Luka and his men stood upright and hurled their missiles with even greater force at the barbarians now splashing across the stream, shouting their unnerving war cries.