Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  Chinua led the warriors almost due west, and they covered the ground at the deceptively easy canter that made the miles pass swiftly beneath the horses’ hooves. The tall green grass brushed the bellies of the horses as they swept along, much like a boat racing through the waters of the Tigris. Scattered groves of trees, mostly poplars and a few white oaks, broke the monotony.

  Sargon, like everyone else, carried a small sack of grain to help his horse keep up its strength, as well as a second pouch of dried meat and fruit prepared by the women. In addition to his personal supplies, Sargon and Timmu struggled under the weight of their other burdens. Between them they carried three cooking pots and several sacks of supplies, to be shared among the warriors.

  It was, Sargon decided, like riding a fully loaded pack horse and about as pleasant. The other two boys, Makko and Rutba, considered themselves far superior to the younger Timmu and the outsider Sargon. Both ignored Sargon and Timmu as much as possible, unless some opportunity arose to give them orders.

  Makko and Rutba, both about Sargon’s age, boasted they would be admitted into the ranks of the warriors soon after Chinua’s expedition returned to the Ur Nammu camp. Naturally they treated Sargon and Timmu as if they were children, and expected them to do as much of the menial work as possible.

  Nevertheless, Sargon had no choice, and by now he knew better than to complain or sulk. If there were one thing warriors despised more than a dirt eater, it was anyone who complained about his daily tasks.

  Everyone was expected to work hard. If some, through favor or fortune, received easier assignments, that was just the luck of the gods. All Sargon cared about was that by the time the trip ended, he would be so much closer to taking his leave of the Ur Nammu.

  Makko’s father, Skala, also rode with the party, as a leader of five and third in command under Chinua. To Sargon’s eyes, both father and son appeared much the same – dour, thickheaded, and built like an ox.

  “You’re right,” Timmu whispered, just as the afternoon sun began to settle toward the horizon. “Makko does look like an ox.”

  Sargon struggled to control his laughter. Makko rode only a few paces ahead, and in spite of his hard head, might have a good pair of ears. “Don’t let him hear you,” Sargon warned. “He’d snap you in two with one hand.”

  Timmu snorted. “Only if he could catch me.”

  With little to do during the ride, Sargon used the time to extend his knowledge of the Ur Nammu language. Timmu enjoyed pointing out anything new, and correcting Sargon’s mistakes. Since Timmu chatted almost non-stop, Sargon’s understanding of the language increased. If nothing else, the practice helped pass the time.

  “Only another ten or twelve days, and we’ll be back in camp,” Sargon said. Two cooking pots and an extra food sack grated annoyingly against his right leg as he guided his horse through a sandy stretch of ground. “At least the sacks will be a little lighter each day.”

  “By this time next year, I’ll be taking my last trip as a horse boy,” Timmu declared.

  “Not you! You’ll need another five or six seasons.” The two had become friends, and Sargon could laugh with the boy. “You’re too small to be a warrior.”

  The boy had just started his growth spurt, and by next summer, Sargon guessed Timmu would be almost as tall as his father.

  For Sargon and Timmu, the actual traveling was the easiest part of the day. They merely had to keep pace with the men. Neither was burdened with weapons, only their knives. Even Sargon’s wooden sword had been left behind. If Garal or one of the other warriors decided to help him with his training, they would have to make do with sticks or what they could find along the way.

  By sundown of the third day, Chinua’s party had covered more than a hundred miles since leaving the Ur Nammu camp. When their leader finally gave the command to halt for the night, Sargon noticed more than a few of the warriors stretching to ease aching muscles.

  Thanks to his incessant riding since his arrival, Sargon felt no discomfort. Still, he gave a sigh when they stopped riding. Now his real work would begin.

  Two warriors remained on their horses, riding out to give one last sweep of the immediate countryside for any game that might be around. Nothing had shown itself during the day’s ride, and if the men failed to bring anything down, the entire party would eat little of substance tonight. That meant the horse boys would have to make do with even less. Sargon expected to sleep this evening with his appetite unsatisfied.

  Tonight was a dry camp, so there would be no water to wash down the horses. After the men secured their mounts, Sargon and Timmu brushed them down with clumps of grass to loosen any dirt that had settled under the hair. Then they used a bit of rag to flick off any remaining dust and smooth down the animal’s coat. Last they used their fingers to straighten the horse’s mane, and eliminate any tangles.

  The animals stood quietly during the grooming, knowing they would be rewarded with a handful of grain.

  The horses tended to, Sargon and Timmu busied themselves setting up the camp. Makko and Rutba had gone off to search for firewood, though Sargon guessed the lazy pair would return with only a few sticks. Of course Timmu and Sargon would be expected to collect more to keep the cooking fires burning.

  Timmu had offered to gather some kindling, so Sargon knelt on the grass and started shoving stones together to make a fire ring. One of the warriors approached. “Where is Makko?”

  Glancing up, Sargon saw the dour-faced Skala, Makko’s father, standing over him. “He’s gathering firewood.”

  “Find him. Bring him to me.” Skala crossed his arms, as if expecting his son to rise up from the ground.

  Without a word, Sargon climbed to his feet. He knew it would do no good to protest, though of course Sargon would be berated if the campfire wasn’t started soon. He glanced around, not sure of what direction Makko had taken. Puzzled, Sargon turned again, trying to remember when he’d last seen Makko, when Skala’s fist landed on his cheek.

  Caught by surprise by the unexpected blow, Sargon crashed to the earth, his head glancing off one of the fire stones.

  “When I give you an order, you will obey it!” Skala reinforced his words with a kick that landed on Sargon’s thigh and pushed him over onto his stomach.

  Dazed, Sargon took a moment to clear his head. His face felt on fire. The fist had landed high on his cheekbone and sent a wave of pain through his head. Never in his life had Sargon been struck like that. Rage flooded through his body, driving the pain away. He twisted to his side and lurched to his feet, facing Skala. Without thinking, Sargon jerked his knife from his belt.

  At that moment, Timmu rushed into the space between them. He flung himself on Sargon, wrapping both arms around his friend. “Put down the knife! Put it down!”

  Over Timmu’s shoulder, Sargon saw that Skala had drawn his sword and taken a step forward.

  “Get out of my way.” A flush of hatred raced through Sargon’s body, rage that burned twice as hot as any feelings toward his father. Sword or not, Sargon intended to kill Skala or die in the attempt.

  “No! You must not do . . .”

  Sargon threw Timmu to the side. Skala had raised his sword and moved to attack, and the big warrior would just have likely killed Timmu or anyone else in his way. Sargon jumped back as Skala’s sword swung down. The blade flashed by Sargon’s face, the point diving almost into the grass.

  Before the angry warrior could regain control of his weapon, Sargon twisted aside and lashed out with the knife, the sharp tip grazing Skala’s forearm.

  The stroke, delivered off balance and at full extension, didn’t amount to much more than a deep scratch. As Skala whirled his blade around in a sweeping cut, Sargon leapt back, and the stroke just missed gutting Sargon’s stomach. On the balls of his feet, Sargon waited knife in hand for the next attack.

  “STOP! Do not move. Drop your weapons.” Chinua’s shout halted everyone, and every man in the camp turned toward Skala. “I’ll kill the next one that
moves.”

  The camp went silent. The warriors set aside whatever they were doing, and moved quickly to watch the conflict.

  Even Sargon, still blind with rage, heeded Chinua’s words. Timmu again rushed to Sargon’s side, and grasped his friend’s knife hand with both of his. “Put down the knife! You must put down the knife!”

  At the force of Timmu’s words, Sargon released the knife, letting it drop to the earth.

  Skala, his face flushed with anger, raised his blade. A horse boy had drawn a knife on him. Not only that, but had actually wounded him.

  “Do it, and I’ll kill you.”

  Chinua spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone, and Sargon realized they were not directed at him, but at Skala, whose rage now exceeded his own.

  Chinua stepped in front of Skala, their faces only a hand’s width apart. He said nothing, just stared into Skala’s face.

  However Skala’s rage still controlled him. Every man in the camp could guess his thoughts. He would kill Chinua first, then finish with the boy.

  A twanging sound made Sargon and the others glance to the side. Ten paces away, Garal had strung his bow and let the string snap back into position instead of easing it to the full tension. Before the bowstring ceased quivering, Garal nocked an arrow and drew the weapon, the arrowhead pointed at Skala. Chinua was kin, after all.

  Only Chinua hadn’t turned his head toward the sound. When he spoke, his words so soft that Sargon and the others could barely hear them. “Are you offering me a challenge, Skala? You know what that means.”

  A warrior was forbidden to challenge his leader while on the clan’s business. Anyone who did so without the gravest of reasons risked death or worse when the offending warrior returned and faced his Sarum.

  For a moment, Skala hesitated. Obviously he didn’t enjoy the thought of Garal’s arrow in his back, and every rider in the party knew all about Garal and his skill with the bow. Either that, or the thought of facing his commander man-to-man didn’t appeal to him.

  “No, Chinua. I meant no offense.” Skala stepped back and sheathed his sword. “This fool of a boy angered me by his disobedience.”

  Sargon’s anger flared up again. “That’s a lie!”

  Chinua held up his hand, but didn’t take his eyes away from Skala. “Keep silent, Sargon, or I’ll have you beaten.”

  Skala’s face flushed an even darker crimson, as he absorbed yet another insult to his honor. Now a horse boy called him a liar in front of his peers.

  “I demand the right to kill the dirt eater! My honor . . .”

  “Your honor will suffer greatly if you attempt to kill our guest. The Sarum’s guest, I would remind you. Not to mention that you would shame your honor to kill a mere horse boy. And did you forget Subutai’s order, not to use the words “dirt eater” in his presence?”

  Sargon hadn’t known that. The phrase was used by every warrior to refer to any and all farmers or villagers.

  “He cut my arm. He . . .”

  That was too much for Timmu. “You struck him from behind! I saw you! He did nothing to offend you.”

  Skala glared at Timmu, but decided now was not the time to challenge his commander’s son. He faced Chinua. “He was slow to obey my order. He failed to . . .”

  “And you knocked him to the ground,” Chinua interrupted. “He lost his wits, and you received a scratch on your arm. Or is it anything more than a scratch?”

  Every eye went to Skala’s arm. Blood still dripped down his wrist and hand. To Sargon, it looked a lot worse than a scratch.

  Skala gave it a quick glance and shrugged, his warrior’s pride refusing to acknowledge any discomfort or pain. “This . . . this is nothing.”

  “Good. Have the healer bind it up, and we will get back to our supper.”

  Garal stepped forward. He still held the bow in his left hand, the arrow nocked on the string. “Timmu, where is the wood for the fire?”

  “Makko and Rutba went to collect it.”

  Everyone glanced around. Makko and Rutba, alerted by the noise, had raced back to the camp. They slowed to a halt, and stood there, breathing hard, twenty paces away. Each carried a handful of twigs, barely enough to get the fire going, but not enough to sustain it.

  Chinua brushed past Skala and strode over to where they stood. “You went out for firewood as soon as we made camp, and this is all you’ve collected? A few sticks?” He didn’t wait for a reply. The heel of his hand lashed out, and caught Rutba, who happened to be closest, in the chest. The boy crashed to the ground, flat on his back.

  “Go out and find wood, both of you, enough to keep the fire burning all night. And you will do the same every night for the rest of the ride. Do you understand me? Or would you both prefer to walk back to camp?”

  That would be worse than any beating or punishment Chinua might impose. Makko, his head hanging low, glanced toward his father, who turned away. Makko dropped what wood he’d collected and dashed off into the gathering darkness, glad to be away from Chinua’s anger. Rutba scrambled to his feet and hurried after him.

  Sargon glimpsed the look on Skala’s face, after yet one more embarrassment to his honor.

  Chinua watched them go, then whirled around and faced Sargon and Timmu. “There will be no food for you two tonight, nor for Makko and Rutba. Perhaps a long ride tomorrow on an empty stomach will do all of you some good. And if any horse boy causes the least bit of trouble for the rest of the ride, I’ll have him whipped.”

  With that warning delivered, Chinua stalked off into the gathering darkness alone.

  Skala, his fists still clenched, strode to the other side of the camp. The tension released, the other warriors drifted away, some of them smiling. More than a few would take discreet pleasure in Skala’s discomfort. All of them would have much to talk about for the next day or two, though Sargon doubted any of them would do so within Skala’s hearing.

  Sargon’s knees went weak, and he slumped to the ground. His right hand ached from gripping the knife with all his strength, and his face throbbed as if a burning brand had landed on it. He knew he’d barely escaped death. Against Skala’s sword, Sargon’s knife would have been useless. A few more moments, and Skala would have cut him in half.

  Sargon had to take a deep breath before he could speak, and even then, the words were little more than a mumble. “Timmu, thank you for saving my life.”

  “Makko and his father are both pigs.” Timmu spat on the ground to show his disgust. “I’m glad you challenged him. My honor wouldn’t let him kill you.”

  “Boys have no honor.” Garal’s voice sounded as hard as the look in his eyes. He’d walked away with the others, but had returned, moving as silently as always. “You’ve both been told that often enough. You should have kept quiet.”

  “And let him kill Sargon?”

  Garal smiled, a quick flash of white in the growing darkness. “Well, not that silent. Now, let me look at your face.”

  Sargon lifted his hand to touch his cheek. He felt the wetness and flinched at the pain. The skin was broken.

  Garal peered at Sargon’s face. “Oh, yes, you’re going to look impressive in the morning. Nevertheless, you’re lucky Skala didn’t use all his strength. He could break even your hard head with his bare fist.”

  If Skala had been holding back, Sargon didn’t want to know what a real punch would have done. His eyes still had trouble focusing.

  “See to him, Timmu,” Garal said. “And both of you, try to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night.”

  Sargon nodded. It already hurt to talk. With Skala brooding at one end of the camp, and Chinua sitting by himself at the other, none of the warriors enjoyed much conversation as they chewed their strips of dried meat.

  The horse boys scurried about their tasks, but without any water or game to cook – the two hunters had returned empty handed – Sargon and Timmu had little to do. Timmu insisted that Sargon get some sleep as soon as possible.

  “You’ll need your rest
for tomorrow,” he warned. “We’ve another long ride ahead of us.”

  The ordeal over, Sargon felt too exhausted to argue. He rolled himself in his blanket and tried to sleep. His throbbing cheek kept him awake for a time, until exhaustion took him and he finally fell into a fitful slumber.

  22

  When Timmu shook him awake, the sun had yet to make a glow on the eastern horizon. For a moment Sargon wondered why his companion had wakened him so early, but a throb of pain soon reminded him. When he sat up, Sargon’s head seemed to spin on his shoulders. When he lifted his hand to touch his face, he found that the right side of his head had swollen to almost twice its size. The lightest touch sent a wave of pain through his cheek.

  “Oh, gods! My head . . .”

  Timmu handed him the water skin, and Sargon gulped down several mouthfuls. Even that simple act hurt so much he almost dropped the skin.

  “Keep quiet,” Timmu whispered, glancing toward the still sleeping warriors. “We don’t want to make any trouble.”

  The last thing Sargon wanted was more trouble. He struggled to his feet, but had to lean on Timmu’s shoulder to steady himself.

  “Come, Sargon. Let’s get the horses ready.”

  Each morning, a few warriors managed to find some reason to complain about the horse boys. Better to start on the day’s tasks early and avoid giving anyone an excuse. Sargon and Timmu groped their way to the rope corral and started preparing the halters. Each rider had his own halter, and it seemed to Sargon that each wanted his horse secured in a particular way.

  By now the first rays of dawn illuminated the sky. Glancing around, Sargon saw Rutba awake and moving about, along with an Ur Nammu warrior who had guarded the camp while the others slept.

  Timmu saw Sargon’s questioning glance. “Chinua ordered Makko and Rutba to help guard the camp for the next three days. Each of them was up half the night on watch.”