Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  “I have no home. I have no father or mother. You are both dead to me. And even if I survive this fate, I will never return to Akkad. Tell that to your wife.”

  Sargon rose and stalked away in the growing darkness, leaving his father standing there. Sargon would eat by himself tonight, though surrounded by the soldiers of Akkad. But in the morning, Eskkar and his men would be gone, and Sargon realized that, for the first time in his life, he would truly be alone.

  The next day, just after midmorning, Sargon stood by himself in the remains of the Akkadian camp. The soldiers had gathered their weapons and collected their horses. With nothing more to do, they waited impatiently for the command to depart, all of them no doubt eager to return to Akkad.

  Sargon paced back and forth, his hands limp at his sides. His father had spent most of the morning first making sure the men had readied themselves for the departure, then galloping to the Ur Nammu camp for one last talk with Subutai. Whether by chance or on purpose, Eskkar returned just as Draelin finished his final inspection. With the Akkadians standing by their horses, Eskkar had little time to spend with his son.

  Their parting was as impersonal as it was brief – neither had anything else to say to the other. Sargon took some small consolation that at least his father would never torment him again.

  “Mount your horse, Sargon, and ride with me to the camp.”

  His father’s voice sounded hoarse, probably from drinking too much wine. The talking and singing had continued long into the night, and this morning more than a few soldiers had sore heads. Sargon had fallen asleep before his father returned.

  Sargon’s horse awaited, and the soldier attending it gave him a friendly smile as he handed over the halter.

  “I’ve already given Chinua a sack containing your sword and knife.” Eskkar brusque words sounded cold and distant. “And there are some things your mother wanted you to have.”

  Sargon didn’t answer. He swung onto the horse and grudgingly guided his mount beside his father.

  “Is there anything you want to say? Any message for your mother?”

  “No.” Sargon hadn’t wanted to speak at all, but that single word escaped his lips. Let his parents suffer the tiniest pain for what they’d done to him.

  Swearing under his breath, Eskkar touched his heels to his horse, and cantered over to the Ur Nammu camp. The Ur Nammu warriors had already returned to their usual routine. A small crowd of mostly women and children stood around in scattered groups, to watch the men from Akkad depart.

  Sargon followed his father, though at a slower pace. He saw no need to rush. Eskkar reached the outskirts of the camp where Chinua stood, and then waited, his jaw clenched, until Sargon guided his horse to a stop facing them.

  “Sargon, try to remember what I’ve taught you. Chinua will take good care of you.” For a moment, Eskkar hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more.

  But his father had nothing else to add to his goodbye. Sargon watched as Eskkar wheeled his horse around and headed out. Draelin already had the Akkadians on the move, and his father put his horse to a fast canter to catch up. A few soldiers glanced back toward Sargon, but not his father.

  “Sargon, come walk with me,” Chinua said. “My sons will tend to your horse.”

  Sargon dismounted. Chinua took the horse’s halter and called out something in his own tongue. A young warrior, perhaps a few seasons older than Sargon, jogged over and accepted the horse.

  Chinua led the way back toward the circle of stones where they had spoken last night. A handful of young boys had already reclaimed the place, but Chinua ordered them away with a wave of his arm. He settled himself on the same slab Eskkar had taken yesterday.

  “Sit.”

  The single word carried the man’s authority in a way no command of Sargon’s father ever had. Sargon eased himself down facing the warrior and studied his new master.

  Chinua appeared far too young to be third in command over all these warriors. If he had indeed fought at the battle of Isin at sixteen, he could not even have reached twenty-five seasons.

  “Your father has told only myself and Subutai that you do not understand the warrior’s code, that you lack the honor and respect a son should display toward his mother and father. That secret will remain between us.”

  Chinua kept his eyes fixed on Sargon. “As far as my sons and the other warriors will know, you are here only to learn the ways of the warrior. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many young men your age already ride with our fighters. Some have even fought against our enemies. The others work the horses, help around the camp, and make themselves useful. They are also given the chance to improve their own skills with sword, bow, and lance. Even more important, they must train their horses and learn to ride well. After a year or two of accompanying our men, or whenever Subutai thinks they are ready, these young men are accepted as warriors. Only then can they take a wife, and take part in the life of the Clan.”

  No words seemed to be called for, so Sargon merely nodded.

  “Despite your age, you are not ready to ride with the warriors. No young man is permitted to ride with the warriors unless he is trained and prepared to fight in support of his kin and his clan. So, Sargon, first you must prove you can handle a horse. Then you must learn to use your weapons, the ones you choose to fight with, sword, lance, or bow. If a warrior cannot master the bow from horseback, he will pick the lance or sword as his main weapon.”

  “I can use both a sword and a bow,” Sargon said.

  “Perhaps.” Chinua rubbed his chin for a moment. “You know your father never mastered the use of the bow. He told me that he left the Clan when he was too young, before he could master that skill. Though I believe he would have been too tall. I’ve seen Eskkar fight. A sword fits his hand very well.”

  Sargon nodded, but said nothing.

  “But that matters not,” Chinua said. “Until you master these skills, you will practice with the younger boys. My son,” Chinua glanced toward the boy still holding Sargon’s horse, “will help you. Your training will be long and hard, but no different from what Ur Nammu young men receive from their fathers. All the same, I expect you will find much of it difficult.”

  Sargon found the young clan leader’s words reassuring. He’d expected the Ur Nammu to be little more than savages, but Chinua spoke with a calm wisdom that belied his years. But it really didn’t matter. Sargon intended to leave as soon as he could, and the sooner Chinua accepted that, the better.

  “I . . . I thank you for your effort, Chinua, but I do not believe in your ways, or even the ways of my father. In Akkad, we no longer have need of such skills. The days when a ruler needs to go into battle himself are past. Now men of wealth pay others to protect them and fight for them.”

  “And you have much wealth,” Chinua agreed. “Even so, Subutai and I have promised your father that we will try to teach you the code of the warrior. But I will not waste my time or even that of my son if you will not learn. So this is what I will do. The moon will be full,” he glanced up at the sky, “in two more days. When three more full moons have risen in the night sky, if you wish to leave the Ur Nammu camp, you may take your horse and depart. You may go wherever you wish, even return to Akkad if that is what you want. I do not think that would be wise, but there are many villages and cities in the Land Between the Two Rivers, and even more beyond.”

  For the first time, Sargon felt a glimmer of hope. All he had to do was wait for . . . less than ninety days, and he could simply ride away from all this. Chinua was right. There were other places, other cities.

  And sooner or later, Eskkar would die. He was old, after all, already in his middle forties. Many men were dead by that age, and with his father’s willingness to take risks, it might not be long before Sargon could return to Akkad. Then he could claim his birth right and accept the welcome of the city’s inhabitants.

  Chinua must have understood Sargon’s feelings by the expression
on his face. The warrior rose to his feet.

  “But until the third moon is full, you will work hard to master the skills of our fighters. If you do not, you will be punished. And if you try to leave before I give you permission, we will hunt you down. And then you will suffer the same penalty as the slaves and those who disobey our laws – your legs will be broken, and you will work as a slave for the rest of your life.”

  Sargon also stood, and his own determination hardened. “I will obey your orders, Chinua, until the third full moon. Then I will take my leave and depart.”

  “Good. The sooner a task is begun, the faster the time passes. My son, Garal, awaits us, and your horse is ready. He will take you for a ride. That is how all warriors begin their training.” Chinua turned and started back toward the camp.

  That didn’t sound too bad. Sargon already could ride as well or better than most of Akkad’s soldiers. His father had seen to that. Ninety days would pass soon enough, and he would be on his way back home, or to wherever he decided home would be. Lagash would be the closest large city, and it was far from Akkad. Yes, Lagash would be his home for as long as his father remained alive.

  17

  With a few rapid-spoken words that Sargon didn’t understand, Chinua gave Garal his instructions and left the two young men alone. Sargon turned to Garal, who didn’t look much older than Sargon. Only average in height, Garal’s black hair hung down to his shoulders. A small but jagged scar ran from his right eyebrow halfway to his ear.

  Nothing about Sargon’s teacher appeared impressive, except for the powerful muscles in his arms. Sargon would have recognized the mark of an archer even if Garal didn’t have a bow slung across his chest and a quiver of arrows on his hip. A sword, almost as long as the one Eskkar carried, jutted up over his right shoulder.

  Garal handed Sargon the halter to his horse. Then with an ease that impressed Sargon, Garal swung onto the back of a rangy, spotted stallion, and said something in the Ur Nammu language.

  Sargon shook his head in confusion. Garal repeated the word. “Teneg!” This time he pointed to the horse. “Teneg.”

  Obviously Garal did not speak the language of the Land Between the Rivers. Still, Sargon realized what he meant. Without attempting to match the ease of his instructor, he climbed up onto the back of his horse.

  “Utga!” Garal jabbed his finger toward Sargon. “Utga Oruulah!” This time he touched his heels to the horse, which broke into a canter.

  Swearing at this foolishness, Sargon followed after the young warrior, already fifty paces ahead. How could he learn anything, if Garal couldn’t even speak the language of Akkad? Sargon urged his horse along the same path. He had no idea where they were going. He had no water skin, no weapon of any kind, so they couldn’t be going far.

  But obviously Garal expected Sargon to ride. Gritting his teeth, Sargon kicked his horse into a faster pace, and gradually caught up with his new mentor, until he rode only a few strides behind.

  The horses swept through the thick grass that sighed beneath their hooves as the two young men rode west. To the north stretched the snow-capped peaks of the Zagros Mountains. To the south, the hilly plains extended into the distance, gradually leveling off into the woodlands and meadows where isolated herders tended their flocks.

  For the rest of the morning, Sargon matched his guide’s movements. Garal varied the pace, dropping from a canter to a walk, or sometimes a trot, depending on the ground. A few times he put his horse to a gallop, but not for any length of time. Mostly Garal rode, as Sargon soon learned, at the usual pace of the steppes warriors, cantering for a good length of time or until the horse began to tire, before falling back into a quick walk to let the animal catch its breath.

  As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, Sargon wondered where they were going. Already they’d traveled many miles from the Ur Nammu camp, moving at a much faster pace than what his father and the Akkadians usually set. Already Sargon’s leg muscles and backside protested the constant movement, though Garal seemed unaffected. Finally Sargon decided he’d ridden far enough. He eased his horse to a stop.

  Hearing the cessation of Sargon’s hoof beats, Garal also slowed, then halted. Twisting astride his mount, he waved his hand, Obviously urging Sargon to continue. “Utga!”

  Sargon shook his head. “No. My horse needs to rest.”

  Though the horse had not been ridden yesterday, Sargon had sensed the animal growing tired, while Garal’s mount still seemed as fresh as when they’d started out. His father always claimed that the steppes tribes bred the strongest horses, and Sargon decided that it must be true.

  Garal turned his stallion around and trotted back to Sargon. He approached on Sargon’s right, and halted his horse close enough for their knees to touch. With a quick movement, his right arm stiffened, catching Sargon in the chest with the flat of his hand. The powerful blow caught Sargon unprepared, and he tumbled from his mount. He landed heavily on his shoulder.

  “Utga.” Garal pointed to the horse, then swung his arm around until it pointed once again in the direction they had been traveling. “Utga.”

  Furious at himself for being caught by surprise, Sargon pushed himself to his feet. “No! No utga! Rest first.”

  With a supple movement Garal slid down from his horse. He strode three paces over to where Sargon stood. Again, Garal’s right arm snapped forward. Sargon raised his own hands to defend himself, but the blow landed so quick, and with such force, that for the second time Sargon tumbled backwards to the ground.

  “Utga.” Garal’s voice held no emotion.

  Sargon’s rage boiled over. No one had ever struck him like that. Even in his training with Akkad’s soldiers, he’d always had time to prepare himself. But Garal had struck twice without a flicker of expression in his eyes, both times catching Sargon off guard.

  Flushed with anger, Sargon leapt to his feet and swung his fist at Garal’s head. The warrior scarcely seemed to move, but he shifted slightly and the fist missed Garal’s head by a few finger widths. This time Garal smacked the palm of his hand against Sargon’s ear as he lunged forward.

  Already off balance, the blow sent Sargon tumbling to the ground for the third time. His ear felt as if someone pounded a drum inside his head. His anger and rage hadn’t diminished, but took longer to get to his feet, and this time he swayed as he drew himself up. The blow to his head had affected his balance, and he stood there a moment, trying to prepare himself.

  Garal pointed to Sargon’s horse. “Utga.”

  Sargon clenched his teeth. Garal had still not raised his voice or even looked angry. Nor had he raised his hand to the long sword that hung from his shoulder. Sargon no longer cared. The anger and frustration he’d endured for the last twenty days swept over him. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Sargon advanced slowly toward his nemesis.

  This time Sargon remembered his training, and even his father’s advice. Move carefully, don’t extend yourself or leave yourself off balance. If you’re stronger, close with your enemy and bring him down. If he’s more powerful, keep your distance and strike hard at his head or stomach.

  Garal didn’t seem particularly stronger. The two were of much the same size and build. But Sargon remembered the sudden force and power of the blow that had toppled him from his horse. All the same, he was determined to get in close with Garal no matter what, and strike at least one blow. Lowering his head, he feinted to his right, then shifted left, lashing out with his fist for Garal’s impassive face.

  The warrior twisted his body in reaction to Sargon’s feint, but when the real attack came, Garal simply ducked underneath the blow. Meeting no resistance and caught with his arm extended, Sargon lurched off balance again. Garal slid his right arm around Sargon’s neck and yanked hard. At the same time, he shoved his right hip into Sargon’s side.

  Sargon’s feet left the ground, and he slammed into the earth on his back, his whole body bouncing upon impact with the ground. The force of Garal’s maneuver was a
s powerful and quick as it was unexpected.

  This time, Sargon lay where he’d fallen. His head and neck hurt, and the breath had fled his body. His eyes refused to focus. When his thoughts cleared, Sargon pushed himself up on his elbows.

  Garal led Sargon’s mount back to where Sargon lay stretched out on the ground. He dropped the halter beside Sargon’s hand. “Utga.”

  Muttering an oath to Marduk that would have offended his mother, Sargon climbed unsteadily to his feet. It took him three tries to climb onto his horse. By the time he had control of his mount, Garal had swung onto his own steed and waited patiently.

  “I know, utga, utga,” Sargon muttered grimly. He gripped the mane with his left hand, and touched the halter to his mount’s neck. The animal moved forward.

  At least, Sargon decided, the horse had gotten a brief rest, which was more than its rider could say for the delay. Garal set the pace at a canter, no doubt to make it easier on Sargon’s still spinning head.

  It was well after midday before Garal raised his arm to signal a halt. Sargon felt exhausted. They had ridden most of the morning and part of the afternoon. Looking around, Sargon saw neither stream or well, nor any place where they might find something to eat.

  Garal tied his horse to a bush and took a long look at the entire horizon, no doubt searching for any possible sign of danger. Satisfied, he stretched down on the ground, lying in the shade of the same bush that tethered his animal.

  By now Sargon had no strength left to complain. He managed to fasten his horse to the bush, though he knew his father would never have approved of the sloppy tie. Between the effects of the long ride, and his occasional collisions with the earth, Sargon couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief as he dropped to the hard earth.

  The stress of the last few days caught up with him, and he slipped into a light sleep. He woke when Garal’s foot shoved into his leg. “Utga.” He pointed to the sun, which Sargon realized had moved to the west and started its descent. The hottest part of the day had passed, but plenty of daylight remained.