Battle For Empire (The Eskkar Saga)

by Sam Barone

  Sargon grunted at that small satisfaction. With only half a night’s sleep, they would both be in a foul mood all day, not that he or anyone else cared. “Maybe they’ll stay out of our way.”

  “Or maybe they’ll make more trouble for us.” Timmu glanced around, as if expecting someone to berate them.

  Sargon realized he’d brought grief down on both their heads. Timmu had stood by his friend, and now the boy might be in as much trouble as Sargon.

  A shout from Chinua awakened the rest of the camp. Most warriors began each day with a muttered prayer to the horse gods, to bring good fortune on the day’s ride. Then they took a piss, swigged from their water skins, and came looking for their horse.

  By then, Timmu and Sargon, with help from Rutba and Makko, had the animals ready. The older boys, too, wanted no more trouble with Chinua. A single word from him could keep them from achieving the status of warriors for another season.

  The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon before Chinua swung himself up on his horse and led the way. No one, it seemed to Sargon, appeared particularly eager for the coming day’s ride.

  Varying the pace of the horses, Chinua kept them moving until midmorning, when they reached a small stream that flowed across their path. Every rider refilled his water skin and washed down his horse before settling down on the hardy grass for a few moments rest. The horses, their halters fastened to the bushes, grazed contentedly on the hardy grass.

  Garal strode back to where Sargon and Timmu sat. “Your head looks like a melon.”

  Sargon grimaced. “It feels even bigger.” It still hurt to move his lips. Gingerly he touched his cheek.

  “Let me see.” Garal leaned in to examine the swelling. His fingers probed around the broken skin. “It looks worse than it is. If you can talk, at least your jaw is not broken, and your cheekbone seems intact. By tomorrow most of the pain should be gone. The swelling will take another few days to subside. If I had any wine, I’d give some to you.”

  The mention of wine brought another surprise. Sargon realized that no wine had crossed his lips in over a month. That fact would have pleased his mother, who claimed that wine dulled the senses and weakened a man’s wits. Of course a real man could deal with any quantity of wine.

  “Keep him out of trouble, Timmu.” Garal clasped Sargon’s shoulder and returned to where he’d tethered his horse.

  Sargon would have replied but his mouth hurt too much to talk.

  The rest period over, the warriors resumed their ride. By nightfall, when they made another dry camp, Sargon felt much better. His jaw moved without too much pain, and though a few of his teeth felt loose to his tongue, none had fallen out, and the taste of blood had left his mouth.

  Another day passed without incident, as they rode westward. Chinua sent two men ahead, to act as scouts. Skala and his son Makko ignored Sargon, barely making eye contact and speaking only when necessary. Chinua must have warned Skala not to make trouble.

  By the third morning after the incident, the pain had almost gone, and the swelling much reduced. Sargon felt good enough to take note of his surroundings. The last few days, the countryside had gradually changed to more rugged terrain, as the Zagros Mountains turned to the west.

  Gullies and ridges slowed their way every few hundred paces. Streams and trees were more plentiful, but the grass sparser, and the riders had to waste more time letting the horses forage.

  “Some call these the Taurus Mountains,” Timmu declared. “We’re following the trail that leads to the lands of Haranos.”

  Sargon agreed that the name of the mountains did change. He didn’t see anything resembling a trail. As far as he could tell, they were the first living riders to pass through these lands. He hadn’t seen another person or dwelling since they left the Ur Nammu camp.

  “I’ve heard of the Taurus Mountains, but no one knows how far they extend. Maybe this is all empty land.”

  “Chinua says there are dirt eaters living to the south and west.”

  “Probably in tents covered with mud and dung.”

  A shout turned everyone’s eyes toward the west. One of the scouts appeared on the top of a hill, and waved the warriors forward. Chinua gave the command, and the riders urged their horses into a gallop. In moments they reached the crest where the scout waited.

  The riders had fanned out along the hilltop. The horse boys formed a second line behind the warriors, and Sargon and Timmu halted their horses just behind Chinua’s. Sargon felt the same excitement as the others. About a half a mile away and across a series of low ridges, a party of twenty-five or thirty men, half of them mounted, coming toward Chinua’s scouting party.

  As the unknown travelers moved eastward, Sargon noticed that they appeared to be well armed. About ten of those on foot carried bows, similar in size to those Chinua’s men bore.

  The strangers sighted Chinua’s warriors, and a ripple of movement passed through them. A man Sargon guessed to be their leader rode to the head of the column and held up his hand to halt his followers. His men slowed to a stop. None of those carrying bows bothered to string their weapons. For the moment, both parties stared at each other.

  “They don’t seem to fear us,” Chinua said.

  “Maybe they have never seen warriors before.” Jennat, the second in command, rode at his commander’s left.

  “We could ride in and launch a few shafts at them.”

  That came from Skala. Sargon and Timmu, close enough to hear every word, glanced at each other.

  “No, not yet.” Chinua, still studying the strangers, paid no attention to Skala’s words. “Subutai wants us to learn as much as we can about anyone found in these lands.”

  “We could send someone ahead to talk with them,” Jennat said.

  Skala snorted in disgust. “What is there to say to dirt eaters?”

  “We could ask where they came from, where they’re going.” Jennat, too, ignored Skala’s words.

  Sargon listened to the leaders’ conversation, but kept his eyes on the strangers. He noticed something, and edged his horse closer.

  “Chinua . . . those men . . . I think they’re soldiers.”

  Skala whirled to scowl at Sargon, but Chinua nodded agreement. “The boy is right. I’ve seen men like that before, in your father’s army. What else do you see?”

  “Ten bowmen, ten swordsmen, and eleven riders,” Sargon said. “No women or children. In Akkad, that would be a strong scouting party.”

  “A scouting party with so many men on foot?” Chinua sounded dubious at that idea.

  “Spearmen in my father’s army can walk twenty miles in a day, carrying food and weapons.”

  “I don’t see any sacks of food.” Jennat had keen eyes, and obviously knew how to use them. “Look! One of them is riding away.”

  One of the distant horsemen turned his horse to the rear and rode off at an easy canter. The rest of the riders dismounted, and the men on foot settled on the ground, as if eager to take some rest. A moment later, the man who seemed to be the leader rode a few paces forward. He raised his right arm, and waved the Ur Nammu party forward.

  “He wants to talk,” Jennat said.

  “He wants to draw us in close until more men can join them,” Skala said.

  Sargon glanced at Timmu, who smiled back. A moment ago, Skala wanted to charge the strangers. Now he worried about being attacked. Still, Sargon agreed with Skala’s assessment.

  “You may be right,” Chinua said. “I’ll ride ahead and see if I can talk to them.”

  Jennat shook his head. “No, you should not go. You are needed here, to return to Subutai with whatever we learn. I will meet with them.”

  Sargon saw the muscles on Chinua’s shoulders tighten. But Jennat spoke the truth. If anything went wrong, better for the warriors to have Chinua in command. But the Ur Nammu commander didn’t like it. Obviously the idea of sending Skala out to talk with the strangers never entered Chinua’s head.

  “Go, Jennat. But take care. At th
e first sign of trouble, come back.”

  “I will take care . . .”

  “Chinua, I should go with him.” Sargon uttered the words before he had time to think. “I know the ways of soldiers. I can even speak a few words in the trader’s language.”

  All the warriors had been following their leaders’ words. Now they glanced at Sargon in surprise, a horse boy who dared to give unasked for advice to a warrior.

  “I promised your father that . . .”

  “That life is over, Chinua,” Sargon said. “Let me help you here.”

  Chinua glanced back toward the strangers. The leader still waved his arm every few moments. “Damn these strangers.” He touched Jennat’s arm. “Go. Take the boy with you. But watch out for trouble.”

  Jennat nodded. He lifted his right hand and returned the stranger’s signal, sweeping his arm from side to side, until he felt certain that the man understood his acceptance. Jennat handed his bow and quiver to one of his men. Carrying a bow might seem too threatening. “Come, Sargon.” He touched his heels to his horse and moved forward at a trot.

  Sargon already regretted the impulse to volunteer, but he couldn’t back down now, not in front of Skala and his son. Dumping his sacks and pots, Sargon kicked his horse forward and followed Jennat toward the west, staying on the warrior’s left.

  Jennat waited until they were out of earshot of the warriors. “So, challenging Skala wasn’t enough for you? You should have kept silent. Never mind. What else do you see?”

  Sargon had not had much contact with Jennat. He seemed young for a leader, about the same age as Chinua. But the man must have his wits about him. Otherwise, Chinua would not have chosen him as his second in command, over the older Skala.

  As Sargon and Jennat drew closer to the interlopers, Sargon felt his heart racing. All those boring sessions with his father and the other soldiers now took on a different meaning. Suddenly Sargon realized his life might depend on what he did once they reached the strangers.

  “If this is a scouting party,” Sargon said, “then the main force must be close behind, or off to one side. I would guess no more than two or three miles away in any direction. And it must be a large force, to send so many men out as scouts. If they want to trap us, they will try to keep us occupied, keep our attention away from any reinforcements.”

  Sargon saw the lone rider that had ridden to the rear had already vanished from sight. The man could have put his horse to the gallop the moment he’d disappeared over the ridge line.

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough.”

  Jennat sounded unconcerned, and his air of calm helped steady Sargon’s nerves.

  “Maybe you should have kept your bow.”

  “One shaft against ten won’t matter,” Jennat said. “If I sense any danger, I’ll raise my left hand, like this.” He scratched his chest. “The moment I do, you run for it. Don’t wait for my order, don’t wait for anything. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Sargon swallowed. Suddenly his throat felt dry as dust. The anger that had burned in him at Skala had vanished, a childish squabble. Now Sargon’s hands felt weak, and his stomach churned within his belly. Bile rose up in his throat, and he swallowed hard.

  They rode into a gulley and up the other side. The strangers were only a few hundred paces ahead.

  Jennat slowed his horse, then halted about a hundred paces away. If the leader of these men wanted to talk, he could come forward.

  Sargon breathed a breath of relief. For a moment he’d thought Jennat intended to ride right into their midst.

  The leader, a burly man with scraggly brown hair, called out something to his men. Two men swung back onto their horses, and two others, each carrying an unstrung bow loosely in his left hand, moved forward. When they reached their commander, all five of them formed a line and moved forward together, with their leader in the center.

  “Five against two. I don’t like this.” Despite his words, Jennat kept his face placid, as if unconcerned. “If there’s trouble, the two horsemen will keep us busy until the bowmen can string their weapons and attack. If anything happens, don’t try to turn and run. You’ll never make it. Kick your horse forward, and try to run the bowmen down. As soon as you get past the archers, wheel your horse and run.”

  Jennat turned to Sargon, a smile on his face. “Trust to your horse, Sargon. He will know what to do.”

  Sargon’s mouth opened, but he kept silent, swallowing hard again. The strangers had drawn within twenty paces, near enough to hear anything said. He resisted the urge to loosen the knife at his belt. The gesture would be seen and taken as a sign of weakness. Not that a knife would be much help against swords and bows.

  He glanced at Jennat. The warrior sat erect on his horse, his face devoid of any emotion. Sargon tried to keep his own expression under control.

  The five men approached, walking their horses, the leader now a single pace ahead of his men. He kept coming, and halted when his horse was only a few steps from Jennat’s. The two bowmen stood on either side of their leader, with the two riders on either end of the line. Up close, Sargon saw the leader of the strangers had thick arms. He appeared to have about thirty seasons. Flashing a broad smile that revealed a missing front tooth, he eased himself back on his horse, then raised his hand and said something to Jennat.

  Sargon didn’t understand the words. He glimpsed the hilt of the man’s sword, and saw a brightly-colored tassel dangling from it. Gleaming rings of gold encircled the forefinger of each hand, and a wide gold band glinted on his upper right arm. Either a man of wealth, or someone who had killed a lot of his enemies and looted their corpses.

  The others stared at Jennat and him with smiles that were little more than bared teeth. Brutality had left its mark on their faces. These men were killers, and they would kill without the slightest hesitation.

  Jennat didn’t understand the man either. He shook his head, then lifted both hands to his shoulders, palms facing the strangers. “We meet in peace.”

  The stranger copied Jennat’s gesture, but none of the others did. Sargon could guess why. The men carrying bows kept their right hands closed, and he realized they probably held bowstrings in their clenched fist. On foot, it would take them only a moment to string the weapon. Sargon realized Jennat had foreseen this. If Sargon tried to turn his horse around and run, it would take far too long. He’d have a shaft in his back before he covered twenty paces.

  The exchange of words continued, the stranger trying another language before the burly leader settled on the trader’s common dialect.

  “I am Khnan,” the man said, thumping his chest.

  Sargon recognized the dialect, though the man’s accent sounded odd to his ears. “I am Sargon.” He pointed to his right. “Jennat. Leader”

  Khnan gave Sargon a final glance before dismissing him as a mere translator, one not even old enough to carry a sword.

  “Ask him where he’s going in these lands,” Jennat said.

  Sargon translated, doing as best he could. After a second try, Khnan seemed to understand. He smiled at Jennat, an exaggerated gesture that looked anything but friendly.

  “We come from Carchemish, the great city to the northwest. We have just defeated the Haranos, and now we claim all these lands as our own.”

  Sargon asked Khnan to repeat his words, then translated them for Jennat.

  “Ask him why he wants this barren land,” Jennat said. “And tell him that the Ur Nammu already claim all these lands to the east.”

  After hearing that, Khnan’s smile grew even broader. “Not any more. Now King Shalmanisar rules these lands.” He spoke slowly, slow enough to make sure Sargon understood. “Take your people and leave, or bow down and pay tribute to our king, if you don’t want to be destroyed.”

  Sargon had to struggle to get that translated, but he repeated it to Jennat as best he could.

  “Tell . . . Khnan that he will need many more men than thirty to take these lands from the Ur Nammu.”
>
  Khnan seemed to take no offense when Sargon repeated Jennat’s words. “King Shalmanisar has many thousands of men. Any steppes warriors who dare to resist will be swept aside.”

  Jennat grunted when he heard that. “Tell him . . . tell him that we will carry his message to our leader.”

  Sargon doubted if that message would get them away from Khnan and his men without a fight. He thought of something else that might. “These lands are held by the Ur Nammu, but under the protection of the City of Akkad.”

  For the first time, the smile disappeared from Khnan’s face as he stared at Sargon. “Akkad. I’ve heard of the city that sits in the fertile land between the rivers. Akkad is nothing to us. If they dare to challenge King Shalmanisar, their city and its people will be destroyed.”

  It took time to get the gist of that speech, and first Sargon told Jennat what he’d said to Khnan, then what the man’s answer was.

  “Tell him . . . tell him whatever you think.”

  Sargon wet his lips. “Akkad’s walls are high and strong, and their warriors are as numerous as the blades of grass. Tell your King Shalmanisar to beware before he angers King Eskkar of Akkad.”

  A faint shout made Khnan glance over his shoulder. Sargon saw that the rider who had departed was returning, this time riding hard. Even from this distance Sargon could see that the sweat-covered horse labored at the rapid pace set by its master.

  Khnan returned his attention to Jennat and Sargon. “Tell this king of a dung heap,” he spat on the ground to show his contempt, “to hide behind his walls. If he dares to face us, he and his city of soft farmers will be destroyed.”

  Sargon opened his mouth to translate, but never got the words out. Khnan had taken a second look behind him. The approaching rider was shouting something, something that turned the heads of the rest of soldiers behind Khnan. The remaining strangers were already on their feet.

  Jennat scratched his chest, and everything happened at once. He loosed a savage war cry that echoed over the land. At the same time, his horse burst into movement, charging straight ahead at the rider and bowman on Khnan’s left. The speed of the attack, the last thing the strangers expected from a single fighter and a boy, caught the soldiers of Carchemish by surprise.