Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  From his place behind the archers, Eskkar heard the barbarian war cries, and saw the mass of Alur Meriki warriors charging toward the stream. He’d already dispatched some of the northernmost men to help out in the center and southern part of the defense line, and there was no time to get them back. Eskkar drew his sword as the first wave of barbarian warriors burst into the water, their churning feet sending splashes high into the air, almost as if asking the water to conceal their movements.

  At least he had no need to bellow orders. The archers and cavalry men loosed their arrows as fast as they could. Many launched ten or more arrows before the first wave of the enemy charged up from the stream and hurled themselves at the Akkadians.

  But the barbarians found more than archers waiting for them. Akkadian spearmen stood there. They had not formed the solid ranks they preferred. Eskkar hadn’t brought enough of them for that. But every fourth man in that part of the line carried a shield and a spear, and the sharp tips of their weapons glistened in the moonlight.

  None of the spearmen waited for the Alur Meriki to reach them. Nearly every spearman impaled a warrior with his first thrust, stepping forward with a long stride and using their bodies and extending their arms to ram home the long weapon, often brushing aside an enemy sword or lance.

  Some of Eskkar’s spearmen lost the use of their weapon with that first kill, as dying men and clinging flesh clamped themselves on the weapons. But the Akkadians, trained for that occurrence, too, and drew swords from their scabbards even as they took a step back and raised their shields up to their eyes.

  With their shoulders lowered behind the shield, the spearmen stood firm, hacking and jabbing at their enemy. Unlike the Alur Meriki warriors, who preferred to swing their swords overhead and in a downward arc, Gatus had trained the Akkadians to hold their swords low and thrust up, taking a step forward at the same time, and aiming for belly wounds.

  When the barbarians swung their swords, the spearmen took a step back, then moved forward and lunged again. That gave the spearmen another advantage, as they could execute two or more thrusting attacks for every overhead swing of the enemy warriors.

  Meanwhile, behind and between the Akkadian ranks, arrows shot at eye level, both from the longbows and the shorter cavalry weapons, wreaked deadly damage on the charging attackers.

  Eskkar glanced up and down the line. He glimpsed Hathor, his supply of lances expended, wading into the line, sword in hand. Mitrac had started with three quivers of arrows, and he still loosed his shafts, their powerful sting searching out the most ferocious barbarians, and probably killing a man with each arrow.

  Despite the Akkadians’ efforts, the northern portion of their line weakened under the ferocious onslaught, but Shappa arrived, returning from the southern end of the battle line. He brought fifty or so slingers with him. He’d collected Markesh’s men after they regrouped back on the Akkadian side of the stream, and now led them at a run to the northern end of the line. Unable to use their preferred weapons against such a crowded mass, the slingers carried their long knives in hand.

  Wherever the line of defenders appeared weak, Shappa shoved his men forward to reinforce those points. Young and fearless, they relied on their quickness and agility to avoid their stronger and larger opponents. While his men lacked the size and weight to battle a warrior face to face, they could slip in, strike low, duck under any enemy thrust, and dart back as they’d trained, taking a man down with a thrust to the thigh, stomach, or groin.

  The barbarian attack slowed, devastated by the hail of arrows at such close range, and the hail of stones that descended from the cliff. Meanwhile, the Akkadian line recovered and hardened. The spearmen were difficult to bring down, and they used their shields as effectively as their swords.

  Akkad! Kill! The Akkadian war cries grew louder and stronger, giving strength to Eskkar’s men.

  Even the Alur Meriki could not break such a defense. By now more than eight hundred archers and bowmen had each emptied at least a quiver of arrows into the barbarian horde. Their surge halted.

  Eskkar sensed the moment had come. “Spearmen! Attack! Drive them back!”

  He pushed his way through the archers and flung himself into the line. His long sword swung down, knocking aside a blade and striking deep into a warrior’s shoulder. His bronze helmet and chest plate turned aside an enemy’s sword thrust.

  Using his small shield as adroitly as any of his spearmen, Eskkar pressed forward, using his shoulder to knock another man back, and smashing the thick ball of bronze that formed his sword’s hilt into the face of another.

  All the Akkadians were shouting now, matching the barbarian war cries in volume, as they moved forward and forced the warriors back. The defenders sensed their opponent’s wavering.

  The Alur Meriki had done their best, but the relentless storm of arrows, accompanied by stones flung at them from above, had killed or wounded too many of Thutmose-sin’s warriors to enable the attackers to overwhelm Eskkar’s line. Not enough warriors had survived the crossing to break the Akkadian ranks.

  Pushed back a few steps by the Akkadians’ advance, it took only moments before the retreat turned into a rout, as the warriors turned and fled back through the water. Only a few arrows hissed through the air during their retreat. Many of the archers had dropped their bows and taken up swords to contain the assault, while others had expended all their shafts. Splashes roiled the waters of the stream, masking the violent sounds of men cursing and shouting in their rage.

  Then the splashes died away. Gradually the water resumed its normal gurgle, as the Alur Meriki disappeared into the darkness, heading back toward their own hill.

  Now the cries of the wounded ascended into the night, the awful sound as injured men on both sides writhed in pain, most of them knowing that death would soon take them. Ignoring their cries, Eskkar halted at the edge of the stream, breathing hard. Some of his men had splashed into the water. He raised his voice and bellowed.

  “Everyone! Back to the line! Back to the line!”

  Holding his shield before him, Eskkar backed away from the stream, glancing frequently to make sure of his footing. Bodies and loose stones, both now covered in blood, might still send a man tumbling to the ground.

  His commanders and leaders of ten and twenty repeated his order. Soon all the Akkadian survivors were back in their original position. Every man gulped air as fast as he could, chests rising and falling.

  Swords and spears now seemed almost too heavy to hold, and more than a few were dragged along the ground as the suddenly exhausted men stumbled back. Some realized for the first time that they had taken wounds. Others, still caught up in the battle fever, continued to hurl curses at their enemies.

  Many Alur Meriki dead remained in the stream, their bodies snagged on rocks or jammed fast against other bodies. One by one, those floated clear of whatever obstruction held them, and drifted away. That, too, lasted only a few moments, before most of the dead were swept downstream, and water ran clear once again.

  Only a handful of bodies, those caught on the rocks, still bled into the cold water. The ground between the Akkadian line and the stream remained littered with the dead and dying, along with a collection of swords, lances, bows, and other enemy weapons.

  “I don’t think they’ll be back tonight.” Hathor, breathing heavily, had reached Eskkar’s side.

  Eskkar shook the battle fury from his thoughts. “The rest of the line? Are they . . .”

  “We held them all the way,” Hathor said. “These must have been the pick of the attackers. None of the others fought as hard or lasted as long as these did.”

  Eskkar could still hear the sounds of the warriors retreating. At least they’d stopped shooting arrows toward the Akkadian side of the stream. “I’ll see to the men.”

  Eskkar moved down the line, speaking to his soldiers, talking with Alexar and the other commanders along the way. Before he reached the southernmost part of the line, Eskkar had spoken with almost ever
y leader of ten and twenty he encountered, asking them how they’d fought, and making sure they aided their wounded. He knew his men would remember his concern.

  Many men had received a wound, either an arrow or the thrust or slash of a sword. Some of these lay on the ground, tended to by their companions. The piteous cries of the wounded, the aftermath of every battle, fanned the anger of the survivors.

  The dead, most with arrows still protruding from their bodies, were dragged to the rear. They would have to wait until sunrise before they could receive whatever burial rites his men could offer.

  By the time Eskkar had moved up and down the line twice, the sky in the east had begun to lighten. Dawn approached, and very likely another attack. Nevertheless, the water yet glistened in the faint moonlight, and it still belonged to the Akkadians.

  10

  The sun had risen over the hills without Thutmose-sin noticing. He sat on a small boulder, his hands hanging at his sides, staring at the ground between his feet. The stunned survivors of the attack surrounded him, but he neither saw nor heard them. For the first time in his life, Thutmose-sin was alone.

  More than twenty years ago, Thutmose-sin had stood on the bank of the Tigris and swore to his ancestors that he would never allow the dirt eaters to grow strong enough to threaten the Alur Meriki and their way of life. Now that day had arrived, and he had failed in his duty. Nothing he could do, nothing he could say, would diminish the defeat that he and his people had endured.

  His gods had abandoned him, giving their favor to an outcast. They had not even permitted Thutmose-sin an honorable death in battle, and with at least a shred of honor. Instead, he would have to endure the unendurable.

  The moans of the injured penetrated the dark cloud of his thoughts. He lifted his head, and tried to comprehend the disaster that had overtaken his people. What he saw wrenched at his heart. Truly, he wished his body lay dead on the battleground.

  Those wounded but still able to walk cursed their cuts and slashes as they waited their turn with the healers, who bandaged as many as they could. Those who had survived the battle uninjured or with only minor wounds sat scattered all around, heads down in shame and humiliation. Once again, Alur Meriki fighters had suffered defeat at the hands of the hated dirt eaters, led by a renegade from their own clan.

  Thutmose-sin’s fighters had spearheaded the final assault and taken the worst of the casualties. He awaited the final tally of dead and wounded, but knew the numbers would tell a grim story. A healer already had tended to his Sarum’s wounds, binding up a deep cut on his left arm from an Akkadian spear, and a sword thrust that had grazed his ribs.

  Neither injury had prevented him from fighting, until what must have been a stone from a sling struck his head, dropping him to his knees, and stunning him.

  By the time he’d shaken the weakness from his head, the attack had already failed, and Thutmose-sin’s personal guards, the few who survived, dragged him to safety back across the stream and into the sheltering darkness.

  He glanced up as a horse approached. Urgo slid down from his mount, taking his time. Thutmose-sin saw that the old warrior had taken an arrow in the leg, adding to his afflictions, when Urgo led the reserves into the conflict in a futile attempt to turn the tide. Bar’rack and Bekka, on foot, followed behind him. Bloody bandages decorated both men. The two chiefs had fought hard, but failed to break the Akkadian line.

  “I’ve taken the count of the dead and wounded.” Urgo dropped to the earth beside his Sarum and closed his eyes for a moment of comfort.

  “How many?” Not that Thutmose-sin cared any longer. This defeat ended his rule over the Clan. It would have been kinder for his guards to have left him behind, to be hacked to death by the dirt eaters along with the other wounded unable to crawl away.

  “Three hundred and forty dead,” Urgo said. “At least that number wounded. Many of them will die, even if they reach the wagons. Altanar is dead, as is Narindar and Praxa. Suijan is badly wounded, and can fight no more today.”

  Four clan leaders dead or unable to fight. More than one warrior in three dead or wounded. For the first time, Thutmose-sin heard their moans rising up all around him. From their youngest days, warriors were taught not to show pain, but some wounds were too severe for even the bravest to resist.

  “We will have to attack again,” Bar’rack said, breaking the custom of not speaking until the eldest clan leader had finished. “At least this time we’ll ride into battle like warriors.”

  The first criticism of his leadership, Thutmose-sin noted. Of course, if the night attack had succeeded, no one would have dared say anything. “How many dirt eaters did we kill?”

  “It’s hard to say.” Urgo stretched out his leg and grimaced. “But not many. Perhaps a hundred, maybe more. Their archers cut down many of our men before they crossed the stream.”

  Six dead or wounded warriors for every dirt eater. Thutmose-sin had attacked at night to prevent just such a disaster, and it had still befallen him. In his anger, Bar’rack spoke the truth. They would have done as well to attack at dawn on horseback. At least they would have died with more honor than crawling on their bellies.

  “Who gave the order to retreat?” Thutmose-sin lifted his brow, expecting Urgo to answer.

  “I did.” Bekka’s voice sounded firm and unapologetic. “I’ve lost nearly half my men. The dirt eaters weren’t going to break, and I saw no sense in the rest of us dying on their spears.”

  “You should have kept fighting until you broke their ranks!” Bar’rack’s accusing voice revealed his anger.

  Bekka eyed his detractor. On another day, Bar’rack’s criticism might have resulted in a challenge. But not today.

  “No, Bekka was right to stop the slaughter.” Thutmose-sin spoke quickly to avoid the quarrel. “Eskkar spoke the truth. Even if we broke their ranks, it would have meant the end of the Alur Meriki.”

  “When will we be ready to attack again?” Bar’rack raised his voice, his rage and humiliation clear to all. “We need the water more than ever. Soon we will lose control of the horses.”

  The animals had scented water for two days now, but been held from reaching the stream. Many had not tasted more than a mouthful of water for longer than that. Another day, and no amount of rope would hold them from breaking free and rushing to the stream.

  “An attack in daylight will mean the end of the Alur Meriki,” Urgo said. “The Akkadians will break our charge, and then our women and wagons will be at their mercy. Another day or two without water, and our surviving warriors will have no strength to resist them.”

  “Are we to do nothing then?” His hands clenched into fists at his side, Bar’rack could barely control his anger and frustration. “Will we just sit here until thirst kills us in front of our women?”

  “What do you suggest, Urgo?” Bekka sat down beside the old warrior.

  Thutmose-sin understood the implication. Bekka, too, had signaled his lack of confidence in his Sarum.

  “We need to find a way to deal with Eskkar.” Urgo kept his voice calm. “He was one of us once. He will not want to see the women and children die a slow death from lack of water.”

  “No! We must attack now.” Bar’rack’s contorted face flushed red. “Either we achieve victory or we die in battle.”

  “Silence!” Thutmose-sin climbed to his feet. “You must not fight among yourselves. Whatever you decide to do, you must be in agreement.”

  “And what do you suggest?” Urgo spoke before Bar’rack could again vent his rage.

  “I will make one last attempt to talk to Eskkar,” Thutmose-sin answered, “to challenge him to a fight to the death. If he refuses to fight, then I will ride against his forces and kill as many as I can before I die.”

  His words stunned them into silence.

  “No matter what happens, I am no longer your Sarum. Choose another as soon as I am gone. Urgo, you will take command of my clansmen.”

  Thutmose-sin called for his horse. The last of h
is guards led the big gray over, and Thutmose-sin swung onto the animal’s back, ignoring the pain in his side. He settled his sword into place across his back, snatched a lance from one of the warriors, and rode off.

  No one, not even his guards, followed him. Most didn’t even bother to lift their heads as he passed through their midst.

  “We must have a new Sarum.” Bekka didn’t even wait until Thutmose-sin had disappeared over the hill.

  “I will take command of the Alur Meriki.” Bar’rack voice rose up loud enough to be heard by those near them. “If this is to be our last fight, then we must die with honor.”

  “No. I chose Urgo as our new Sarum.” Bekka’s words carried a force that caught both Urgo and Bar’rack by surprise. “Now is not the time for another slaughter of the Alur Meriki. Urgo will find another way.”

  “Urgo is too old . . .”

  “Urgo is wise.” Bekka rose to his feet. “The Alur Meriki need wisdom now if we are to survive. Unlike you, I am not so eager to see my women and children dead in their wagons.” He turned to the old warrior. “Will you accept the name of Sarum?”

  “Yes.” Urgo offered his hand to Bekka, who helped lift him upright. “And Bekka will be my war chief.”

  Bar’rack’s eyes flashed from one to the other, his teeth bared in disgust. “So the coward and the old fool join together. No warrior will follow a fool into battle.”

  “Summon your clan, Bekka,” Urgo ordered. “Tell every warrior the news. The sooner they know who leads them, the better.”

  Bekka nodded. He understood what must happen. Bar’rack had to be prevented from ordering the warriors to follow him in another attack.

  With an oath, Bar’rack spun on his heel and walked away. Bekka went in the opposite direction, both men seeking out his horse, and leaving Urgo behind. Once mounted, Bekka rode through the dispirited warriors, shouting the news and ordering his men to pass the word.